May 24 Joseph Brodsky would have turned 70 years

[Игорь Гурьев]

Going back to the meeting (perhaps it was the spring of 1989 th).
Well, in general, we gathered Natalia Gorbanevskaya.
I bought a case for such an expensive wine (as I remember, it was worth much as a hundred francs, in terms of Sovrem. Will be a Jew because Jews 30; and in France French wines at that price are very expensive).
Here it is:

Вложение 811901

Well, in general, to 20.00 all together, only Brotskava yet.
They waited in a state of certain polunervoznosti another half hour.
Then I say:
-There is a known thing: we must open the bottle, and then called himself will come. In general, we are gathered here to drink and tagdalii, so let's do it, and if the Nobel lureat late, so let him drink what he will.
And just when I opened a bottle, as fellow Nobel laureate rang the doorbell.
I'm not trying to make, so it was.
It is difficult to say just now, what year were "Chateau Maine.
Most likely, 1985 or 1986, but certainly not 1984 (the year was below average). But it is possible that in 1983 ...
I would like to think so, because at that time the 1983rd was my favorite wine a year ...
1982-nd, too, was nothing ...
Ah, but what was the 1985 th!
In general, I think, probably, still Chateau Maine, and was this year.
In short, if anyone would drink Chateau Maine (this is a firm Cordier, that it produces, it produces a more Bordeaux wines, in general good, can not go wrong if you buy), then he can be sure that Comrade Brodsky drank it.

[Самвел]

[SergeiSK]

While it is well known, only one "business project" Joseph Brodsky: since 1987, he was co-owner of restaurant "Russian Samovar" in Manhattan. On the eve of 70 th anniversary of Poet (May 24) The owner of institution told Ogonyok "tastes a poet and why Brodsky had not received their share of profits

"Russian" New York, whose population, according to the most conservative estimates of statisticians, has caught up close to one million, in fact, can be easily divided into two unequal parts. Those who walk in the Russian Samovar, and all the rest.
Restaurant, the first owner who was a poet Joseph Brodsky, dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov and a former art our companion Roman Kaplan, culinary critics have long referred to as the Russian monument in Manhattan, although in the heart of the Big Apple, you can easily find the kitchen a little better, and prices lower. And it is not in the 15 kinds of vodka brand own making. Just "Samovar" was never just a restaurant. Where else would you be able to see Dmitri Hvorostovsky, for example, performing with a glass in hand, "Black Eyes", or accidentally catch the Nobel laureate Derek Walcott, reading at a table in the far corner of the new poems?

- The novel, about the "Samovar" tell the most unbelievable stories. According to one of them, you somehow used Brodsky as a "hack". Allegedly, he wrote in your letter to the journal, which then issued for your signature?

- This letter was in response to an article in the magazine "New Yorker" in which a restaurant called "jack of the Russian mafia." Joseph then wrote the first version of the letter, and then we had a long argument with him, until finally completely disagreed with the arguments of the article's author. Because "Russian Samovar" is indeed a nest of Russian poetic and artistic "Mafia" in New York.
And the letter actually published under my signature. The author then came to apologize, but was not adopted: here with quarrelsome people, we do not communicate.

- By the way, many of those who had to talk, said that Brodsky never liked to socialize with people. Could easily offend his interlocutor, and in general was a man unpredictable.

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- This is complete nonsense. Just very quickly lose interest if a meeting with them, people began to carry a set of conventional platitudes. Imagine every day you fit a dozen people and every one of them begins with the same phrase, "Joseph A., thank you for your creativity. After these words he immediately became interested. In general, he quickly assessed the people all the time repeated that a person "all written in the muzzle", and before they come together or separate, we sniff each other like dogs. Strangers he really did not like.

- But you have been friends for almost 40 years.

- I met in Leningrad, in a flat, where Joseph reading his poems. He was about 19, in my opinion. I then went to graduate school and was considered a great specialist in foreign languages. Translated from English, German, French. At Joseph's was a favorite word "channel". So he often said that "Roma language channel. He often rang me when he needed to know the value of a word. True, my answers are always perceived suddenly. There are, for example, in English the word exit, and 99 percent of people know that it means simply "exit". And he translated it as "the end of the road", the transition to eternity.

- Do any of you had turned to New York?

- We left the Union at the same time, in 1972. I, however, nobody expelled. I just wanted to see what the West.
In general, all foreign countries in our company very attractive. From hand to hand transmitted magazines, "America", which only started to be sold. This, of course, was pure propaganda, but we did not care. Just imagine: a glossy, glossy magazine, and it picture - a man in blue jeans (!), In denim shirt (!) Lies on the hood of their own car (!). And below the signature, this is an American is unemployed, he receives an allowance of $ 300 and is forced to ride on an old car. Since that time the dollar was worth 5 rubles, we multiply and thought that he receives 1,500 rubles. So we all, of course, wanted to be an unemployed American.

- But eventually opened a restaurant in Manhattan?

- No. I first taught at the university in Israel, then worked as a doorman for almost six months in New York. True, my shift lasted from 12 pm to 8 am, so that the open door was almost no one. And then a few years sold the painting in only when the "Russian" Gallery Edward Nahamkina. It has now been exhibited all the famous artists - from mosquitoes to Melamed to Tselkov and Oscar Rabin.

- A restaurant?

- This is my wife wrong. I have always loved to cook and loved to make friends. The gallery is always crowded Nahamkina huge number of artists, but it was closed promptly at 6 pm and all "moved" to me: I lived almost opposite.
And in the midst of talks under the drink came from work my wife and had to clean up after us. This went on for seven years, until she said, "If you so want to take your friends, open a restaurant!" I thought it was not such a bad idea.
Money, as usual, was not, but I caught some huge number of investors and in 1986 opened a "Samovar". A year later, if not Brodsky, I would close it.

- Why?

- I knew nothing about this business. Where? For me it was most important to treat people who come to me, drink with them ... the more it seemed to me, we have chosen a good place: a 52-second Street, near Broadway theaters, the house where he lived, Frank Sinatra. But the theaters were closed, and next to us built a huge apartment building, so that even the restaurant's sign could not see. Partners fled, and I was going to close the institution.
Suddenly, Joseph received the Nobel Prize! So he got some money! I agonized for a long time, but eventually called him. And Joseph was very fond of coming to us and at once he said that he was ready to become co-owner of the restaurant, put the money right now and talk about this idea Mice - he called the Baryshnikov. But since it came Brodsky, and he agreed.
We then decided that it would be the Russian Club. Small, cute, for their. My wife, however, said that once again we burned up, because friends do not pay, but it seems she was wrong. Of course, it was such altruistic act, although it strongly helped the world literature: it was in this restaurant Joseph began to write in English, trying to juggle the language. He tried, for example, rhyme menu "Samovar": Pelmeni for many ("Dumplings for many"), Vinegret - you won't regret ("Vinaigrette - will not be sorry.")

- It is said that Brodsky had come to America without knowing the language.

- It was incredibly difficult. He taught, preparing for lectures. And he needed his incredible ideas to translate into English. I, as a linguist, I understand how hard he worked. Yet its got. I do not know any Russian writer who could capture enough foreign language to write it poetry. Nabokov does not count: after all, in English, he spoke to his childhood.
But Joseph felt very precisely the word. Therefore, by the way, very fond of talking to polublatnoy hair dryer.

- In the sense of love after the reference?

- No. At the hair dryer he always said. He saw it as something real, genuine. Therefore tried so hard to master thieves jargon and therefore in his poetry as often come across criminal phrases.

- But outwardly he gave the impression of a very gentle man.

- In fact, Joseph always knew exactly with whom and how he wants to communicate. Could be very tough with strangers and incredibly generous with his friends. For me at that time $ 200 was a lot of money. And he all the friends who came from the Union, once gave for 1000. And not just to give: he arranged his endless lectures at American universities, acquainted with the publishers and writers.

- But he never wanted to go back?

- No. They are here in a restaurant once talked with Misha Baryshnikov that would be good to return to Leningrad, but incognito! To no one knew. But this was impossible.
He is survived by the love of Leningrad, but stayed and incredible pain when it is shameful the Government would not let him on the funeral of their parents. He gave me once said about government: "They have done without me, but I did without them."
Already in the early 90's here came a man, he was the rector of Leningrad University, and just begged me to call Joseph. Because the next day came Sobchak, and he very much wanted to meet with Brodsky.
They met. Sobchak, had invited him to come, said that he wanted to give some degree of honor. Joseph in response gave him his book, signing it "the mayor of the city madman" ...
Although, I think he still missed. Therefore, and found myself Venice, a place, a little like Leningrad. But Russia did not want to see it and die there, too, would not, though, and wrote about it.

- But Brodsky somehow involved in the affairs of the restaurant?

- No, of course. Aside from the fact that he loved us to eat. Very fond of dumplings, roast goose. He liked to drink vodka is not simple, although in general he could not drink anything. Loved dill, kinzovuyu, hrenovuhu ...

- That is the famous wine in "Samovar" appeared with his participation?

- It's my idea. As owner of the restaurant, I must go to every guest, with someone to talk to someone for a drink. But the infusion began with the fact that I drank three glasses of vodka and the usual drunk. I wrote to my old friend, who has a huge collection of books, and he sent me recipes from home vodkas from the book in 1802 ... They described the 300 infusions. But again did not work, simply because it lacks many of the ingredients. Red and black currants, for example, in America it is difficult to find, kidneys all ... Although, unlike the usual vodka such infusions can be, and ten glasses of drink.

- Brodsky you this support?

- Of course! His childhood had a bad heart, but he never paid any attention to it. He smoked cigarettes, bit off and spit out the filter, for example. He said that it is the way it should. Quit smoking and stayed, I think, three days ...
He, incidentally, sometimes arranged in "Samovar" amazing concerts. Enjoyed singing, but I must admit, did it terribly. But selflessly. Came out to the piano and sang Russian folk songs.
But the main thing that made Joseph for "Samovar" is something that both he and Misha Baryshnikov invited her friends here. I do not know any other places that could boast that it visited Liza Minnelli, Bulat Okudzhava, Barbra Streisand, Vasilii Aksenov, Nicole Kidman, Mstislav Rostropovich, Michel Legrand, Hughes Aleshkovskii, Gerard Depardieu, Bella Akhmadulina, Milos Forman and more Hundreds of the best people. The poet Anatoly Nayman wrote about the restaurant and its guests a whole book "Romancing the samovar."

And the greatest poet of the century - Joseph Brodsky, an ordinary restaurant dedicated his poems. For example, as follows:

Winter! What do we in New York?
It is colder than the moon.
Take a little caviar
And vodka on the fragrant peel ...
Warm ourselves by Kaplan.

Interviewed by Cyril Belianinov, New York.
(Journal Ogonyok »№ 20 (5130) of 24.05.2010)

Added after 5 minutes
A writer, journalist Frida Vigdorova (1915-1965) led a transcript of the two trials over a pot of coffee on 18 February and 13 March 1964. The document received a huge response: its emergence and spread taken to count samizdat. In 1988, the transcript was published in Ogonyok "(N 14)

(...) judge: In general, what is your specialty?

Brodsky: poet, the poet-interpreter.

judge: And who is acknowledged that you're a poet? Who enrolled you in to the poets?

Brodsky: None. (Without the call.) Who enrolled me in the human species?

judge: Did you study this?

Brodsky: What?

judge: To be a poet? Do not try to finish college, where they prepare ... where they teach ...

Brodsky: I do not think ... I do not think that it gives education.

Judge: And what?

Brodsky: I think it ... (Perplexed) ... from God ...

(...) judge: It is better, Brodsky, explained to the court why you are in the intervals between jobs did not work?

Brodsky: I worked. I wrote poetry.

judge: But it did not stop you working.

Brodsky: And I worked. I wrote poetry.

judge: But there are people who work at the factory and write poetry. What did not you do?

Brodsky: But people do not like each other. Even the color of hair, face ...

judge: This is not your discovery. Everybody knows that. A better explain how to interpret your participation in our great onward march to communism?

Brodsky: Construction of communism - is not only working at a lathe and plowing the fields. This intellectual work, which ...

judge: Drop high sentence! The best answer: how do you think to build their career in the future?

Brodsky: I would like to write poetry and translate. But if it is contrary to some social norms, I take a regular job and still going to write poetry.
 
(The magazine Ogonyok »№ 20 (5130) on 24.05.2010)

[Евгений]

I

     "He was so bold, that sought
     know yourself ... "No more and no less
     as himself.
     To achieve this
     elusive goal he first
     armed with a mirror, but after,
     realizing that the main task
     not so much in order to see how much is
     to talk about what he has seen the Dutch,
     He took up etching needle is
     and began to tell.
     About what
     He told us? What he saw?

     

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He found in the mirror face, which
     itself in a sense
     is a mirror.
     Any expression
     person - a reflection of
     what happens to a man in my life.
     A is different:
     doubt,
     confusion, hope, anger laughter -
     How strange to see that the same
     traits are able to express very
     different in nature experience.
     Even stranger than that in the end
     replaced by anger, bitterness, hopes
     and the surprise comes mask
     calmness - a feeling
     like a mirror of all its
     duties wants to give
     and a simple glass, and pass
     and light and darkness, without all sorts of obstacles.

     So he saw his face.
     And concluded that man is capable
     bear any stroke of fate,
     that sorrow or joy in equal measure
     him to face: how elegant clothing
     king. And as the rags of poverty.
     He tried on and found that all
     that he tried, it turned out just right.

        II

     And then he looked around.
     Consider other you have the right
     Only a carefully considered.
     And succession before it went
     apothecaries, soldiers, Pied Piper,
     moneylenders, writers, merchants -
     Holland looked at him
     as in a mirror. And the mirror was able to
     true - and for many centuries -
     Holland and capture what
     one and the same thing together
     all - young and old - a person;
     and the name of this common thing - light.

     No individuals vary, but the light is different:
     Some, like lamps, from the inside
     lit. Others - like
     all that illuminate the lamp.
     And in this - are the differences.
     But he
     Who created this world, while
     (And not without reason) created a shadow.
     And the shadow is not just a state of light,
     but something equivalent, and even
     sometimes superior to him.

     Any facial expression -
     confusion, hope, stupidity, fury
     and even mentioned mask
     calm - not a credit life
     il most muscles of the face, but only
     merit coverage.
     Only these
     Two things - the shadow and light - we make
     in people.

     True?
     Well, put experience:
     zaduyte candles, lower the blinds.
     What stood in the darkness and your face?

        III

     But people think differently. People
     believe that they are about something argue
     deeds are committed, loving, lying,
     even prophesy.
     Meanwhile,
     they just enjoy the light
     and often abused them
     as every thing that has got nothing.
     Some people sometimes obscures light to others.
     Other shade.
     And still others strive to eclipse the world
     his own person - things happen.
     And for the other he suddenly goes dark.

        IV

     And when he goes out for
     whom we love, but for us not to go out
     when you can see only
     those for whom you and watch you do not want
     (Including at myself)

     if you looks to make
     that before was only background
     your portraits and paintings -
     to the ground ...

     The tragedy is over. Actor
     goes away. But the scene - remains
     and begins to live his own life.

     Well, in the form of thankful
     Show with all the passion of the scene.

     You said his monologue. It
     outlive your words, your voice
     and the thunder of applause, and silence,
     so much palpable after
     applause. And then - you
     all survived.

        V

     Well, well,
     You knew it before. This - also
     path in the darkness.
     But there must
     fear of darkness? Because darkness
     just a form of preservation of light
     from unnecessary spending, just a form of sleep,
     likeness of a respite.
     And the artist -
     the artist must see and in the darkness.

     Well, he sees it. Part of the face.
     A wisp of a tissue. Edge of the cart.
     Nape somewhere. Tree. Jug.
     All of this would snovidenya light,
     asleep at the time asleep.

     But sooner or later he will wake up.

1971

BRODSKY (Brodsky), Joseph

May 24, 1940 - January 28, 1996

Joseph Aleksandrovich Brodsky was born May 24, 1940 in Leningrad. Began writing poetry 16 years. It is dated 1957 is one of his famous poem: "Farewell, Forget, do not blame me ...». Anna Akhmatova, he predicted a glorious future and difficult life. In 1964, the Leningrad public cares vigilant against the poet was prosecuted on a charge of parasitism. He was arrested, tried and sentenced to five years of exile in the Arkhangelsk region. In 1965, Brodsky was still allowed to return to Leningrad. In 1966 and 1967 in Leningrad, published 4 of his poems, but most poetic works of Brodsky transferred to the West, where she "Verses and Poems" (1965), "Stop the desert" (1970).

In 1972, he had to emigrate. After Vienna and London, he moved to the United States. She writes poetry, prose, and in two languages, teaches at the university. Russian translations of English Metaphysical poets and the Polish emigre poet Czeslaw Milosz. Becoming one of the central figures in two cultures - American and Russian. His intonations were infectious for the vast majority of modern Russian poets, but a collection of essays "Less than one" was in 1986 recognized as the best book of literary criticism in the U.S..

I. Brodsky awarded the title of professor in the University of Michigan, as well as in College. Smith, King's College, Columbia University in New York and Cambridge University. In 1978, he also becomes a professor of literature and honorary doctorate from Yale University. Since 1979, Brodsky - a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

Poetry of Joseph Brodsky is exceptionally skill, philosophical depth, vivid irony and wit, apt. In the spirit of romantic irony, he opposes the lone man in a hostile world of poetry collections "Stop in the Desert" (1970), "Part of Speech" (1977), "Urania" (1987). Book "End of a beautiful era" (1977), "Roman Elegies" (1982), "New Stanzas to Augusta" (1983), "Notes of fern" (1990), "On the outskirts of Atlantis" (1992).
In 1987, I. Brodsky was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature "for the multi-dimensional creativity, marked by the exigencies of thought and deep poetry. In 1992 he was awarded the title of poet laureate for the U.S..

Brodsky died in the U.S. January 28, 1996, to be buried in Venice.

[Vladimir]

Yesterday, the culture-K showed a documentary about Brodsky - are off-screen interviews with the visuals of the chronicles and photographs. At the end of Brodsky Brodsky asked whether he believed in superstitions. In response: "No, I'm not superstitious, although most trouble I had happened in late January." The conversation ends. And the final credits: "Joseph Brodsky died on January 28, 1996.

[Игорь Гурьев]

Сообщение от Vladimir

"Joseph Brodsky died on January 28, 1996".

Exactly 10 years after the explosion of Challenger. On the same day.

[ранжер]

http://malutka-du.livejournal.com/



Brodsky as a mirror of Russian provincialism

Nerve, essence, core, existence, the quintessence of Brodsky - provincialism. More precisely - the ideology, attitude and outlook of provincialism.

Brodsky - more than a poet. He is the leader and ideologist of the whole trend in modern culture - provincialism.

Actually, the fact that he was born in the provincial city of Leningrad, spoke for himself. And even could not continue.

For cultural Muscovite is impossible to imagine a more provincial town, embodied the whole ideology of provincialism than "Peter".

Leningrad became hopelessly settling the province as lost its status as capital. Deteriorated quickly, did not last a few months.

Brodsky and a team of associates from his generation understood, in what turned out to be a dump. Therefore set ourselves the task of turning their own inferiority and uebischnost in celebration of the Nobel Prize.

Possible.

How?

I had to try.

The team Brodsky beautifully presented, that there is a huge untilled field - endless Sewer-USSR superpower - from Kaliningrad through Kiev, and Asia to Vladivostok. Hated stain that can not be removed, looked Moscow - "capital", where in contrast to the steel oblivion with might and main seething intellectual metaphysical life.

The contradictions between capital (including cultural) life and provincial were glaring, glaring. Especially with regard to modern culture. In general, Peter had no idea who this Mamleev. Anyway anything have no idea.

Brodsky understand that meddling in Moscow, and even more so to win it for the poet to his level - meaningless. The boy from the provinces too tough capital bison. Cultural Space of Moscow densely occupied taken lightly geniuses. From Gubanov Mamleeva, Zvereva, Rabin, Limonov to Gladilina-Aksenova-Yevtushenko. Then - everywhere, in every apartment (basement, attic, in the boiler room, lifterskoy) - for the prophet, and not with the provincial, and with the Capital mentality. Brodsky was aware that he is not Suvorov, to take an impregnable fortress.

For the team Brodsky had no other options, as do the truly titanic work ideologically to seize anything that is not Moscow - simply speaking province, to become a leader in the periphery, to compile and build an absolute ideology of inferiority, and a banner proclaiming himself the leader of the fringe, but - with audacious oriented NOBEL PRIZE.

No sooner said than done.

Brodsky as a born accountant sat down and counted how and what to write and do to become (HAVE THE RIGHT to position themselves) as an ideology, an alternative Moscow avant-garde.

It is clear that Moscow has always been weak on intelligence. Well, what of us "intellectuals". More so - in the 60's - 70's. We were - shamans, accusers, heralds, prophets, holy fools.

Brodsky knew that to win you need only to contrast the capital irrationalism - the strict classical rationalism, dressed in a form of "ritmizirovannoy, zombiruyuschey erudition" - as an endless postmodern play on words, images, concepts, categories and meanings. What a postmodern, non-stop.

People shavaet, because literature teacher from Ryazan, reading Gubanova or Mamleeva not sleep at night. It is therefore appropriate to offer her a smart, full of metaphors, but absolutely distilled to poetry.

Brodsky's brilliant invention was ideal bait for the defective part of intellectuals - who are not read by the forces of "terrible", and prefer to solve "puzzles" and "crossword".

What to invite friends brighten leisure, prepariruya someone unowned dead or at worst, to do group sex with invited homeless people, where the "ethical" and decent play puzzle type of Rubik's cube.

The main thing - absolutely sterile and safe for women and children's psyche and at the same time creates a simulation of mental activity.

Explain the popularity. Today the place is competently Brodsky D. Bykov. It is absolutely equal and consubstantial with him a literary figure of all Hypostases. Is that "his" NOBEL PRIZE got Brodsky. But no one doubts that he will get a million other prizes, which eventually will reduce the balance.

By the way, inexplicable attraction and love for Venice Brodsky explained it was his undying, animals provincialism. By that time, as Brodsky arrived in Venice, the city, like the rest of Europe, has become a hopeless and the province of garbage. A sedimentation "former" city in Europe is impossible to imagine. Naturally, the passion for Venice Brodsky once again proved that he is - a singer and ideologist PROVINCE in the most wretched of its incarnations. In the passion of Brodsky to Venice embodies its complex provincial capitals in panic fearing their violent cultural and artistic life.

Even as I was told, the poet was buried at a dump, which he was immensely pleased to advance.

Brodsky feat that in his work he has compiled and accumulated all the quintessence of provincial thinking, presented in contemporary culture, to justify the existence Provincialism Ideology, has given its highest grandeur and brilliance of intellect, and finally got the idea for his loyalty to the service and the task of the Nobel Prize.

His contemporaries - inhabitants of the capital - NOBEL PRIZE failed - again for reasons of the same poses on all of us political correctness - they say, will be the humanitarian point of genius from the provinces and the capital - as always wait. In Moscow's already all geniuses in sight. Where they go, basking in the glow of fame and success without Nobelevok. More humane will be noted and reward someone "from the slums".

[LCR]

How can you Ranzher?

How can you compare Brodsky with Limonov, capable, certainly, very capable, but so ... In general, little interest Narcissus, with Mamleeva, which I like to call simply graphomaniac?


Brodsky - poet (that's already under whose birth was not without Moose, or even the Muses childbirth certainly present himself Apollo), a poet, which appears in a century a handful. How can we remain indifferent to his stammering verbosity, his high stuttering, his focus and seriousness, his thoroughness, his absolute integrity? His poetry affects me like a drug, it puts me into euphoria.

Incidentally, that same Leningrad gave us not only Brodsky, and Victor Krivulina, Lena Schwarz - not bad for a "hopelessly sucked province.

In Moscow, poetry was different. Poziya in Moscow, wonderful - it Choline Nekrasov, Prigov-Satunovsky, Gena Aigi strolling by itself, and I'm very fond of them, but Brodsky, Brodsky - a whole world ...

I do not want to argue. I only important to say that I agree with you I can not.


 

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Isaac and Abraham (1963)

    MB

     "Come on, Isak. What you get up?" Come on.
     "I'm coming. - A broad branches of wet
     night dives under a thick rain
     how fast the raft - where extinguished cry.

     In Russian Isaac loses sound.
     Neither his shadow, or spirit (the arrow in izlete)
     they do not complain against the letter instead of two
     to empty the mouth (in his last flesh).
     Another is not here - go look-fistula.
     And this also - a drop crumbs, a little.
     Isak general of the candle candles
     that all the first name was Isaac.
     And the sound back is possible - just shouting:
     "Isaac" Isaac! " - This is the right and left:
     "Isaac" Isaac! " - And at the same instant candle
     shake the trunk, and the flames bursting into the sky.

     Quite another thing - Abraham.
     The hills, bushes, enemies, make friends
     in a crowd, cemeteries, the branches, the temple -
     and then all for him to appeal to force -
     response to them will not. Like hearing
     shielded from the brain wall red
     Since then, he has lost the vowel sound
     and the country had changed a consonant sound.
     From the date of loss, he, instead of the hail of arrows,
     in response to them sends a silent throat and brain.
     This is not the candlestick - here the whole bush burned.
     Bunch of twigs. What is a bucket of wax?

     "We go the same Isaac. - "I'm coming."
     "Let's go faster." - But he hesitates to answer.
     "What do you get stuck there?" - "Wait. - "I'm waiting.
     (A candle burns in the darkness of full light).
     "Come on. Do not fall behind." - "Now, I run.
     To the east, clouds creeping silent army.
     "What do you got?" - "The eyes are full of sand."
     "Do not fall behind." - "No, no." - "Go on, do not be afraid".

     In the desert, Isaac and Abraham
     fourth day of walking to an empty space
     Are Going all empty hills
     that churns akin (underneath) test.
     But the sand. A thick sand.
     And there the grass (Touch - obrezhesh finger),
     whose root - if I was - has long been stiffened.
     She wanders with sand, grass-wanderer.
     Its seeds have a pale color.
     And some say - where to take her juice?
     In it, as in the sand, a drop of moisture there.
     The taste of it - akin to forest sedge.
     Around the sand. The hills of sand. Paul.
     The hills of sand. They can not find it, measure it.
     Verneuil - the sea. Down at the bottom of the earth.
     But is hard to believe, hard to believe.
     The hills of sand. The dunes - name them.
     Desert firmament circling above them.
     Abraham walks. Immediately behind him
     Isaac walks in the expanse of the desert.
     Sun sets in the back beating his father.
     Circling the sand. Added the wind speed.
     Hills, hills. And no end of.
     "Son, wood with thee?" - "Here he is, brushwood.
     A wave came and once again goes back.
     How long conversation fell silent at once,
     from the shore subtracting grain of sand, a bridge
     balance of thought - no, balance it.
     But there are shores, only small traces
     two travelers creates similarity with edge
     Coastal sand - only one side is not
     Coastal foam tape - no, even modest.
     No, there are shafts of dark, light, black.
     Here the sea on the right, left, behind, everywhere.
     And these travelers - boats, canoes,
     swallowing water mark, surging boat.
     "A punk, a father, with thee?" - "Here he is, tinder.
     Do not be seen against the light, vaguely some sort ...
     Both of their slopes, back tinder
     through the cloth bundles of clothes dark dark branches.
     But Abraham is also fur
     with a dense wine, and Isaac on the road,
     Wells met, the water took them all.
     What are they now look like the side?
     To the east a cloud obscures the vault of heaven.
     Wind pulls on the peaks, needles.
     Notched front, as if the black forest,
     of Isaac, all the trunks quiet.
     Lumina are extinguished. As if they met
     wild beasts - the back light was closed.
     Now they - vertical - down
     pomchat to the sand, pitch bird wings.
     The forest grows. Nodes up crawling ...
     And travelers are floating like a boat in the sea.
     The dunes at the bottom of the darkness bear.
     A fire would have them here soon.

     I also remember: there is one mountain.
     There is a trail of blooming cherry trees arch
     hanging over her, and pairs of floats in the morning:
     there is a lake in the foot, largo
     wave of rustling and Noise grass.
     The path is empty, there is no trace of a clock.
     It is always only a shadow of leaves
     in autumn - fall leaves themselves.
     Pairs of sneaks away glitters toe,
     bleached trunk gnaw wood mouse,
     and branches that always look in the sand
     leaning closer to him, below.
     As if eager to know what happened here
     trails in the sand with the shadows of their relatives,
     glares, and somehow grow downwards,
     merging on the trail with them forever.
     A bee buzzes, shining lake circle,
     The moon sails among the thin branches of the night,
     shade leaves of two, as the figure 8, suddenly
     in the wild by quickly overthrew the grove.

     Suddenly, Abraham saw a bush.
     The thick branches hung low over.
     Although the horizon, as before, was here empty,
     but this meant: the purpose of their loved ones.
     "This close," - whispered bush
     almost in his face, but Abraham, however,
     did not appear, and stepped into the darkness.
     And sure enough - Isaac did not see the sign.
     He raised his head, looked back,
     which expose them roots thicket gloomy
     sprawling over it - there star
     among them (roots) turned on his light transparent.
     Another. Passing them away
     lumps of "land" for "root" sailed blindly.
     Finally they passed over him.
     The vision of the forest away disappeared from the sky.
     And only now he is in two steps
     said bush (his father sensed envy).
     He dropped the brushwood, and was squeezed in the hands
     colorless leaves, staring into the sand.

     In fact, the bush is like at all.
     In the shadow of the tent, the terrible explosion at the robe,
     on river deltas, on the beam, the wheel -
     but it will have down the axis.
     On hand is similar, similar to the flesh throughout.
     A cursory glance tape veins flash.
     From the people is similar - his whole scatter,
     but he whistled again a number of closes.
     Since palm is similar, similar to hundreds of hands.
     (With all the flesh - not in him only of speech
     but the same height, but the same world around).
     In the spring it around candles, candles.
     "Come quickly." - "Wait. - "Let's go." - "Now".
     "Come on, do not stop" - (under the cap, as under the roof).
     "Come quick," - (hide each eye).
     "Let's go faster. Come on." - "Now". - "I can not hear."
     It is similar to the nest, into the darkness of his nestlings
     waving the green wing, dashing about the world.
     It is similar to the blood - it all ends
     tends to its run (though it no return).
     But the more he is not with the body is similar,
     and is similar to the soul, with all its ways.
     Motion in them, they exactly the same quake.
     Merge them, but that in their passage?
     Merge and again in a hurry before.
     Stopped and they are each other can not.
     Meddling in the night, near the slip.
     Bent joints, curved sheet.
     Is closing and immediately rush back,
     dive into the darkness of space, in nakedness,
     while those who crave away - immediately crackle
     and fall - and here he is, firewood, firewood.
     Once again, the wind rushes over them whistling.
     The rest - in a moment - for the first branch
     lean back, rustling, crackling,
     driven by a coil spring of some.
     All desires of life in this realm of feeling:
     as the appearance of them, with a similar desert bush,
     shakes the wind is not dark bush
     But the life form, all the earth passer.
     Not only the appearance (feelings) - must be the whole
     wide world - a coarse, broad, thin,
     hundred times stronger than (luxurious) - crowded here.
     "Hey, Isaac. What do you got?" We go the same. "
     What? Bush. What? Bush. There are no more roots.
     In its own letter more words, more.
     "K" with a sprig of similar, "Y" - is even stronger.
     Only a "C" and "T in a different kind of world.
     At the branch "K" processes only two
     a branch of "Y" - with just one joint.
     But the lesson: it is time words
     learn to form letters, to the detriment of the compositions.
     "Hey, Isaac!" - "Now, I go. I'm going."
     (Inside a hot steam accumulated.
     He is on the move raised the pitcher mouth,
     but slipped - he fell, crashed).
     Night. Near Abraham Isaac
     walks in the desert in a long dress.
     The moon, and each new step
     glittered like silver in the sandy Zlata.
     Hills, hills. I can not see them end.
     Do not see this anywhere solid objects.
     Everything is vague, like sand, like the shadow of his father.
     Murmur grows in heaven drills.
     It shines the moon turns blue thick horizon.
     The solid shadow, vanished without a trace breeze.
     "Far from us eh, father? - "Oh, no, just eh"
     Without looking, Abraham immediately answered.
     From dune to dune and down again,
     on the sides of hasty groping gaze
     they wander. Bushes prostrated themselves down,
     but all are silent: they go after next.
     But Abraham is clear all the way:
     they came, he digs a shoe pits.
     Rustling grass. Now, go a trifle.
     They themselves are satisfied here overnight.
     "Hey, Isaac. You once again lagged behind. I'm waiting."
     He strained his eyes, that the air reticulate
     He fancied - and now: "I'm coming.
     I thought the bush here is whispering.
     "We go the same." - Abraham added step.
     Moon lit. All the sky in bright stars
     silent on it. Plenty of room ringing in my ears.
     But this is only the air, only the air.
     Sand and darkness. Bushes prostrated prostration.
     All the harder to climb them every time.
     Wander, slopes. Not seen those.
     ... And Abraham threw a bundle to the ground.

     They sit. Between them lit a fire.
     Eyes watering the smoke acrid
     and the sparks fly off in a night scope.
     Isaac Breaks twigs.
     Kneeling, they, leaning forward,
     wants to toss: the flame was fragile.
     But the hand of his father taking:
     "Leave him alone, we need the firewood in the morning.
     Narvi grass. "- Weary Isaac
     rises, moving with difficulty his legs,
     wanders into the dunes where a bottomless darkness
     from all sides and rear of the flame is extinguished.
     Branches broken off think: death
     caught up with them - now it only time
     separate them, not what the flesh and the firmament;
     but here they face a different burden.
     Broken off branches of a dead sleep
     resting here - in the hot sand, bright.
     But they still have to be a fire
     and after that the new flesh - reduced to ashes.
     And only when all the ashes in the dust blot
     avalanche of sand now hordes and sets -
     then they must be really die
     disappeared, sginuv, kanuv, destroyed.
     Death is different and these branches waiting.
     Fallen behind the forest wolf pack
     rushing between nocturnal voids, voids,
     and dart into the darkness branches silence.
     Isaac came back, carrying the grass.
     On the fingers Abraham threw a rag:
     "Give it here. We'll break it.
     And quickly became a chop on the fire heap.
     A little bit lighter. Disappeared from the heart of fear.
     Then fanned the flames suddenly the wind.
     "Why we wood in the morning?" - Isaac
     Then he asked and Abraham answered:
     "Then why do we were here
     (You fall behind, and all hurried after him,
     but as we arrived, misfortune) -
     tomorrow we are here to zaklast lamb.
     Have not seen you an altar there, as he had
     look for the grass? "-" Yes we can see that there?
     There darkness so that I froze from the darkness.
     One of the sand. "-" Well, okay, you want a drink?
     So too, Abraham compresses fur
     his hand, and moisture flowing into the throat;
     Isaac's eyes is look up:
     it is getting stronger hoot, flashing, drill.
     "Enough" - and he was from here the fire
     yet wiped his mouth with a gesture short drunks.
     Already begun to decline warm to sleep.
     He looked up into the darkness - "And where is the lamb?"
     Fire gave vague shine eyes
     he heard the answer (almost cry):
     "In the desert of this ... God himself lamb
     find myself ... Lord, he will provide ... "
     Lit the fire. In the eyes of his father's amber.
     Playing with fire eyes and flame - a glance.
     It shines a star. Nearer sleepy king
     suited to Isaac. Here he is near.
     "There is a long-standing altar. Difficult it
     long time ago ... I do not remember who, but. "
     Hills of sand floating on all sides,
     as before - as if the bush is not signaled.

     Lit the fire. Rather, the smoke toward the star
     through the thickness of ash breaks up stiffly.
     We fell asleep all things. Peace everywhere.
     Not only is sleeping Abraham. But it should be.
     Sleeps Isaac and dreaming like this:
     The silent bush before him, waving branches.
     He wants to touch their hand
     but each sheet before him wildly dancing.
     Who: Bush. What: A bush. There are no more roots.
     In its own letter more words, more.
     "K" with a sprig of similar, "Y" - is even stronger.
     Only a "C" and "T" - in another kind of world.
     Before him all the branches, all the way soul
     merge, each other beat, the crowd.
     In deep sleep, in darkness, in a continuous silence,
     bend, flash, upward striving.
     And before him, needle bush lifted.
     He sees further: where the dim, misty
     that firewood that he brought here,
     fused with a living branch quickly.
     And all the branches of a long, long, long,
     to his face leaves nearer and nearer.
     Earth shines, and lush bush over it
     rises before him in the darkness all the above.
     What "C and" T "- and Bush pierces Khmara.
     What "C and" T "- all branches are broken into dancing.
     But then he realized: "T" - the altar, the altar,
     A "C" is for him as a lamb caught in the cycle.
     So this is what BUSH: K, Y, and C, and T.
     Gusts of wind abruptly branches rely
     all corners, but a meeting of a cross,
     where the letter "T" all five, one will replace.
     Not only the "C" will have to sleep there,
     not only the "Y" to share after dreams.
     Only the upper limit is down to slide,
     not the letter "T" - and immediately CREST before us.
     And branches, he sees, long, long.
     And so they did a hast taken.
     Earth shines - and it floats above it.
     Burning Star ...
         In fact - given
     Dawn had already painted in yellow
     and Abraham, he linked the body,
     he suffered there, which implies
     trampled was here, where the flame smoldered.
     All the firewood had been there long ago demolished,
     and Isaac, he is a couch
     folded now - and all the way into sleep
     but how little was in reality similar.
     He returned, put hair in a fire.
     That broke, flinging his hand warmly,
     and immediately swam around the stench;
     Abraham and his knife with a short sting
     got (almost there, where sleep
     That knife that he cut the bread in the house ...)
     "Well, it's time" - he said and looked:
     on what are now his hands?
     In one - a dagger in the other - my own flesh.
     "Now the compound ..." - And then froze
     just muttering: "Save me, Lord." -
     Due to the dune quickly left angel.

     "Rather, Abraham, - he said,
     and the body of Abraham immediately sweaty
     suddenly become, he opened his palm,
     the knife fell to the ground, quickly raised an angel.
     "Rather, Abraham. End of everything.
     The end of everything, and the sky is encouraging
     you dare - while you're the victim's father.
     Well, with this all. Now let us go back.
     Come to where all are sad.
     Let them they shall see that there is no evil in the world.
     Come to where the river all shine
     how is your dagger, but the flesh is a draw not hurt.
     Come to where waiting for your herd
     grasses other than that, that here, where dreams
     thy tent that day, when the number of
     your children with the number of sand compared.
     I also remember: there is one mountain.
     At its foot is a stream, glade.
     From there, steam creeping up in the morning.
     Always roaring on a hillside grove of zeal.
     Below the grass from the bed of noisy drinkers.
     Comes the wind - quickly bends wood.
     Its leaves are rotting in the damp earth,
     then spring back up again.
     At the stands at the leaves of similarities here. "
     Years will go by - they do not change their form.
     Are the trunks, among them bushes grow.
     Vast clouds at the top rushing suite.
     And multitudes of stars shining in the darkness of nights
     firmament cover part, densely.
     In the thick grass rustles wave stream
     and the steam rising in the night shape of the channel.
     Come to where the bushes are silent.
     Where there is no dry branches, where the birds platted
     nest of grasses. A branch that protruded
     sometimes at stake - so that the bushes, alive.
     Your brain is now like a cloud, obscures darkness.
     Open your eyes - there is no death in sight.
     Here, every bush - look - stands as a sign
     strivings up among the plains of the desert.
     Open your eyes: the heavenly bush in bloom.
     Look at it: He waits for you answer.
     The answer, Abraham, his list -
     The answer to me - we go. "wind rose.
     "Let's go, Abraham, in your country
     where flesh and spirit with people - people native,
     where everything that exists, lives in a captive
     where everything is a hundred times will change the name.
     They no longer will be, but the higher the darkness
     from their shadows, their hands, feet shortly.
     But every word is a sign
     which is again on the first sense will tell.
     Shrubs surround them, devour step
     grass fields and woods in the home blues
     a glimpse of how Abraham, Isaac.
     Come away. Now the storm subsides.
     Rather, Abraham is tested you.
     I took a knife - you really do not need it.
     The cold light of dawn flooded bushes.
     We must have, Isaac almost awakened.
     Rather, Abraham. Tested. Everything.
     The end of everything. All clear. Finish. Point.
     Rather, Abraham. Uncover your face.
     Enough. Now everything is clear for sure. "

     Are the tents, and the darkness of sheep everywhere.
     These clouds here - they can not find it. In addition,
     They gathered here, as clouds those
     that reflected right there in a pool.
     Smoke from the fires, fly hundreds of birds.
     Dogs fight each other, the bones in the boilers of plenty.
     Dripping sweat from the hot red faces.
     On all sides rushes loud conversation.
     On the slopes of the sheep. Beside the shadows behind the clouds.
     They creep forward: the sun had risen.
     Overthrown streams with brilliant steeps.
     Camels are there in the shadows are tired.
     Rustle bonfires, fly thousand and flies.
     In the crowd of sheep wasp buzzing incoherently.
     Taps ax. From the mountain looks a shepherd:
     tents are in the valley, like a stain.
     Through the crack of the entrance is visible clod.
     Outside the crack visible hands of women.
     Dust and light seeping into every corner.
     Everything here is full of gaps, gaps and cracks.
     Nobody knows the cracks as a board
     (Of any species - from the most durable, best, -
     let her thick, long, narrow),
     when the disorder begins between the branches.
     In the dry board usually cracks darkness.
     But it's nothing that is outside.
     But inside - resin mad,
     inside the case is much worse.
     The resin is dried up, became all the steam,
     left out. At the same time, place,
     abandoned her, creeping mowing -
     far - only one he knows.
     Stabbing (incision just Mademoiselle deep)
     and feel that he's in someone's power.
     Facilities his hard pulls to one side
     and suddenly shooting up into two parts.
     And if it succeeds in the same darkness
     and twigs to hide, then poor knife involuntarily
     until now always been a straight
     suddenly and quickly begins to cut the waves.
     All cracks inside is akin to the bush
     weave, jostle, drowning in disputes
     One of them is always repeating: "grow"
     resin debris and dust in dark pores.
     From the outside it seemed snow hidden.
     One Or Two - blackened, as though the window.
     However, the "entrance" in this house with a "wall" is fused.
     Drifting snow was piled up twigs, fibers.
     Hidden from the eyes and firmly locked entrance.
     But the knife is always (inside, underneath, over it)
     remain a servant of two masters:
     palm and board '- and who is stronger ...
     Not to mention that too, "in whose eyes.
     Dusts light, streaming through a crack in it.
     Where are the camels, Isaac
     with some stranger carries on a conversation.
     Smoke from the fires, fly hundreds of birds.
     Shouts sheep, buzzing wasp indistinctly.
     Flowing steam with the hot red faces.
     Tents are in the valley, like a stain.
     Wander herd. Sticking out of the grave house.
     Purls the stream, a wave of grass sways.
     He started: in the air empty
     He hears his own name again.
     He gazes into the distance: the tents in front of him lay,
     are people from the east cloud goes.
     Around the fires, as in dance, dogs, circling,
     rustle the bushes, and now he sees bump.
     It is his wife, for her tents, field.
     In her hand - green fig branch.
     She waved to her and calling king:
     "We go the same Isaac. - "Come on, Rebekah.

     "Come on, Isak. What you get up?" Come on.
     "I'm coming", the answer among the branches of wet
     night dives under a thick rain
     how fast raft - where goes the shout.
     "Isaac, do not fall behind." - "No, no, I'm coming".
     (Birch shows strength and durability.)
     "Isak, you remember the house? - "Yes, yes, I find."
     'Well, we went. Do not fall behind. " - "Do not be afraid."
     "Come on, Isak. - "Wait. - "Let's go." - "Now".
     "Come on, do not stop" - (under the cap, as under the roof).
     "Come quick," - (hide each eye).
     "Let's go faster. Come." - "Now". - "I can not hear."

     In Russian Isaac loses sound.
     On the other hand gets a lot of qualities,
     that for "the letter instead of two"
     pay three times, in letters hiding.
     In Russian "I" - just a simple union
     that the number of actions in a speech multiplies
     (Like in mathematics at the plus)
     However, he does not know who they are folded.
     (But the amount we are not put into the mouth.
     To do this: the world no sound).
     What does "C", we know from the bushes:
     "C" - is a victim, bound tightly.
     A letter "A" - among those old letters,
     Union, that between the words was sound separately.
     Essentially the same - it is a terrible cry,
     infant, unfortunate, howling death.
     And if to double, to build: AAA,
     add to consolidate these sounds
     which should divide the word
     then the sum would be a terrible cry of flour:
     "Flames enveloped all the joints" K "
     and the lone "A" tends directly.
     But nobody lifts a knife arm
     order to finish the meal, there is no near Abram.
     Paul behalf of another in the mouth sticks.
     The other half of the flame hides.

     And again the victim on fire Shouts:
     That's what "Isaac" means in Russian.

     The rain drums on the branches, knocking
     seemed beyond the fence someone cries
     invisible. "Hey, you there?" - All is silent.

     "Come on, Isak. - "Wait. - "Let's go." - "Now".
     "Come on, do not stop." Doldonit rain on the roof.
     "Come quick!" That's him every time.
     Come quick! Let's go. "-" Now. "-" I can not hear. "

     Rain falls continuously. Down Water
     rushes through the trunks, washing away the soot.
     The very leaves of spring, as always,
     much more sun than they should be
     In June the leaves - summer here we see
     doubly - even all the grass paler summer.
     But where the shadow of foliage hanging over her
     she's no longer yield to that of the latter.
     In the shadow of barrels more clearly see the ground,
     symbol on it that in the bright light of the weak.
     Silent train sped through the field,
     inclined at first to the rails on the right,
     and then - left - morning, night by day,
     white smoke clouds rubbing against the ground -
     and it seems suddenly to those who disappeared in it,
     that it flies endlessly through the figure 8.
     He cuts - on the axis - it crowns
     that the villages, fields, fences, gullies filled.
     On both sides - from the rail - all parts
     slashed to the sky rushing waves.
     Through the figure 8 - the wings of a windmill,
     through the blades of steel screws in heaven,
     He rushes forward - it is a hand
     and a bundle of rays gliding in the rays of the surroundings.
     The same sheaf hidden away inside him
     but with some passion, passion greedy,
     Spotlight engulfed in a dead sleep:
     as a sheaf of wiring, it is linked back wall.
     Flying the composition, in the darkness can not see people.
     But the hills - the hills around are not imaginary,
     and waves from the path up and down
     rush, as the rays from the lamps plains.
     Rain lashed continually Everything glitters.
     The veil a doorway, window mowing,
     toppling down the chute, whistling.
     Wet the corners of the house elevate.
     The candle burns all in one window.
     A cold rain on a thin frame.
     As if under water, at the very bottom
     trembles in the darkness and the burning flame.
     It burns, though all to the fact that the light
     quench would be here, to become invisible, incorporeal.
     Here in the darkness anywhere passers no
     brick wall is silent in the opposite wall.
     The yard is locked, the janitor started drinking the night is empty.
     Swings rain locking steel.
     The candle is burning, and visible edge of the sheet.
     Bolts, like water, fire obstali.
     Catches the wave, the deep gloom of the latch
     at the bottom - the keys - a jellyfish in the dimensional chorus
     sing hooks, latches, chains, bolts:
     all this - only the sea, only the sea.
     And yet it seeks its light into darkness,
     appeal to you (through the rain, brick, through the board).
     To yourself eh? - Oh, no, continuous call for
     that it burns. It must be, to wax, to wax.
     Wooden fence. Three Castle in the doorway.
     There are no cracks. Hence the key is not removed.
     From all sides reigns bottomless darkness.
     Open the window - and immediately the wave will swing.
     Zasov thunders and access to it is closed.
     (Hand locking in impotent rage stisni.)
     And still it burns, burns.
     But devour something more than life.
     Came the fox, his eyes shining in the window.
     Before her glass, as the wave dampens glare.
     She looks - a candle burning on the bottom
     and the long shadows of the wall colors.
     Came the fox, looking over his shoulder.
     A little bit of whistling, and something could hear the whistle
     similar words. Here, the candle burns.
     The candlestick is decorated with bees, leaves.
     Everywhere bees, wings, dust, flowers,
     and in the heart of copper that the landscape
     shopping to eat, and there are fruits,
     which are less striking, even
     seeds from pears. - But the language itself candles
     forgetting that you can call salvation,
     trembles at her and waits for the end of the night,
     as a summer sheet in an empty forest autumn.

[Игорь Гурьев]

Сообщение от LCR

How can you Ranzher?

How can you compare with Brodsky

What is taboo?

In my opinion, an excellent text.


And, in my opinion, there is an excellent text Limonov about Brotskava "poet-dogmatist" and tagzhe text Limonov about My favorite poet Anna Akhmatova, where he compares its vocabulary with a dictionary Ellochka-ogress.

Wonderful lyrics!

Another recommend texts Limonov about Galic (if someone did not read).

And the other texts Limonov - strongly not recommended!

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And if anyone thinks about art must have a unified opinion, he (tsenzored) ... wrong.


In art criticism, and above all - honesty, rather than unanimity.

[Евгений]

Сообщение от LCR

but Brodsky, Brodsky - a whole world ...

Liana, you are as always right, and to argue the point? Time has placed all the places and St. Petersburg "provincial" and Moscow "grave geniuses" .. where are they? Brodsky and where ...

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    They tell me what to leave.
     Yes. Thank you. I'm going.
     Yes. I understand. See
     should not be. Yes, I do not get lost.

     Oh, what you say - a long journey.
     Any nearest stop.
     Oh, no, do not worry. Somehow.
     I'm traveling light. No luggage.

     Yes. It's time to go. Thank you.
     Yes. It's time. And everyone understands.
     Bleak winter dawn
     over the birthplace of the trees raised.

     All over. I will not argue.
     Hands to shake - and goodbye.
     I recovered. It is necessary to leave.
     Yes. Thank you for the parting.

     Take me to home, taxi.
     As if I forget to address.
     In a stopped field Bring me.
     I, you know, with the motherland eliminated.

     As if I forgot to address:
     to the window sweating priniknu
     and over the river, which he loved,
     I will pay the boatman and hollered.

     (It's all over. Now I'm in no hurry.
     Off you go back quietly, for God's sake.
     I'll look into the sky and breathe
     the cold wind of another bank.)

     Well, that's a welcome move.
     Katie ago, not feeling sad.
     When you come back home to the entrance,
     I have a gently sloping shore moorings.