Two years later we returned to Pole Kulikovo again. This was two weeks after the anniversary celebrations dedicated to the 600th anniversary of the Battle of Kulikovo. We returned in the same car and with the same driver, almost unchanged by the same company, not indifferent to fate national history. And we arrived in the same evening as the first time. However, now the evening was warm and quiet, as if enveloped by some great universal fatigue, light and strained, relating not to the end of the day, but to the completion of a huge circle of events. The next day was sure to be a difficult day - September 8 according to the old style and the church holiday of the Nativity of the Virgin Mary, on which, as the chronicles testify, the battle took place. That day, I must admit, we were guessing that an invisible line would close in front of us, by expressing something, wittingly or involuntarily, and the time of Russian history from Kulikovo Field would move in a new circle. What will happen when in a hundred years it converges again with the beginning of the countdown, what events are coming, will anyone come here to celebrate new anniversary and with what faith, with what heart will he come?
I remember well how last time we were leaving the field. We got up early, in the dark, quickly drank tea, loaded ourselves into the back of our all-terrain vehicle and decided to say goodbye to returning to the Don. Bye broken road We arrived, it was already dawn. Behind the unsightly bridge the village of Tatinki opened up, just above which on the night before the battle Russian army crossed the Don. And even further to the left and further, already on the banks of the Nepryadva, the huts of the village of Monastyrshchina appeared, where most of I found this army eternal shelter. At the burial site, the survivors, before leaving the Field, cut down a chapel from oak trees, and in its place the stone Church of the Nativity of the Virgin Mary was later erected. It was hard to look at her at that morning hour: the more the twilight spread and the fuller the light gained, the more the destruction was revealed, no less than during the bombing, and the more irreparable it seemed. The restoration of the temple-monument to Sergei of Radonezh took almost ten years, and it was not completely completed by that time. How can one believe that it is possible to do something here in two years, if the work looked long and painstaking? The tall bell tower, with its narrow windows showing through, stood out like a bitter reproach, facing Nepryadva, and behind it, in the hard frost, prickly to the eye, one could see the hills, which, who knows, were not mounds over Russian bones. And this general silent reproach, spilled over the entire local land, could not help but be felt.
(V. Rasputin)
Events of the Battle of Kulikovo, which became a harbinger of liberation Medieval Rus' from the Tatar-Mongol yoke, attract the attention of not only historians. In addition to numerous works devoted to understanding the role of this battle in the history of Russia, the image of the Kulikovo Field was reflected in the works of Russian poets and writers.
K.F. Ryleev, A.A. Blok, I. Shmelev, A.I. Solzhenitsyn, V.G. Rasputin - each of them found the one for himself art form, which could fully and consistently connect the present century and the past, revive in people's memory the glorious events of the past, and, perhaps, help to survive during the new hard times.
This article attempts to show how the elected V.G. Rasputin, the essay genre allows the author to capture the image of the “eternal” field with documentary accuracy and at the same time with a sense of deep lyricism.
The entry of the image of the Kulikovo Field into Russian literature is firmly connected with the name of A. A. Blok. Perhaps it is his quatrains from the poem “On the Kulikovo Field” that are most often quoted when we're talking about about events late XIV century, which became one of key points centuries-old relations between Rus' and the Golden Horde. However, in fairness, it should be noted that A. A. Blok was not the first of the Russian poets who tried to look deep into Russian history. Before him, the heroes of the Battle of Kulikovo were sung by “not a Poet, but a Citizen” by K. F. Ryleev in the Duma “Dmitry Donskoy” (1822), inspired not only by reading “The History of the Russian State” by N. M. Karamzin, but also by “Speech of Dmitry Donskoy before battle on the Kulikovo field" by Ivan Lamansky, which appeared in the memorable year 1812.
And even earlier, in 1807, the Russian playwright and poet Vladislav Aleksandrovich Ozerov wrote the tragedy “Dmitry Donskoy”.Understanding the present through understanding the past, allowing you to look into the future.
The key circumstance that served as the basis for the memorialization of the memory of the Battle of Kulikovo was the discovery by landowner S. D. Nechaev of the site of the battle in the then Tula province, which also happened in the first half of the 19th century. In 1850, a monument in honor of the victory was inaugurated on the Field (a cast-iron obelisk designed by A.P. Bryullov). The 500th anniversary of the battle (1880) did not go unnoticed.
At the beginning of the twentieth century, among the local clergy the idea arose to perpetuate on the battlefield not only the feat of Russian soldiers, but also the memory ideological inspirer Russian army and prayer book for him - St. Sergius Radonezh. The construction of the temple according to the design of the architect Alexei Viktorovich Shchusev was almost completed by 1917, but the events of the revolution and civil war led first to oblivion, and then to a significant decline of the created temple.
Something happened that I experienced revolutionary events 1905 and horrified by what he saw, A. A. Blok said in December 1908, not only describing the present, but also looking into the future:
Behind Nepryadva the swans screamed,
And again, again they
But this eternal “again, again” did not end with the victory of the revolution; six centuries later, the prophetic spirit of the blood-drenched steppe, transformed into collective farm arable land, reminds those who came of the same words, warning the living and expecting from them an answer for the centuries they lived in oblivion.
How did the Kulikovo field greet the inquisitive traveler V. G. Rasputin?
Again over the Kulikov field
The darkness rose and spread,
And, like a harsh cloud,
The coming day is clouded.
As the epigraph to his essay, V. G. Rasputin chooses precisely this Blok stanza, the first word of which is the same “again.” And it speaks not only about the past terrible circumstances of the revolutionary hard times, but also about the events of the end of the twentieth century, those years into which V. G. Rasputin takes the reader.
Only these mentioned lines of Blok’s poem are quoted by the writer in his rather voluminous two-part essay. Having mentioned the poetic symbolism of the predecessor, depicting the inexorability of the tragedy of the new day, foreshadowed by the “sunset in the blood”, that day which, contrary to bright dreams, does not foretell the peace towards which Russia, exactly “ Steppe mare...Running at a gallop,” V.G. Rasputin tries to avoid this symbolism. He strives to restore with documentary accuracy the circumstances of the first and second visits to the Kulikovo field.
The connection between turning to the topic of history in general and the Battle of Kulikovo, in particular, with those events witnessed by poets and writers who wrote about it starting from the 19th century, was far from accidental, and perhaps even significant.
Particularly noteworthy in this sense is the obvious ideological similarity of the essay by V. G. Rasputin with the little-known story of I. Shmelev “Kulikovo Field” (1939–1947), which can become the subject of separate study and in this work did not receive a reflection.
Understanding the present through understanding the past, allowing one to look into the future - this thought is, perhaps, the key for every insightful person.The foggy morning of September 8, 1380 became a textbook image, this fog that fell on the steppe was “seen” by K.F. Ryleev, A.A. Blok, and the Field and V.G. Rasputin were greeted by a gray haze. At the same time, V. G. Rasputin’s haze is not only a characteristic weather conditions, but also evidence of the state in which the people's memory remains. However, with the question of remembrance, the writer first turns not to himself, not to his companions or those he met along the way, but to the “dug-up, torn shores” Beautiful Swords who should have remembered and known their glory, but “hardly remembered anything...”.
And so, in search of memory, travelers rush to the very heart of military glory, to where “the crosses grew higher and higher”, where “under the left, lonely, dark pillar appeared, and under the right, like three Vasnetsov heroes, a three-part building stood tall temple."
So the field revealed its glory, but first the sky revealed it, the special sky above the Kulikovo field: “it was a mighty, high witness of battle and victory, then of centuries of patient waiting, and it finally became a witness of awakening memory.”
One can say for sure that V. G. Rasputin does not manage to completely avoid Blok’s symbolism, and perhaps he does not want this, which is why, rather, he notes with regret that “after six hundred years and being loaded with knowledge, in signs they don’t believe.”
It is difficult to say for sure whether that sunset over the Kulikovo Field in 1978 was a sign or not, but the fact that A. A. Blok once wrote about the same sunset can be stated quite definitely. In Rasputin’s lines, the images of the poet are unmistakably discerned: “I looked at the sunset - in five minutes, a strip of clear sky miraculously managed to reveal itself, which, right before our eyes, kept expanding, raising blackness above itself, and before our eyes, like divine flesh, it came to life and filled with crimson . It was from him, from the magical red light floating from the west, that the steppe lit up in a spell and began to spin, creating its wild, albeit plowed, but also dreary triumph.”
Although the sunset is a harbinger of the approaching darkness, the approaching night, here, on the Field, or rather, in the human heart, the laws of nature seem to be violated. That is why V. G. Rasputin often calls the sunset a glow, which “could well be accepted<… >for the dawn that came out of season somewhere in the middle of the night.” That is why the contemplator of the “clear and pure incandescence of this glow” comes to “a feeling of closeness and obviousness of everything that happened that day.”
This is how the writer approaches the fundamentally important clash of memory and unconsciousness, which is reflected in the writer’s use of words. Units of the lexical-semantic field “Memory” are key in it, represented in different parts speeches: “remember”, “remember”, “reminds”, “remembered”, “memory”, “unconsciousness”, “reminding”, “memorable”. They are very frequent, and their number decreases as the author himself acquires historical memory, as he approaches the vision of those glorious events.
In this sense, the opposition of not only light and darkness, sunset and dawn, darkness and the heavenly fire that conquers it, but also the collision of silence and sound is significant. “Nepryadva and Don have to remember, oh, there is something! - and when we stood over their shore in the twilight, only the weakness of our hearing did not allow us to make out the dry, living here for centuries(hereinafter italics are ours. - M.R.), as well as over the entire Field, a witness whisper.” This whisper becomes all the clearer the closer the narrator gets to comprehending the historical secret, when one can “in solitude, feel, hear in the depths under our feet our connection with that which, having become this earth for our sake, went into the quiet all-seeing eternity».
In the silence of the night one can hear “the dull tread of hundreds and thousands of horses,” but it is not so easy after centuries of unconsciousness to understand “what are they whispering, these indistinct, as if half-decayed, voices hovering over the Field,” “you feel only in their discordant voices, now anxiety, now prayer, now hope,” and also a silent reproach, “spread over the entire local land.”
The second visit to the Kulikovo field, which occurred after the celebrations on the occasion of the 600th anniversary of the battle, seemed to sharpen the connection of times, making the border between past and present even more precarious for those truly seeking their history and national memory.
P. P. Kaminsky notes that “in the second part of the essay, V. G. Rasputin introduces the author’s chronology from the Battle of Kulikovo and reflects on the phenomenon of time in Russian history.<… >The symbol of time in Russian history from the Battle of Kulikovo in the essay becomes a “huge circle of events.” By the second trip to the Field, it ends, and time begins its new round, is born again.”
A new motive also appears, the motive of sorrow, but even now the silence and sounds are symbolic, again as if a conversation between heaven and earth is taking place. “The day, like the evening before, was warm, quiet and mournful. Sorrow was spread throughout - in the subdued sun, in the harvested fields and dry hills,<… >in the gilding of the crosses on the obelisk and the temple, in the watchful silence of the vast steppe and the tension of time in which a centuries-old ring closed over this Field.
It closed tangibly, by the coincidence of some entire channels, by the alarming and victorious alignment of sounds, in the smells of the air, as if checking something was being raised or lowered above us.”
As the sounds of heaven and earth became louder and clearer, those who came to worship became silent feat of arms fathers descendants. The first trip to a deserted field, the noisy anniversary celebrations, the rediscovery of the past by those who came to the Field after the festivities, who guessed at a difficult day in our history - “September 8, old style, and the church holiday of the Nativity of the Virgin Mary, on which, as the chronicles testify, the battle took place." This is another time layer of V. G. Rasputin’s essay. And each of these periods relates differently to those distant, largely forgotten events of six centuries ago."Eternaleternal feat".
V. G. Rasputin’s image of the Kulikovo Field consists of two key components: “Only the sky and the steppe. Only the sky and the steppe standing opposite each other, conducting a long-standing and, of course, not meaningless conversation, in the signs of which time stretches far back and far ahead and converges into eternity.”
The concept of eternity is another significant concept in Rasputin's essay. " Eternal"shelter" found in this land more than half of the Russian army, having completed " eternal feat". That is why the Kulikovo field, which keeps the witness whisper of the past “living here for centuries,” seems to serve as a guarantee of finding, “connection with the Fatherland,” it “does not know completeness,” belonging to eternity.
Temple of Rev. Sergius of Radonezh on the Kulikovo Field Eternal is the feat and eternal glory, they are not diminished by oblivion, on the contrary, those who forget plunge themselves into the darkness of unconsciousness. It is significant in this regard that V. G. Rasputin, speaking about such a large-scale battle, seems to deliberately practically not talk about death.
Dmitry’s army, as you know, refused the possibility of retreat: “either victory or death?!” Symbol eternal question it becomes that “so powerfully and menacingly, continuing to heat up with a frightening flickering, the red and black sides loomed against each other over the steppe.” But the blackness recedes, and the sky fades away, “shine upon our native side.” Death becomes a high price for victory, for the right to live. “On the Kulikovo Field, Rus' defended itself. And not only, by the way, myself. And rebellious with their slavery, and final victory she blocked the Tatars’ road to Europe and new conquests.<… >Shot from Pole Kulikov new hour Rus', who moved it towards Russia. From this moment begins its national, state and cultural establishment, which subsequently gave the right to talk about the messianic role of Russia throughout the world.”
Neither fire nor blood, which serve as symbols of destruction and death, play this role in the text of V. G. Rasputin. Blood is also life. And the Field, watered with blood, comes to life, becoming a field of grain. “The noble service of the military land is to raise grain,” writes V. G. Rasputin. Kulikovo Field is not dead, it is eternal.
Everything in the essay is meant to say about life and eternity: “Is it not in us, having been selected and swept away by a mysterious finger, is it not in us, according to ancient belief, that the souls of those who lay down here have moved.” Rasputin avoids obvious evidence of death, this is confirmed by studying the lexical composition of the essay: the word “death” itself appears only once, and next to the word “victory”. By placing these words between the parts of the dividing conjunction “or,” the author seems to simultaneously bring these two concepts closer together and thus diminish the meaning of death before the greatness of victory.
Warriors are called “dead”, “fallen”, dead, “killed”. Actually, their death is spoken of, as a rule, not in the author’s text, but in quotes (from chronicles and “History of Russia” by S. M. Solovyov), and in quotes he mentions the word “corpses” twice. The use of the word “bones” is noteworthy. In the quote “Prince Vladimir Andreevich stood on the bones and ordered the trumpets to be blown,” this word, of course, symbolizes the defeated Russian warriors, but the mention of the church in the village of Monastyrshchina, built “on the bones of the slain,” echoes the use of this unit within the framework of another opposition, or rather, a contextual antonymic pair: “bones” - “dust”. “In these faces, peering and listening to the Field, there is not curiosity, seeking satisfaction, not knowing how to look beyond the boundaries of their own lives, but if they look, so as to find out whether the remains of the Kulikovo warriors are still in bones or in dust... No, in these faces it is different... "
Here the word "bone", contrary to the meaning attested for it in the dictionary, actually becomes a symbol of the ongoing earthly boundaries life, while dust is clear evidence of death, which, however, is not here.
The very description of the burial of the dead warriors testifies not to death, and not even to the future, but to eternity: “At the burial site, the warriors cut down the trees of the Green Oak Forest, leaving the Field, the chapel<… >, on the site of the chapel standing since the middle of the last century in the village of Monastyrshchina there is a stone church, neglected of course, in which to come We still have to carry out all the restoration work.”
Kulikovo Field In the second part of the essay, this same chapel becomes not only a monument to the fallen, but also some kind of meeting place of two spiritualities, first revealed by those killed, and now by those who came to worship them alive. “In the Monastery region, in the church on the bones of those killed, restored in less than two years, we later read in the guest book the words of these people addressed to Russia - words that could only appear here, full of gratitude and fidelity, sometimes prayers for the current Fatherland to understand and accept their sincere love.”
So, starting his story actually on his own behalf, gradually moving on to “we”, made up of himself, unnamed fellow travelers and the driver, then including the employee in this circle local history museum Andrei Anisimovich Rodionchikov, Rasputin goes back to the “we” of an all-Russian scale. This feeling is born in him precisely on the Field, under the centuries-old sky above him.
At first, the Siberian author is surprised by this “sky in an unusual... steppe side, not supported by anything,” and by the Nepryadva, “a very small, according to our Siberian concepts, half-asleep river,” and by the fact that “and the Don, Father Don, Don Ivanovich , as they call it, at the crossing point no wider than some thirty to forty meters.” But gradually the correct answer to all doubts is found: “But history and glory do not count by meters, and then there were more meters, but memory knows.”
And so, just as warriors from all over Rus' once came together under the banners of Prince Dmitry, so, six centuries later, “ best voices, the best masters Russia sent to the Kulikovo Field from Moscow and Siberia, from the north and south, to show: what lived among the people, what the people sang and what they made, what they rejoiced in and what they believed in, lives to this day.”
Then thirty-five years ago, “the time of Russian history from Kulikovo Field moved in a new circle. What will happen when in a hundred years it again converges with the beginning of the countdown, what events are coming, will anyone come here to celebrate the new anniversary and with what faith, with what heart will they come? “It’s scary to think,” the author admits. But I want to believe that this eternal Field, which conceals the memory of those ancient events, not desecrated thanks to the feat of the warriors of modern times by the imperious tread of a German soldier, will still whisper with the feather grass playing in the wind and ring with the bells of the Church of the Nativity true story about fame and great power God, revealed on that foggy September morning. And I would like to hope that we can hear and respond with our hearts to his voices.
M.A.Rodina
Keywords: Kulikovo field, memory, event, time, history, Russia, symbolism, Dmitry Donskoy, Rasputin V. G.
This article was prepared on the basis of a report given by the author on January 22, 2015 at the Annual Theological Conference of PSTGU. March 14, 2015 V.G. Rasputin died. By publishing this article, the editors of the Sretensky Collection join the ongoing process of understanding the significance of the deceased’s work for Russian literature and his personality as a citizen of the Fatherland.
Ryleev K.F. Voinarovsky // Complete collection essays. - M.-L.: ACADEMIA, 1934. - P. 192.
The image of Ilya Muromets, Dobrynya Nikitich and Alyosha Popovich was later used by E. Yevtushenko in the poem “Nepryadva” (1980).
Kaminsky P.P."Time and Burden of Anxiety." Journalism of Valentin Rasputin: monograph. ― M.: FLINTA: Nauka, 2012. ― P. 165.
Dictionary of modern Russian literary language. In 17 vols. Volume 5. - M.-L.: Publishing House of the USSR Academy of Sciences, 1956. - Stb. 1524.
Reader! If you find yourself in Moscow at least once in your life, you will not miss Red Square. Come here at dawn, when you are still sleeping large city, and such silence rests on him main square that you can catch the breath of the sentries at the Mausoleum. Walk in this silence near the Kremlin wall, look at the ancient cast bricks, the battlements and towers of the fortress, built not to decorate the Moscow hill, but to confront the numerous and strong enemies, - perhaps the silence of centuries, the same at all times, will respond to the rustle of your steps. And then, in the glowing mirror of the quiet Moscow River, the crimson smoke of fires will swirl before your mind’s eye; in the narrow loopholes and archways of the Kremlin wall, the stern faces of knights in pointed helmets and ringed shirts, with bows and swords in their hands will appear; foreign armies, replacing one another, with war cries, will fight until bloody foam against the stones of the Russian stronghold; Countless hordes of steppe predators on their shaggy, squat horses will rush past like gray clouds; like the roar of an ocean storm, guttural screams, the ringing of swords and the whistling of arrows will surge and mix, they will surge and roll back into the silence of centuries, and the countless hosts of invaders will again become dust under the silent stone of the Kremlin squares. It also happened that the free territory of Rus' was contained within the Moscow fortress walls, and from here, gathered into a fist, Russian power struck the enemy fatal blows; he crawled away, leaving bloody trail and burial mounds.
The glory of Moscow lived during the terrible, cruel times of the rule of the Horde khans, who conquered half the world with the sword, exterminated hundreds of peoples and turned hundreds of others into slaves. Only truly great people could have survived many decades of brutal violence, ruinous exactions, constant raids, accompanied by massacres, fires, and the general enslavement of the population of entire cities and fiefs. The Russian people not only survived, but also, under the iron heel of Horde terror, despite the insidious policies of the khans aimed at disuniting the Russian principalities, they nurtured their statehood.
Six centuries ago, one of the greatest events in world history took place - the Battle of Kulikovo, the consequences of which were reflected in the destinies of European and Asian peoples. Almost one hundred and fifty years before it, the Russian people had the light black Sun, the bloody yoke bent the shoulders, deprived a person of hope for tomorrow - a merciless lasso hung over everyone and everyone. But the Golden Horde idol still felt that the blood that he drank from the living body of Rus' was not enough. Again, hordes of predators moved from the nomadic steppe to put an end to the obstinate Principality of Moscow forever, as in Batu’s times, to completely ruin the Russian lands, to pave their way to the rich cities of Western Europe, which knew no trouble behind the bleeding unconquered Rus'. It seemed that nothing could stop the new wave of nomadic conquerors who had been striving for world domination since the time of Genghis Khan. And again Russian regiments stood on the bloody road of the Golden Horde beast. These were no longer small squads of disunited princes, who, with the most desperate heroism of warriors, were swept away by huge masses of battle-trained steppe inhabitants - Moscow united under its banner the forces of many destinies into one military force. In the summer of 1380, through the mouth of Moscow, the great Russian people declared their will to unity and complete liberation from the hated yoke.
...Listen to the rustle of time - you will hear how the iron gates in the towers of the white-stone walls of the ancient Moscow Kremlin will open, the chains will rattle, lowering hanging bridges across a deep water ditch where the granite stones of Red Square now sparkle, how forged stones will firmly tap on one of those bridges the hooves of a snow-white horse under a mighty black-bearded horseman in gilded armor. And from the three gates of the fortress, along the three bridges, hundreds of mounted knights, shining with iron armor, will pour out, foot armies of bearded and beardless warriors in canvas shirts, with spears and battle axes on their shoulders will move. And through the cries of the people, through the brass voices of the battle trumpets, the cry of the mother and wife will break through, falling with their heads to the warrior’s stirrup. It was the great Prince of Vladimir and Moscow, Dimitri Ivanovich, who would soon be called Donskoy, who led the Russian heart to meet the enemy. On September 8, 1380, in a battle unprecedented for those times in scope and ferocity on the field between the Don and Nepryadva, these warriors would declare to the whole world that Rus' was alive, that the Horde khans, with a whole sea of shed blood, failed to extinguish the thirst for freedom in the Russian heart, that final death steppe monster is a foregone conclusion.
Chronicles and epics, legends and songs have brought to us a little about those who stood in the way of the hordes of Mamai on the Kulikovo Field. Individual names, individual meager portraits of princes and governors, individual words. One thing is certain: these were people of extraordinary courage and spiritual beauty, whose life was guided by an ineradicable love for the homeland and the consciousness of the rightness of his cause. Six centuries do not separate us, but connect us with them, because we owe it to them that we now have the great, best country on earth.
Bowing our heads before our great ancestors, before their feat in the Battle of Kulikovo, we still today draw from him courage, fortitude, love for the homeland and freedom - just as we draw from the exploits of all generations of predecessors who defended our Fatherland in battles with enemies.
Moscow 1980
BOOK ONE
ON THE HUMPED EARTH
Enter, sir, into the golden stirrup
for the insult of this time, for the Russian land.
"The Tale of Igor's Campaign"
The wide forest path made a turn, the shady thickets of oak trees gave way to thickets of prickly thorns and brittle elderberry, the riders were barely hidden in them. The smells of forest prairie, alien to the steppe soul, receded, the breeze carried the tart smell of summer herbs and heated red hot, and a tantalizing trickle of damp coolness leaked from somewhere. The horses snorted, shook their heads, and the front rider lightly pulled on the reins, moderating the trot of the long-maned, thick, mousey mare. Walking at the side on a short leash, a clockwork stallion of the same mouse color leaned forward, pulled the reins, snored displeasedly, squinting with a wild violet eye - he sensed the proximity of a river or lake, he imagined green water on the green banks, not the bitter, steppe water on which he grew up in semi-wild herds, and the intoxicatingly sweet forest moisture, he already felt it in his dry, sore throat and could not understand why the owner was delaying to drink. The rider gave a warning hook to the stallion, pulled up the reins, lovingly touched the horse's neck with a hard hand, and the horse calmed down. The riders following also slowed down the pace of their horses so as not to break the distance. The dull clatter of hooves on the dry ground scared away some small animals or birds; every now and then they flashed in the bushes, crossed the road, looking like ghosts in the dappled midday shadows. But then the horses began to snore in fear, stopped abruptly, not listening to the owner, pressing their ears angrily. Three large gray animals were sitting right on the path, waiting, fearlessly narrowing their dense, cold eyes and exposing their boiling-white rows of teeth in a nasty bestial smile.
- Hook! - the rider raised his right hand with a heavy belt whip, into the wide end of which a piece of lead was sewn, the horses with an effort, as if pushing apart a viscous mass, went forward, often moving their legs, but the animals remained in place, baring their sugary sharp fangs more strongly, - it was one can see how the wrinkled woman shudders with rage upper lip neighbor. Then the rider, with a subtle movement, snatched a large black bow from the Saadak fastened to the saddle, the next moment a long arrow fell on the bowstring, and, without stopping the horse, almost without aiming, the rider fired. The animal, struck in the neck, silently jumped and stretched out across the road, twitching its hind legs, the others disappeared into the thick thorns. The rider directed the snoring horse towards the dead wolf, grabbed the animal by the front paw, watched indifferently for a moment or two as blackish blood dripped from the iron tip of the arrow, which had pierced the thick wolf’s neck, then pulled out the arrow, wiped it on the saddle cloth of the clockwork stallion, and put it in the saadak, and threw the wolf on the side of the path.
In 1980, on September 21, on the day of the Nativity of the Virgin Mary (it was on this day that the battle took place 600 years ago), we were again on the Kulikovo Field, where thousands and thousands of people came. All the entries that we read in the Book of Memory simply brought tears to our eyes, and it was clear that Russia, having come to the Kulikovo Field, was returning to Holy Rus', returning to its faith.
From Polya Kulikov, like two years ago, we arrived in Yelets, where I finally received the long-awaited baptism. I was baptized by Archimandrite Isaac, in the world I.V. Vinogradov, one of the inhabitants of the Trinity-Sergius Lavra, who by that time had moved to Yelets and set up a Sergius metochion there. There I was baptized. Our father agreed to be the godfather, and godmother Renita Andreevna Grigorieva. After baptism, a lot was revealed to me. The past was revealed, the present was revealed, and that transformation of the soul was revealed, which makes a person be kinder, accept everything, good and bad. How to accept bad things? Understand the causes of its occurrence and understand how to eliminate it. I became kinder, I became more attentive to other little things that always passed by. I also became stricter about the word that needed to be looked for in order to show a person. Usually, when godchildren pass away, they are passed on to one of the worthy shepherds. The Father did not hand us over to anyone. He left us with him. This is not just trust, it is something more. This is an eternal spiritual approach. We are with the father, the father is with us. We are still in this world. But his prayers reach us, and our prayers are addressed to him, and these mutual flows meet and bring relief.”
After such confessions, you understand the artist’s soul more clearly, you comprehend his teacher’s, instructive words more accurately.
Vladimir Krupin also recalled Rasputin’s baptism. Among other things, he wrote:
“Valentin Grigorievich did not consider himself talented, saying: “What is special about me writing?” When you read literary works other authors, then you notice the lines. But when you come into contact with Rasputin’s work, instead of lines, images of heroes from his stories and short stories appear before your eyes. The little boy from “French Lessons” runs after his mother shouting: “Mom!”... Rasputin had an extraordinary power of expressiveness. How amazingly he described the beauty of the landscape and psychologically subtly built dialogues! In his work one feels extraordinary pity for people who do not live for themselves, like the heroes of many foreign novels, but for their loved ones, for the Motherland.
He had a vulnerable, sublime soul. Every contact with the harsh everyday life hurt him. But despite everything, he loved everyone, especially children, and everyone loved him...
Sad notes prevailed in his character. He loved humor, but was still more often sad. Valentin Rasputin lived his entire life in difficult conditions, but emerged from all trials with his soul intact. In the seventies and eighties we lived poorly. Sometimes he helped me out with money, but when I tried to repay the debt, he refused... When a writing company gathered, he always paid for everyone, but not because he was rich, but his generous heart wanted to save his friends from the need to spend money.”
“When he comes to visit, he will definitely ask:
How is money tight?
We survive on my wife's salary.
Takes money out of his pocket:
Here, take it.
What are you doing? We're not starving...
I don't take it. And when I go to accompany him to the metro, he will say:
Look on the cabinet under the vase, I left something.
And sure enough: money again.”
Irkutsk photographer Boris Dmitriev, who took dozens of memorable photographs of Rasputin - from his youth to his old age, spoke about his friendly communication with the writer:
“Valya was a man in himself. He looked more into his soul. Sometimes I’d come to him and sit and be silent for ten minutes. Then some kind of spark runs through, he starts a conversation. Let's go have tea. He loved a good joke and had a wonderful sense of humor.”
The book was published with the support of:
Ministry of Culture and Mass Communications of the Perm Territory, oil company LUKOIL, Perm Territory public organization"Russian Writers' Union"
© A. G. Grebnev, 2008
© Mamatov LLC, 2008
* * *
Miraculous music of lines
Time. How often do we complain about its inexorable transience. But, looking back at the past, we are amazed that our memory has preserved not deeds or deeds that once seemed significant to us, but the intonation of a beloved voice, the bitter and pure smell of an autumn forest and an incomprehensible longing for the Unknown, impossible in our earthly bustle life.
Is this why the Russian soul is so sensitive to poetry, so open to the mystery of the word?
The poet Anatoly Grebnev retained the ability to see and hear with his heart, and therefore the word for him is an inner revelation deeply experienced and suffered.
From the early childhood his soul lived “in the illumination of the Cross.” The first childhood impressions, intimately imprinted in the depths of spiritual memory, are a loving mother’s gaze, and an endless field, and high sky, to which his soul rushed from the bell tower of a destroyed rural temple.
There is so much love and light in those distant memories of his bitter wartime childhood that to this day his heart finds consolation and joy in them, resurrecting in him the moments that connected him with eternity.
In the work of A. Grebnev, the past is inextricably linked with the present; they are united in one spiritual space, where there are no time restrictions and where the past is as real and alive as the present. In his poetry, turning to the past is a return to his spiritual roots, to that deep fundamental principle, without which he is impossible as a person. And the personality carries a story within itself. And therefore, no matter what or whoever the poet writes about: whether about soldiers who died in the Great Patriotic War, about Russian warriors who laid down their lives on the Kulikovo field, he writes about himself:
I stood among many
in the front row
And, without flinching, he stepped
towards your death,
When the spears cracked,
meeting the horde,
And we collided with the horde,
and rushed into the fray!
The depth of spiritual vision and comprehension inherent in the poet is soulfully and subtly revealed in his poems about nature: he lives in complete harmony and unity with it. The soul of Anatoly Grebnev was nurtured by nature. The mysterious connection that connected him with the sky and the sad field crane cry and the flying copse, gave birth to a tender and tremulous feeling, sublime soaring and lightness. Nature became for him the abode in which he always found and finds peace and tranquility.
Chaste and pure sound is inherent not only in landscape, but also love lyrics poet.
Her artistic fabric is transparent and rich. In his poems, sensual delight is combined with chaste admiration for a woman.
You are completely close to me in soul:
I catch your glance in my memory -
And for me flowers and stones
They speak in clear language.
This love bears a reflection of the eternal. It does not disappear, “does not cease to be.” It contains the trembling and tenderness of earthly feelings and a bright, soul-elevating joy. In connection with her - the only one, he finds his integrity and returns to primordial harmony.
The spiritual structure of A. Grebnev's poetry determines the transparency and wise simplicity of his language. His poems contain a living, sincere feeling, making us love, suffer, admire and rejoice with him.
Zlygosteva N. I.
We have one Motherland from God
Russia
Along the bell-like echoing blue,
By the neighing of triple horses -
How I miss Russia,
How bitterly I cry for her!By her will,
By that freedom
When,
Like ripe grain,
Nature spirit
And the spirit of the people
Merged into one!For the one who died,
Resurrected
Seething,
Sang
And bloomed
When in agreement with heaven
Its domes shone.Thousand-year-old grandeur
The past has been trampled into deafness -
Holy rite
Living custom
Her way of life
And her way.Hey, Russian brothers!
Slavs!
Everyone in whom the soul is still alive -
Are you and I going to wither away?
How's last year's grass?I believe, I believe - Impossible
There are so many of them today,
Who loves the Motherland without falsehood,
In whom is the honor
And there is conscientiousness!And we have enough strength to revive,
Connected at the edge
From Russian Russia,
Russia is your blood!
“And today, dear...”
And today, dear,
And grief is no longer a problem,
If we could survive
In such alterations, pitch-black.
This dead land
Living water will awaken you,
And April birds
They will find the treasured birdhouse!
And they will spill again
By the grace of the wonderful rain,
We will pay with you
All those who were harmed needlessly.
Not for nothing
The leaders have always hated us mortally,
Because they don't
And since ancient times we have been subject to the earth.
But we forgave all nonhumans,
As they always forgave,
And blissful in their motives
Sinless:
Following the solar plow
Flows
Smoking
Furrow,
And the love birds
The birdhouse is settling in again!
The last inhabitants of the village of Rusinovo
(Painting by Viktor Kharlov)
Painter, wizard, hurry,
Become a healing for my soul:
A corner of the countryside
Keep it incorruptible for posterity!Let them remain – at least on canvas! -
Peasant faces in quiet sorrow.
There is no life for them in their native places,
There is no place for them in great Russia.They put an end to the past.
The roots of the peasant family are being torn.
And in transparent sadness all around
Golden nature froze.Eternal peace reigns
Where life has raged since ancient times.
They leave the village with sadness,
They are abandoning the village willy-nilly!What should you do alone in it?
Field slam the gate
Before everything that goes into darkness
And he will never return!
Faith
I'm still tormented by edges
Between city and village...N. Rubtsov
Well, what a blurring of edges,
If there's nothing left to wash,
If a city robs a village,
Like the son of a simple-minded mother!A black tornado across the lovely borders,
The ancient harmony has derailed,
It flew by like a kite and whistled
The deadly word "KOLLHOZ"!Self-indulgent to the point of stupor -
The serpent Gorynych did not like peasants! -
He clawed the village princess,
He spoiled her and ruined her.Not an accordion anywhere, not a ditty -
It was as if everything on earth had died out.
One after another of the old lady's huts
They hide in the primeval darkness....Somewhere in the field,
Like a Russian song
My hope is lost.
I believe that the village will resurrect!I believe
I believe
I believe...
“Where is that daredevil who walked with her hands on her hips...”
Where is that daredevil who walked with her hands on her hips?
Where are the songs that seemed to me?
Why as the last deprived
Am I walking through my father's land?Why on this ancient land
Does evil still triumph?
They also rob and destroy the village,
They also rob and destroy the village!The same ancient fears and passions -
As if tomorrow would not completely disappear.
They also tear the bawlers apart
The power thrice cursed by the plowman.Almost no regrets about losses,
I'll stand by the old boundary.
There is nothing sweeter in the world
The unprincipled rustle of rye!
"The yellow shine of young stubble..."
The yellow shine of young stubble
In the middle of the August field.
Rus, Russia,
My joy,
An unprecedented song and share!Only your wind measured the space,
Where the road merges with the sky.
And the delight does not pass in the chest,
Love and anxiety do not subside.Apparently it's in the blood
From Slavic lost stories -
So that we remember our lands,
Take care
arranged
loved.So that at the very last boundary
Before the sight of the native expanse
To a conscientious filial soul
Don't hear a dull reproach.
Front-line soldier
And the neighbors have not been happy for a long time -
Vanka moved again, making a fool:
He lights a fire in the fence
And shouts: “Sevastopol is burning!”There is no point in trying to reason with Vanka,
It’s better not to touch him at this hour.
He fires into the white light from a double-barreled shotgun
And yells: “Battery, fire!”He destroys anything, furiously,
On the command “Attack!” Forward!"
Will completely defeat the fascists
Sevastopol will return to Russia...Calm down
The bathhouse will heat up.
But, remembering his friends, he repeats:
“Dear Sevastopol, Sevastopol...
Do you hear, friend, -
Sevastopol is burning!
“Russia is wiping away its tears...”
Russia wipes away its tears,
Losing our boundaries.
Veterans go to the ground -
Into the graves, like into dugouts.It wasn’t their illnesses that knocked them down -
Russia's honor has been violated.
After all, what they did to Russia
They can't bear it!And if we don’t stand up for Rus' -
They are watching and watching from the darkness -
Eight-pointed crosses
The enemy's road will be blocked!
To an apology for drunkenness
1
In a dull desire to drink -
Not sadness - longing for heaven:
Like a knife to the throat - one thing - forget,
Forget about Time running!
But now the drinking is slowing down,
And in the twilight experience grinds:
Waking up
Time
Your departure
He hurries even more ruthlessly!
2
In a deep desire to drink
Another clue:
I can not forget you,
And you, my love, are far away.
When can we see each other -
God knows!
And is rapprochement possible?
But, thank God, there is a way out -
Fill your imagination with wine.
3
In a dull desire to drink -
Be quiet, heart, don't pulsate! -
I can't escape this pain:
What have we done to Russia!
I'll pour it into glasses -
For Rus', friends!
Let's dispel the melancholy.
And the cry will ring out - in steel formation
We'll sober up in no time!
“Still a red star...”
Still a red star
No matter how much heaven beckons,
The ancient holiness of the cross
It didn’t replace it for the soul.God's peace is red with blood,
Choked in the redistribution,
But further and further is ideal
From a debunked idea.I just believe:
The hour is coming -
No matter how fooled you are,
The masses will mature - THE PEOPLE,
And in a collective farmer - a PEASANT.A sophisticated soul
Embraced by the light of truth.
And the damned knife
Brother will not rise up against brother.And love and labor
Will overcome the darkness of violence
Overshadowed by the cross,
Revived Russia!
“But I firmly believe...”
And I firmly believe,
Slavic brothers:
Someday we will meet on the Maidan,
Let's look fun into your eyes
each other,
Yes full bro
Let's ring in a circle -
For Mother Volga!
For the Dnieper!
And for Pripyat! -
It's been a long time since we became brothers
I should have a drink
Yes, remember with a sigh
Yesterday's were
When we great power were,
And rose again
within Slavic borders.
(Why was blood shed in vain?)
Verb and faith,
And united by birth,
We realized: together we -
invincible!
And the road will swirl with glory again
The battle-tested grandchildren of Stribog!
And the menacing ones in the sky will fall silent
Peruns.
And the song will be struck by Boyan’s strings!
Peresvet
By this hour, Peresvet had already fallen in a battle with Chelubey, whose grave in the Simonov Monastery in Moscow we cannot free from the yoke of the plant in order to worship it...
V. Rasputin. "Kulikovo Field"
Gradually becoming Russia,
Rus', sovereign affairs,
Not for nothing
Name of blood son
Through the centuries I carried it in my very heart.In its inescapable constancy
An eternal vow of gratitude.
Strikes right through from the distances of the Slavs
The word is thunder, the word is light -
Relight!It is he who overshadowed the winners
Undefeated righteousness, like God,
Accepting death, hero-combatant
He predicted victory for the Russian troops.And it has been ringing ever since,
How to greet solemn sorrow,
Along with the echo of pain -
Oslyabya -
Bell wave -
Relight!And the people in Rus' without exception
He repaid them with holy love.
Six centuries of crusading brothers
Inseparable under a common slab.Six centuries know no shame
Their glory is more reliable than armor.
The silence of the grave temple
They rightfully deserve it.They deserve worship:
In the dark hour, mourning repentantly,
A succession of generations flowed towards them,
Trusting yourself with their fate.On the thorny path of gain,
On the skids of his fatal
The shadows of the past are not silent,
Like the sleepless conscience of the living.But it happened in the recent past:
They tried hard to convince us
That our history is inglorious
And you shouldn't stir it up,And in dreams of a wonderful future
In our haste we managed to forget
Why can't the garden grow into bloom?
If you cut off its roots.No! In worries about tomorrow's sowing
We need not to yawn - to have time,
So that the Pharisees could not even dare
To sow our fields with lies.No! Let time rush to death -
Look around and stand on the edge,
To your historical experience
It is already sophisticated to evaluate.And in motion towards the intended goal
Catch the light guide thread:
Return everything that you managed to destroy,
What's left is to save and save.May holiness not be desecrated
And the greatness of our land!
...By belated guilt,
My friend and I went to Peresvet.They walked, even though they had known for a long time and in detail,
That his grave is not in honor,
That they quietly managed to make a tombstone
Demolish over the holy burial,What's in the fumes of industrial load,
Having crossed the limit of sacrilege,
Above the great Russian shrine
The multi-ton compressor hummed.In the clang-roar the memory died out,
Soulless melancholy reigned...
With gloomy care, a comrade from VOHR
Checks our passes.But we can’t be like before – even crack us! -
Wrap up, don't let in, intimidate.
- We, comrade, have come to Sunday!
There is a signature and a stamp in place.You open the iron doors for us,
Hold your useless anger.
There are quite a few of us here, fellow believers,
Didn’t it come from all over Russia!The cry was thrown out by the warriors of the spirit:
Desolation to clean out the trash,
And return and raise from ruin
Temple of resurrecting memory!We will find freedom and faith,
Going out to fight evil.
And the spear of Peresvet striking
I raise the punishing crowbar!A pick and a shovel are chopping nearby,
And the shuttle stretchers scurry...
And again the lamp lit up
Peresvet is the last refuge.And for a moment in the dim darkness
The wick protected the palm,
So that it never goes out again
Our memory
Eternal flame!
September 8 on Kulikovo Field
How then, a troubled day
rises from the fog,
And far around -
from Nepryadva and Don -
Behind the wave there is a wave
sailing across Russia
Triumph and sadness
bell ringing.
Only to the Russian heart
given to hear
This ringing, drowning out the crying,
and prayers!
He will also wake up those
who hasn't heard for a long time,
Who fell and fell asleep amid the roar of battle.
I stood among many
in the front row
And without flinching he stepped towards his death
towards,
When the spears cracked,
meeting the horde
And we collided with the horde,
and rushed into the fray!
I am among the fallen warriors
remained in the dark.
But with joy on this day,
listening to the sound of life,
I see not the Khan’s tent -
Red Hill Temple
Where you won't find traces
filthy Mamaia.
Only wormwood along Nepryadva,
like a memory, bitter,
Yes, it bushes prickly
bloody Tatar.
And over the field, like the wind,
Flies through the centuries
This ringing
Never-ending glory.
Matera
Valentin Rasputin
Listen to your soul -
She's still alive
She didn't die
In debauchery and guilt.
Keeping myself
Tearing myself down
She's in the prayer room
Suffering from depth.
There's a secret country there.
There's Rus'
- your Matera.
Slavs, as of old,
It is inhabited.
The sun is shining there
In the midst of eternal space,
And to her enemies
Not farmed out.
The sun is shining there
And wherever I look,
The land is well maintained
Wherever I turn.
Under the ringing of bells
The ears are swaying,
And they pray in monasteries
Saints for Rus'.
Let today in Rus'
Feasts are celebrated by non-Russians
And evil will become Satan,
Getting more and more impudent, -
Russia is my Rus',
I won't trust you -
You will still rise
In all its glory!
The Russian spirit is not broken!
You, having found support in him,
Decide for yourself
Sovereign destiny!
Listen to your soul
Open your Matera.
Wake up, dear people,
And become yourself!
Baikal
Isn't this the miracle you were looking for?
Circling across the earth and sky?
Into the blue vastness of Lake Baikal,
Having gotten along with him,
You took off, soul!
I recognized my family with delight,
Hugging a wave like a seagull,
To the heavenly realms
rushed into the open spaces,
Shuddering, she entered the depths.
Thank God I'm alive again.
Standing in the wind
heaving shaft,
It's like I'm here
He lived his whole life,
Even though I've never been here.
The hum of the depths
that filled me up
Calls, calls,
clear to me
They reached me
I remembered!
On my mother's side.
Snowy light
the peaks of osiyana,
Far and near me,
Like an eternity
the Sayans froze,
This is a living miracle.
You found,
what I've been looking for for so long,
Not intentionally
the end of the ordeal:
You are with the rebellious soul of Baikal
Engaged forever, my soul!
Transbaikalia
Mikhail Vishnyakov
1
Suddenly appearing in fate,
I know, it's not without reason
The wormwood expanse of Transbaikalia
Burst into me
Forever -
And the Nerchinsky tract, and the trail,
Meadows with any blade of grass,
Bloody horde of burnet,
Listvyanka, like smoke, blue.
Still unusual for the eye,
Inhabited by Russia for a long time,
Asian land
Straightaway
Still seemed like one of my own:
Berezka
and the talk of the streets,
And a song
such a shepherd
What hills are in the distance
Turned around
Like blue accordion fur!
And how near my father’s house,
A joy for the living heart,
The noise of life
in the steppe dry lands
The wave was rolling
behind the wave.
In the land, where behind the hazy haze
Genghis Khan's darkness flowed,
Where is the spirit of the Decembrist rebels
Hovering in the ruins of a prison;
Where now
Through thickets and rocks,
Through all the primeval distance
From the shore of gray Baikal
The highway leads to the East -
What great upheavals
In the years of what turning points,
From Kursk, Voronezh, Vyatka
And other dashing people
In the crucible of harsh nature,
Flint-hardened, strong
Special, Siberian
breeds
The men were born!
And wherever it is now,
But it's clear as day
For me;
We are all in our native Russia
By blood account -
Relatives.
2
The funnels go to the core,
Water knows no peace.
Aren't our fast years?
You take me far away
Sometimes?Isn’t it, light and elastic,
Are our days flying into the sunset?..
In the line of the Transbaikal friend
I hear the sound of time!The jets collide in circles
And my head is spinning,
And joyfully they burn your chest,
Like the wormwood wind, words.And this whole world without exception
Suddenly you want to cry,
And dear women's embrace,
And the pain of inevitable separations;And the free herbs of youth
From distant June meadows,
Where is the whisper of the autumn odor
Among the stacks as heavy as thoughts...But how young the body is!
Let time fly by
Until the snowstorms began to sing,
We ourselves will sing with you;Farewell bitterness of glasses -
Here's to meeting you at future feasts!
"Across the wild steppes of Transbaikalia,
Where they dig gold in the mountains..."
Surname
Georgy Georgievich Sushikh
Among my most pressing matters
Suddenly I get lost and smile while running:
A person with the surname – Existing -
I can't forget.I understand now -
not by chance
I've been lucky with people in my life...
We were then deeply welcomed
A village in the Trans-Baikal outback!At the end of centrifugal tracks
I listened to the spring's speech,
Happy that in the border lands
They managed to save the soul of the song.The inhalation and exhalation of the feast is one
Suddenly it hits with a deep wave -
That distant and close one - dear,
Daring sorrowful old man!Inhale and exhale the feast...
Russia…
I am not ashamed of involuntary tears,
It's not weakness
And faith and strength
Gives songs shackled sadness.To merge in something important, unique,
We have been given forever - not for a moment...
Faces of grain growers and warriors,
And - their features absorbing face -
With a secret thought in his gaze,
Powerful craftsmanship
Lepki is cool,
He is at the head of the table -
Svyatogor -
Pre-collective farm with that surname.You know, the chairman's lot is heavy -
Root of thousands of worries,
Isn’t it the sovereign’s thought about bread?
And does it feel oppressive in your short time?Not such reliable faces,
Trusting them in the fatal hour,
In forty-first the capital looked,
Seeing you off from the parade to the battle?By name in countless columns
To the question of belonging: “Whose?” -
“Existing!
Russians!
Good!
Immortals! -
Any one of them could respond....I don’t need paradise -
If only somewhere on the edge of the day
A man named Suschikh
Among my affairs
Remembered me.
I miss Siberia
Thank God they helped
My comrades and friends:
I missed Siberia
Here I am again in Siberia!Here I am again looking with delight:
Halfway around the world - grace!
Bogatyrsky spaces.
The people are a match for them.You wander from the plain to the mountains -
And it’s no wonder in that land
To meet not Svyatogor,
Not Dobrynya, but Ilya!Brothers, the main thing is not omul,
Not spilled all over -
Are you at home or not at home?
If you are among friends?!If so generous in Russian
Cherish this feeling!
The depths are open for you
With pure gold of the soul.I feel this openness
I will find shelter everywhere
I'll spend the night in Balagansk
Or somewhere in Ust-Uda.They drank and ate to their heart's content here,
And lived in all respects,
So why didn't you sit here?
Our future leaders?I say to fate - thank you!
Yes, they are broad at heart,
These people are without deflection -
Cossacks-Siberians.I will soar in spirit with them,
I am with the eagles - I am an eagle myself.
Like a second homeland
I suddenly found it.They didn’t set my teeth on edge
Protected areas.
I miss Siberia
At least I’m still in Siberia!
Song of the Siberian Cossacks
We are with Russia
Siberia was married,
Siberia is like a dear mother to us.
We have saved Russia more than once -
We met the enemy with dignity.
Siberian Cossacks, have fun!
For the enemy
Don’t skimp on the steel snack!
It’s not for nothing that people call us -
"Siberians" -
We are invincible in battle,
Cossacks!
The war trumpet began to play
And, closing in a single formation,
From the Amur River to the Urals
We are gathering our strength.
Become, Russia,
both strong and proud!
So that they can't threaten you,
Remember the old rule firmly:
We need to keep our gunpowder dry!
Siberian Cossacks, have fun!
For the enemy
Don’t skimp on the steel snack!
It’s not for nothing that people call us -
"Siberians" -
We are invincible in battle,
Cossacks!
Monuments
Granite and bronze, gypsum and marble -
Not a whim of human memory.
In a living impulse, the genius froze -
And time stood still with melancholy.In the hand of the Lord without growing old,
Without recognizing the count of centuries,
Sometimes time plays tricks
Above the bustle of temporary workers.To all loyal subjects - thank you!
Having regained the rank of sovereign,
Irkutsk listens to the ringing of the Trans-Siberian Railway
Russian Tsar -
Third Alexander!The system seemed unchanged.
Years pass - not centuries -
And Lenin looks gloomily
To Admiral Kolchak!
Climbing Mount Moses
My friend, untimely going bald,
He spoke to me like poetry:
– You will ascend the mountain of Moses
And all sins will be forgiven!...In the darkness of the Egyptian district
It was like a bathhouse, hot.
I remembered with longing my friend,
Whispering a prayer to the Lord.By cyclopean steps,
In the fight against primeval darkness
The road in the rocks gradually
My flashlight was fumbling.From the walls of St. Catherine,
My soul aspires to the mountain light,
The monks blazed the trail,
Cutting into rocks for hundreds of years.They didn't finish their work -
There are many traps on the way.
But I had to get to the top
Get there by sunrise.After all, the Lord himself is on this mountain
He descended in fire and thunder.
Tablets, to sinners on the mountain,
Here he gave it to Moses.But the revelations of the Lord
It doesn’t suit the stiff-necked -
Alas, people today
Pray to the golden calf!..Both in front and behind people -
I know that I was not the only one who sinned.
And who is tired -
take the camel
Let the Bedouin play tricks.He's like death, all in white -
scary!
Who dared the haunted ones?
You'll recoil, dumbfounded.
From the grave: “Ke-mel?”But even in the darkness, the light of God shines!
No matter how crushed my spirit was,
I'm up to the top at dawn
I got there on my own!And there, solemnly and gloriously,
In the deep silence of the mountains
Orthodox pilgrims rang
Improvised choir.And the first ray shot over the world,
And the darkness of the night was wasted.
And “Glory to God in the highest...” thundered
Mighty hieromonk!...Like this at the peak of Moses
I threw the net of my sins.
And my friend is no longer going bald,
Because there is no point in going bald!