Silent Songs

Tamara Birchenko-Shulakova, member of the Union of Theater Workers, Honored Worker of Culture of Ukraine, Kyiv, 2011
- Sasha! A book about Victor was published. How can I convey it to you?
- Wow! Already. Well you, Tamarochka, well done. Accuracy and compulsion are masculine qualities. And what the last my book do you have?
- "Transcription of thought".
- Stone Age. After that, I already published about ten. I'm giving you the last two.
For Korotko, the main thing is to read new poems, especially for those who love them. I am from the initiated, for from their reading I am pierced by the arrow of his voice, with a real iron tip that is directed straight into the heart and the inability to exhale, to move, because I adore this deaf, even slightly cracked short voice, in ecstasy pouring onto my head The sacred world. Around him lives, breathes, loves the inner world of his poetry - rain, moon, freight, sun, autumn, wind. They all love, suffer, rejoice, yearn and believe in good.

* * *
Ночь из-под пера
чернила льёт,
улыбки прокажённых.
Вслушайся, как виновато
дождь идет,
словно товарняк,
обидами гружённый.

I try to associate all my friends and acquaintances with the wonderful world, which is governed by the chosen ones of love, purity, truth.

His understanding of life is associative with the adepts of the Neo-Platonic philosophy of the Renaissance, but they are not on the transcendental angelic spheres, they are on earth, for with God and the angels he is equal, he constantly communicates with them, and the divine spirit illuminates all the lines of his poems and by this he Breakthrough into higher spheres of religious understanding. He does not have poems, but hermetic texts of mystical and philosophical treatises, combining Egyptian, Greek and Jewish ideas about the essence of the universe and man.
* * *
У изголовья ожиданья,
в своей восторженной поре,
как две звезды, два мирозданья
искали встречи на заре.
И спелым яблоком предчувствие,
которым полон райский сад,
коснулось нежных чувств её,
согласных на соблазнов ад.
Был день по имени прохожий,
похожий на другие дни,
однообразие он множил,
пока не встретились они.
Безумных струн сердцебиенье,
не крик, а вопль – любви залог,
взлёт страсти и души паденье,
судьбы мистический урок.

Having read these lines, you will necessarily shudder from the sacrament to the happy currents of Shtorkovsky's creativity, which radiate its divine lines. His gift is mystical. His images are filled with air, light, sun, forest, sea, winter, rain.
* * *
Я тебе рассказывать не стану,
как кружился снег, как печаль
была пьяна, как во сне таинственно и странно
в недоступные для сердца дали
вслед за ветром улетали страны,
собирая пепел на заре.
Я тебе рассказывать не стану,
как смеялись волны в океане,
как под небом, брошенным и ранним,
умирали тучи в декабре,
как луна бежала на свидание,
чтоб светить любви своей заранее
И напомнить звёздам о себе.

Metaphysically, you immediately fly away from everyday life into the mystery of its mythological space, experiencing orgiastic enthusiasm and the desire to instantly introduce someone to this apocrypha, whose authorship can only be attributed to God.

* * *
Пока небо не пригласит меня в гости,
буду жить на этой земле.
Надежда построила в моём сердце
небольшой домик,
даже не домик, а избушку,
там я храню свою душу.
Светлыми, загадочными ночами
слетаются ангелы, наивные, как
дети, и в этой тесной избушке
они учат меня чистописанию любви.

* * *
Усталая осень забылась дождём,
и каются ивы над тихим прудом,
и ветер угрюмый рвёт тучи на части.
Этюды любви. Акварельное счастье.
Испуганно звёзды дрожат по ночам,
все в ужасе ждут декабря-палача.
Неверных ждут кара и холод разлуки.
Любимая, дай твои тёплые руки.

His poems give rise to confusion and panic in the soul, and this sensual drive gives an unquenchable sense of dignity, gives birth to the kingdom of God within us and mercy to people, to the past, to plants, to rain, in one word - to life.
Korotko wears the image of a wizard who knows how to light a light in your home, even if it is turned off for non-payment of bills.

* * *
Опять вернусь в знакомый дом,
и снова я его покину,
и буду чувствовать потом
прощальный взгляд,
как выстрел в спину.

The spiritual fineness ofKorotko's poems, compassion, love confession, which would envy Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
* * *
Ты меня не ищи, не зови,
это наша с тобой беда,
я в бездонную пропасть любви
Камнем падаю навсегда.

His central idea - a crude material world - is a reflection of the divine macrocosm and, knowing nature, and with it a divine plan for himself, man is able to release his cosmic energy and find a lost paradise.

The material world is a manifestation of the inner spiritual space: Man - Peace is God.

He often has time in which he did not live, so close, momentary. And you live with him as if in two dimensions. And you understand what happened to us, who we are and why we are on this Earth.

He enjoys the exact word, image, comparison.

His poems are tender, they excite so that he catches his breath for joy, for his inability to understand how it was written. From the extraordinary density of the text, when you need to rest, to go through the readings in order to get closer to the mystery of these stunningly divine lines.

Korotko is the unique phenomenon. His poetry still retains some sacred meaning. A magical spell that gives you a guarantee of the stability of being and the promise of unexpected happiness. In his poems there is always an exquisitely fragmentary understatement, mainstream, and therefore not suggesting either primitiveness or uniqueness. The subtlety of the soul structure of his readers, who, shuffling the deck of everyday circumstances, suddenly find a dazzling hope for a miracle.
* * *
Со вчерашнего дня холст рассвета стоит на мольберте.
Вы не верьте, что жизнь – это вымысел, случай,
затонувшая в небе звезда.
Это живопись, это тучи восторга,
это бед и надежд череда.

He seeks the answer in his own reflection, which, as you know, seldom coincides with our notion of us.
* * *
Здравствуйте, слепые зеркала!
Время так бесхитростно, что всуе,
не желая ни добра, ни зла,
нас безжалостно рисует и рисует.

He passes from the material reality to the imaginary, fantasy, from which the mystical charm of his "disappointed minutes", "homeless feelings", "incompetent rains", "unsociable sunsets", "doomed autumn", "horse angst", mystery that gives to abandon everyday life and do not easily forget these magic lines.

... Call. The young man gives me two books. "This is for you from Korotko".
I gratefully accept, I run into the house to plunge into these extraordinary books, stunningly published, miniature sizes that can be dropped into my purse and enjoyed in the inevitable moments of expectation. I open the first one, I read: "For Tamara Shulakova from the author and friend, for a strong woman from a weak poet". "What an amazing connection of times, epochs and upheavals, and pain that arose as the joy of memories of the past." Thank you, beloved poet. But you are disingenuous in order to sing the "strong woman". The most beautiful thing is that you know your own worth, the price of your great talent, your divine destiny. For why you voluntarily sat yourself on the galley of painful search for the happiness of a single, but such a magical, so necessary Word for you.