Andrey Kanavshchikov. About Rakov's poetic anthology

How not to love you, Russia,

And in pain, and on holiday - all the same,

After all, you have no equal in strength

And no one is given

Eat into the blood, guise, souls.

Despising betrayal and lies,

Having brought down the dark shackles,

You will enter the throne of the earth.

A sign of faith and insight

Again the protection of the Virgin.

Your lost villages

He will protect in the mists of time.

And, like a clear beam, from there

Salvation will come, as always,

And pushed aside the Judas

The majesty of the highest court.

(Andrey Kanavshchikov "The Grace of Forgiveness", excerpt)

The name of Andrei Borisovich Kanavshchikov, writer and poet, journalist, is well known not only in his small homeland, in Velikie Luki, but also beyond its borders. It is thanks to his energy, talent and work literary life Pskov land is filled with new names, events, colors.

To date, Andrey Kanavshchikov - head of the Velikoluksky representative office of the Writers' Union of Russia- the position is responsible, strong, interesting and bestowed on him by right.

The poet leads community service. In 2008, he was a member of the delegation of the Pskov region to receive the diploma of the "City of Military Glory" in the Kremlin, when this honorary title was awarded to the city of Velikie Luki. Member of the presidium of the Velikoluksky local branch of the DOSAAF of Russia named after V.I. Hero of the Soviet Union I. N. Selyagin. He is a member of the public council at the Russian Ministry of Internal Affairs for the city of Velikie Luki and the public council on historical and cultural heritage under the committee of culture of the Administration of Velikie Luki. Author of the preface to the third volume of the historical documentary book of the project "Soldiers of Victory", a member of the editorial and publishing board of the Velikolukskaya Book.

Biography

Andrei Kanavshchikov was born in Velikiye Luki on July 51968. After graduating from secondary school No. 9 Velikiye Luki, despite an almost red certificate, I decided to choose a working profession as a milling machine. Such a turn did not please either parents or teachers, but Kanavshchikov believed in his lucky star and knew that for future profession As a writer, he needs just such an experience.

He began his studies at the factory courses of vocational school No. 8, which he graduated with a red diploma and the fourth rank of a milling machine operator. He worked in the tool shops of the radio plant and KB "Mikron". Along the way, he honed his style and engaged in self-education.

The first journalistic note was published in Velikolukskaya Pravda only in December 1987, and the first story, with the support of Vladimir Klevtsov, was published only in 1988, in the regional youth youth team Young Leninist, when the author was already 20 years old.

In 1993, thanks to the poets Enver Zhemlikhanov and Solomon Sheps, the first poetic publication took place in the collective collection Velikolukskaya Land.

At that time, the poet wrote free verse, palindromes, zaum, phrases, streams of consciousness and at the same time worked in traditional syllabo-tonic techniques, learning to consciously choose what he likes or dislikes, what is useful and what is not useful for Russian literature.

Once, within the framework of self-education, it became crowded. In 1990, Andrey Kanavshchikov was invited to work as an editor of the radio broadcasting of the Velikoluksky Radio Plant.

In 1994 he graduated from the journalism department of the Leningrad state university . Prepared several materials for "Economics and Life". There were publications in the magazine "Europe" and the weekly "Literary Russia".

In April 1995, he was invited as a typist on a computer to the Velikolukskaya Pravda newspaper. In 2003, A. B. Kanavshchikov became the editor-in-chief of this newspaper. At one time he had the honor of being the press secretary of the mayor A. A. Migrov, the current honorary citizen of Velikiye Luki. After the division of the newspaper, he became the chief editor of the municipal Velikolukskaya Pravda Novosti.

As far as literature is concerned, the first notable publications are dated 1997. A selection of poems was published in the Moscow youth magazine "Pulse" with the support of Victoria Vetrova, and in the Petrozavodsk "North" in Nos. 10-12 appeared novel "The Calling of Rurik". At the same time in the Belarusian Novopolotsk the first book was published under the title "The new Pushkin has already been born"- the experience of journalistic literary criticism, based on the experiments of Velimir Khlebnikov.

In 1995 he created the literary and artistic creative group "Frontier", of which he was the chairman long years. He gave lectures on the topic "Russian literary avant-garde".

In 2000 after a series of publications in the Moscow weekly Russky Vestnik at the suggestion of writers Oleg Kalkin and Alexander Bologov was admitted to the Writers' Union of Russia.

Since then, Andrei Kanavshchikov has been a member of collective collections and almanacs published in Novgorod, Tver, Pskov, Moscow, Perm, Nizhny Novgorod, Tula, Smolensk, Petersburg and other cities.

Published in newspapers: Den, Patriot, Russian newspaper”, “Nezavisimaya Gazeta”, “Book Review”, “Tribune”, “Limonka”, “Arguments and Facts”, “Red Star”, “Izvestia”, “ Literary newspaper”, “Duel”, “Russia”, “Veteran”, “Day of Literature” and others, the magazines “Change”, “Aeronaut”, “Russian speech”, “Chayan” (Kazan), “Observer - Observer”, “Islands "(Voronezh), "Pskov", "Word", "Science and Life", "Worker", "Daugava" (Riga), "Underwater Club", "Military Knowledge", "Aurora" (St. Petersburg), " Russian House", "Vvedenskaya Side" ( Staraya Russa), "Don" (Rostov-on-Don), "Bus" (St. Petersburg), "Day and Night" (Krasnoyarsk), "Moskovsky Vestnik", "Our Contemporary", "Young Guard", "Ray" ( Izhevsk), "Slavyanskaya Pravda" (St. Petersburg - Samara), "In the Russian Spaces" (St. Petersburg), "Southern Star" (Stavropol) and others.

Awards and prizes

For a book about a participant in hostilities in Vietnam, Egypt and Afghanistan, he was awarded the All-Russian literary prize them. M. N. Alekseeva. Behind story "Egorych"(2010) A. B. Kanavshchikov became a laureate of the All-Russian Literary Prize "Stalingrad" and a nominee for the All-Russian Literary Prize named after. N. I. Kuznetsova.

Publications of the "Chernobyl" cycle in periodicals and collections "Civilization of Trinity" were awarded the Chernobyl Star International Literary Prize. Three times he became the winner of the award of the Administration of the Pskov region (for 2008, 2012 and 2016).
Corresponding member of the Petrovsky Academy of Sciences and Arts. In 2011, he was a delegate to the 8th PANI Congress.

Winner and Diploma all-Russian competitions and festivals, including those dedicated to the 100th anniversary of the birth of M. A. Sholokhov (Krasnodar, 2005).

For 2016 only:

received the third prize of the All-Russian competition "Silver Dove of Russia-2016"
became the winner of the competition of one poem "Donbass, Donbass, my land, you are all on fire"
became a laureate International Competition dedicated to the 80th anniversary of the Smolensk poet Alexei Mishin in the nomination "Poetic journalism"
became a finalist of the International Poetry Competition. poet and warrior Igor Grigoriev "The soul of good opened the door"
became a finalist of the Good Sky literary award and the owner of the Grand Prix III All-Russian festival patriotic poetry "Outpost" (Moscow) with the award of the badge "Labor Valor. Russia".

Awarded with medals and badges of various departments and public organizations. The very first was the medal "60 Years of Victory in the Great Patriotic war"(Order of the Chairman of the Central Council of Rosto (DOSAAF) No. 60 dated April 15, 2005), which A. B. Kanavshchikov was awarded on the recommendation of the editor-in-chief of the Patriot newspaper Mikhail Zemskov.

Creation

IN creative biography Andrey Kanavshchikov - several books of poetry, prose and journalism:

"Hoarfrost" (1998)
"The Calling of Rurik" (1999)
"In the same ranks" (2000)
"Ruslo" (2005)
"Three Wars of Colonel Bogdanov" (2006)
"Civilization of C-strings" (2008)
"Red Dawn" (2009)
"Fourteenth. Velikie Luki – City of Military Glory (2011)
"Alexander Matrosov: feat and fate" (2012)
"Khlebnikov" (2014)
"Live from Babylon" (2015)
"Lighthouse Keeper" (2016)

Also, the poet is a participant in four anthologies and the project of Yuri Belikov Shelter of unknown poets. Wild Russians" (2002), which was republished in Nagorno-Karabakh in Armenian in 2016.

In the preface to the book "Frost" Andrey Kanavshchikov notes: “First of all, I would like to give Light and Goodness in devastation, despair, death in the magical radiance of a poetic verbal miracle, to give awareness of Divine predestination with the pathos of the triumph of true life.” In these lines - the grain of his poetry - to bring good, eternal, bright into our world. His poems reveal to us the ambiguity and versatility of the human character and intuitively reflect the very essence of his attitude.

“Andrey Kanavshchikov succeeds in both purely lyrical and civic-sounding works. He can write about love for a particular person or for the Motherland equally vividly and convincingly. Many of his poems are already predicted to have a long life as lofty generalizations, when Time and History speak to us, the readers, in the poet's voice....».

(E. Kuznetsova)

In one of the poems, the poet confesses:

I curse the difference of parties,

I glorify the eternal difference of souls.

Thus, expressing the main credo of his life - to be straightforward and honest in everything: in love, life, poetry. And yet - true Russian:

I am Russian, pure Russian blood,

From rural Russian peasants,

Nothing softer or harsher

What happened in the distance of centuries.

My Russia is not a fashion for me, not a toy,

Not philosophically fancy sophistication,

It is simple: a river and a hut,

Yes, the well has sparks of bright spray.

It is symbolic: in many poems of the poet, it is precisely “ Russia"- as the personification of his spiritual haven. “Holy Russia, Orthodox, heroic, Mother Holy Russian land,” these words were once recorded by V. I. Dal. And it is in these pure, holy springs that Andrey Kanavshchikov's poetry takes its origins.

"God and weapons are with us, truth and strength" - says the poet. And he is right: from time immemorial, our earthly Russia, eternal Russia, has been famous for the power of God's truth and human mercy.

She got a great soul

That soul is poured into us too.

Or others:

She's immersed in space.

And in the ringing of bells

Reveals the face in the holy cathedral

On the bright holiday throne room.

She was blind in tears

Then suddenly she frowned,

But rose from the ashes

Russia is alive and mighty.

Bell, clean,

Reckless, bright,

Who looked, calculated,

Came out - cherished

Veche, holy,

It turned out - beloved,

All native to the end,

We keep in our hearts.

How much love in these lines! They revive in our hearts a living Orthodox conscience, faith in the power of good, a true instinct for evil, a sense of honor and the ability to be faithful.

The poetry of Andrey Kanavshchikov creates, binds hearts together: “He even calls for an ax in order to build“ barns, temples, huts, mansions, towers - to taste.

Ax in hand and be good!

Made isms will fade ...

<…>

And with us in a robe and matting

The Great Carpenter Jesus

And an ax is placed on the shoulder ...

The poet believes in the revival of Russia, but it is possible only through the repentance of each of us: to find in yourself, to trace in the corners of your soul, as befits a worthy and spiritual person, your shortcomings, vices, weaknesses - this is the Truth and Truth of life. And this is exactly what Andrey Kanavshchikov strives for with all the fibers of his conscientious soul:

In the veil of worship of complexities

Meanwhile, that we do not store at all,

Lord, let me ask according to my ability,

Let me pay according to my strength.

<…>

Let me know your measure and measure

To measure rapture and pain,

Do not suffer under the heavenly sphere,

See love in suffering.

Please do not ask for tablets, this is superfluous,

I don't even ask. Let me take it.

Let me understand where is earthly, where is higher,

Do not offend, forgive yourself.

We find these lines in the poem "Prayer". And it, perhaps, is the focus of all the meanings of Andrei Kanavshchikov's poetry, where the identity of faith and love, purity and strength of the human spirit rules.

“The poetry of Russia is not songs for the background modern stage, you can’t listen to it in passing, for understanding you need time, silence and sensitivity of your own heart, in general, spiritual work, not rest. Does poetry need a reader? Needed! And he is! It's up to the poets!

It's good when books like those written by Andrey Kanavshchikov reach people's hearts. To do this, you must not prevaricate, and if you have something to say to the world, to people, then by all means all this will reach the right place!

(Alexander Saprunov)

Literature:

Pshenichnaya V. Andrey Borisovich Kanavshchikov. From the "Pskov notebook" // Russian writer - [Website] - January 20, 2017 - [Electronic resource] - Access mode: http://rospisatel.ru/lkr-ps2.html (Date of access: 06/25/2018)
Saprunov A. A word about a poet and poetry / / From the book: Andrei Borisovich Kanavshchikov. Red Dawn: Selected Poems / Andrey Borisovich Kanavshchikov / Andrey Kanavshchikov. - Velikiye Luki: Frontier, 2009. - S. 366-368
Kuznetsova E. On the basis of beauty and harmony / / From the book: Andrei Borisovich Kanavshchikov. Red Dawn: Selected Poems / Andrey Borisovich Kanavshchikov / Andrey Kanavshchikov. - Velikiye Luki: Frontier, 2009. - S. 3-10
Kanavshchikov Andrey Borisovich. Lighthouse keeper: poems, poems: / Andrey Borisovich Kanavshchikov, Nikolai Shvedov / Andrey Kanavshchikov; [artist: Nikolai Shvedov]. - Moscow: Obraz, 2016. - 210 p. - On the 4th p. region author: A. Kanavshchikov, laureate of the All-Russian. lit. awards to them. M. N. Alekseeva, Intern. lit. Prize "Chernobyl. Star", Vseros. lit. Prize "Stalingrad", Corresponding Member. Petrov. acad. Sciences and Arts -ISBN 978-5-9907665-2-5
Kanavshchikov Andrey Borisovich. Civilization of troechniks / Andrey Borisovich Kanavshchikov / Andrey Kanavshchikov. - Velikiye Luki: Frontier, 2008. - 643 p.
Kanavshchikov Andrey Borisovich. Alexander Matrosov: feat and fate / Andrey Borisovich Kanavshchikov, Alexander Matveevich Matrosov / Andrey Kanavshchikov. - Moscow: Dignity, 2012. - 455, p.
Kanavshchikov Andrey Borisovich. Human Shield / Andrey Borisovich Kanavshchikov / Andrey Kanavshchikov. - Velikiye Luki: Frontier, 2011. - 581, p. - Bibliography. in subline note . -ISBN 978-5-350-00260-7
Kanavshchikov Andrey Borisovich. Khlebnikov: a poem / Andrey Borisovich Kanavshchikov, Velimir Khlebnikov / Andrey Kanavshchikov. - Moscow: Buki Vedi, pec. 2014. - 104 p. - A copy with accession number 1745B signed by the author
Kanavshchikov Andrey Borisovich. Channel: stories / Andrey Borisovich Kanavshchikov / [fot. T.V. Kanavshchikova and others]. - Velikiye Luki: Frontier, 2005. - 166, p., l. ph. -ISBN 5-350-00086-1
Kanavshchikov Andrey Borisovich. Strawberries / Andrey Borisovich Kanavshchikov / Andrey Kanavshchikov. - Velikiye Luki: Sergei Markelov Publishing House, 2013. - 254 p. -ISBN 978-5-905507-35-9
Literary Velikiye Luki / Andrey Borisovich Kanavshchikov: a collection of works by Velikie Luki - members of the Union of Writers of the USSR and Russia / [comp. and foreword. A. B. Kanavshchikova]. - Velikiye Luki: [Velikie Luki City Printing House], 2013. - 193, p.
Kanavshchikov Andrey Borisovich. Shroud on you: Prince. palindromov / Andrey Borisovich Kanavshchikov - M. : Obozrevatel, 1999. - 176 p.
Kanavshchikov Andrey Borisovich. Calling Rurik; Napalm: A novel, a story, stories / Andrey Borisovich Kanavshchikov / A. B. Kanavshchikov. - M. : RAU-CORPORATION, 1999. - 294 p.., 1 sheet. portrait -
KANAVSHCHIKOV ANDREY BORISOVICH. A NEW PUSHKIN IS ALREADY BORN: ST. / KANAVSHCHIKOV ANDREY BORISOVICH, 1997. - 20 P.
Chigirin Ivan Ivanovich Russian man Joseph Stalin: proverbs and sayings in the speeches and writings of IV Stalin / Chigirin Ivan Ivanovich, Kanavshchikov Andrey Borisovich / I. Chigirin, A. Kanavshchikov. - Moscow: Dignity, 2013. - 455 p., l. ph. - Bibliography in footnotes; Bibliography in text

In memory of Enver Zhemlikhanov

The family of the poet Enver Zhemlikhanov, a native of a wealthy Tatar family, who had two shops and two steamships on the Volga, then fell into the millstones of the revolution and the Great Patriotic War, moved from Magnitogorsk to Velikie Luki in 1949. Then, if anyone forgot, our common address was the Soviet Union, and moving was considered in the order of things.

Someone went here, someone went from there, and 13-year-old Enver went to fall in love with the ancient Velikoluksky land and take place here as a bright Russian poet. Some Russians loved their lands less than this Tatar, infinitely open to the world and people:

I grew up kind, I did not regret affection,
I did not wish evil to any living creature.
Leaned in childhood against a red-hot door -
So far with tamga left palm.
And the tamga is stronger - from love in the heart,
Because her fire is worse.

And with this tamga in his heart, Enver Mukhamedovich always lived. He suffered from the "evil fire" and lived, becoming in Velikie Luki formally the first and only poet - a member of the Union of Writers of the USSR, but in fact the figure that even now, almost 15 years after his death, is able to instill awe in any local untethered subverter of authorities .

Well, it is impossible to overthrow him from any pedestal, because there has never been a pedestal, except perhaps a comic concrete cube in the courtyard of the Literary Institute hostel, which was generously donated for the future monument to Nikolai Rubtsov.

Zhemlikhanov, Rubtsov and other students - Valentin Kochetkov, Viktor Chugunov, Igor Pantyukhov, Viktor Kozko, Vladimir Bykovsky, Vladimir Panyushkin - saw that structure, about two by two meters in size, left over from some plaster pioneer or a girl with an oar. They began to think about who would fit such a pedestal, and unanimously decided to award it to Nikolai Rubtsov with the words:

Take advantage, Kolya, of our kindness.

So even a comic pedestal - and he passed the poet. Yes, and Enver Zhemlikhanov did not aspire to any pedestals, more willingly bowing to the lathe of a local factory than to other party conventions. And here is an example of his "factory lyrics" - not a word about party congresses and overfulfillment of the plan, just a cricket leads his unpretentious song to himself:

As if a fontanel is beating somewhere,
Filling the blue cup...
Yes, it's a cricket
Domesticated our dressing room!
Do not put out the trash among the overalls,
Affirm the healing murmur.
The embodiment of hackneyed Russia,
So you went to the factory workers ...

Even outside of Velikie Luki, the story is widely known when, after graduating from the Literary Institute, Zhemlikhanov was invited to work as a correspondent for Komsomolskaya Pravda, but he refused. And he composed poems on this subject, which were very well heard in certain circles:

I don't want to lie like "Truth"!
I will hunch off and throw off my robe -
Let's get even that is.
That's why I'm breaking my back
To save your soul...

Well, a person did not have the need and ability to step on the throat of the muses. As other creators hid from the unpleasant realities of Soviet life in the janitor's lodges and boiler rooms, so Enver Mukhamedovich chose the path of a machine operator. In addition to poetry, he was fond of photography, sang beautifully, by ear he could pick up any melody on the guitar or piano.

Here is what his wife Lilia Rumyantseva, with whom they have been together since 1962, told me in an interview:

“I even think - sometimes Enver was bored when he realized that he received much less from those around him than he could give himself. Interesting fact, but before entering the Literary Institute, they and a friend entered VGIK for the company. Tolik did not pass, but Enver overcame the barriers of both the first round and the second. A friend was about to leave, Enver also left carelessly, leaving a document on the passed tests signed by the famous Cherkasov as a keepsake.

The charm of this man, as well as the charm of his work, are enormous. It was impossible to be angry with him for a long time, even for a cause, before that everything was sincere with him, with special purity and disarming frankness. He could approach a party journalist and say to his face: "When we win, I will shoot you." He could write an enthusiastic glorification of the end of Soviet power in the country, when others chewed snot and waited for it to end:

Freedom is given anew.
Appeared - uplifting and crippling.
After all, to be a slave at any time
And easier, and hassle-free, and easier.
But spring reigns supreme in feelings,
And people are getting better every year.
And yet, long live Freedom!
And yet, long live it.

Enver Zhemlikhanov was extremely uncomfortable, not climbing into his pocket for a word, not waiting for someone to think about him and what to say. For example, having received a fee for a book, it was natural for him to go to a well-known store on Komsomolskaya Street and drink everyone there from the belly. Why, why? But because you need to enjoy life, you need to live!

At the same time, Enver Mukhamedovich, marked with the tamga of love, clearly measured all his, let's say, fun, so as not to prick anyone excessively, not to lose harmonic balance, not to break with alien interference fragile world:

My mother's habit is alive in me,
Not lost in the unforgotten past:
I will pronounce good words
Someone about something good...
Behind the glass of the house and the tree,
The autumn world is covered with leaves.
And so good words are needed -
Good and only good things.

When there's nothing left to remember, the rememberers start to smear semolina on a plate and talk about everything little by little. Already, from the abundance of excellent epithets, it begins to ripple in the eyes, and you don’t know where to get away from the influx of details, the rules of good manners magnified by the microscope.

At the same time, a vivid memory of a person or phenomenon can always be designated without tension and terminological verbosity. I catch myself thinking that when I get to talk about the poet Enver Zhemlikhanov - what he was and who he was, I don’t even have to think. You exhale, as if you were rehearsing the answer for a long time and carefully: “He was a very organic and honest person.”

Enver Mukhamedovich, it seems, was always in a state of harmony and harmony with himself. Categorically not accepting even a hint of lies or falsehood. Here is another quote from an interview with Lilia Rumyantseva. To my question "What was the poet Zhemlikhanov?", she replied:

I would say kind. Unlimited. Good to the point of naivety. I remember this incident for the rest of my life. He walked along the path, in the snow at the gym along the embankment. Two guys were running towards him. Enver thought: they are running, so they are in a hurry. You have to give way. He stepped aside from the path into the virgin snow, and immediately received a strong blow to the head with brass knuckles. Covered in blood, he came home and kept thinking that they did it out of stupidity, out of youth. Even here he did not stoop to hatred. And how afraid he was to offend people, even inadvertently, in his reviews, what virtuoso phrases he invented, if only not to alienate beginners from Literature.

It happened like that. Some guy comes to our house. He says that he is a folklorist, collects Russian songs, goes from city to city for that. Enver orders: to drink, to feed. We drink, we feed.

But as a philologist, I am professionally interested in what songs the guy has already collected, how Pskov songs differ from others. And so I ask, and so, I feel that a folklorist obviously does not work out of a person. I’m already telling Enver: “You leave him in the house, but who is he, from where?” “Don’t you understand,” he replies, “that maybe he has nowhere else to go.” And in these words the whole of Enver.

For the first time I saw Zhemlikhanov somewhere in the first years of the so-called perestroika. In the waiting room of the local newspaper, he sat cross-legged, leaning on the table, and masterfully, with a mother tongue, scolded the intelligentsia, who wrote:

And I want to support someone, help, but there is no one to support!

Seeing me peeking through the door with these words, Secretary Galina Nikolaevna laughed:

At least support Andrew.

I already regretted that the difficult one brought me to the editorial office at this hour. I think I will now hear some variation on the previous theme, prepared to fight back. But Enver somehow immediately stopped, thought, glared at me with his tenacious, attentive gaze and fell silent. Me, unlike my poems, he also saw for the first time.

The editor's door swung open, and I was invited there. When it was time to leave, Zhemlikhanov was no longer in the waiting room. I went down the stairs to the street, but I kept thinking about that microscopic episode. I saw this look with my own eyes, I felt this hanging silence.

Since that time, I definitely knew that Zhemlikhanov was a poet not from his red book, but from the very root essence.

It became clear why Nikolai Rubtsov singled out Enver and, according to the literary institute legend, after one gathering recognized him as an equal. In fact, do not say separately that the poem quoted below belongs to the pen of Zhemlikhanov, you can get confused. The lines are quite "Rubtsov's", in the same style and breath:

I came to you not to draw conclusions -
Listen to the songs that my mother sang to me.
Noise, weed! Don't kiss my feet
I'm ready to kiss you!

In general, Rubtsov was probably able to develop into such a global phenomenon because he managed to concentrate and formulate the voice of that time, which made its way and sounded among many. Rubtsov was partly lucky, partly helped by influential friends. But, without a doubt, without a wide creative wave that sounded from a dozen of the most diverse poets, which anticipated Rubtsov and elevated him to the heights of reader expectations, there would be no himself.

You often meet Zhemlikhanov's outspoken Rubtsov intonations. Take, for example, the classic “Fedya”, where there is even an element of a dispute with the poems of his fellow student, when Rubtsov’s Fili is asked: “Filya, why is he silent?”, And he replies: “What should I talk about?”. Enver Zhemlikhanov contrasts Shukshin's eccentric silence of Rubtsov's Fili with the more active, more open to the world "Hello":

Veren family tradition -
So that the house does not get cold,
Fedya lives in the province,
In your home...
Sharing bread with a horse
Exactly, no offense.
I met a beautiful tree
"Hello!" - He speaks…

It is difficult to say who has the image of a personified village conscience turned out to be more attractive. But, in any case, Fedya by Zhemlikhanov is no less resilient, self-valuable and profound than Rubtsov's Phil. Two good Russian poets have created worthy poems that need not be evaluated, but read more often.

We met with Enver Mukhamedovich for the last time on November 17, 1994. I remember this date so clearly, because on that day our literary association, together with Zhemlikhanov, performed in Kunya, a town located not far from Velikiye Luki. We were well received, listened to poetry, asked smart questions.

The program of that trip ended in the living room of the local House of Culture. We sat at tables and drank tea. It was clear that it was time to say goodbye. And then, at the next request to “read poetry,” Zhemlikhanov, without any transition, turns to me: - Andrey, read it.

So that evening ended with my poems. Then there was the way home, long conversations, exchange of impressions, a bottle of vodka drunk with the poet. And death from cancer, to the day, a year later - November 17, 1995. And poems to his own death, written back in 1991, in advance, and here for the first time they sounded widely:

At the entrance entrance on the right,
I'm afraid to look, I'm going quickly.
The wall is trouble, the wall is poison
Between two doors, between two doors
With a grave voice of anxiety
She will besiege in the crush:
Hanging out obituaries
On that wall. On that wall
Seeing me in a black frame
Say in departments and workshops:
He didn't leave, he stayed with us
In my poems, in my poems.
And on the way the last one,
Forgiving all my sins
Let them sound without fading
My poems. My poems.

What is interesting - neither then, nor even more so, now the lines of Enver Mukhamedovich did not sound like a figurative stretch. He, indeed, remained alive and one can really read his poems, as one once reveled in communication with an intelligent and subtle interlocutor, which was Zhemlikhanov. His book, even if it accidentally falls into your hands, cannot be thrown away on the move. No matter how in a hurry, but at least read a couple of poems.

Honest, merciless, poignant, like this one dedicated to Rubtsov:

In the student capital - smoke.
Poems - in a circle. Passion - on the limit:
Poets die in duels!
Suddenly he said:
- Well, what are we doing here?

He ran our ship aground.
Offended, we clamored for a long time.
He brilliantly challenged us to a duel!
But we didn't know about the duel yet...

The pronoun “we” sounds especially touching, because Enver Zhemlikhanov conducted his “duel” according to all dueling rules. But his court to himself is always extremely strict, it is for others that he did not skimp on goodness. It was for others that he opened his soul. And in the end it turned out that to forget him means to forget a part of yourself, a part of your Motherland. It seems to be outwardly - a machine operator at a factory, lived in the provinces.

And would the Russian poetry of Rubtsov’s appeal have taken place if there hadn’t been a poet Zhemlikhanov in the provincial Velikie Luki? Doubtful.

Born July 5, 1968. Graduated high school No. 9, factory courses of vocational school No. 8 of the city of Velikie Luki, Faculty of Journalism, Leningrad State University.
The first book was published in 1997 in Novopolotsk and was called "New Pushkin has already been born." Then came the collections of poems, prose and journalism "Hoarfrost" (1998), « The calling of Rurik "(1999)," In the same ranks "(2000)," Channel "(2005)," Three wars of Colonel Bogdanov "(2006)," Civilization of the threes "(2008)," Red Dawn "(2009)," Egorych" (2010) and others. Author of four anthologies and a preface to the "Anthology of the Russian palindrome of the twentieth century" (M.: Helios ARV, 2000).
Member of collective collections and almanacs published in Novgorod, Tver, Pskov, Moscow, Perm, Nizhny Novgorod, Tula. Chairman of the literary and artistic creative team"Frontier". Initiator of the establishment of the Order of the Cross of the Poet.
Published in the newspapers Den, Patriot, Literaturnaya Rossiya, Russkiy Vestnik, Rossiyskaya Gazeta, Nezavisimaya Gazeta, Knizhnoye Obozreniye, Tribuna, Limonka, Arguments and Facts, « Krasnaya Zvezda”, “Izvestia”, “Literaturnaya Gazeta”, “Duel”, “Russia”, “Veteran” and others, the magazines “Europe”, “Change”, “Aeronaut”, “Russian speech”, “North” (Petrozavodsk ), "Pulse", "Chayan" (Kazan), "Observer - Observer", "Islands" (Voronezh), "Pskov", "Word", "Science and Life", "Worker", "Daugava" (Riga) , "Underwater Club", "Military Knowledge", "Aurora" (St. Petersburg), "Russian House", "Vvedenskaya Side" (Staraya Russa), "Don" (Rostov-on-Don), "Bus" (St. Petersburg), Day and Night (Krasnoyarsk), Moskovsky Vestnik, Our Contemporary, Young Guard, Southern Star (Stavropol), Luch (Izhevsk).
Laureate of the All-Russian Literary Prize. M. N. Alekseeva, awards of the Administration of the Pskov region, "Chernobyl Star", "Stalingrad". Winner and diploma winner of all-Russian competitions and festivals, including those dedicated to the 100th anniversary of the birth of M. A. Sholokhov (Krasnodar, 2005). Member of the Writers' Union since 2000, since 2008 - Member of the Board of the Pskov Regional Branch of the Writers' Union. Awarded with medals and badges of various departments and public organizations.

GREAT LENT

Liza Zhukova, a woman in labor, was brought with contractions to ward No. white day. It did not look very usual, as women usually give birth either late at night or at dawn, but you cannot command a child while it is still in the stomach. The child asks himself outside and does not ask others what they think about this. Liza moaned muffledly and held on to her stomach, which lifted up a simple chintz dressing gown with a simple flower.
- Does it hurt, does it hurt? - Her husband kept asking her in a taxi, a short, vigorous man with almost white eyelashes and the same hair, who had come from the army a year ago and was quite confidently trying himself in the rank of a car mechanic.
Lisa Zhukova, of course, was in pain. She was sick and in general, her body somehow incomprehensibly twisted, as if on a carousel. But she endured this attack with her professional patience as a weaver. This patience even pleased the local joke when the bus with the weavers of their factory went on an excursion to Minsk. One hour ride, two ride, three. Already the driver began to glance at the girls and hint almost openly: “Isn’t it time to make a stop, so that, as usual, the girls are on the right, and the boys are on the left?”
The weavers smiled with all their forty smiles (according to the number of seats in Ikarus), and the chairman of the trade union committee, aunt Galya, affectionately explained to the driver: “If you want, then stop. And we are used to such things. We are still running from machine to machine, there is no time for a toilet. You can’t turn off the machine, you can’t miss the thread either. So don't look at us, four o'clock is not the time for us."
Since that incident in the city, the expression "patient as a weaver" has become winged. Visitors did not always understand him, and the locals, even against their will, at such a turn in the conversation, often blurred into a kind smile. Zhukova was one of those patient weavers. So if she just started moaning, that alone was worth the long lamentations. "Hurry," was all that was spinning in Lisa's head now.
However, contrary to expectations, they were in no hurry to prepare her for childbirth. The doctor was now somewhere at the planning meeting with the authorities or was undergoing fire safety briefing, so Lisa was given a special injection that slows down labor pains. Then they thought and made a second injection. The girl heard the head nurse mutter to her young partner:
- Maybe not in our shift will give birth. I would like to get out early today, I need to get linen in the laundry.
Liza Zhukova was lying on the bed half-conscious. Dark spots on her forehead and near her lips showed even more clearly on her regular pale face. Usually Lisa was very shy about these prenatal marks on her skin, but now she simply forgot that she needed to be shy. She lay on her back and tried to breathe more slowly. White color the ceiling looked like white snow on the street. Here comes the creak of footsteps. Such a juicy creak of steps in the snow. Liza Zhukova was thrown into a cold sweat. She tilted her head slightly and saw the girl on the bed next to her abruptly rip open a plastic bag of red apples. Lisa nodded to the girl and tried to smile. She smiled at her too.
- My name is Olga. Do you want an apple?
The thought of food made Lisa sick. She closed her eyes to ward off the rich red color of large, juicy apples, swallowed frantically several times, and shook her head. Olga, who yesterday gave birth to her second child, son Volodya, and not without reason considered herself an experienced and experienced mother at the age of 25, was not surprised by the answer. She sat down closer to Lisa and, lightly stroking her arm with her fingertips, said affectionately:
- No need to be afraid. Don't scare yourself, girl. The body knows what to do. Everyone gives birth and always will give birth.
Olga worked as an educator in kindergarten, therefore, with all people, she involuntarily took the tone of a wise adviser, without whom one cannot do without and whose advice is supposedly extremely necessary. Always surrounded by talkative, noisy children who need to be guided and taught, Olga was unusually organic in her role, although outwardly she looked like a teenage girl, at best, a tenth grader who had just cut her pigtails from her first unrequited love. Lightly shaking her blond bangs, Olga leaned lower:
- And who is your husband waiting for? Boy or girl?
“A boy,” Lisa smiled and was embarrassed for a moment. She really was calm and good with Olga.
- I have a boy too. Volodya. And his sister's name is Alla. The third year of our Alla. Let's get out of here, you'll see for yourself.
- Truth? For some reason, Lisa was delighted. Olga's confident gentleness seemed to her something very near and dear in the midst of this white peace of the ward. And the neighbor understood the feelings of her new acquaintance and continued to speak, as if in writing, with the necessary intonations and important words:
- Necessarily. My husband is strong, a policeman. We have a horizontal bar at home, a Swedish wall. We also want a third child, because joy is in children, light comes from them ...
Suddenly, Lisa felt that Olga's words ceased to affect her. Her stomach pinched especially hard, it was as if a steel spring vibrated there. For some reason it got wet between my legs. Already completely out of control, Lisa screamed at the top of her voice. Quickly throwing the blanket off her to assess what was happening, Olga ran out into the corridor.
She returned with the head nurse and another of their neighbors in the ward, green-eyed Vika, whose luxurious thick hair even pregnancy could not make brittle and dull. With a thick braid on her chest, stout Vika darted over to her bed and tugged at Olga's dressing gown:
- What, we have a new girl going to give birth right away?
Vika did not give birth to her daughter Zoya immediately, she toiled in the hospital for almost a week, and therefore her stupid question in other circumstances did not surprise Olga at all. She patiently chewed to the inspector of the quality control department of the military plant, which produced nails and screws for cover:
- This is Lisa. She will have her first child. Our husbands went to the same school.
And the head nurse frowned at Lisa and sighed heavily:
“I still couldn’t take it, my dear. How can you not bear to give birth.
By nature, Natalya Sergeevna was a kind person and even prone to large-scale deeds, but from everything it turned out that she would not be able to leave today to get linen at the laundry.
Sighing tragically, as if in a couple of seconds the end of the world would begin, the head nurse doomedly shouted into the emptiness of the corridor a request to bring a table on wheels and along the way decided to reprimand Vika, noisily drawing in the air with her nose:
- You're smoking again! At least now I would suffer without this peasant nipple.
Vika really smoked. Ever since school. So it seemed to her that she was struggling with excess weight. But this struggle proceeded, however, without great success, and smoking did not in the least affect the roundness of its forms. Although, according to Vicki, it was smoking that prevented her from gaining even more weight and limited her growth in width. At the words of the head nurse, Vika modestly kept silent, not wanting to sharpen this painful topic for her, and turned away to the window.
- Do you want an apple? – offered sympathetic and always understanding Olga.
Vika gratefully crunched the apple. Life, in principle, was joyful and pure, like white January snow outside the window. And the next day, when the three of them, now with Lisa, brought the babies for feeding, Vika was touched at all and suddenly said, as if repeating what she had overheard from someone:
- Girls, let's keep in touch with each other after the hospital. We will watch how our children grow up, how our life develops. I want you to take a walk at my housewarming party, so that my Zoya can study in a group with Aunt Olya.
Liza looked at her little Sasha, the most beautiful little man in the world, and did not find a reason to argue. She herself was now ready to embrace the whole world and to pay for kindness exclusively with kindness. She agreed almost simultaneously with Olga:
- Why postpone? Let's spend the first weekend together.
All three laughed happily. Three beautiful Madonnas held their priceless treasures in their hands, and their holy unity seemed predetermined for a long time, perhaps even before their own birth. Soft snow swirled outside the window, sparkling in the sun.
Do you know what patterns I do? - Lisa chirped .. - The whole house is drawing models for me.
“You haven’t tried my homemade marmalade yet,” Vika was proud.
Olga was the first to remember the fourth inhabitant of their ward, who did not take any part in the conversation and lay face to the wall all the time. Their open egoistic happiness seemed unfair to Olga:
- And maybe we will invite Ninel to our place?
Everyone fell silent. The one whose name was named by Olga stirred, and it was felt that she, too, was listening attentively to the conversation of her friends.
“She’s not a stranger to us either. We are all here now as brothers...
“Sisters,” Vika corrected.
“Really, it’s a thought! Lisa responded.
All the girls were very sorry for Ninel. This spectacular brunette with breathtakingly long legs is very unlucky. Secretly in love with the yard ringleader Dimon, a sly leader with shoulder-length hair, a thunderstorm of the surrounding discos, she could not resist when late in the evening one day Dimon called her and called her to the gazebo, where his company usually gathered, drank beer and strummed the Beatles guitars. Ninel shifted the violin from one sweaty palm to the other and enthusiastically went to her favorite voice. Everything was like in a dream. Dark gazebo. Often sniffing Dimon. Ninel did not even immediately understand what had just happened.
“Go,” Dimon told her roughly, giving her a sip of port wine. Someone chuckled in the bushes nearby.
Ninel went home, and her soul sang. Beloved, finally, noticed her, singled out from everyone. “Everyone loves him, but he chose me,” Ninel choked with delight. Now every evening she strove to pass at least once near the company of Dimon, but her hero no longer noticed the girl. Only his company greeted Ninel with some kind of amused whisper.
Ninel found out that she was pregnant when it was already obvious to everyone, including teachers and neighbors. Then it turned out that she had syphilis. Then the doctors treated her and insisted on having an abortion so as not to risk the health of the unborn boy. Now in the hospital, the girl just lay, turned to the wall, and was silent. Olga often tried to talk to Ninel, to cheer her up, but the result was zero.
And now the conversation with her was started, as if not seriously, with a psychotherapeutic purpose. So on the street they feel sorry for a frozen kitten, from which it does not follow at all that this kitten will henceforth live with a person who took pity on him at home. Surprisingly, Ninel rolled over on the bed and said, stammering a little:
“I want to be with you too. Watch your children grow. You are very kind to me. You are all very good.
Immediately, good Olga found an apple for Ninel. Everyone wept for a long time and from the bottom of their hearts, now strengthening their feminine unity with tears. For a fraction of a moment, it seemed to all four that they really would now be friends with their families, that no time, no fate would separate them now. The high note of friendship rang openly and loudly in their souls. Simple apples seemed like heavenly food, and boiled water from a decanter was like expensive wine. They did not sleep all night, they talked and talked and could not talk enough.
However, they did not have a chance to meet the next weekend after being discharged from the hospital. Diapers, baby cries, domestic hassle were stronger than emotional promises. Ninel called up Liza about the style of her new dress, Liza hurried with Sasha to the clinic - everything somehow died out by itself. Not a week later, not a year later, but only twenty years later, the women met at a concert of a visiting pop singer.
And not only met, but also got to know each other. It was almost unbelievable that they were all gathered in the same place at the same time, so that they all remembered their childhood vows in the ward of the hospital. But it also happens. Almost unchanged in appearance, Olga greeted Vika:
- I'm so glad to see you. Maybe we can sit in our circle sometime? Do you remember how you dreamed back then?
Vika got emotional, dragged Olga and her husband to the buffet, where they noticed Ninel at one of the tables. She was sitting with some short-haired man in a leather jacket and laughed, picturesquely throwing her head back.
- Ninel! Olga was dumbfounded. - And you decided to come here?
“Guess,” Ninel got up to meet them, “whom did I just see in the foyer?
– Lisa? Olga breathed out.
- Her. She will be here soon. In the meantime, get acquainted - this is my husband.
The man in the leather jacket rose slightly from his chair and flopped down again, as his mobile phone was already playing a tune from the Brigade. Ninel gently ruffled her husband's hair and called the waiter:
- Make us champagne, my friend!
Then everyone drank eagerly, laughed and made noise, drowning out each other. After the third call, they went to the hall without much desire, but they firmly agreed to get together after all with a bachelorette party at Liza's. Why does she have? Yes, she herself suggested that, but no one objected. Everyone, in fact, wanted to get together so easily, sit and remember those moments that meant something to all of them.
Already in the morning, Lisa sent her husband to the country and began to set the table in a large room. She is constantly looking for human society, was eager either for a concert of a singer whom she didn’t really know, or she was ready to bother all day so that human voices simply sounded in her house. She agreed to the adventure with the meeting in order to subtract another one from her series of days, to forget, to flip through the calendar sheet.
Lisa has lost a lot over the past six months. A coffin with the body of her son came from the army. The official conclusion read: "hung himself", but Sasha's whole body was bruised, and deep cuts were clearly visible on his hands. The officer accompanying the body looked somewhere to the side and in an operatic bass demanded from Lisa all the letters of her son from the army. In unconsciousness, Liza gave him these letters, rolled on the floor and did not even cry, but howled like a hungry dog.
At work, she was made redundant, because Lisa's taste for life was lost and she could neither fulfill the plan nor adhere to a strict work regime. It has now become natural for Lisa to leave the factory floor and go into the yard and stupidly sit there on a bench all day long. In addition, Lisa completely stopped taking care of herself, she could not wash her hair for weeks, and her husband increasingly began to disappear at some overtime work. When her husband returned to her, he insolently lavished the smell of French perfume around him, but Liza did not notice this either. Habitual, domestic has lost its meaning for her. She was now eager to join any company, wherever there were people. She didn't care whether it was a pop concert or literary gatherings. In her heart, she hoped to see her Sasha at least once more somewhere and finally find the lost pleasure from life.
Did Lisa really want to see her friends in the maternity ward? Of course not. But even more, she did not want to see her husband nearby, resting after his evening exploits, to see a photograph of her son on the wall in a black frame, to see herself in the mirror - terrible, disheveled. Therefore, when the doorbell rang, Lisa rushed to the door and kissed Olga, just like her own sister.
“You know,” Olga said, going into the room, “and I often thought about all of us. We were then very friendly, we were then one, and this feeling is extremely rare.
- Olechka, but we kept our promise. We said to meet - and now we met, - Lisa could hardly hold back her tears. - Come on, Olechka. Soon the meat and potatoes will ripen.
The doorbell rang again. Vika came second. She continued to smoke, but she still gained a lot of weight, and her movements acquired a solid slowness. She was dressed in a chic cream-colored trouser suit.
“But we are real criminals,” Vika uttered with fervor, “we are going to meet only in twenty years, while we promised to get together right away. We are definitely criminals!
The last to arrive was Ninel in a brilliant blue dress. Lisa immediately got busy. She ran to the kitchen to get the goose out of the oven, began to ring with forks. And when, finally, everyone sat down together at a simple table covered with a white linen tablecloth, for at least half an hour everyone had only a desire to look at each other, just look, compare who has changed and recognize their changes in other people's eyes. Surprisingly, everyone unanimously avoided talking about their children. Only when it was not the language that spoke in Vika, but the drunk Cabernet, she decided to nod at the portrait in the mourning frame:
Did something happen to your son? With Sasha, I think?
Lisa trembled in hysterics, dropped her glass on the floor, but still found the strength to tell everything. Here Vika also sobbed, smearing expensive cosmetics:
“But I overslept my Zoya. I fell asleep in the second month, I am a fat, stupid cow. Fell asleep and crushed at night.
Olga was fixed the longest, but in the end she also had to be consoled. Her boy died under a car in the first grade of school, carelessly crossing the road. In fact, it turned out that all of them from that ill-fated ward No. 4 had children who died at different times. Everyone died! Detail after detail, detail after detail. Mothers vied with each other to remember their children, execute themselves and cry again.
Ninel managed to dry the tears of her friends in an instant with her even voice:
“But that's the way it was supposed to be.
Lisa, Vika and Olga stared at her in amazement:
- What should?
“Yes, yes,” Ninel got up from the table. - I may be saying terrible things, but I must, as a believer, say this. All our children were initially doomed, they were objectionable to God from the very conception.
“You must be confusing something,” Olga Ninel tried to interrupt. - If your child was not born, then you should probably not treat all of us with the same brush.
Lisa and Vika nodded their heads in solidarity, still not understanding anything. And Ninel could no longer stop:
- Count when we all got to the hospital. Subtract nine months, months of pregnancy. It turns out that the conception took place during the days of Lent, and, perhaps, in the Passion Week just before Easter itself. God opposes this, such children are objectionable to the Lord. They couldn't stay alive. This is the atonement for sins.
“My Volodya played chess well, at the age of five he beat his father, and he is a first-class player,” Olga suddenly said, addressing no one.
The meaning of what Ninel said gradually began to reach Lisa and Vika. Vika finally sobered up:
“So it was God who killed our children?” Is that what you want to say? And is that what you mean?
Liza also jumped up and nervously pressed Sasha's photograph to her chest, as if Ninel had encroached on her and wanted to take it away:
- What are you saying? What for? Yes, we didn’t even know such words at that time - “Great Lent”, “Holy Week”, “Easter”. At the age of thirty I learned the first prayer in my life.
“Ignorance does not exempt from responsibility,” Ninel said dryly. - I am rooting for all of you, you are very beautiful people but you must know the truth. I emphasize - the truth - and not this or that truth convenient for each of you. You need to go to church, you need to atone for sins.
- Did you beg them? - Massive Vika towered in front of Ninel. Her nostrils trembled, and the string of beads broke, touched by a red hand in gold rings.
“Yes, I begged,” Ninel answered almost proudly. – I go to church every Sunday, and my first love is my husband. We are married to him, the Lord united us.
“Wait,” Olga didn’t understand, “this gangster in the DC, your husband, is this the same Dimon?”
“He is not a gangster, as you put it,” Ninel flashed. He is an entrepreneur, he has his own company. We adopted a girl from an orphanage.
Lisa, no longer able to contain her despair and pain, ran to the bathroom and locked herself there. For some reason, she again remembered the maternity hospital in colors, only it was no longer juicy apples, not a sense of unity and bright feelings of friendship, youth, but everything that was most disgusting and unpleasant came to mind. Suddenly, the head nurse stood before her eyes, who brought the new patient quinine, a drug with a contracting effect, to quickly clean up the residue. Lisa tried to argue:
- What are you giving me?
Whatever you need, we give.
“Maybe I can’t. Quinine is my allergen.
The nurse grimaced, as if from a severe toothache:
- Allergen? The words we know. Drink, come on, allergy-en!
“But if it’s quinine, then I can’t drink it.
- Here's another! The doctor says that it is possible, and now you will argue with me. Very smart?
Lisa then, in her semi-conscious state, drank the ill-fated medicine. She was blown away, her body reddened and itched. Even the doctors themselves, seeing the girl home, laughed, looking at her puffy, swollen face:
We spoiled you, we spoiled you.
After this alleged joke, it was supposed to smile, with whom it does not happen. And Lisa always treated it exactly like that - with whom it doesn’t happen. But now she did not want to joke, smile and enter into someone's position. She just lay on the edge of the bathroom and broke in half from convulsions. Tears could no longer fully convey her feelings.
Meanwhile, Ninel, having completed her monologue, affectionately winked at Vika and Olga:
- Well, girls, let's have a little one more. Despondency is one of the deadly sins. Let's not be discouraged and sad. We are all still beautiful, young, we still have so much ahead of us!
Olga lifted up the plate of salad, shook it in her hand, then put it back on the table and quietly left without looking back. Vika, who had previously tried to collect beads on the floor, drops the already collected handfuls and hurries after Olga, as if afraid of getting infected with something here. Water is noisy in the bathroom. Ninel drinks a glass of Cabernet, knocks goodbye on the bathroom door:
- Liza, I left my phone number for you on a napkin. If you want, call. Let's sit and talk. Kiss, Liza.

Andrey KANAVSHCHIKOV. CUCUMBER FLOWERING AND BRYUSOV CHAOS. About Alexander Rakov's Poetry Anthology

CUCUMBER FLOWERING AND BRYUSOV CHAOS

About Alexander Rakov's Poetry Anthology

Every anthology and beyond - every attempt at ordering literary process on paper, in principle, potentially dangerous. Both for its compiler and for readers.

The compiler always runs the risk of drowning in his feelings, in an attempt to say too much, managing to say absolutely nothing. And it is often difficult for the reader to even physically digest the heterogeneous influences that tear apart the consciousness from several sides at once with a sort of effect of collective schizophrenia. Not in vain for collective collections not yesterday the definition of "mass grave" was fixed.

Therefore, the key task facing everyone who undertakes to unite a large number of writers under one cover lies, first of all, in the idea that will spiritualize this construction. So that the resulting homunculus can breathe, speak and not fall apart from the first preconceived touch (look).

Not all even talented authors are capable of such a task. However, the St. Petersburg poet and journalist, editor of the all-Russian newspaper Pravoslavny St. Petersburg, Alexander Rakov, released his two-volume Poetry beautiful people"and" Poetry makes the earth beautiful "(based on poems from his books of prose miniatures-"blanks" and notebooks for "blanks" with dedications to his father-front-line soldier Grigory Ivanovich Rakov and Archpriest John Mironov) made a serious bid for success.

And the brainchild of Alexander Grigorievich deserves attention, far from because one can sincerely admire only the amount of physical labor invested here. 1030 poets 1770 poems and more than 970 photographs - the first book. Another 700 authors, again with numerous illustrations - the second. Over 1100 pages prepared for printing by a single person.

It is much more important that the books compiled by Rakov can be read. Yes, yes, it's so easy to open and read like real books of poetry, when the heterogeneous energies of many authors do not conflict with each other, creating the effect of some kind of unity.

Let's try to figure out what the compiler offers. If possible, isolating some key milestones of its selection.

First of all, for Alexander Grigorievich there are no recognized values and so-called poetic titles as such. When only 8 lines are given to Alexander Pushkin, and almost 3 pages to Gleb Gorbovsky, more than 3 pages to Yuri Kuznetsov. When Aleksey Apukhtin (1840-1893) quotes only one poem of 16 lines, while the living Yegeny Artyukhov (b. 1950) quotes three at once and on a whole page. With a story about September 11, about the war in Chechnya, and, perhaps, important for understanding the entire super-task of Rakov's anthology - the poem "Share":

There is no home where he was born

There is no school where he studied

There is no company where he served,

The country in which he lived.

Only a hill from the church on the edge,

Where father and mother sleep

It also helps me

Don't lose yourself.

Another clear pattern is that poetry for Alexander Grigorievich is not limited to national cultures, any boundaries or stylistic and ideological preferences. With equal affection, he publishes classical works Pushkin tradition, and vers libre by Gennady Alekseev (1932-1987) or white verses by Ilya Reznik " Angry dog", when a boy who cannot read, to play with a friend of a neighbor's dog, "Climbed through a hole in the fence Under the words" ... an evil dog!

There are many verses of the clergy. And well-known, such as Archbishop John of San Francisco (Shakhovskoy, 1902-1989) or Patriarch of All Russia Pimen (Izvekov, 1910-1990), and very ordinary priests. And next to patriotic-soil poems, there can be some Alexei Tsvetkov with completely different priorities, both ideological and artistic:

Why prophetic poses

Over a worn leaf?

We are only swallows with no use

In no one's empty air.

The classical poet of imperial Russia Serey Bekhteev (1879-1954) with his no less classic "Patriotism":

To love people is not to flatter

His villainy and vices

Doesn't mean to slavishly fawn

Before his capricious rock. (…)

To love does not mean to forgive everything,

No, this is the death of the people, -

Who loves must correct

Native, sweet freak ...

And right there, practically without a transition and interruption of breathing, - Evgeny Bunimovich. Often, one listing of names, simply separated by commas, can be confusing. Sergey Gandlevsky, Igor Guberman, Victor Hugo... And here is Stefania Danilova, who was born in 1995:

Do I live in Russia? Where is our language?

Involuntarily, the heart erupts a cry,

He, God-given, pure and mighty,

Which one are you used to?

Evgeny Yevtushenko is almost 2 pages of text and next to him is an eight-year-old Moscow schoolboy Dima Ershov with a very meaningful philosophical “I won’t forget!”:

So if you love

And suddenly they refuse you

You won't forget her.

Remember this, dear friend.

Gold will not buy honor:

Honest honor will not yield.

He needs honor like light.

Glad to sell her dishonest,

But, as everyone knows,

The dishonest have no honor.

The province is extremely well represented. Chelyabinsk region, Kirov, Rostov-on-Don, Vladimir region, Tver, Tom, Ussuriysk, Bashkiria and beyond, ad infinitum. There is also an informative component, as any normal anthology should be. For example, you can get acquainted with the work of Boris Kovynev (1903-1970), a native of Poltava, the author of the song "June 22, exactly at 4 o'clock." Or the poems of Marianna Kolosova (1903-1964) from Chile are taken from Yevgeny Yevtushenko's "Strophes of the Century".

On an equal footing with famous and worldwide famous names- Lyubov Maksimova, mother of a daughter who died of cerebral palsy:

Do not be sad mother, do not.

Your children are angels, not evil,

They are given to us by God as a reward,

To bring love and warmth into the world.

Or the poems are already on the verge of anonymity from the prisoner of war Mikhail, whose camp in 1942 was located next to the Pyukhtitsky monastery. Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855), Semyon Nadson (1862-1887), Bulat Okudzhava (1924-1997), Arkady Mokeev - a life prisoner with his poems about St. Nicholas. And next to him, Pavel Morozov (1954-2003) from Astrakhan is no longer about holiness and faith, but about a fight with a Tajik, which escalated into a mob beating him:

Confident in my own strength

Arrogant Russian man.

I was publicly beaten,

Why is there some Tajik here?!

We do not cross ourselves if there is no thunder,

And then we sob uncontrollably,

And we should live differently

Yes, it is necessary, who speaks!

And then Nikolai Novikov, who was killed near Verdun in 1916, Yekaterinburg resident Boris Ryzhiy (1974-2001), Robert Frost (USA, 1874-1963), Yuri Shevchuk and William Shakespeare, Alexander Yashin (1913-1968) with his textbook "They took the dog out of the yard, as if a woman was lured away ...".

For the anthology of Alexander Rakov, there are no forbidden names and fundamentally closed topics. Landscape lyrics coexist with love, parables with civil. The condemnation of abortion and now the Hero of the Soviet Union Mikhail Borisov indicates a position on a military feat:

Imagine for a moment,

Matrosov is alive!

He has no empty grudges

Forgive the living and timidity and doubts,

But meanness and the dead will not forgive.

And the one who now came hunting -

Out of kindness! -

Forgive everything and everyone

Let him raise himself to the muzzle of the pillbox

And from that mountain he will try to judge.

More than 3 pages given to Pavel Vasiliev. There is Atanas Dalchev (1904-1978) from Bulgaria. "The Meditation of an Old Fisherman" by Irish Nobel laureate William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) translated by Grigory Kruzhkov.

A whole poem by Nikolai Melnikov (1966-2000) from Kozelsk "Russian Cross". And a semi-epigram of Eleonora Akopova from Kemerovo:

Poets today are known unhealthy,

And how would you know them?

Just look - they will call Kirkorov,

If you ask the poet to name.

Passionate and cocky Vladimir Bushin, "To the Unknown Soldier" - poems from the newspaper "Border of Russia" by Oleg Buchnev (b. 1959), three poems by Andrei Voznesensky, Vladimir Vysotsky and immediately very close to Pyotr Vyazemsky (1792-1878):

Freedom is in ourselves: holy pledge of heaven,

As the property of the soul, God has entrusted it to us!

And the yoke of earthly power will not bend her ...

Interestingly, Alexander Rakov's anthology cannot be approached from the standpoint of some probable soil-political manifesto on the topic of the day. Like some kind of newspaper with a list of pain points.

Behind all this kaleidoscope of names, philosophies and author's positions, no matter how hard you check your feelings, only Poetry sounds, its high and inextinguishable spirit, which is higher than names, and nations, and states, and ideologies in human sense words. In this sense, the text from the "Day of Poetry" in 1980, the author - Venedim Simonyonok, "Cucumber Flower" is characteristic:

As a child, a cucumber flower

I will never forget!

How she ran through the beds

To furry, yellow, like a chicken,

Bright, bright, soft

fragile flower,

I touched the beautifully curved petals a little,

leaned against his cheek,

Inhaled the dizzying freshness

The smell of a simple cucumber flower...

What is this, no matter how small a miracle that is being born right now, before our eyes?! The Miracle of Poetry. Just.

Sympathy and author's position no longer a compiler, but a poet Rakov. Together with the poems, he cites a scanned typewritten reply from the Yunost magazine, dated 1963: “Dear comrade Rakov! Your poems did not interest the editors. We return the manuscript. Sincerely, Y. Ryashentsev.”

Of course, the famous poet and head of the poetry department of Youth Yuri Ryashentsev is also present in the anthology. No one settles scores with him, no one proves anything. The old answer from the magazine looks like some kind of funny illustration on the theme of conventionality, the illusory nature of any material values in front of God's gift of creativity.

It is clearly shown that God's gift did not decrease, did not disappear, did not weaken from non-printing, and therefore it is unnecessary to regret it. If there was a voice, what would be said.

Dear heart

With an apple tree by the window

Fairytale Vologda,

Thoughtful Sheksna.

They say: "walk", "be" -

How many centuries - God knows!

Firmly tying threads

With a past that is...

By the way, about illustrations. This is a separate plus of Rakov's anthology. So, the selection of Igor Talkov (1956-1991) is accompanied not only by his photo, but also by a postage stamp of 1999 and a photo of the musician's grave, really saturating the visual range of the book.

In a word, we have a truly enormous work that is incredibly difficult to do for one person. Especially in such a short time frame. Not to mention the fact that poetry is rarely read now, and even such an eclectic book, by definition, cannot be perceived unambiguously.

Pochvenniki may say: why are liberals here? Liberals may say: why are there so many priests here? The Orthodox community will be indignant: why is there so much Bolshevik-Soviet and worldly? Not to mention the fact that you can always be indignant at the volume of collections of other authors. Why is Pushkin a third of a page, and Melnikov a whole poem?

Nevertheless, despite all the possible tactical disagreements and disputes over individual texts, Alexander Rakov's anthology is still rather alive than dead, and more likely to succeed than not to succeed.

To begin with, the poet took the titles for his two volumes from the poems of Boris Ilyich Kunyaev (1922-1989), a front-line soldier from Riga, published in the “Day of Poetry” for 1963:

Poems are useless to the stupid and boring.

Through rhyme will not cure their hearts.

Beautiful people love poetry

I do it by personal experience I know.

The rocket scientist sighs over Blok.

And a cheerful polar explorer whispers Pushkin.

And the road to the stars becomes easier.

And the lines, like horses, fly over the fields.

Bagritsky wakes up the swirling girl.

Russia hears Mayakovsky's steps...

Poetry is loved by beautiful people.

Poetry makes the earth beautiful.

Already a position and a manifesto. A biting slap in the face of taste and inertia of the reader's expectations, when "their own" should print "their own". Intentionally non-public, intentionally little-known author, intentionally non-capital. At the same time, with a frank and unambiguous statement of the Divinity of the poetic gift.

It is significant that even the compiler himself made his choice not too easy. So, if in December 2012, in the preface to the first book, he still tries to designate the categories of printing-non-printing, fame-obscurity: "But what should creators do, whom God also did not deprive of talent, but there is no opportunity to be heard by the general public?", then already in the second preface to the collection "Poetry makes the earth beautiful" the tone changes.

Illusions of earthly glory through a certain "printed word" are finally discarded. Exclusive service to the Divine Word and nothing else: “Any real poet is the earthly messenger of the Lord. He receives from God what he is soon obliged to convey in verse to people. Of course, for various reasons, this is not possible for everyone. But the All-Wise Lord first helps the poet himself to know his own soul. And then, with incredible work and with a pious life, he, the poet, increasingly discovers the Divine gift to change the souls and destinies of other people with a word.

In fact, Alexander Rakov perfectly explains his own super-task here. And already in the preface to the first book, Valentina Efimovskaya said keyword"chaos". That same postmodernist word, consecrated by the efforts of the philosopher Gilles Deleuze, who modeled destruction in the name of “creative chaos” both through his work and by suicide itself.

V. Efimovskaya said: “Despite the fact that here we do not find a single word of his authorship, it is impossible to call A. Rakov the author of this book. Because he controls this whole, at first glance, unstable chaotic system, proving one of its laws, namely, plasticity, that is, the ability to maintain the direction of movement regardless of external influences. (…) And what in previous centuries we would have called a chaotic set of names and texts, in the 21st century takes on regular outlines, similar to the growing crown of the eternal tree of human creativity.”

The stylistics from Deleuze, up to tree analogies, are read not at once. But it shouldn't be unambiguously read here! Because in postmodern furs, in the most modern approach to the creative space, Alexander Grigoryevich managed to put an enduring essence.

The postmodern concept of destruction in the name of future construction is contrasted here with creation on the basis of being already destroyed (not by us!) Being. Rakov fundamentally removed its destructive basis from the idea of chaos, leaving the creative, Biblical, Divine. Even in the current external devastation and degradation, helping to find an understanding that if “the earth is formless and empty, and darkness is over the abyss, and the Spirit of God hovered over the water,” then this is not the end, this is a foreshadowing of the future act of creation.

Alexander Rakov returns the concept of chaos to its Divine understanding, clearing it of late intellectual layers. And in the chaos of the anthology's names, not the postmodern intonation of the benefits of chaos suddenly begins to sound, but a more familiar and creative intonation. At least from Valery Bryusov, when the night descends and "brightness sinks in a single, indifferent darkness":

There is nothing, deeds and things

Mixed to fall into the abyss,

And Chaos is ancient, Chaos is prophetic

Hand freezes passion.

Leaving hope for life. For development. For the future. And poetry helps to hear this hope, asking the abyss with a thirst for life, calling on Divine efforts. This, perhaps, lies the charm of the multilingual, eclectic artistic and political anthology of Alexander Grigorievich. And his “chaos” is not a figment of the imagination, not a sophisticated model of a designer, it is a slice of our being skillfully displayed on paper pages.

So here it is - confusing, different, illogical sometimes. Paranormal politicians or philologists. With shivers from genius to banality in an attempt at simplicity. And which is extremely reminiscent of what the first chapter spoke about - "Genesis" - another, more famous book.

Andrey Kanavshchikov

Tamga on the heart

In memory of Enver Zhemlikhanov

I grew up kind, I did not regret affection,
I did not wish evil to any living creature.
Leaned in childhood against a red-hot door -
The left palm is still with tamga.
And the tamga is stronger - from love in the heart,
Because her fire is worse.

Take advantage, Kolya, of our kindness.

As if a fontanel is beating somewhere,
Filling the blue cup...
Yes, it's a cricket
Domesticated our dressing room!
Do not put out the trash among the overalls,
Affirm the healing murmur.
The embodiment of hackneyed Russia,
So you went to the factory workers ...

I don't want to lie like "Truth"!
I will hunch off and throw off my robe -
Let's get even that is.
That's why I'm breaking my back
To save your soul...

Here is what his wife Lilia Rumyantseva, with whom they have been together since 1962, told me in an interview:

“I even think - sometimes Enver was bored when he realized that he received much less from those around him than he could give himself. An interesting fact, but before entering the Literary Institute, he and a friend entered VGIK for the company. Tolik did not pass, but Enver overcame the barriers of both the first round and the second. A friend was about to leave, Enver also left carelessly, leaving a document on the passed tests signed by the famous Cherkasov as a keepsake.

Freedom is given anew.
Appeared - uplifting and crippling.
After all, to be a slave at any time
And easier, and hassle-free, and easier.
But spring reigns supreme in feelings,
And people are getting better every year.
And yet, long live Freedom!
And yet, long live it.

My mother's habit is alive in me,
Not lost in the unforgotten past:
I will speak good words
Someone about something good...
Behind the glass of the house and the tree,
The autumn world is covered with leaves.
And so good words are needed -
Good and only good things.

When there is nothing to remember, those who remember begin to spread semolina on a plate and talk about everything little by little. Already, from the abundance of excellent epithets, it begins to ripple in the eyes, and you don’t know where to get away from the influx of details, the rules of good manners magnified by the microscope.

It happened like that. Some guy comes to our house. He says that he is a folklorist, collects Russian songs, goes from city to city for that. Enver orders: to drink, to feed. We drink, we feed.

And I want to support someone, help, but there is no one to support!

Seeing me peeking through the door with these words, Secretary Galina Nikolaevna laughed:

At least support Andrew.

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