Mayakovsky lived in a horrible time. It seemed that futurists were creating a new art, really they were just destroying the old one. But how to break what can’t be broken, how to burn what can’t be burnt. Unfired is only what is fire itself, God’s spark, which till now has been illuminating the early poetry of Mayakovsky . “I know the city will be, I know the garden will blossom.” His poetry is a city-garden, of course not a paradisal one, but where have you seen the heaven on the earth? The Mayakovsky garden is continuing to blossom, not knowing neither winter nor autumn.
Even now Velimir Hlebnikov lives in the neighborhood with Mayakovsky, on the other side of the street Esenin is swaggering and roughhousing, a bit further – Francois Villon, Charles Baudelaire and Arthur Rimbaud. Great poems come not out of the past, but out of the future. Vladimir Mayakovky had been heating a hot bathhouse of revolution and had chosen Meyerhold to be his hero, he looked like Don Quixote in his eyes, but only in black, and the spirit of Sancho Panza settled into Malevich, he had been writing the decorations. Everything had started with mystery and was over with mystery.
Mayakovsky, the forerunner of inevitability, on the black background of devastation with a red voice of the tribune was throwing into the ration chapters of revolution. In the yellow blouse of much talked glory he had been approaching his sunset like the sun to its eclipse.
Talent – like a gift measured him by God with a generous hand , not the full measure but more than that, as a trial, as a penalty for all sins of centuries, for the revolution, for the crazy expectation of her, for all the nonsense of love, raised on the hatred and blood. Mayakovsky was not a saint man, Job, although who knows. Perhaps now he hears and keeps silence, only lips are whispering without ribaldry and blasphemy – I am a cloud wearing trousers, feeding the exhausted memory of descendants and living with all these in hell, in heaven, so where it happens.
Vladimir Mayakovsky - not only a tragedy of the personality, but also a living energy of the word, indomitable temper of spirit, misunderstood by himself, well, and how to understand incomprehensible. It’s impossible to approach him as well as to move away.
Прикасаясь к событиям минувших лет, мы чувствуем себя уверенно и защищённо днём настоящим, его заботами и вдохновением. Но стоит задуматься о судьбах людей значительных и замечательных, и тебя не покидает чувство неловкости. Ступени времени, куда они ведут? Вверх или вниз, и позволительно ли нам касаться неповторимой сущности мгновений, ушедших в небытие, в иные сферы. Где эта грань интимного, перешагнув которую, проходишь сквозь столетия, и вот ты с Чаадаевым, и путешествуешь, и дышишь, о, только б не спугнуть, кого – его, себя, обоих?
Какая цельная и неприкаянная жизнь! Высокий дух и рабская гордыня так сочетались и боролись, что убивали капризную и немощную плоть. Немецкий педантизм и элегантность кровей французских нравились и почитались, пока не посягнул Ты свободолюбием своим на царские устои. С умом недюжинным Ты мог достичь всего, но понимал, что это всё – лишь звук в оглохшей пустоте. Ты паникой, угрозой стал. А после «Философических писем» Тебя назначил царь на должность умалишённого. Вот истинное торжество, признания вершина.
Твоя душа – зачинщик главный и взлётов и падений. Как быть, когда она не хочет спать и пробуждается, и бьётся в предчувствии грядущих потрясений. Перебираешь её путь, и рвутся связи с карьерой, обществом, с тоской навязчивой о славе. Так узок круг друзей неравнодушных, птиц перелётных, разлетевшихся по свету и перекличкой голосов друг другу знаки подающих. Когорта, не пощадившая себя во имя веры, ради веры. Иного хочется России. Зачем свободою дышать, когда и в клетке так много воздуха и света. Живите птицей золотой, неукротимые безумцы. Европа вам покоя не даёт. А если в клетке не хотите, – тогда на цепь. «У лукоморья дуб зелёный, златая цепь на дубе том…»
У государства есть особая печаль: себя оберегая, отгородиться от всех назойливых не прозорливостью, а страхом, и мысль просвещённую во благо покарать.
Ты был не просто гражданином, мыслителем, пчелой, мёд знаний собирающей не только на Елисейских, но и в родных задумчивых полях. Нет, не пчелой, Ты улеем громадным стал, куда слетались Тургенев, Пушкин, Грибоедов, Герцен, Тютчев, Баратынский и Муравьёв-Апостол наконец.
Нетрудно быть непонятым, осмеянным, забытым. Нет ни Тебя, ни слуг престола, глумившихся в своём беспомощном величии, но труд, цель жизни оправдались, ведь здание для поколений будущих построил Ты. Россия подождёт, когда всё сбудется. Она по сей день ждёт и часа своего, и Чаадаева живого.
Arkady Demidenko doing good and helping people. And this Gd's mission, he honorably served his entire life. Memory of my friend, amazing and brilliant man, dedicated to the memories.
Soothing drops memories haunt heart. Well, okay. Live on a whim in a light surrounded by angels happens not many. Accept on faith still said that talk about not living. But it was. And were we, his friends, his enthusiasm witnesses misunderstanding desperate souls. And the field, as a reflection of his boundless kindness.
Constantly swapped memories with hopes, he lived the life of a nomad unreal. Parking destroy its essence. "Look for me, catch me!" - Running screaming his unruly flesh. And it gave such powers to people who knew him well, it was hard to imagine that a game called "Come and catch up" ever end.
Beer - excuse beer - case. And talk - long, naive and stupid as life itself. Accuracy of disappointments as Taranka lay on the table and requested as soon as possible to deal with it, with this inanimate substance Renaissance our momentary feelings. We did not really want to listen to each other, but we wanted to be. And we were. And we thought it would be forever...
Treacherous dreams. From the truth on a step. You know, but you do not. No, not a disease, and the power over you takes forever. How boring to live in these moments. Nurse was hired "It's time." Do not go, do not disturb, shouting words in your chest, but do not let them free Consciousness lips were discharged. Freeze, wait, do not rush. Who are you? I am your idea. Let shame to leave. You're not guilty.
We do not know how to get out of town, and especially did not know how to enter it. But what did it matter when Arkady sat behind the wheel. He was confident in his intuition, his spontaneous unwillingness to sit still. When the city was still left behind, and the shortest way to our destination and has not appeared, all at once it became fun, and instead of forty minutes we broke away for three and a half hours. But it was a unique watch to communicate with complete strangers pictures of old Bohemia.
Word - music, word - oblivion infallible beauty paints and air, light and warm breath of wind. Valldemossa - the town, lost on the map of the unconscious.
Quiet, detached from being a monastery and two named in his memory and in the memory of all who have visited this place frightened time. Dying Chopin and George Sand tireless.
Each of us faithfully performed their duties. Arkady was driving, I was joking, laughing wife, children rustled. It was an amazing feeling enthusiastic happening. Substituted for the present time past, and the past is called "childhood", without specific shape and events possessed by our mind, so earthy and mercantile what seemed another second - and everything will return to normal. But nothing happened, and has been in a state of complete prostration we amicably almonds steal shamelessly encroaching on the unshakable foundations of private property.
TRAVEL. FROM ROME TO VENICE
Evening Rome and cafes where Gogol wrote crazy. A morning train to Venice. We sit in the dining car and drink white Italian wine and eat mozzarella. There is nothing more. Sleepy waiter, a complete lack of victuals, - all, as we have
The speed with which we drink wine, well ahead of the train speed. He stops every ten to fifteen minutes and reminds pooch sniffing every bush with a desire to squeeze out a drop of contempt for his predecessors.
Arkady tries to improve the situation and begins a long conversation with the waiter he understands only English. The waiter looks at Arcadia aloof kind eyes and believes that sooner or later will realize what he should do.
Saves the wine. It so much that thinking about something else is simply impossible. And Arkady surrenders. Rather, it is a generous gesture despicable Roman patrician releases on all four sides.
Moth night sky with stars, like ospoyu face.
Because autumn. Take from my hand of applause
foliage - Carnival of your expectations. No longer exists
events that could displace at least a part
memories of you. With the arrival of your death
silence is deeply rooted in my existence.
Tosca - a long piercing wind,
when chilled fingers memory
Pictures carefully enumerates past life.
Memory Inna Pushkar
Inna Pushkar – a composer, whose work force his sincerity and romanticism worthy of the highest praise. Classical music education and the surprising beauty of the world perception Inna allowed even in the most tragic musical intonation to convey to us the joy inspired earthly existence.
On one of my recitals in Kiev Philharmonic Inna first sang our song "Change."
After the concert, she was approached by composer Vladimir Bystryakov and said: "I'm shocked! These songs appear once in a century. After that, you can not write anything at all. "
A few years later the song has found life. Its first recorded Povaliy, and after a while - Joseph Kobzon.
BABI YAR, OR JUST ACT
A few days before the Babi Yar memorial evening I wrote a poem of the same name and then read it on the phone Inna. Morning prayer-song sounded. And lingering melancholy. As if the pain of the Jewish people took to the streets of Kiev and again took the road of death.
Responsible for carrying out the concert was a famous composer Alexander Zlotnik. His song dedicated to this event was included in the concert program. Inna was relentless: "I'll call him."
Talking on the phone was short.
- Live tomorrow, the last rehearsal today. You do not have the arrangement. And this song no one heard - Zlotnik said.
- Please, let me play it on your phone. - And she played.
- I take my song and put your. Will sing live.
The next day, "Babi Yar" sounded performed Inna Pushkar from the stage of the concert hall "Ukraine." The song proved a happy future. Today, in many areas of the world takes awesome song singer Svetlana Portnyanskaya America.
After leaving Inna Svetlana phoned, expressed condolences and said that in his repertoire included several songs written by us, and at every performance she will devote their memory Inna Pushkar.
Tamara, I can not hear you, I can not hear myself. We were silent for a long time on the phone. "I am a mystery", "People are not gods," "White flock", "Forty-first year" written songs recorded. Autumn release new album Tamara Gverdtsiteli "I secret."
"All the songs are very significant, and our joint work as the interrupted song ..." - whether you have said, if thought Tamara.
But what does it matter when the pain of loss, choke the word sounded so prematurely, - in fact there were not enough in life ... Inna
All was quiet in the land. And your heart beats more banging on the anvil night. Memory only draws black and white paint your silhouette. And you go, going, going ...
Inna, look. And in response to light as a wave of angelic wings, sigh. - I can not. Do not. It is better for everyone.
But all long gone on the ground.
Tell me how to repeat your words, like handwriting thy soul afraid that water signs of love for eternity lay down, move into earthly life, being a patriarchal basis, where there is no, and maybe never will be You - hilarious, disturbing fate of an actress, and a great misunderstood already ...
These unruly conservatory friends otbivshiesya from their hands, thy new and crazy and quivering, helpless as your lonely life, who find in your house horseshoe luck, Dad's muse with Jewish roots. How to be without these evenings crowded music and charm, new songs, doomed to oblivion today and long life tomorrow? ..
We have not called to you, we raced past, carrying you in a different life.
When Michael Kozakov died, a brilliant actor, a director, a writer, a reader and a narrator, thin, ironic, intelligent man, Alexander Korotko responded to this sad event by the memory of one of their meetings in Kiev. A small volume essay accompanying by a poem ( lifetime), dedicated to the great artist, so deeply and "with such clarity of Pushkin» reading beautiful poetry.
Published in the newspaper "MK" in Ukraine ", № 18, 2011.
In the damp chilly weather even the sun is lazy to appear in public. When he arrived, Kiev has a smell of the night. The state of his soul corresponded to the time of the year. Mikhail Kozakov was confused, rather crushed by the circumstances, by the change of geographical locations. His birthplace the USSR, like "Titanic", lay on the bottom of his youth, of his brilliant career. He was on this ship, he surfaced, but never sailed to any of the coast to the unrequested to the heart life...
The car was full of people. Kozakov in the front seat, half-turned, was reading from memory Brodsky. It was the best poems of the poet, read with such Pushkin’s clarity that it seemed, that’s all - then life has no meaning any more, everything has been said.
April 25, 2011
* * *
Memory takes off the scalp from the last year life.
Such a luck. Light a candle and put it in the temple,
in which there is no place for you, like in your homeland.
And when you touch the world with alien lips,
look back. Emptiness. Dancing of the foreign mind.
Just trembling of the unfulfilled promises
of fate. Take this gift without the publicity.
Listen, the liturgy of the last hope is sounding.
Farewell before the winter season.
There is music that lives among us, you can touch it with your hand, it is in the earthly affairs, concerns, hobbies, and its inspiration, as Foucault’s pendulum, always strives to bring its flight to the starting point of being.
Other music lives without us at the unprecedented height and breathes with the reflection of the light, the heavenly truth, triumph, blessed truth of immortality, participial to the rustling in the garden, where Eve hides the forbidden fruit intended to the special term, and all around will be sinful when Adam wants to learn how the world is set up, but the music of heaven will always remain sinless.
Gogol - celestial. His "Dead Souls" - a large symphonic work. Simplicity of exposition and depth of penetration into the essence of phenomena akin to the music of Mozart.
In "Dead Souls" is no single positive hero, but each of them evokes sympathy and a smile. They are naive and good-natured. They manage to steal skuperdyaynichat and swagger in a special way, like a child. Through the prism of the implausibility of the plot appear the souls of heroes not only novel, but also the soul of the whole of Russia.
In the literature, Gogol - Bosch and Bruegel in one person. Creators of this magnitude outside of time. One line, one bend brush Modigliani, two or three words in Gogol - portrait ready. It's like Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Several primary chords - and the whole life before my eyes.
If the "Dead Souls" many colors, then "The Overcoat" monochrome. There is not brilliant Petersburg Pushkin's "Eugene Onegin" and gloomy, bleak, gray city filled with loneliness and indifference. He appears as a huge phantom immense pain all Akaky world. Comes to mind "The Castle" Kafka. Petersburg and Castle - two monster sizzling souls cruelty and contempt. Nobody Gogol do not humanize the area cultivated by the swamp Peter.
Akaky who he is - an outcast, crushed pyatoyu time or future general, arrogant and unfeeling? After all, General Gogol - the same Akaky. How so? And that's it. This is Mother Russia - with serfdom and without. And this is not an individual sentence and a specific era, and eras and humanity.
And finally, "The Inspector General." If the novel "Dead Souls", by definition, the author, the poem, the "Inspector" - a poem twice. The play seems to me a great poetic text, intuition, touching the word of Gd grace.
Writer considers Russian soul under the microscope, dissects unexpectedly in Gogolevskoi and its irrationality is rational and valid, as befits a genius.
The air was mixing paints, touching the easel with a paintbrush long before the eyes and hands started working. Impressionists, everywhere only impressionists. France went mad, artists were flying to Paris like butterflies to the light. In that immoral highly spiritual city painting and obsession were queening, and any mediators between an eye and a feeling. Stormy enthusiastic continuation of the deceived realism, of the meticulous and modest poetics. No to quiet paints! – birds on the glider were shouting. Everything disturbed, overbalanced and came back to a cheap cafe, to brothels and unsettled homes. Left unattended life with turned up pockets attracted everybody without any distinction. Money was devaluing. It was wanted to go begging and tramping with a beret on the head and an easel in the hand.
Restless masterful dream is tearing the mask and stripping the essence of phenomena not affranchising You. Your choice is still ahead: from the material – to the freedom of spirit, to the mastership crowned by poverty in the plenitude of Your power and passionate paints. What a greedy fate! It decided everything for You long ago and asked You to play a cat and mouse game, You dropped everything and pludged into that pool with a wild despair of a madman. An amateur, You was named so by artists from the “gang” of honorable Manet, and You would have been carrying the stigma of shame so long. Not they, but You considered so. Pride is Your second I.
And the time passed, You neglected everything: deals, family and home, no return. Naive, You thought that painting would save. But an artist has another fate. Confusion, despair and glimmers of a blessed passion – impression is called so by those who are named poets. A poet, what is it – a symbol, a sign, an omen? But not really, it is such a pain, it lives in soul, in heaven, it’s called a high spirit.
A dream, desired and unrealizable, it had been always close to You. It came to You at night in the person of dismissed forebodings. It was so in childhood in Lim, and thirty-five years later, in Arles, a shelter of demented Van Gogh, a forerunner of Your indomitable disasters. But You didn’t hear anything. Pissaro was an exception, but not for long, as soon as the apprenticeship time was over, You at once ridiculed his efforts and works.
Such a coincidence of gifts, and will, and wild closed anguish for unexplored places. From Granny on the maternal side You got a passionate blood and desire for changes. You tried a lot: you went to the heartless seas, saw the space of the oceans, served on the exchange – everything not yours.
In Paris, in Tahiti – everywhere You felt yourself as a stranger. You thought to run away from people, from circumstances, but really ran away from yourself. How possible to live without kindness and friends? But You had lived. Creative temperament and poetic imagination served as a substitute. Delacroix, a wise man, a philosopher, a colorist, entered into life as a hero.
An artist is a negation of human mission on the Earth. Then why did the Creator give him such a power? As a trial, as a punishment for previous sins, or probably as an excuse, as a confirmation of the Creative essence of being actions. God takes an artist as a hand assistant, but sometimes an artist forgets about it and thinks that everything is in his hands.
Not You – Your genius whispered in Your ear that there was no better nature than memory, and You painted not with a despair of Tahitian women, but with Your own despair. You paid for your sins, and every your picture speaks as a drop of blood, and sprouts into life as a green tree of hope that touches the heaven with its crown. It covers You from heat and gifts Your resigned soul with coolness and peace, people’s loyalty and memory.
He overlooked his life. It’s easy to say. After all, he was not its master. The host was one. Rather, two: first - Lenin, then - Stalin. And the camps and the camps...
Nicholay Zabolotskiy stayed in prison, as expected. For what? Well, who will understand how Vysotsky sang.
He Filonov and Bruegel loved and wrote his paintings in their style called "Columns".
Life is split into before and after - and then were Pushkin, Tyutchev, Baratynsky and poems, and the fear of return to those places where, under the escort are both the horizon and the sky, and the people, what about people, a worthless mosquito flight, one clap - and not in sight.
Fear - not a pain, fear is NKVD boots’ imprint on the heart. Eleven years later, four years before his death, he wrote an ode to Lenin "Walkers." What's it like? It looks like a matriculation, the message to "favorite power" from the "loyal poet", actually a rebel, in "Columns", who opened himself for lyrics in the world.
The poet is afraid, but the soul - no. And two years after the "Walkers", the pain, its memory by the hand of Zabolotskiy, asking forgiveness of people, of conscience, writes "Somewhere in a field near Magadan" about two prisoners, old men, who, exhausted, "freeze away from loved ones and relatives”. Death - it is their parole, "The security will not catch them any more, the camp guards will not overtake."
A few words about the painting of Zabolotskiy. From Filonov and Bruegel - to Levitan, to the transparent and bright landscapes, to the lyrics, in tune with the poet's soul. "Beetle minstrel gallops across the field, a butterfly flies, standing on the pointe, Sprawling on the books, April, fasten aiguillettes of cornflowers."
Nicholas Zabolotskiy remained in Russian literature as a great romantic, lyricist and unique artist who has created a unique poetic word gallery of still lives. By the end of his life both peace and understanding of his earthly mission came to him.
Poets do not live on the sunny side. They stealthily rewrite his life for pages, nervously biting his lips experiences, broke into the night waking hints gesture, otherworldly true sky, its underside, where the dust swirling memories and flies around the world, and finds cohort scattered around the world of fate, whose life - only echo lines, migratory birds living under the wing silent sentence written by the Creator.
So thought Holderlin and Schiller encouraged him insane silence, and Goethe looked bleak for a lonely figure without acknowledging it brother. Tsvetaeva recluse adversity, standing nearby, around the corner century, and inquired: "Goethe, how could you?" But he did not listen, did not want to comprehend his mental system, organ majestic thoughts poet future time, he lived outside.
When sleep and not sleep, and the last refuge of the verse does not warm, and life does not want to let go at will, where so we are waiting for, where everything goes nowhere, and there is only a hint of what was, and then only in the first hours minutes when the soul is still on the way to the endless, and the address is, but it is another sense, it is not the words, it just is, ecorticate, intangible essence envelope clouds, flying over foreboding thought that dissolved the truth, which the stars and garlands New Year, do not understand.
All this in front, and down here in the distant oblivion, where the tree is growing doubt and buds swell days, how to find peace, naive and funny in the interplay of events, where the spirit of the high asking for forgiveness confusion passions invented and acquired, and let hope reigns at the station, respite, and then save the madness. And these seven wonderful years - the forerunner, Hyperion. Who are you - a novel, poem, prose non-existent? No, just a shelter, salvation from all the hardship and turmoil.
I hear the voice of Holderlin. And here he is. "Why are you here?" - "I can not sleep. Came time for me to build a trail to my creations, and to appeal to those who were near, and those who filed the signs of future times. Suzette Gontar, I invented you, Plato invented Diotima leading Socrates dialogue, I borrowed, and here we are together, we live and breathe in Greece, but you left me in the care of the Roaring Twenties. Gone not only you are gone and mother, and Schiller, Hegel, and even Goethe. This loneliness is not seen the light, so not left alone with the body, not the soul, and with the shadow of life, forgotten, past, present, as if the summer rain has passed, but the sun is high, the heat and the thirst for winning.
Thank you, Rilke, I am far from now, but the vision is not diminished, and I see myself on the line, is not that nice, rather awkwardly. For some reason you started correspondence with Pasternak and Tsvetaeva, okay, you know best. Yes, that's "Elegy," dedicated to her. Perhaps it will be stronger than the words that you have saved for me. I'm not jealous, I'm just saying it is. Marina, I know, do not stay in debt. I see Rilke, you're going on the road. Where? To me. Well, there's plenty of space. And here is the "New Year" by Marina arrived. So what about you ... nobody said
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