Ksenia Nekrasova poetess. Ksenia Nekrasova: “...I sealed with the seal of tears God’s gift from the highest words

Ksenia Nekrasova: “I sealed with the seal of tears God’s gift from the highest words”

January 2012 marks the hundredth anniversary of the birth of Ksenia Nekrasova, a unique poet with an extraordinary literary destiny.

She was born in the Urals, studied at a pedagogical college, but without finishing, she went to Moscow to get an education at the Literary Institute.

Despite the fact that Ksenia lived relatively recently and died in the fifties of the last century, her very existence has very little factual evidence.

The origin, place of birth, and real parents of Ksenia Nekrasova are unknown.

There are no objective descriptions of Ksenia’s appearance (surprising, considering that she lived in the era of photographs). There is a well-known portrait of Nekrasova, made by the artist Falk. However, it is hardly worth believing that the image bears a portrait resemblance. The artist’s wife recalled that visitors who saw the portrait did not recognize Ksenia in it, and Ksenia herself did not appreciate the artist’s work, saying that Falk depicted her “so simply,” while she herself was “exquisite.”

They also have a distinctly unreal and abstract character. verbal descriptions the appearance of Ksenia. So, for example, in one of Boris Slutsky’s poems it is reported that Nekrasova has the voice of a “rural prophetess”, and her hair is “blue”.

Ksenia herself, in one of the free verses that has come down to us, characterizes her earthly image no less mysteriously:

“My poems or I myself are one and the same, only the form is different.”

She did not leave her name in important documents of the era: she did not sign literary manifestos, did not position herself as the founder of any creative movement. Almost never published. She didn’t do anything to somehow “catch on” and remain in history.

And yet she remained.

The image of Ksenia became a mythological image, and the name was included in the memoirs of almost all literary figures of her time. Stories involving Nekrasova are still passed on from mouth to mouth. Poems are still dedicated to her:

N. Glazkov will replace all the scribblers,
I'm the only one in this huge world,
my address: Arbat, 44,
where in your apartment 22
I write poetry, cut wood,
where Ksyusha once spent the night,
Ksenia Nekrasova, she
covered in soot, like a log of wood,
I came in the afternoon and conjured poetry
and finished the spell until dark,
after all, you can’t kick them out, looking at the night,
I laid it on the floor for her.
At night he wakes up: “Kolya, for Christ’s sake,
give me cotton wool, a rag, a needle
with threads.” “There’s a rag in that corner,
cotton wool in the windows, and in the closet on the shelf,
it looks like there are threads and needles.”
How many troubles have befallen me,
I want to sleep and I’m telling her about it,
but again a faint light was heard:
“Kolya, Kolya, look at what
I sewed the doll.”

Alexander Revich. Before the light
// Friendship of Peoples, 2010. No. 10.

It does not matter at all whether this or that story took place. At one time, Nietzsche declared that fact does not exist, there is only interpretation. Modern scientists are inclined to think that past events depend on “social ideas.” This term was coined by the French social psychologist Serge Moscovici. Social ideas are people’s stable ideas about the society around them, widespread in society.

Such “ social ideas”are not only the myths and legends composed about Xenia. Nekrasova’s very unique work has not been forgotten, partly because it is a malleable material capable of changing in accordance with social ideas. For example, the manuscripts of Ksenia Nekrasova contain several dozen versions of the same poems. Moreover, each option can be considered final. At different times (after Ksenia’s death), editors chose for publication what seemed most in keeping with the spirit of the times.

So today, many of Nekrasova’s free verses, “rejected” by previous publishers, seem incredibly modern and new, as if they were written not in the last century, but quite recently.

Social ideas are more durable than material facts. By changing over time, they live much longer. They created “ containment”, which made it possible to convey to today, without losing in time, the amazing and original creativity of Ksenia Nekrasova.

This publication contains previously unpublished diary entries from Ksenia Nekrasova’s friends, telling about the life of the poet; a letter from Ksenia Nekrasova to her husband, in which she talks about how her life developed during the war years.

Presents a selection of previously unpublished poems written in Peaceful time and during the war years, as well as diary entries, which are an excellent illustration of Ksenia’s non-standard (mythological) thinking.

O.E. Napolova *

Notes about Ksenia Nekrasova

All of Moscow knew Ksyusha Nekrasova, but it’s hard to imagine that anyone would write about her life.

You can start writing about Ksyusha with the word “hello.” This word was pronounced melodiously and especially sublimely, as if she was bringing goodness and joy to this house.

She did not know whether she would cross the threshold or whether they would refuse her entry. We need to understand this terrible state of hers: will she be accepted or not.

Sometimes she would come in joyfully, with a sparkle in her eyes, and declare that she had brought new poems and would now read them.

She was not embarrassed by new people, our busyness or our rest. She carried the lines like this: she walked with inspiration and enthusiasm to the chosen place, settled down, folded her legs in an oriental manner, raised small finger up, inviting everyone to be attentive to her. She always read perfectly, conducting with her finger to the right and left.

Then she talked and talked.

Ksyusha was poorly dressed. The clothes were donated by someone or made from very long fabric.

What we knew about Ksyusha:

She was married to an engineer. It is interesting that despite her inferiority in the everyday sense, he nevertheless surrounded her with care, even to the point of purchasing ladies' things. Before the war, she gave birth to a boy, Tarasik. Apparently, the nanny, who served her, helped her with everything. But 1941 came.

The mines were evacuated. Ksenia has a poem called “41 years”. It describes a picture of retreat. The evacuation was the most difficult moment in her life. Helplessness at home, the child's illness and death destroyed their family. The husband lost his mind and was unable to work. I received a ration of bread. I ate my quota of bread on the sly, hiding behind a newspaper. Subsequently, his condition worsened, he looked for edible waste in garbage dumps. Ksenia was starving. Those around her, out of the kindness of their hearts, began to advise her to go to Tashkent. She collected her poems in a bag and walked. Along the way, she lived on alms from village to village. She came to Tashkent swollen, tattered and dirty.

She went to the Russian temple to die. But I met someone I knew.

Akhmatova took part in her fate. She listened to the poems, fed her and decided to live.

Ksenia did not live long in Tashkent. There were casual conversations that she was a burden to those around her. On the grounds that, again, I couldn’t cope with everyday life. Akhmatova sent her to Moscow with a writer's ration! And soon she was accepted for rations by an old woman in her house in Bolyshevo.

Ksenia wandered around Moscow and spent most of her life in the Yakhontov house. Along the way, I met with Ehrenburg (by the way, sometimes I received from him financial assistance). She went to see Kassil, Prishvin, and the artist Falk (by the way, he painted her portrait).

I visited the wife of the sculptor Orlov, who helped with money so that she could buy a coat and shoes with this money. Ksenia's deterioration was always desperate.

Whenever I was around writers, I always suffered rejection. ( This means that Ksenia was refused to be accepted into the Writers' Union. - E.K.) Our tears and persuasion not to go did not help. Therefore, we were forced to dress her decently for going out. Everything turned out to be unsuccessful.

The ladies of the writers, shocked by her chatter, once did not let Ksyusha in with a scandal.

For a year, Ksenia lived in the house of the Yakhontovs, who were also in great need. She loved us and went with us everywhere. Konenkov was fascinated by her poems. She is his sculptures. Olesha gave her his signed book.

Her stories about stones are amazing! She could make very interesting crafts by stringing beads from stones.

One day Lilya ( we're talking about about Elikonida Yakhontova, sister of O.E. Floor-to-ceiling. - E.K.) I recorded her voice reading poetry. The record was sent to the Party Central Committee with a request for assistance ( the letter with the record was called “To dear comrade Stalin from the poet Ksenia Nekrasova.” - E.K.). There was no answer and the recording disappeared.

Suddenly, in 1951, her second child was born, a boy, Kirill. Her dream of not being alone came true. But where was she supposed to go when she left the hospital?

I went to the sculptor Konenkov. I stayed there for a month and a half. Margarita Ivanovna ( wife of the sculptor Konenkov. - E.K.) tired. She served Ksenia in everything, but could not cope. The whole house was on her, there was no way to do her business. Then Margarita Ivanovna turned to Lila with the question of what to do.

Lilya went to the Writers' Union. Then they fussed there and assigned Ksenia to a mother and child home, where she lived for one year. A year later, the child was sent to a nursery, and she was sent to the writers' janitor. The lady took good care of her. On weekends, Ksenia visited the child. It was hard to find funds for gifts.

Lilya gave her new shoes. The old fur coat was worn out. Vera Inber donated material for the dress.

And Ksenia was also unpretentious in food: she dipped crackers in vegetable oil and washed them down with boiling water. That makes me happy.

Lilya brought her to the poetry section. The evening took place. Ksenia read poetry, Lilya, Yevtushenko and others spoke. Everything was very interesting.

Ksyusha went to exhibitions with us. Once at Glazunov’s exhibition, she began to read poetry in the crowd. More, more and more. The administration got scared and forbade Ksenia to come. Having a premonition about Ksenia’s health, Lilya goes to Soboleva with a letter to get money for a typist. We reprint her poems in our house.

Don't forget that she studied at the Literary Institute. The poet Glazkov told how after lectures they dressed her like a child, fastened her buttons, tied a scarf and went to the Pushkin monument, where she read poetry. Her poems were first published in 1937, by the way, Aseev was the first to give an excellent article to her poems, but later he dismissed her as a ghost that walks... Vasilisa the Beautiful - that was Lilya’s name, but he, Aseev, could not see Ksenia in her unhappy path.

Soon, in 1958, a collection of her poems was published. Lilya compiles a poetic selection. He writes a wonderful preface. But they never published it. On the same days, Ksyusha’s room is being decorated. She gets housing, is happy, walks with a bundle own keys. She brought proofs and disappeared for four days.

The funeral is conducted by the section of poets. Tushnova’s vow not to forget the child (forgotten).

Ilyin spoke, Slutsky, Yevtushenko were there... I was given a burial, in the cremation wall the poems we proposed were placed in an oval.

Registration of guardianship...

Passportist: “We approve your guardianship, but don’t think that we’ll leave you a room. We are selecting her on the basis that she did not have time to decorate the room during the 8 days that she lived in her living space.”

Lilya died.

I was left alone. I did everything possible for Kiryusha. My visits to him, his coming to us, in my opinion, smoothed over his orphanhood.

We don't know the father.

Many times I wanted to turn to the poetry section for support. I wouldn't even like it material side turned, but about something else, about his future life.

I'm scared to think how he will end up without a nearby home, without friends, when he leaves the orphanage. We have many, many friends, everyone knows about its existence, but no one is interested in anything. You should definitely look for a multi-family family. I worry that my life is short. Something needs to be done immediately

How dangerous it was to formalize guardianship at the age of 62...

HER. Popova-Yakhontova

Memories of Ksenia Nekrasova*

We began to rewrite K. Nekrasova’s poems. They decided to collect her manuscripts and put them in order. Printed by Anfisa Vasilievna Sarycheva. Ksenia helped to sort it out.

I was going to Kharkov. In the metro at Arbatskaya station I met Ksenia on the escalator. She called out to her. She came down to me and we said goodbye. She kissed me three times according to Russian custom. This was our last meeting.

In Moscow, on the night of 17<февраля>Ksenia Nekrasova, a poetess, a beautiful daughter of the Russian land, died. Her parents are unknown, she was brought up in the Urals, in Shadrinsk, in the family of a mining engineer. She left behind her son Kirill, 6 years old.

Having learned about Nekrasova’s death, they returned to Moscow and brought a pound of manuscripts. My sister is making a figurine of Ksenia. The Writers' Union gives me her manuscripts.

I think about her and mourn her. It was coming. Her last poems began to communicate this. I saw and understood this. Everyone in that Union was blind (twice underlined. - E.K.). The harmonious space that was created during the creative process is gone. The pain remains.

Letter from Ksenia Nekrasova to her husband Vysotsky Sergei Sofronovich

Serezhenka, my good friend. Thank you for writing to me, and I was so lonely. At times I feel such melancholy, I kept wondering how you live there alone, apparently fate or God connected us.

Everything is fine with me: they accepted me into the Writers' Union and gave me 5 American gifts: 1) a dress 2) shoes 3) gloves 4) a woolen knitted jacket 5) a cut for a suit.

How I dealt with gifts:

My mistress exchanged a yellow dress made of fine wool for a black velvet one, mine was narrow and thin, but this was a wide, good one. And it suits me very well, especially when you wear a lace collar (the collar, antique lace, was a gift from the hostess). The shoes with cork soles turned out to be rotten and with cardboard soles, at the first opportunity they got wet and tore, it lasted for three weeks.

Winter gloves, shaggy, woolen, when we lived with Lena ( Ural relatives of the husband. - E.K.), and Lena was not at home, she was leaving, - Stasik remained, - the gloves sank to the bottom of eternity.

A cut for a suit, steel-colored English wool, was sold to me by the Litvinovs’ housekeeper for three thousand.

I live on the money I earn. I paid my kind landlady Polina Alekseevna Sharymova (Bolyshevo) for 2 months’ rent.

I wear a burgundy jacket.

Serezhenka, the Litvinovs’ daughter, artist Tanya, 25 years old, found me. wonderful person, original and eccentric and kindest heart. She heard my poems before the war and did not forget them, and asked my comrades at the institute about me. And so, when I arrived, they gave me her phone number, I often visit them and know her dad and mom.

The Writers' Union gave me a very good-looking and warm fur coat, and they want to give me felt boots, but for now I'm walking in the snow in Tanya's English shoes and woolen stockings and socks.

Since I am a member of the SSP, I also have a writer’s ration and I live very well. I'm having lunch at the writers' club-restaurant.

Sergey, dear, forget about the things we had, and we will live without them, we will not die. They all disappeared from Valya and his mother-in-law and Elena (hereinafter the Ural relatives of the husband are named. - E.K.), half were sold and worn out in the first years of the war.

In general, I concluded that they stole ours and are still poor and pitiful creatures.

And we have nothing, but again we are richer than them, and we will have everything.

Well, God be their judge.

Imagine, Valentina’s son is alive and an idiot. He is 4 years old, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t walk, gets dirty and understands almost nothing.

This is after meningitis.

Elena lives alone. Valentin abandoned her in the Urals, but wanted to come.

Sergey, why don’t you write anything about yourself. Where are you now. How are you.

Serezhenka, why such a dry letter, am I a stranger to you, you can write everything in more detail.

Sergey, take care of yourself and wait. There will be a challenge, be calm. We will live together again, we will go to Ukraine. And there are very, very good people. There are only a few of them and you won’t find them soon the exact address when and how to send a call.

Things are nonsense, life is not in things. Well, be healthy, I kiss you, my Serezhenka. Pay less attention to little things. Everyday life and small things eat a person.

I have nothing

A fur coat, 2 dresses, 2 changes of underwear, and I’m not grieving.

Now, if you were with me, I would feel very good.

Step over, Serezhenka, the little things in life. Be stronger in spirit and higher than people.

After all, you understand them, and once you understand, it’s easier to discard their little things.

The one who knows how to change color survives.

And the one who has a big soul and an understanding mind.

The rest is nonsense.

Don’t look for help from people, but look for the strength to overcome obstacles within yourself.

You are your own helper, not strangers.

Believe in yourself, in your mind, in your strength.

And all will be well.

Thoughts on modern times *

rises new power- greedily eating ice cream, white bread and all kinds of expensive and cheap food with equal zeal. Grabbing silk, chintz, panvelvet, washtubs, beds, mirrors, tubes, shower jackets, rubber boots, with energy, the power of which is untested, unmeasured, this force attacks forests, rivers, mountains and lakes.

Metals act on each other as human characters, and the first ones are under the influence of energy, and the second ones are under the influence of historical energy. And above all there are electric charges.

(I am writing this down under the influence of the article “On the fission of nuclei under the influence of neutrons”).

a person from earth with a reserve of 1000 years flies into space into interplanetary space.

Its purpose is to record what is visible. He visits many planets, generations change, and the great book of records passes from generation to generation and finally becomes, as it were, a god.

The crowd, the masses, tend to perceive and absorb great ideas and the truly beautiful, like rain on the earth. And if what is said is truly great, then ordinary people will follow him anywhere and anyhow.

Is the truth for people to show them their hardships in life? Is their dark mood due to these hardships? In my opinion, the truth is in the understanding of the Russian people.

for some reason unknown to me

Daria left the collective farm

On Russian soil

Most of the residents are talented

Or savvy ones.

And the gloomy ones with blue thoughts -

I met among the intelligentsia,

And common people there are no blue thoughts

The most remarkable of living and cold phenomena on earth is

There is a human face

No wonder it is located nearby

With the hemispheres of the brain

There are no blue eagles

Every face of a leader, a king, a slave, and a free man is beautiful in expressiveness of feelings. And just as scientists discover the laws of physical and chemical sciences, so poets, judges and artists will make discoveries in the form of a person, finding radium rays in the eyes and atoms, decays and formations in the human brain, since our brain is like a universe compressed to the limit, from which all space.

When the chicks leave the nest
And the mother remains alone -
The wrinkles on the face lengthen
And white sorrows at the temples.

The dominance of gigantic industry and colossal machines has undeniably created new, unprecedented reflexes in the central nervous system of modern man. And if so, then the concept of beauty should be extracted from people who have mastered machines and spaces, and modern aesthetics should be built on this extraction.

My textbooks are the facts that happen on the streets and in the buildings of Moscow. And thinking about what I have seen, I usually look at reproductions of paintings where the artist takes some fact characteristic of a certain moment in time and depicts it in an image, giving it a face, a figure, a dress and a setting.

Every moment of existence, a fact = existence in a certain way of thinking; the fact changes - thoughts change. And only painting can clothe thought and place it before those living in one state forever and ever. That is why I constantly learn from accomplished facts on the streets and in the buildings of Moscow and from the world painting of old and contemporary artists - this is where you need to start if you want to understand my poems.

Impressions of the Russian-Dutch flower exhibition. September, 1955

The flower exhibition of the Moscow region and Holland reflects the essence of the people of both. At the Russian part of the flower exhibition there is a lot: in vases there are not bouquets, but tight brooms, there are also many varieties, flowers are matched one to another without taking into account shapes and colors, in general, the richness of feelings and the abundance of beauty surprises and amazes, but all this is in a great gathering bad taste and wild mental lack of culture (sad and bitter).

About Holland, I would say that feelings and soulfulness are absent in Dutch flowers. There is decorative beauty. There are also poetic flowers, like decadent poems. There is little nature in flowers, much artificial, but all this is presented with such polished grace, with such brilliance and taste that Muscovites just gasp.

The truth is in goodness, and goodness is inherent in the Russian people (and not the tsars).

The seeker of truth needs to have Indian perfection of spirit. And the Indian Buddha appeared from a flower.

But the influence of flowers on hearts

Not yet on par with iron

And we silently look

And we turn our thoughts over.

Adults only pretend to be adults -

Do you think they buy Christmas tree decorations for the kids? They amuse themselves, no worse than babies, but look at the outside - glasses, a hat, a briefcase in their hands.

And in the office there are bear cubs on the table. And these toilet trinkets are also toys. A person remains a child until the end of his days, only the brain lines multiply and deepen towards maturity, which is why an adult becomes truly smart and serious. And with old age, the convolutions dry out and the child again begins to reign in the old man.

Notes from the Moscow-Yalta train

The sea demands to be looked at
And when you stand in silence
Look at him
The sea will allow you to love yourself
And it will remain in your heart.

German wooden crosses stick out here and there in the arable fields. Pyramid poplars appeared. Black forest prevails. Kharkov train station. Two young switchmen with flags greet the train. Proud and ruddy, like admirals.

Bear Mountain
Sad lonely mountain
She appeared before me
Rejected by other ridges
stood in the sea
And the cloud smoked on his forehead
And the sun reflected in the sea
Similar to radiance
On a towel.

The leaves of all plants in the month of February are like leather. Earth - soil - magnificent Brown and resembles chicken fluff.

The huge tree is called “wolf berries”.

People who live among green grace are deprived of admiration. Not the way Muscovites rejoice at every branch.

Poems 1944-1946

The selection is compiled based on materials from notebooks dated 1944-1946. Most of the works were written during wartime. While in evacuation, Ksenia decided to write a poem about the siege of Leningrad and sewed herself a special notebook to collect material. As follows from the records, evacuated employees of the Leningrad Academy of Sciences shared their memories with her. However, the work did not go well. In a homemade notebook, Ksenia wrote down only three excerpts from the life of Leningraders. The free sheets of the notebook were used for drafts. From the drafts we took the poems “Sketch”, “Gardener” and “Fate gave me a craft into my hands” for this selection.

“Sketch” tells about the events that happened in Ksenia’s family in 1941. The poem is autobiographical and, in fact, is a diary entry written in a column. After the mines in the Moscow region were blown up, Nekrasova’s husband, mining engineer Sergei Vysotsky, invites Ksenia to go with him to Asia. However, she refuses, preferring to stay with her son Tarasik in Moscow.

One version of this poem, entitled “1941,” has already appeared in print. It was first published in the book “Destiny,” published in 1981. However, in the printed version, the poem had a different order of episodes and was devoid of “documentary” parts. For example, a very interesting, in our opinion, passage in which Ksenia reproduces the dialogue that took place between her and her husband.

“The Gardener” is a previously unpublished poem. The theme of the gardener is one of the main themes in Nekrasova's poetry. It is not by chance that in the poem the “points” scattered in front of the gardener are called not “seeds”, but “names”. The earth seemed to Ksenia to be a huge flowering space, and the gardener who sows the earth is the same poet who sows the space with “names,” that is, with words. She saw the poet's mission as related to the gardener's mission. If the world is a garden, then the poet should write sonnets “about manure, and poems about soil.”

It is curious that the poem begins with dots. This is not a missing line at all. As Ksenia noted, in her poems she “came from painting.” For example, it is easy to notice that the image of people in Nekrasova’s texts is always static. She describes what she saw as if it were a painting. The dots in the text are most likely images of seeds lying in front of the gardener.

A remarkable neologism also attracts attention. Nekrasova was actively involved in word creation. Among her “inventions” are “moon-faced Kyrgyz”, “apple-cheeked boy”, “oversphere of heaven”, “gift of years” and “pumpkin-moon turban” from the above poem.

The rest of the texts were taken from the notebook into which Ksenia copied all the final copies. Of these, perhaps the most unusual are “When bitter sadness comes” and “Fate gave me a craft in my hands.” Two poems can be considered the rarest examples of “blue thoughts” preserved in the collections. (“Blue thoughts” Ksenia called poems with minor endings. Whenever she was overwhelmed by heavy thoughts, she tried either not to write at all, or carefully destroyed the fruits of such “blue thoughts”, sincerely believing that poetry should bring light, not sadness ).

In one of the above poems, Ksenia bitterly states that she has to make dolls instead of being creative: “The round dance of fools is invented by my mind and brain.” (There was an ambiguity in the lines like “a mother loves her daughter.” What was meant is that the brain is forced to invent cotton-wool “boobs”). It must be said that such an episode actually took place. Sometimes, in order to feed herself, Ksenia had to make toys (according to the recollections of contemporaries, the poet Nikolai Glazkov sold Ksyusha’s rag dolls).

Note that Ksenia Nekrasova did not use punctuation marks in the texts, except for cases when it was necessary to put a question mark or Exclamation point or indicate dialogues. Therefore, the author’s punctuation is preserved throughout the texts.

Sketch

Room
And I'm in the room
Me and son
Menstruation in the cradle
And from wall to wall
Emptiness stretches out
And horror shook the house
And crazy glass
They jumped from the frames with a whistle
And they hit the dust on the sidewalk
Clinking glass with hysteria
And near the ground from bomb explosions
Hair stood up
And the tentacles rustling about the heavens
Searched the earth and hearts

And the husband comes in
He's covered in black dust
And a scary sculptor
Fingers of war
From rocks
Lik broke it out
Huge forehead
With kinks of anxiety
Hanging over the lake of eye sockets
Where there is no peace
Sloping cheekbones
My chin was rolling down
But only a human mouth
Childishly simple and unprotected
Before the will of fate.
- We blew up the mines now
And they flooded them
The cars were taken upstairs
We’ll take them to Asia.

Around the room
Passed
And he sat down:
- And you?
Well, Ksenya, what about you?
- I decided here
wait it out.
You are an engineer
It's dangerous for you here.
- I'll leave
and you and Tarasik are alone?
Everything is somehow wrong here
Let's go, Ksenya...
- No,
You will go alone
Many people need you
For millions of citizens
Did you study...
And I,
What do I need
I'm a mother
And animals are held in high esteem
This name.
I'll wait out the enemy
And then you will come back.

Like a son? -
And he approached his son
On the slopes of the forehead
Calm has fallen
And on the shoulders
And on hands.
He stood so humble, -
And clear moon
Silence has fallen
Above the face of the son and father.
And the walls were calmly silent,
And the ceiling hung above our heads
But only
Sobbed
Thin in a glass
Shards of broken glass.
in this clarity
He stood
for a long time
for a long time.

Gardener

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

He is sitting on the carpet
In the pumpkin moon
turban on the forehead,
And mustaches like brushes of flowers
Sliding across rosy cheeks
Two brown eyes
In gray eyebrows,
Like shards of glass
With a cunning brilliance they are silent
And on the table
Points
posed by bygone events
Names
From which the earth will give birth
Great Book Beds
From radishes, flowers and pumpkins.

Fate gave me
Hands on the craft.
I learned
Make dolls for sale.
Poetry of the disembodied
and boneless
You won't budge
Mill wheels.
And threw it into the corner of my heart,
And sealed it with a seal of tears
I'm God's gift
From the highest words.
Bolvanov cotton round dance
My mind invents
and brain.

When bitter sorrow comes
Who should I confess to?
- To God
- I don’t believe in God
- To friends
- But I don’t have a friend
- What about people?
- Well people
I believed in them
It's painful to describe yourself
And go through thoughts
Already covered ground
My continent
What is counted in years
And stayed behind
At thirty years old.
Timid youth lives there
Beaten by life's stones
She still looks trustingly
Fingers are dirty
that the stones were lifted.

From the series “World”

By market squares
There are talks
Like people
They forgot the welcome
Pity was killed in battles
Conscience trampled on campaigns
ABOUT! if there was a God
I would ask:
Move it from its place
God, the markets.
The orbits of the mouths would be bent
Languages ​​are like worlds colliding
Words and thoughts split.

The boy got it
From a starling's basket
Bird round bluish eyelid
Moved up
Mysterious bird eyes
Like undiscovered laws
Balls of fluffy life
Touches children and adults
Even a tramp
Shabals of hands
Reaching out from the crowd
Trying to touch
Ruffled feathers.

This means that people have goodness.

Poems about creativity

Who is this?
Emerging
Inside my head
Under my head
The back of the head is immersed
Into the darkness
With the finest outline
Sloping forehead,
Rta
And a bloated nose
Soft nostrils
In the background of my brain
- The essence of humanity
With an inhuman profile
But still human
Like all of us

This is how it begins
Drinking my thoughts
And my body

Eating me WORD.

23/10 - 26/10-44

Oh my thought
Peeking
At the back of a man's head
In the cathedral of skulls
You prayed
When in the midst of the scorched darkness
Smoky painting of goodness
Got golden again
Heavenly features
You are my thought
On a white sheet
Become a witness.

Poems from the cycle “About my generation”

The book “About My Generation,” prepared by Ksenia in 1943, is a thin homemade notebook that lists the sections future book, and instead of poems - their first lines. She copies new poems intended for the book into two homemade notebooks, labeled “Notebook No. 1” and “Notebook No. 2.” The inscription on the cover of Notebook No. 1 reads:

“Poems intended for a book about my generation in a single twentieth anniversary were collected for the publication of the book in 1943 during the Great Patriotic War with Fascism (Germany).”

Despite the everyday nature of the themes of the poems, their poetry and imagery are surprising:

“Metal blast gods
dozens of suns
in cast iron ladles”,

She writes about the blast furnace in the poem “Sverdlovsk”.

It is noteworthy that a significant place in the book is devoted to food. People who knew Nekrasova closely note that she was very unpretentious in food and poems about food are extremely rare in her poetry. There are no culinary themes in her poems either before or after the war. The exception is the “late” poem from the 50s about ice cream that we cited at the end of the collection, which was not included in the cycle “About My Generation,” but was included by us in the selection.

Sverdlovsk

Left the windless bays
From blue nights
At home like a herd of perches
In the green mud
Viscous days
Lying motionless
Layer
And a glassy look
Won't light
Geranium smoldering pupil
Leaving
Harbors in silence
I got up
Across the road
Threw the domain gods
Dozens of suns
In cast iron ladles
And like republic laws
Houses were built from concrete
Laying shadows on the ground
And next to me again
From c e ment and steel
The peoples built the tablets
Cutting windows between the ribs
And Sverdlovsk stood up
In front of me
Spattered with lime
and in clay
And the axes clattered in the wood
And the marbles rang under the saw.

A cycle of poems dedicated to bread

When you're hungry
And bread
This is the second year you are malnourished
All marbles of ideas
And the crystals of the arts
Meadows of Love
And loopholes and towers of the soul
All dry winds
Sweeps away from the body
And the outlines of bones remain
Yes, the mirrors are large for the pupils
Attached between sharp lumps
On a dry face.

Don't throw it on the floor
bread crumbs
Don't trample with your feet
Human food
Respect the hunk
All kinds of bread
Earth bread
Inhabited by man
Gave him
And yards and cars
And sowed dreams in hearts
The harvest gave birth to talents
With your abundance in the bottom
Gave us a beautiful homeland
And it is not necessary
bread for us people
Treat with contempt
swaggeringly
Neither to wheat
Neither to rye

A loaf of bread -
This is beyond a poem
Trilogy of Schemes
Desires and feelings
Not every person
Into the tragedy of the century
Available for the day
Loaf taste.

400 grams
This is a whole sonnet
The economy is forgotten
From the stage of war
And no matter how much you applaud
Stomach scream
The singer from the darkness will not perform
You

There are two types
Cooking
There is food from the gods
From Olympus
And there is a simple kitchen
Food

For kitchen
They will bring it from the market
Drooping and dying fruit
And the milk is tired
From the road
And sad
Cabbage and carrots
And all this twenty times
Digest
And they'll steam it
They'll boil it down again
They'll fry
And into the oven with sauce
They'll make you rot
And my hands are sweaty
Those sauces get in the way
And the smoke is smoky
Crowd over the stove
And stuffiness and heat
Hovering over the food

And the mountain food of Zeus
People will bow to her
To the ground
And tongues are sacrificed
and bellies
Bring wonderful food
You'll hurry
Here's a peach rub
An example.
Bonfire
From dried grape vines
And above the fire there is a transparent vault
And a pot of water on the fire
And in the bowler there is an evening star
Face reflected
From the blue heights
While the water is boiling
We picked peaches
And the peaches were crushed in a cup
Flour was poured and mixed
And boiling water into the gushing steam
Dumplings made from peaches
And they added oil to the brew
And even eternal snow
Hearing the smell from the pot
Turned pink with eternal snows
Ours was full of food
Smokey vessel
With the seasoning of evening stars
night gardens
And we're all around
sat and dreamed
When the hostess spills
According to the cups of Zeus's cauldron.

Cold borscht
Or simply okroshka
Where in the portion
Total chopped
And chopped onion
Chopped potatoes
A little chopped eggs
And whitened with cream
You'll try
Tastes good
But you won’t find a voluminous piece
Not full
neither hungry
You'll go back
Without feeling the Polish soul.

I met them at train stations
There are terrible wars in the events
And there was no beauty in them
Or we are Asians
And our tastes are incomparable
But we value women

The vastness of hearts
The greatness of forms
And the nobility of inner impulses
I'm wearing polka boots
I haven't seen these features
Some
Pieces of crepe de Chine
On locks of dubious purity
Pointed cap
Eyebrows plucked according to fashion
And on the lips
and on the cheeks
And there's pink dirt behind my nails
And oceans of worries
The pupils lie without shores
Is it smoothed out?
fold in patch
That the chest is unwashed
Protects from sight.

Give yourself away
And labor and honor
And under the foundation
Lay your ashes
So that the morning palaces
From a sorrowless height
Slightly raised face
Look beyond the stars
Give yourself away
And your mind
And your talent
What's in the blue halls
Without war and sorrow
With non-lying eyes
Will pass down from you
By light ages

The Tale of Ice Cream

In our republic, citizens
They love ice cream very much
And everyone, young and old, eats ice cream
From ministers to
Sweepers of squares and streets
And the boys and girls
And all the common people eat ice cream with bread
What a pleasant meal
Pre-revolutionary old ladies
Putting creamy ice cream in black coffee
And the majority of fellow citizens eat ice cream
As necessary
On trains,
On the trolleybus,
In the bus,
Trying to eat faster
This one is delicious
But fast-melting
Food product.

From the series “Asian Violins”

The cycle “Asian Violins” was conceived by Nekrasova during her stay in Tashkent. The texts were typed on a typewriter and, apparently, were intended for publication, which is why punctuation marks are placed in them.

Vision of the night

The earth is locked in a circle of the horizon
And filled with the sea.
The sea created the hills and mountains,
Sketched rocks and cliffs
And, having grown old, it went into the sky.

Quiet...
A scream will make a stone fall
And the echo will wake you up.
The echo will break the vision -
And again it will be our time,
Our everyday life.

Because of the mountain lizard
The fang of the moon stuck out,
Yellow from millions of years,
And from horizon to horizon
A fawn curtain of dust began to flow,
There was a crunch under my feet
Thousand-year-old shells.
Asian night
The silver cicadas began to jingle.

The leaves rustled at my soles,
The edged stems shook -
And on the porcelain of fragile sands before me
A turtle warms its shell in the moon.
Leaf-shaped head exposed
And the green ones released their paws -
And hiding it with a filmy eyelid
Secrets of years and centuries.
Flat-lipped, stretched mouth,
Shrinking, he is silent in hee-hee-kah.

And time may have such a face,
When one time,
without people.
Two huge phalanxes
From a crack of stone
On needle-like cosmos
We rushed in an arc.
Quiet.

Sketch of my time

The sun scorched the Kyrgyz mountains
Slopes purple in the evening
And blacker gorges, slopes
And the height is more jagged than the mountains.

I am standing,
And there are thorns all around
There's not a single blade of grass
There is not a single leaf.

Here comes the air wind
And balls of thorny stems
Takes it on transparent hands
I look and wonder
Why do these deaths sit on the stems?
These sharp needles
Around beautiful inflorescences
And thorns like crowns
Flowers on their foreheads...

I am standing
I'm silent
A whirlwind carries armfuls of thorns past
Clogging rock crevices for the winter.
My gaze is cast downwards
Amazed - taken aback
There is a cornice above the cliff
Dressed in copper patches
An old man stands up from the ledge.

Once upon a time a lilac hair sat
Then the birds, withered, pecked him
And now around his bald head
The awls are a crown of rusty steel.

And every leaf
Finished with teeth
And copies of the teeth stuck out
A shadow fell at my feet
I raised my head up
Slowly moving the wing
The vulture circled the moat
Hanging so low on the wings
And I saw clearly
Like on his white chest
Fresh blood is smeared.
I am standing
I'm silent.

Publication, preface and

...Even if she is not a philologist, not a poet, and in the past just an engineer, reading blank poetry, she seemed to be knocking down her heels, as if she was walking through winter arable land... As if in the frozen silence she herself sang to me:
No! The mirror is not a flatterer
it is truer than the fans,
my dear,
my home friend
I'll come to you soon
and you, without smiling, will reflect
my gray head.
This is how poetry called free verse and Ksenia Nekrasova came into my life. Women's happiness - what is it?... Home, family, children. Ksenia was deprived of all this. But she was and remains a most talented poet. Her poems breathe love for life and for people and awaken good feelings in us.
My city-science city stretches from Perlov’s dacha to the Bolshevskaya commune, from Klyazma to Yauza... The people in the city are different according to their social class. A significant part are people who have made a very tangible, important contribution in development national science. Here, in Bolshevo, there lived a woman who managed to overcome orphanhood, poverty, physical weakness and talk about the time, about herself in poetry. This is Ksenia Nekrasova.
You, reader, are right,
do not be shy,
Make yourself at home.
It's wonderful of you,
what on such a blizzard evening
We came to visit
A gloomy poet.
Come in and sit by the stove.
And so that the trumpets howl
Didn't bother my heart
I'll tell you a fairy tale now...
She could have written these lines in a house near the Church of Cosmas and Damian, which, thank God, still operates in Bolshevo. Here, where apartments in private houses were cheaper than in Moscow, she found a roof over her head.
Here is how Yaroslav Smelyakov wrote about Ksenia:
What do I care about your luxurious rags, beauties?
your sophistication, your perfume and linen? -
Ksenya Nekrasova in a pathetic straw hat
Mine slowly enters the poem.
How poorly and how clumsily she is dressed!
The cutting smells like a basement or attic.
You haven’t forgotten Ksyushino’s desire -
decorate the dress with a crumpled fabric flower?
Her life, in general, was not very successful:
neglect, ridicule, even blasphemy.
I only know that somewhere at the dacha station,
forever without money, she's dry
lived…
Try to find a place in our Korolev where the pace of time is not so noticeable, where it has stopped and slowed down. I found three such corners. This is the house in Valentinovka, from which mother, simple woman, accompanied her four sons to the front. The younger, Valery (Vasya!) Utkin, having blown up “Ferdinand”, ended his earthly life, becoming a Hero Soviet Union Valery Stepanovich Utkin.
Another place is the Kraft estate, a small cozy house in a linden park, where in 1921 Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, having regained his health, continued to lead the country and even managed to clear the paths of snow himself... No matter how controversial Lenin’s personality is assessed today, it was the Head State of the Russian...
And near the Temple of Cosmas and Damian lived Ksenia Nekrasova. What did she leave us? Poetry. True poetry.
...And neither tine nor fences:
Instead of tyna
Everything is rowan
planted in a row.
...and there is a rowan tree
All in flammable colors,
White bouquets
Decorating the branches, thin, tall,
Unruly to thunder.
In the face of neighbors
The bitterness of loneliness
Hiding at the roots.
There are no punctuation marks, the rhythm and rhymes are unusual... But the images and paintings she created are festive and colorfully rich. Such is the lilac with bare “eyelid branches”, not refined by the gardener’s hand. The native Russian palisade appears before your eyes. Ksenia was interested in life in all its diversity. And the dewdrop on the flower petal attracted her attention, and the strength of the human spirit, and the breadth of the Russian soul.
People, huh
People!
Did you know
Russian song,
when her heart
the melancholy has eased
and there was an endless steppe
riddled with roads of failure?
And in unspeakable sadness,
unmeasured
untrodden,
Russian sits
and sings his song...
Now they're branding Soviet power, and the Sverdlovsk regional committee of the Komsomol sent Ksenia Nekrasova to study “to become a poet” in Moscow. She was accepted into the Literary Institute in 1935. I studied, but didn’t finish my studies. War. Marriage. Family. Birth of first child Taras. “Was he the son of Taras?” - this is what philologist Margarita Shorygina, who lives in our city, told me doubtfully. She studied the life and work of the “strange” poet, met with people who personally knew Ksenia...
It’s painful to read the “joking memories” of colleagues:
- Nikolai Glazkov once told an interesting story about the poetess Ksenia Nekrasova: “She comes to visit and asks: “Kolya, don’t you have any candy?” - “No, I say, Ksyusha, candy, but this time there is half a candy!” - “Well, then come on!” - “Not even half a candy, I ate it!” Only the porridge remains.” “Well, let’s have some porridge,” Ksyusha did not back down. “Take a plate, Ksyusha, wash it and serve as much as you want!” “No, Kolya,” Ksenia answers, “I won’t wash, I don’t know how.” I've never worked. I'm princely origin».
Life is a cruel thing. Ksenia was often mistaken for a madwoman, they avoided her, and drove her away. Poorly dressed, almost always hungry, Ksenia evoked disgusting pity.
Once, in the editorial office of Novy Mir, Margarita Aliger was shown the layout of Ksenia Nekrasova’s poems, and she really liked them. She said this out loud, but when the head of the poetry department suggested saying the same to the author, Aliger refused: “This is completely different: poems and their author. I don't know how to communicate with her. It doesn’t work out somehow... Still, she... is an idiot!”
And Ksenia was nearby. I heard everything. “To say that I was confused means to say nothing,” M. Aliger recalls with bitterness. - To say that I was horrified is also very small and pale. I don’t remember any even remotely similar moment in my life. It was as if my throat was seized with iron, and tears flowed from my eyes... - Ksenia... Ksenia... Ksenia... Forgive me, forgive me! - I babbled, choking with shame, with torment, with suffering... I grabbed her hand, I was ready to press that dense, wide, clean palm to my lips, and she did not take it away, continuing to smile. And suddenly she said loudly, simply and clearly: “Thank you. Thank you for speaking so well of my poems.”
And there was such purity and detachment in these words, such peace and invincibility. human dignity, which I have never since been able to forget or lose...”
Anna Akhmatova loved and appreciated Ksenia. She walked to Tashkent. Found Akhmatova:
It's passing by
woman
under the ripples...
Gray head
and the face is like a stalk,
and the eyes are like gray
stormy wind...
- Hello, poet, -
I said politely.
Proud Akhmatova has since then (since 1943) become Ksenia’s guardian angel: she accepted the “madwoman” into her little room and achieved a writer’s ration. Contemporaries passed on Anna Andreevna’s words to each other: “In my entire life I have met only two female poets: Marina Tsvetaeva and Ksenia Nekrasova.”
Where is the truth about the poet Ksenia Nekrasova? In her poems, in random photo...It was after all woman's happiness:
And the two met together
and it’s easier for both of us to breathe,
and the road to happiness is easier
to search among many paths.
Or just a quiet evening
in the warm lilac haze
sit somewhere on the road
and hold your hand in your hand.
This is about a meeting with mining engineer Sergei Vysotsky... And after many years, happiness smiled on her once again. Son Kiryusha was born. She couldn’t care for or raise him; after encephalitis, she had to look after him herself. There was nowhere to take the child from the maternity hospital. It hasn't been published since 1948...
She wrote to Stalin, Poskrebyshev, Simonov: “... I’m dying, I can’t get out on my own, please help me...”
There was nothing to live on. Only in December 1955, her first book was published - a thin collection “Night on the Bashtan”. Ksenia dedicated it to her “son Kiryushenka.”
I want good things from people
Good words
Warm conversations
Without any subtleties
But simply
How can
Russian woman feel sorry
Having experienced adversity myself
And sensing the troubles of others
There are Russian words
In Russian women
You'll see more of them
In the villages, in the workers
Village streets
There are fewer of them around the city
You will meet
There's only one ringing
But there is no word
Will pronounce
And it will take away half the trouble
will look sympathetically
He'll regret it
Even though you are not related to her -
neighbour
But you are in grief
And with a Russian word he will warm you up
And your soul will become easier
From a woman's sympathy
Lyudsky
“We don’t have the power to convey the face of a flower,” but how can we convey the beauty of the soul?
Ksenia walks among the Korolyovites... Look around. Take a closer look. Don't miss out on the BEAUTY

_______________________________________________________________________________

In the forest lodge

Where the sky ends and the edge of the earth begins, a hut made of girthy larches props up the bowed blue.

Smoothed down to glass by showers, broken black by hail, the dry mirrors shone, glowing blue at the corners and green after the rain. And here, between the end and the beginning - RESPECTED EARTH - lived my master with a godly face. He was an Ancient age - a forester, and indeed, a red calico sleeve up to the elbow exposed the flat-sided handrail of his palms, and his fist, like a cleaver, was golden in his freckled skin.

Scientists stove

Russian bear

sat on her hind legs at the table,

Anisya Pavlovna at the stove:

There is a CAINTON character,

And Silk is reputed to be good,

And Velvet - you rarely see one like this,

And Anisya has old

his disposition was CANVAS.

The old woman knew the value of things and money; it was not for nothing that her hands cracked in her work, like rolls in an overheated oven.

Under the yellow forehead from under the scarf, the gray eyelids slightly drooped over the eyes in a semicircle.

So Anisya opened the stove and took out a sheet from the stove,

ARGE pies were baked in it.

Cabbage lived in pies, chopped finely.

And with hemp oil, the onions gave the cabbage a rich flavor.

And from the heat in the oven a vegetable garden appeared in the dewy mists,

There are smells of plants on the ridges,

The rocking of onion heads.

And the place comes from the earth -

its iron ore with a LOT of arable land conceived

And gave me ETERNAL SKY to drink.

Written by Ksenia Nekrasova(1912-1958)

A TALE ABOUT THE CAT AND THE HEDGEHOG

And lived in the world
smoky cat
He could be handsome and fat.
But the roof ridges
and the rise of trumpets under the juicy stars attracts, -
and obese comfort
the cat preferred
darkness of the night.
Walked
along the edge of the cornices,
lifting up proudly
bushy tail.
Fluffy meeting the silhouette,
threw out a warlike greeting.
Then he sat on the pipe
and silently contemplated the moon.

And next to the stove -
on the floor -
was caught in a box
gray hedgehog...
And he dug the box at first,
like the soil of last year's pine needles.
The boards did not smell of pine rhizomes
and the humidity didn't ooze
plywood turf
After all, the earth is a hedgehog,
in which I grew up,
I went through everything bit by bit,
crushed every blade of grass,
he flipped through sheet to sheet
and was full of his worries,
your worries,
their works.
And, feeling the dryness under my claws,
The hedgehog is nostalgic for the earth.

It was autumn in the yard,
and there was no moon.
Sad cat
sat under the chairs.
He could no longer purr -
still the same rhythm and the same syllable.
And I was sadly alone
on a rainy evening
Gray cat.

And someone rustled in the box,
and someone in the box sighed,
then he snorted softly,
and the unexpected sound fell silent,
and the box smelled like housing.

And here in the cat
the cat woke up
forest tousled times.
He sniffed the box around
and put his paw into the box...
...............................................
But the feeling of a cat
and the hedgehog attitude
I can't translate here
to human speech.

And after the meeting
day after day,
returning from the wanderings of the night,
the cat climbed
on friendly flooring
and lay here
or dozed.
And someone rustled in the box,
and someone in the box sighed,
then he snorted softly,
and the unexpected sound fell silent.

And the cat probably understood -
that you are not alone on earth.

URAL

There was a lake with broken edges...
The birch trees trembled around him,
and they ate like iron and stood
and the hops intertwined the twigs.
A man was walking along the shore - from the forest,
in big waders,
in a tanned brown casing,
and behind the shoulders, on the back,
like a flap of autumn
fox
hanging on a leather belt...

LILAC

I met
lilac bush in the garden.
He's elastic
and thick
grew from the ground
and like naked children,
he picked up flowers
in honor of people's health,
in honor of the rains
and love.

At my grandmother's house
Russian stove with a bear,
with a bright red soul -
helps people live:
bake bread,
Yes, cook cabbage soup,
yes behind the stove
and on the stove
fairy tales are cute to hide.

CONVERSATION WITH THE TABLE

My table
my tender,
wooden friend,
you're all silent
from year to year you stand
in a mysterious corner.
What are you silent about?
Whose hands are you keeping warm?
Open the gift of years!

Silence flows in response.
Only a carved devil
on the curved leg of the table
creaks:
- Ah, the human heart
so carefree.
The thing won't trust
sacraments for him.
The essence of the subject
there is the perfection of the brain.
And the heart -
the heart is a flower,
it will rise on its own,
blooms on its own
It will wither and go away on its own.
And a thing without old age is alive
and without infancy it is clear.
And don't question the table.
if you are a poet...

White Rose
faded in glasses,
moonlight
lying on the table
And I, touching the carving with my hand,
I say:
my table,
my wise friend,
please forgive me!

On a pine stool
tea saucer like the sea,
with blue water stands.
A tit walks on the sea
with a black eye on its side.
Behind the window It is snowing –
a bird lives in the room.

SURPRISE

And the moon noticed:
every evening by the window
the girl sits silently
he looks at her - the moon.

From such attention
the moon turned red.
"What a sweet little man
from open window
in the sky looks at me,
did you notice, star?

The star is surprised...

RUSSIAN DAY

And snow was flying thickly from the clouds...
And suddenly a crimson ray dawns
the hazy surface is touched -
the snowdrift turned pink in silence,
heavy with antique silver
on brown logs
roof caps,
and the skies are like cornflowers,
suddenly they bloomed blue,
and powerful trunks
rose from the snow,
piercing twigs with rods
a swarm of shining icicles.
And my admiring gaze rejoiced,
and marvelous awe of surprise
temples tingled a little, -
and you can cry
and write poetry.

There are the crosses of the magpie's paws,
like girlish embroidery on canvas...

And the people appeared before me,
born in the fury of a blizzard
and from infant moments
and to whitening gray hair
living with sensitive beauty.

Save my homeland!
Don’t forget her birch trees
do not leave its snows.

Year after year
I walk on earth.
And after winter there is winter
passes under your feet.
And day after day I look at the snow
Here and now
on black-trunk linden trees
snow blue lightning appeared.

she must be kind
from these winters.
It should be transparent
and a conscience as white as snow,
carry in oneself.

Shel White snow
to the white meadows.
And lightning flickered on the branches...

***
In the evening the sun with earthly juices
from the smoking rivers
and rainbow lakes
drunk to my fill,
and, unable to withstand earthly frenzy,
it staggered once, twice
and the village
stretching out the rays,
to the edge of the most pleasant land.

IZBA

At my grandmother's house
Russian stove with a bear,
with a bright red soul -
helps people live:
bake bread,
Yes, cook cabbage soup,
yes behind the stove
and on the stove
fairy tales are cute to hide.

Dedication to my son

The boy is very small
The boy is very nice
Dear baby
Golden sprig
Trembling little hands
thrown to the head
in two wide directions
like wings raised
my little bird
defenseless bird
if you exist, Lord,
give me iron strength
Kiryushenka comes out
over the endless abyss
22/VIII-51

………………………………….

This is not heaven

tied to the trunks, -

blue brocade

with golden bees

and a scattering of stars

on tree knots...

……………………………………….

When you stand next to me

I'm getting richer at heart

I'm becoming kinder

for all the people in the world,

I see during the day -

there are stars in the blue sky,

I'm sorry about my foot

touch the yellow leaves,

I become like air

lighter and more elegant.

And you stand and watch

and I don't know at all:

whether you love it or not.

………………………………………..

Year after year

I walk on earth.

And after winter there is winter

passes under your feet.

And day after day I look at the snow

and I can’t get enough of the snow...

Here and now

on black trunk faces

snow blue lightning appeared.

………………………………………………

Oh, the hearts of the people who live here,

she must be kind

from these winters.

It should be transparent

and a conscience as white as snow,

carry in oneself.

………………………………………………….

It was snowing white

to the white meadows.

And lightning flickered on the branches...

MEDITATION

There is an open sheet of paper on the table,

pure, like an untouched conscience.

Will I write something down in my memory?...

For some reason, the first thing that comes to mind is sadness,

but troubles come and go,

but in the end it remains

The sun that affirms life.

MORNING STUDY

Every morning

The Sun is approaching the Earth

and, standing on tiptoe,

puts the winded forehead

head to the horizon

and looks at us -

or sad

or admiringly

or solemnly.

And from his proximity the Earth receives the Word.

And every creature begins to form sounds

the admiration of your soul.

And those who cannot sound

smoke with blue fogs.

And the sun's rays

start with the Sun

and in the meadows they end in grass.

But the happiest of rays,

touching the lakes,

take the form of swamp frogs,

tender and fragile animals

and so ugly in appearance,

what is evoked in the thoughts of the living

fragile awe.

And the frogs have no idea

that they are related to the Sun,

and only deeply believe in the dawns,

morning and evening dawns.

And they also wander among the grasses and sedges,

and marsh frogs

human boys.

And, like all human shoots,

they are different from animals and birds

imagination of the heart.

And that is why it appears in space

between living and speaking

and beginningless pain,

and endless admiration for life.

RUSSIAN AUTUMN

For potatoes to grandma

we walked.

We went out, and it was warm outside...

Day, dropping an autumn leaf,

exposing plant lines,

clean and high

stood up in front of people.

Every time

I see these herbs, I ate these

and birch trunks.

Why don't you get tired of watching?

same?...

ABOUT! What are the secrets of healing

Russian meadows hide within themselves,

that once you touch them,

you will take the sword for them,

and you will accept death,

and you will rise again,

to capture

these paths and forests,

and our sky.

I rinsed the sky in the river

and on a new bast rope

hung the sky to dry.

And then we're sheep's coats

put it on from my father's back

and with a plow

Let's go to the field to sow.

One of his legs dangled from the cart

and swirled the air like cream,

and the eyes of the other stared

in the cart slot.

And the wheels are on an axle,

like a rooster's eyes, they were spinning.

Well, I'm in the middle of the cart,

as if in a wooden fairy tale, she sat.

ARCHAEOLOGIST

The soles of the mountains are submerged

into shady and lush gardens.

In a sports plaid shirt

a young man sits on a stone.

The shovels lie in front of him

and shards

from weathered kingdoms.

And he still sits on the stone

and all the forgotten poems

in ancient scarlet language

sings thoughtfully.

My words -

like rhizomes.

like soil humus.

How can I do

so that the rhizome gives a trunk

and the tips of the branches blossomed?...

DAY

I've been doing laundry all day since morning,

and at noon I left the threshold

to the well for water.

From standing in an inclined position for a long time

my lower back tingled a little

and hands from moving along

it ached from palms to shoulders.

And there was silence on the street,

such silence

like the sound of snowflakes falling

was heard in scale,

as if by an unskillful hand

the little child loses:

fly off do and la

and cover the Earth with stars.

Houses opposite

stood in the snow of the snow,

and falling leaves

seemed

like sheepskin coats in hare fur.

And the berries of the blushing rowan

dressed in canvas caps

In the middle of the street

shaggy dog

lying in the snow

pointing his nose to the sky.

I tied the chain to the bucket with a rope

and became slow

lower the roller.

And there was silence over everyone.

, Sukhoi Log urban district, Sverdlovsk region)

Ksenia Aleksandrovna Nekrasova(January 18 - February 17) - Russian, Soviet poet.

Biography

Ksenia Nekrasova was born in the village of Irbitskie Vershiny, Perm province (now the urban-type settlement of Altynai, Sukholozhsky district, Sverdlovsk region). In her autobiography she wrote: “I don’t remember my parents. She was taken from an orphanage by the teacher’s family to be raised.”

After finishing the seven-year school, he entered the Irbit Pedagogical College. But Ksenia studied there for only 2 months, since the technical school was closed. In August 1930, she entered the department of political education and work at the Shadrinsk Agricultural Pedagogical College. Then she was a cultural worker at the Ural Heavy Engineering Plant. In 1935, the Sverdlovsk Regional Committee of the Komsomol sent Ksenia Nekrasova to Moscow to study.

In 1943, in Tashkent, Ksenia met Anna Akhmatova. Strict in her praise, Akhmatova highly appreciated her talent: “In my entire life, I have met only two female poets. Marina Tsvetaeva and Ksenia Nekrasova.” Thanks to her, Ksenia received a writer's ration. In 1944, Akhmatova gave K. A. Nekrasova a recommendation to join the Union of Soviet Writers. But Nekrasova was not accepted into the Writers' Union. .

In 1955, the publishing house “Soviet Writer” published a collection of Nekrasova’s poems, “Night on the Bashtan,” in Moscow.

She died on February 17, 1958 in Moscow from a heart attack. The urn with the ashes was buried in the columbarium of the Donskoye Cemetery. A month after the death of the poetess, her collection “And Our Land is Beautiful!” was published. Two years later, “Soviet Writer” published the collection a second time, significantly expanding its content.

Editions

• Night on the Tower: Poems. - M.: Soviet writer, 1955. - 35 p. - 5000 copies.
• And our land is beautiful!: Poems. - M.: Sov. writer, 1958. - 50 p. - 10,000 copies.
  • Ed. 2nd, supplemented. - M.: Sov. writer, 1960. - 98 p. - 5000 copies.
• Poems / Comp. L. E. Rubinstein. - M.: Sov. writer, 1973. - 160 p. - 17,000 copies.
• My poems / Comp. L. E. Rubinstein. - M.: Sov. Russia, 1976. - 176 p. - 25,000 copies.
• Fate: Book. poems / [Auth. preface L. Rubinstein; Artist M. Dorokhov]. - M.: Sovremennik, 1981. - 143 p.
• I am part of Rus': Poems / [Afterword. V. P. Timofeeva]. - Chelyabinsk: South-Ural. book publishing house, 1986. - 63, p. - 5000 copies.
• Ksenia Nekrasova: Sat. - M.: Slovo, 1995. - 103 p. - (My very poems).
• In a wooden fairy tale: Poems / [Compiled, prepared. text and afterword I. I. Rostovtseva; Il. N.A. Petrova]. - M.: Khud. lit., 1999. - 317, p.
• In our wide world: Poems, sketches, memories of contemporaries. - Ekaterinburg: Bank of Cultures. inform., 2002. - 334, p. - (Library of Stone Belt Poetry).

About her

• Ksenia Aleksandrovna Nekrasova (1912-1958): bibliographic index / [Comp. O. V. Malakhova; Entry Art. V. M. Platonenko]. - Shadrinsk: Iset, 2004. - 45 p. - (Central Library named after A. N. Zyryanov, methodological and analytical department).
• Bukharova I. G. Wanderer: about the fate and poetry of Ksenia Nekrasova. - Irkutsk: Irkutsk State University, 2006. - 148 p.

Anthologies

• Nekrasova K.// Anthology of Russian Soviet poetry. 1917-1957. - T. 2. - M., 1957. - S.
• Nekrasova K.// Russian soviet poetry Ural: Anthology. - Sverdlovsk, 1983. - P. 123-126.
• Nekrasova K.// Russian poetry. 20th century: Anthology / Ed. V. A. Kostrova. - M.: Olma-Press, 2001. - P. 414-416.

see also

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Literature

• Martynov L. The Tsar's Daughter / Gift to the Future: Poems and Memoirs. - M.: Veche, 2008. - P. 534-541. Available in
• Matsuev N. Russian Soviet writers 1917-1967: Materials for biographical dictionary. - M., 1981. - P. 156.
• Rubinshtein L. E. Ksenia Nekrasova and her poems // Nekrasova K. Poetry. - M.: Soviet writer, 1973. - P. 3-6.
• Rubinshtein L. E. About the author // Nekrasova K. My poems. - M.: Soviet Russia, 1976. - pp. 5-7.

Notes

Links

An excerpt characterizing Nekrasov, Ksenia Aleksandrovna

The gray-haired valet sat dozing and listening to the prince's snoring in the huge office. From the far side of the house, from behind the closed doors, difficult passages of Dussek's sonata were heard twenty times repeated.
At this time, a carriage and britzka drove up to the porch, and Prince Andrei got out of the carriage, dropped off his little wife and let her go ahead. Gray-haired Tikhon, in a wig, leaned out of the waiter's door, reported in a whisper that the prince was sleeping, and hastily closed the door. Tikhon knew that neither the arrival of his son nor any unusual events should have disrupted the order of the day. Prince Andrei apparently knew this as well as Tikhon; he looked at his watch, as if to see if his father’s habits had changed during the time during which he had not seen him, and, making sure that they had not changed, he turned to his wife:
“He’ll get up in twenty minutes.” “Let’s go to Princess Marya,” he said.
The little princess gained weight during this time, but her eyes and short lip with a mustache and smile rose just as cheerfully and sweetly when she spoke.
“Mais c"est un palais,” she said to her husband, looking around, with the expression with which one speaks of praise to the owner of the ball. “Allons, vite, vite!... [Yes, this is a palace! – Let’s go quickly, quickly!...] - She , looking around, smiled at Tikhon, her husband, and the waiter who saw them off.
- C "est Marieie qui s" exercise? Allons doucement, il faut la surprendre. [Is this Marie exercising? Hush, let's take her by surprise.]

From the book of destinies. Ksenia Alexandrovna Nekrasova(January 18, 1912, Irbit Peaks, now Altynai, Sverdlovsk region- February 17, 1958, Moscow) - Russian, Soviet poet.

She graduated from the seven-year school and studied at the Irbit Pedagogical College. Then she was a cultural worker at the Ural Heavy Engineering Plant. In 1935, the Sverdlovsk Regional Committee of the Komsomol sent Ksenia Nekrasova to Moscow to study.

In 1937, the magazine "October" published a selection of poems by the young poetess with a foreword by Nikolai Aseev. In 1937 - 1941 she studied at the Literary Institute. In 1941 - 1944 - in evacuation in Central Asia.

In 1950, a portrait of Ksenia Nekrasova was painted by artist Robert Falk.

The history of the creation of the portrait (from the memoirs of Robert Falk’s wife Angelina Vasilievna Shchekin-Krotova).

In 1945, the artist Robert Falk, heating the stove with old magazines, came across a selection of poems by Ksenia Nekrasova in the magazine “October”:

I rinsed the sky in the river

And on a new bast rope

I hung the sky out to dry...

These lines struck Falk and his wife so much that they began to look for the author together. Soon Nekrasova appeared on their doorstep: “Hello”... Ksyusha pronounced this word “singingly and especially sublimely; she brought goodness and joy to this house..."

“...Average height, rather slender, with small legs in children’s elastic stockings and hemmed felt boots. On round face with wide-set brown eyes, a childish, joyful, somewhat detached smile wandered. She was already over 30, and she looked like a village girl.

...One day Ksana came to us in a new dress. It was Lyalya Yakhontova who sewed her a red cotton dress, and Ksana strung bead beads for herself. It was in this dress that Falk painted her in 1950.”

Now the portrait is in the State Russian Museum in St. Petersburg.

In 1955, the publishing house “Soviet Writer” published a collection of Nekrasova’s poems, “Night on the Bashtan,” in Moscow.

She died on February 17, 1958 in Moscow. She was buried at the Donskoye Cemetery. A month after the death of the poetess, her collection “And Our Land is Beautiful!” was published. Two years later, “Soviet Writer” published the collection a second time, significantly expanding its content.

Recitatives by Ksenia Nekrasova

Lamentations, the subtle and sharp flow of Ksenia Nekrasova’s words - words coming not even from the heart, but from the heart of the heart: from such a depth of self-knowledge that it takes the reader’s breath away:

And I got up today

at dawn...

I looked -

And the house got caught in the net

From green cuttings and buds

And from the subtle ones,

Like mud, branches.

I went around all the houses in the block -

The whole city was trembling in its shadows.

I asked passersby -

Where are the spinners?

What did the networks weave?

They looked at me with surprise

And in response they rolled their eyes.

You are starlings

Be more trusting, people! -

Do you think these are leaves?

Just apple trees

And just pears?..

There is something childish in a magnificent verbal “chomp,” but if a poet has not retained a note of childishness in his soul, what kind of poet is he?

IN best case scenario a craftsman who has fairly mastered a number of techniques.

The grove is certainly barefoot if it is spring, but to see this you need a special childish optics of happiness: and then it will become clear why the grove clasped its hands: to drive away the rooks from their nests.

Here they are, black marks of living meaning, soaring into the air, filling it with themselves; and here it is - spring: eternal and passing, sometimes coming to all the poets by whom language lives - when it is not an illusion of the poets themselves, but how can one check?

The sums of truths are as heavy as lead, but without illusions there would be not life, but a blot.

And they are woven as lush as Uzbek carpets, woven finely, choked with recitative, the beautiful poems of Ksenia Nekrasova sound and live:

And there is a bench under the maples,

on the bench of heaven without noticing,

young man, like thin rain,

fingers of a cute woman's hands,

like strings, it quietly touches.

Simple, like happiness, complex, like strings of spirit...

words from Ksenia Nekrasova,

Revealed by pebbles,

There is no right to sharply cross out time:

Authenticity, like light, is always right.

Any verse is a recitative, a choke,

Crying and shadow play are unacceptable.

The sun will flood with happiness,

Or the melancholy aches unbearably.

Coal, chalk, lingonberry tones

And the precious carmine of sunset.

...will not hold volumes on the ground

The speech is so foamy.

The biography of Ksenia Alexandrovna Nekrasova has not yet been written. The essay “About Myself,” published in “Ural Pathfinder” (1982, No. 3) is her only autobiographical note. But it is only about childhood and is more like a prose poem than a biographical certificate: no dates, no names, and geographical names indicate space rather than specific places on the map - “in the Egorshinsky stone mines system, between Irbit and Shadrinsk, near the village of Irbitsky Vershiny. On one side is the village of Elkino, on the other I grew up. “And the Iset River is very far from the Irbit Peaks to go wash up before the flood, so the end of the essay apparently refers to the city of Shadrinsk, where there is another oxbow river, and Uvaly, and arable land.

So her entire biography is not documentary. For now there are more legends and speculations. It is generally accepted, for example, that Ksenia Nekrasova was born on January 18, 1912, but according to the archives there are other dates besides this - even with the personal signature of the poetess. The information about the parents is also not the same: in the essay “About Myself,” the father is a mining engineer, the mother “stayed at home,” and according to contemporaries, the father was a clerk at the Irbit fairs, and she told her mother that she was not there, that she did not remembers. And she even wrote: “I don’t remember my parents. She was taken from a shelter by a teacher's family to be raised. “Be that as it may, Ksenia’s childhood was not cloudless.

Some outline of the life and work of Ksenia Nekrasova can be outlined from rare archival documents, according to the memoirs of contemporaries and poems.

Ksenia graduated from elementary school in Shadrinsk, living with her paternal aunt. This is confirmed by the words of a resident of the city of Kurgan, Galina Nikolaevna Romanova, who collected a lot of information about this period of the life of the future poetess and has a photograph of her with graduating class- May 26, 1926 Ksenia was already writing poetry then.

From 1926 to 1929, she continued her studies, first at a school in Irbit, and then at the Irbit Pedagogical College. In connection with the transfer of the technical school to the city of Kamyshlov, Ksenia returned to Shadrinsk in August 1930 and began studying at the agricultural pedagogical technical school in the department of political education. Not completing the academic year due to health reasons (neurasthenia), in 1931 she left for Moscow and lived there with her former teacher Elizaveta Alekseevna Chursina, who helped Ksenia enter the Moscow Institute of Journalism. Whether she studied there is unknown.

Many authors of notes about Ksenia Nekrasova write that until 1935 she worked as a cultural worker in Sverdlovsk at Uralmash and went to Moscow to study in the direction of the Sverdlovsk Regional Komsomol Committee, but there is no archival evidence of this yet.

The first poems in the magazine "October" (1937, No. 3) were dated May and August 17, 1935 and October 1936, indicating the places of their writing: p. Balaklava (something of a typo: either the city of Balaklava in Crimea or the village of Balakleya in the Cherkasy region?) and Bobrik-Donskoy. Of course, this was the time of travel or life of Ksenia Nekrasova in Ukraine. The poems in the magazine were accompanied by an admiring review from Nikolai Aseev, “and he was,” according to M. Aliger, “not at all that kind uncle whom it costs nothing to surprise and please.” Poems also appeared in issues 5 and 9 of the magazine. In the same year, Komsomolskaya Pravda published Ksenia Nekrasova’s poem “Night on the Bashtan”, which indicated the place of creation of the poem - “s. Balakleya in the Kiev region."

In 1940 and 1941, her peaks were published by the magazine “Young Guard”, “Her name,” recalled M. Aliger, “sounded, was passed on from mouth to mouth, and it seemed that they had come - recognition, success, glory. But she was not suitable for such a simple and easy solution question of its existence. » From 1937 to 1941, Nekrasova studied at the A. M. Gorky Literary Institute. The war prevented it from being completed. In 1941-1944, Ksenia was evacuated in Central Asia, first in rural areas, and then in Tashkent. There she met and became friends with Anna Akhmatova. Since 1944, Ksenia has lived in the Moscow region and Moscow. Sometimes her poems are published in the magazines “October”, “ New world", "Ogonyok", in " Literary newspaper" and "Komsomolskaya Pravda".

During Ksenia Nekrasova’s lifetime, only one of her books was published – “Night on the Bashtan” (1955). The second book, “And Our Land is Beautiful,” was published a month after the death of its author. Ksenia Nekrasova died on February 17, 1958 in Moscow. Critics greeted these and all subsequent books with respect for her talent. “And there is not a single poem in which the reader does not see something unusual and bright,” M. Svetlov noted about Ksenia’s poems. “Rich in colors, the poetry of Ksenia Nekrasova,” wrote S. Narovchatov, “is good by nature, it instinctively eschews the dark and bad sides of reality, and its life-affirming meaning should be appreciated.” Now memories and articles have been written about Ksenia Nekrasova, and poems are dedicated to her. She is depicted in the portraits of R. Falk and I. Glazunov.

Ksenia Nekrasova's poems are unique, they are as simple as Speaking, they have almost no rhymes. They are based on deep thought and vivid imagery. This is how, in the opinion of their author, epics, legends, akathists, as well as historical and state poetry, about the tragedies and victories of the people sounded. And in fact, the poems of Ksenia Nekrasova, lyrical in all respects, turn out to be filled with the facts of our reality, they are historical, journalistic, they are “with working people.” They contain Rus' and Russia, the multinational Fatherland, the Urals and Ukraine, middle Asia, in them Great Patriotic War, nature, love, art; they contain the poetess herself and our contemporary, that is, everything that was called by Ksenia “the gift of the years.” Ksenia Aleksandrovna Nekrasova looked at everything, listened carefully, thought about it, and was transformed into everything: “But I am a poet and a guesser of the universe, privileged to penetrate the pupils and take out what is hidden in the corners of the soul.”

When a poetess, dreaming of longevity, figuratively calls herself a part of Rus', she believes it, it is perceived as true.