In memory of Tatyana. Tatyana Glushkova. Sofia of Kyiv Tatyana Glushkova a difficult path to the big people
Tatiana GLUSHKOVA
winter birds
Poems.
Foreword by Anna KOZYREVA.
From the Editor: Tatyana Mikhailovna Glushkova was born on December 22, 1939 in Kyiv, graduated in 1965 from the Literary Institute. A.M. Gorky, published several books of poetry, published a lot in periodicals. She died April 22, 2001. Today's publication is dedicated to the anniversary of Tatyana Mikhailovna.
Anna KOZYREVA
Tatyana, Russian soul...
The opening poems of the "Music for Christmas" cycle, dedicated to the brilliant Russian composer Georgy Sviridov, were written by Tatyana Glushkova during his lifetime. On January 9, 1998, a few days after his death, she wrote: “Those great sacrifices that Russia makes, will they turn into a font of purification, will they nourish a new, unborn strength? May the seed cherish, from which the powerful anthem of the resurrected Russia will sprout with the sound of the sun! And in his bell "Glory! .." will be woven into the magnificence of Georgy Sviridov.
And the whole cycle "Music for Christmas time" will become not just a quick response to the death of Sviridov, but a kind of funeral wreath-offering. Moreover, in the verses, each line of which is literally voiced by brilliant music, there is no despair. There is a quiet sadness and sorrow for the departed, there is also sorrow for his death, but there is no despair, because for an Orthodox person there is no death itself - life is eternal, and this eternity was given to us by the Lord Jesus Christ Himself. “After all, really, there is no longer a reason / to languish in the valley shores ... / And you, soul, from your father’s clay / fly, fly, leaving the dust.”
In historical reality, January linked three Russian names - Alexander Pushkin, Georgy Sviridov and Tatyana Glushkova. Already in the poem "Evenings of Russian Music", where "Sviridov's blizzards are circling", the image of the poet appears: "And the stars themselves carol, / and ribbons of voices curl, / and the muses kiss you on the forehead, / a speller of letters, a day laborer of words."
Pushkin's "Snowstorm" and Sviridov's music have long been something unified and inseparable for us, and Pushkin's "Tatyana - Russian in Soul" is just as inseparable from Glushkova herself. Born in December, she was consciously named by her parents Tatyana in honor of the Pushkin heroine, which, however, did not contradict the calendar. January Tatyana's day is also her day. And the main thing is not only in the coincidence of names, but in the fact that "Russian soul." Her involvement in Russian history, the problems of modern times were so tangible and real for her that in the words that sounded in the poem “Belovezhya Hour”: “When my Motherland was gone, / then I knocked on the gates of hell: / take me! .. But only / my country would rise up out of its weakness, ”the pain and sorrow were reflected not only for her alone, but for the majority of people who suddenly lost their Fatherland. She also had her own word "to the slanderers of Russia" - biting, merciless, irreconcilable.
In her youth, Tatyana Glushkova worked for several years in Mikhailovsky. Many beautiful poems about places associated with the great Russian poet were born there. “The poet’s house is clean and clear, / a lot of light, singing feathers, / each book is proud / of a magnificent title page ... And such slopes / outside the window, such distances ... / The ruddy snow is silvering / and dusting with cherry blossoms ...” Pushkin was with her all his life. She wrote a lot of rather deep and original literary works dedicated to the work of her beloved poet. In one of her latest publications on the pages of The Moscow Pushkinist (a scientific publication of the Pushkin Commission of the IMLI), Tatyana Mikhailovna quotes the words of the Russian philosopher Konstantin Leontiev: “Harmony - or the beautiful and lofty in life itself - is not the fruit of eternally peaceful solidarity, but is only an image or a reflection of the complex and poetic process of life, in which there is a place for everything: both antagonism and solidarity. It was in this harmony that her whole life passed.
--
winter birds
I
We are silent. We mourn. Orphaned.
Or maybe she's dead
that Death to the music of a blizzard
on Christmas Eve?
After all, even disheveled birds
left her shoulders
to get into the notes
pages,
screaming, guttural bubbling,
But suddenly brighter, turning pink,
so that, dropping the black feather,
weave into the tunes of the snowman,
tunes of heavenly silver ...
And wax affectionate Christmas Eve,
like honey from the sun, it smelled.
And whispers spruce branches, whispers
spruce forest:
“What was - dust, lay down in dust;
But what is spirit is irresistible:
yourself fresh, yourself free,
flies - pray tirelessly
about my dear motherland!”
Ninth day
Also, my spruce is fresh:
lit for the sake of the new year.
But the Soul of Music is crying,
soul abandoned by the flesh.
Also Pushkin's shadow
sharp, fast in the hall of columns.
But the candles on the piano go out,
and the ninth day is full of darkness.
More dragonflies will flash
in the golden hair of a winged harp,
and strings will shed honey,
like myrrh from the palms of Martha.
And the flute, distinct and there,
where the South Slavs huddled,
still blaring through the forests,
shepherds in the sunny fog.
Still humming Green Noise
wide festive cantata, -
and we are full of anxious thoughts
and secret timidity embraced.
Like a ghostly canopy
We see blindly, we sense drowsily...
That blizzard white lilac
brow chills us with a kiss.
That enemy network - il cover
prostrate prayerfully
above us?..
And a blizzard of a handful of pearls
throws into the deadly flame.
“Everything is darkness and whirlwind,” we say,
Yes, there are no relatives of her font,
in it - the brilliance of gray hair,
blooms smoke,
iron clang and shot drops;
But lie down at the cross,
flutters like a cloud at its feet,
pure swan thought,
as comforting as the word of God.
And, rustling with a coniferous branch,
she's up to the mountain
exalt you, soul:
to the Father - from the father's threshold! ..
Under Candlemas - forties
I
Now let go...
Candlemas Day, you are the day of parting!
Farewell call... Greeting call...
How greedily old hands
extended tired Simeon!
How tenderly he will receive
baby,
how tremulously he will enter the temple! ..
Snow white towels
around the icon in the corners.
After all, really, there is no longer a reason
to languish in the valley shores ...
And you, soul, from father's clay
fly, fly, leaving the ashes.
Weeping for the dust that was
beautiful -
your earthly homeland,
where is the bare bush of red ashberry -
sees a distressed sparrow.
Where are the hymns to the Russian expanse
blizzard bows sing;
where vsklen is full of happy
pain
soul free from bondage.
Where is the blue Lukomorye
eclipsed the sight of reality and near;
where by the will of the sun
on the hill
winter seedlings rose.
Where the willows turned dark at once
and dream of the Entrance to Jerusalem...
Where timidly on Holy Week,
Bypass me, cup ... "we repeat.
And we call Candlemas - Tomb.
And behold - a loud candle
among the frosty stars
golden,
like a summer afternoon, hot.
And se - kutya remembrance
from red, stone wheats.
Spruce branches wave...
A barely audible exclamation of the floorboards...
And, like a tombstone of sorrow,
like sadness itself,
black notes on the piano,
like black ice, the piano shines.
Meeting Day!..
Orphaned yesterday...
But how bright
valley of tears, abode of singing,
where for forty days a blizzard of chalk;
Where mournfully in the white-barreled hall
a frozen bush bent down;
where all over the earth we whispered
by Music Magpie.
Posted by Valentina Malmi
After graduating from the Maxim Gorky Literary Institute, presenting her thesis for judgment - a cycle of poems “Sophia of Kyiv”, she wrote: “I was born in Kyiv. And now I return to this city as to a person once beloved, forever unforgettable. And when I drive out from under the wing of the plane onto the highway and touch the echoing flooring of the bridge over the Dnieper, I see green clumps of trees covering the mountain, and above the water, above the mountain, above the dark greenery, the dome of Sofia is circling in the color of young gold. Even the war spared her. Everyone here knows her. And they don't notice. But if she were suddenly gone, the city would be empty. Schoolchildren-toddlers who begin to study their native history are brought here. We were also taken here, third-graders of 1949, in staple uniform dresses, worn-out sandals, with pale bows in our hair. We were led to the marble tomb of Yaroslav, and I touched with my finger the cold heavy lid, carved with fish and letters, and I really wanted to see if it was true that the lame bones of the immemorial prince lay there. "Peaceful. Wise,” the teacher said ... But I did not look at the walls. Glowing with dim crowns, they went to a thirty-meter height, and only then I realized that the stones are the memory of people who touched the stone with their hands, put their minds to them, embodied in it love, sorrow, rebellion. And then the word "ancestors" I began to understand as - "fathers". Centuries have shifted, and even the most distant ones have ceased to be an abyss behind us.
However, the head of the seminar, Ilya Selvinsky, refused to defend his diploma to his recent student, and only six months later she had a defense, and “excellently”. She was supported by the remarkable Russian poet Sergei Narovchatov, who noted that the poems “are diverse in content, but they are interconnected by that feeling that we dryly call the Russian theme. Tatyana Glushkova is really national in her work, without mute swagger and unnecessary polemicalness.
In 1971, the publishing house " Soviet writer» came out first poetry book Tatyana Glushkova "White Street". After the release of the book of the young poetess, Pavel Antokolsky, in particular, wrote about the Kyiv Sophia cycle in the review “Own Way”, published in Literary Russia: “If our contemporary with such courage draws the prince of the 11th century, the author of Russkaya Pravda, it means that she probably has the gift of being transported into the past, is well acquainted with its realities. And indeed, she knows for certain that the prince's room "smelled of spruce forest and the forest rustled letters." She sees that "large birds are sitting in the upper reaches of the letters." But the main thing is in the very first stanza: "... And glory is both light and fleeting, and battles are only death and only dust." Thus, the position of the poet in his view of history is clarified: the defense of its driving and building forces.
SOFIA OF Kyiv
while the dawn climbs steeper,
while in a circle, a slow circle
a cold star sails south -
I warm my hand with white dust.
I will listen to the stone tonight
keeping the heat of Tatar tart blood,
untouched, not moved by anyone,
in a language as dark as a prayer
he will reveal buried verses to me.
I.PETROVSKY ENTRANCE
The arch echoes
triumphal arch,
full of blue blue.
Day Poltava, far, far, -
young times.
And with young eyes
blindingly shining,
jumping, jumping -
in glory, in smoke,
happy king
in the roll call of the night.
The prince's son put his laughter at the bottom of the jug,
surrendering to the game.
Shebet at the bottom of the jug was brought by a summer bird,
fumbling under the roof.
to the rough threshold.
W. FRESCO
Here is a bright, high candle -
unquenchable Queen Anne.
Already nine hundred years dead
regina Anna,
Yaroslavna.
All in a smooth, majestic gesture,
in dawn, quivering rays,
like an enchanted woman
on gilding, in domes,
she walks in an old dance,
and the step is inaudible, the gaze is deep
under the melting, sliding gloss,
and in the fingers of the snow chill.
And some of those who looked sternly
lost in misty darkness,
and some of those who sought God
in the midday, foreign land,
trembling dry lips,
frozen from silence,
gave her a solemn name,
mean name in three lines.
And sigh - Ora,
and your cry - Ora,
and your light is Ora.
And the ancient city
high mountain,
all in black cherries,
all in white
and wild and bright.
And her eyes
from brown tears.
And her mouth
from quiet words.
And she has a forehead
from white wings
from mournful wings,
spacious wings.
And her eyes...
And her mouth...
And she is sad.
And there, in the steppe,
drank to the bottom
all youth
short
engaged
with little.
From white dust
White horse.
In a feather grass wave
high fire.
Scarf blue
cover the threshold.
to another son
give me the cross of roads.
And your breath - Ora,
and your light is Ora,
and the word - Ora.
And a handful of earth
bunch of grass,
SIP of water.
Green leaf,
and the whistle of the wind
and bird noise
and princely temple
and father's house
and blue all around.
Oranta, Oranta! -
To come out oratay
for joy
free, Oranta!
V. AMBASSADORS
Sofia is surprisingly calm.
Well, is it surprising
sly, thoughtful people,
that entered the Golden Gate,
in which the East opens?
And now - turn left,
approach at a leisurely pace,
feigning great indifference
on a waywardly upraised face,
to a frozen building in the distance…
As if never worship
there were no fights, and there was no sadness -
concern for the salvation of the soul!
Here the earthly power expresses its will,
earthly good inspires speech,
earthly goals careful mind
on ruts swiftly attract.
VI. YAROSLAV
O my ancestor, poet, bibliophile!
Of all deeds, only books are eternal,
and glory is both light and fleeting,
and battles are only death and only dust.
It was the hour of the night and lonely and cheerful,
Silence was made up of the best words,
and the upper room smelled of spruce forest,
and letters rustled in the forest.
Your princely face is now not princely at all,
and in names, simple names.
You will again cry and oblige
for a long work someone else's antiquity.
Overseas, cherished pages!
This nonsense is based on magic.
Large birds sit in the upper reaches of the letters,
In the plexus of letters - a clue and an answer.
VP. DAUGHTERS
To the West - slowly, anxiously
(where there is neither light nor winter)
as if on an off-road journey,
to the cordon of Kiev land
the three youths of the prince are sailing ....
domineering hand
gave blind pearls.
Sleepless, salty, in vain
tall grasses withered smell
they breathed until dawn.
With such white shoulders
with the nights frozen in my eyes,
to an evil wedding song
(how unhappy their peace is now!)
three brides sail from the temple
unknown
infidels
kings crowned by God...
To the West... Slowly - to the West...
And only a glance mows - back!
VSh.
How black is the Dnieper in the night weather!
How faithful to the sea!
You don't believe
into a wave of anxiety.
There is no fear here.
On a wet day
and lime drunken night
hid the bright thrill of the day
and sunny slanting handwriting,
and good fish
deep in the desert
through a dream he sings about a blue bell.
IX. PAINTER
He was both Russian, and barefoot, and simple.
He could year and year
touching the dome with hands,
hang like a bird.
he laid the last stone.
Flickering colors foggy,
forgetting the space
with heaven
having a hundred-color conversation,
fell down...
His fate
scattered over stone.
X. A SON
How to reconcile the enmity of the torn world,
habitual human disunity,
so that the heads of the majestic Byzantium
recognized the proud majesty of the temple,
what is in Kyiv, built by the father?
There is no solution ... Oh, really
eyes then only to command,
hand then to cut the elastic air?
So the duty dictates... And it is better to build temples.
And much better - turquoise paint
drive along a damp, damp wall ...
And the sisters?.. It is simpler, but also more bitter for the sisters.
Their beauty commands the kingdom,
beauty is not given to them for love ...
And here comes the contradiction again.
rivers and banks, trunk and forests,
nature and whims ... And it's hard, it's hard
comprehend this to the young man who looks
anxious eye from the checked wall,
big anxious eye, with distrust.
XI. Buffoons
Funny, sad, for laughs
you are created and called to my house.
Your hour, fun, your turn, fun,
roll in a colored wild wheel!
At night, no one will notice the replacement,
the dawn is far, but the dream is still deep,
the god of fun will replace the miserly god,
God is a generous, unreasonable God.
And you, craftsman, watch the movement,
do not drive thoughtfulness from your face,
capture in confusion and whirl
jester's cap, sage's bell...
in drunken lies, in hidden trouble.
Dashing dancer, lucky impostor,
no fun, no fun for you!
And you start your draw from the beginning,
until the blind man breaks the strings...
Everything flowed up to the mustache - it didn’t get into the mouth,
into a cheerful, parched mouth.
XP. THE PARABLE OF THE FIVE BREAD
The verb of art is proud and unchangeable.
What a difference in the meanings of similar words!
Let it be glorious, it will be all the time
gift of multiplied loaves.
But then the sedate Bogomaz appeared,
took thick brushes in white hands,
and a kind face, and a timid wall face
smeared with obsequious paint.
And he went out and swallowed the wasteland
him, his children, his fathers,
but there was an arrogant art with him -
the sacrilege of the multiplication of loaves.
It kept itself from resentment,
Didn't lower her round head
and became severely poisonous
clear green grass petal.
But again, hands - carefully and sensitively
wash away nausea, oily cover
and still unravel the miracle,
the holy miracle of the generosity of bread.
The publication was prepared by Valentina Malmi.
Tatyana Mikhailovna Glushkova was born in 1939 in Kyiv. Her parents were physicists-radiologists, and immediately after the start of the war, their institute was hastily evacuated, and little Tanya and her grandmother remained under the Germans and survived the occupation in a Ukrainian village. Only in May 1945 did the family return to Kyiv, but Tanya's parents did not live long, since the work of a radiologist at that time was inevitably associated with radiation sickness. At 13, she was orphaned.
Tanya will remember the post-war dilapidated Kyiv for the rest of her life, and, having become a poet, she will invariably return in verse to those pictures imprinted in the children's minds. And at the end of his life he will write a wonderful book of memoirs about that time and the impressions of his childhood.
At the age of 20, she entered the Literary Institute and permanently moved to Moscow. After graduation, she worked as a tour guide in Mikhailovsky. And since then, love for Pushkin, a huge craving for his spiritual heritage will lead Tatyana Glushkova through life until the end of her days. Her creative credo will find a concentrated expression in the insightful thought that in Russian art and more broadly - in all Russian culture of the 19th and subsequent centuries there is only one highest tradition that unites all - Pushkin's.
Tatyana Mikhailovna died in 2001 from a long, chronic illness. She was buried at the Peredelkino cemetery.
In 1983, when we met Tatyana Glushkova, she lived on the outskirts of Moscow, on Lavochkina Street, near the Vodny Stadion metro station. She occupied a small one-room apartment at the very top of a nine-story block building. In the summer, the roof of the nine-story building was heated from the sun, and the apartment was terribly hot.
With the help of the leadership of the Moscow Writers' Organization, Tatyana obtained a warrant for another apartment - in a writer's house in Astrakhansky Lane. She was very happy about this and was preparing to move. But there was a serious hitch. The fact was that the apartment in Astrakhansky Lane belonged to the poet Vladimir Sokolov, who, having become a laureate of the State. award, was to move to an even more prestigious nomenklatura house in Lavrushinsky Lane, in the center of Moscow. And he was in no hurry to move there, because he and his wife Marianna started some fabulous repairs there. But another writer was supposed to move into Glushkova's apartment, who had no housing at all in Moscow and lived with acquaintances. He also had a warrant in hand, and he called Tatyana a day later demanding to vacate the premises.
A month passed, the second, and V. Sokolov still did not move. More precisely, the adult Jewish children of Marianna from her first marriage did not move, and they lived in this same Sokolovskaya apartment in Astrakhansky Lane. Sokolov himself lived in another apartment owned by his wife Marianne.
Tatyana found herself between two fires. They drove her from one place, and did not let her into another. In the end, her patience snapped, and we came with her to Sokolov's house, inviting the district inspector with us. Only because of the presence of the policeman they opened the door for us. They didn't let us go further than the hallway. The policeman tried to explain to the spouses that, according to the law, after receiving the warrant, the apartment must be vacated within a month. V. Sokolov, frowning, was silent. But then Marianne stepped forward and, cursing obscenely, declared: “How dare you tell us! We are people of a different position!” After that, Sokolov himself perked up: “And you,” he pointed at me with his finger, “do not join the Union. I promise you." He meant my entry into the Writers' Union of the USSR.
Tatiana waited another half a month. Finally, Sokolov's apartment was vacated. When we entered it, we immediately saw that living in it normal person it is forbidden. I have never seen such dirt, greasiness and insects even in those hostels that I had to go through in my life. We spent six months on the overhaul of this apartment. I had to replace everything in it. But then, when numerous guests came to Tatyana, they were all surprised: how did we manage to make such a cozy, beautiful writer's apartment out of that filthy, cockroach-infested Jewish hut?
After the repair, we invited the priest Father Valerian, and he consecrated this apartment. Soon Father Valerian baptized me in his church in the village of Otradnoye, not far from Moscow. It was an unusually sunny, frosty January morning in 1985.
And V. Sokolov, by the way, kept his word. Having passed the Bureau of Poets and admission committee, I was cut off at the Secretariat of the Moscow Writers' Organization: famous poet sharply opposed my admission to the Writers' Union. Vladimir Tsybin, leaving the meeting of the Secretariat, which was held at the Central House of Writers, came up to me and said: “Be patient. This is a payment for communication with Glushkova. I had to wait another whole year before, on appeal, I was admitted to the Secretariat of the Russian Union, which was chaired by Yuri Bondarev.
Unfortunately, Tatyana Glushkova's apartment in Astrakhansky Lane was sold to someone after her death.
In September 1985, T. Glushkova and I visited Pskov. The critic Valentin Kurbatov promised to meet us there, but did not meet us. We settled in a hotel. Tatyana called Kurbatov at home several times, but the phone did not answer. And for a whole week we were left to our own devices in Pskov. We walked around the city, along the embankment of the Pskov River, examined the Pskov Kremlin, ancient dilapidated fortresses, monasteries and temples, went to the Pskov-Pechersk Lavra. Then, early in the morning, we boarded the river "Rocket" and sailed along Lake Peipus to Estonia, to the city of Tartu (former Yuryev). It must be said that the Baltic republics are still in Soviet time for us, the Russians, they were like a foreign country. We wandered through the narrow, sparsely populated, exotic streets of Old Tartu, went into shops littered with imported goods, into small cozy cafes, increasingly feeling like we were in some other country. We went down the stone steps into the deep dungeon of the former fortress, where once, in past centuries, there was an armory. Now another cafe was set up there, or rather, a bar, the walls of which were lined with huge bare stones, and above the counter hung a stuffed owl with sparkling round eyes and spread wings. It created the illusion that you were in the Middle Ages.
It should be recalled that Gorbachev's "fight against drunkenness" had already begun in mid-1985, and throughout the country it was forbidden to sell strong alcoholic drinks in cafes. But Estonia lived by its own laws. The barmaid, without further ado, brought us as much vodka and juice to the table as we ordered, and at the same time she smiled sweetly. When we went upstairs in the evening, an old clock was heard from the tower of the town hall. We were returning on the "Rocket" to Pskov, and both of us had the feeling that we had been in a fairy tale. Already in Moscow, I wrote the poem "Promise", which begins with the words:
Everything I have, I'll stake
and I won't repent later,
we will visit in Old Tartu
this paradise under the wing of an owl...
As for Valentin Kurbatov, I cannot but say that he was simply frightened of communicating with Glushkova in his hometown, where at that time he tried to look like a kind of liberal patriot in the eyes of the local intelligentsia. In the 1980s, the Zionized press was already putting on their favorite labels on Glushkov in abundance - "retrograde", "obscurantist", "anti-Semitic", etc. It is one thing to conduct personal correspondence with Tatyana, where you can seem a very brave, uncompromising comrade and like-minded person, and it is quite another thing to communicate with an “anti-Semitic” openly, in full view of the omniscient Jewish “public” ... So Kurbatov hid from us when we stopped for a week in Pskov.
When we met Tatyana Glushkova, she introduced me to her circle of friends. Among them was the now forgotten poet Lev Smirnov. After some time, Tatyana complained to me that she was pestered by everyday provocative phone calls, which got on her nerves and interfered with her work. Moreover, the callers stubbornly repeated the same phrases: “Is this the apartment of Yunna Moritz?” or: "Call Yunna Moritz." There was no doubt, the telephone provocateurs knew for sure that Y. Moritz was an irreconcilable ideological "opponent" of T. Glushkova.
I advised her to file a complaint with the local police station, which she did. Soon she was invited for a conversation by the head of the police department, who told her that the hooligan phone calls came from Lev Smirnov's apartment. Tatyana was extremely amazed. L. Smirnov was summoned to the Secretariat of the Moscow Writers' Organization and warned him about expulsion from the Writers' Union if this continued. The hooligan calls have stopped.
Tatyana and I had our own secret - Lake Belogul. She and I traveled a lot in Russia and the Baltic states, but we have never seen such fabulous natural beauty anywhere. Whoever I asked from my friends, no one had even heard of this lake.
It shone beneath us like a blue expanse in a deep depression surrounded by an ancient pine forest in the Pskov region, ten kilometers from Mikhailovsky, where Tatyana and I lived for two whole weeks in the early autumn of 1985. It's impossible to forget. Pushkin must have seen him. Lake Belogul is mentioned more than once in Glushkova's poems.
We walked around all the neighborhoods of Mikhailovsky, Trigorsky, Petrovsky and the Holy Mountains. The beauty of those places is extraordinary. Many poets have seen it. But who has seen Lake Belogul? It's still in front of my eyes...
At first, Tatyana was friends with Yuri Kuznetsov and Vadim Kozhinov, who in the 80s promoted Yu. Kuznetsov as a poet in every possible way, extolling him over others. But quickly realizing where the “Kuznetsovshchina” leads Russian poetry, she broke off relations with them. In 1987, Tatyana Glushkova published a devastating article about Kuznetsov's poetry in her critical book Tradition is the Conscience of Poetry.
She loved to receive guests, loved to cook, arrange crowded tea parties and celebrate holidays. Almost the entire Russian creative elite visited her. Anatoly Peredreev also came to visit us with Tatyana. They had a very good relationship. He behaved with us surprisingly quietly, peacefully, even intelligently, which, looking at him, seemed simply amazing. Usually in the CDL buffet, after the first two glasses, he called almost everyone around him blockheads and idiots.
Tatyana's best friend was the poetess Svetlana Kuznetsova, and the poet Vladimir Tsybin was her faithful friend. Of all those I have named, no one is alive anymore.
Tatyana and I visited Pyotr Palievskiy, Anatoly Safronov, St. Kunyaev, Vsevolod Sakharov (literary critic). Once, in a restaurant in the Central House of Artists (in the famous Oak Hall), Yevtushenko sat down at the table with us (he treated Glushkova with reverence) and chatted with us all evening. He drank exclusively dry white wine, recited new poems, uttered some wordy toasts, after which, after taking a sip of wine, he climbed into a kiss.
But here she could not stand A. Voznesensky, considering him to be thoroughly artificial, escheat graphomaniac, purposefully inflated by Russophobic criticism.
One summer in the House of Creativity "Maleevka" our room in the main building was next to the number of Bella Akhmadulina. Bella, all deliberately mannered, defiantly refined, at a meeting with Tatyana somehow immediately went limp, threw off mannerisms and began to curry favor with her. Tatyana really knew the price of all this Akhmadulinsky sophistication. She told me how in her youth she was repeatedly invited to home “elite” poetic parties with the participation of Akhmadulina, at which she reveled in such an ugly state that in the morning she was afraid to raise her eyes to those present with shame. Faced with us in the lobby of the main building, Bella immediately began to babble something like this: "Oh, Tanechka, you know, I'm going to feed the dogs, there are so small, so hungry, so defenseless ..." and showed a plastic bag with leftovers from the canteen. Indeed, all the stray dogs ran to her when she left the building.
Several times Tatyana and I lived and worked in the House of Creativity of Writers "Dubulti", which was in Jurmala, on the shores of the Gulf of Riga. In calm weather, she and I liked to walk along the flat sandy shore to the cries of cormorants and gulls. But much more often the Baltic Sea was restless, stormy and raging, especially at night. At first, the noise and roar of the waves did not let me fall asleep, I got up, went out onto the balcony, peered into the darkness of the surging sea, then sat down at the table and tried to write poetry.
Tatyana opened me the most beautiful city - Riga with its unusual Western Gothic architecture, which fascinated and captivated me, beckoned me into the depths of unfamiliar streets and alleys. I was then in love with this city, although every now and then I intersected with the unfriendly, sharp glances of Latvians ...
The sounding organ in the Dome Cathedral, the "three brothers" - three sharp spiers with curved backs of cats at the top, the red-trunked pines of Rainis on the shore of the bay, sand dunes strewn with flowering heather, the coldly silvery Daugava - all this, presented to me by Tatiana, has forever remained in my memory . And then all this was captured in my lyrical cycle “Latvian Shore”.
Well-known critics of poetry in the 80s - 90s of the last century were all running around with Yu. Kuznetsov. And they did not notice either Tsybin, or Firsov, or Svetlana Kuznetsova, or Tatyana Glushkova, did not write about their work during their lifetime. But these poets themselves did not put themselves forward. And if we talk about the last two, they were generally deprived of literary prizes and any awards. But some critics, who were prickly eyes, grabbed these prizes and awards from three boxes. Well, after all, they are our main writers! ..
Tatiana GLUSHKOVA
He lay down before the term of the bird cherry hoarfrost
in the outgoing line of traces ...
In your and my Ukraine
it was a time of blossoming gardens.
Sailed through our Russia with you
the spirit of spring, to chills in the chest,
and the Savior rose the day before,
and victory was ahead.
But already from an unknown distance
you looked, strict and kind,
the quiet gaze of love and sorrow,
like a sister forever
that hitherto, in the age of the break,
was not silent with any falsehood,
and led, trusting in the Word,
his unequal and righteous battle.
The battle has not ended to this day,
because I have forever
hoarfrost will not chill oblivion
none of your miracle lines...
And I said: "Be my friend,
witness to my fate,
while you looked with fear
from under furrowed brows.
While my blind hands
still kissing...
Springs my native sounds
already rolled back.
And I didn't own anything.
worthy of pain and love.
And the radiant reflection of the body
was no longer on the lips of rumor.
And what is called the soul
and built in silence
as if with hollow water
gone without remembering me.
And what filled the lines
such girlish simplicity,
turns yellow, like a sedge leaf
over pure water.
And the one who wore wings
robins, butterflies, dragonflies,
in the thick of Chernobyl
fall asleep under the rustle of birches.
And is it in the smell of bird cherry
he will fly over you -
that young stroke, that wondrous miss,
what was called gloomy ... me
and, like a lark's song,
by the rural morning star
now flies into the sky
and cries in the black furrow...
When she was beautiful
When I owned your soul
When the olive body
As if she was taking care of her soul;
when the bird cherry chalked
along the blue suburbs;
when immortal love
love called the dead;
when a birch is like a sister,
trying on earrings under the wind,
and there, at the Chernyshevsky church,
rose gently clover;
when the wide forests
the cuckoo called loudly, -
I didn't recognize anyone
but only went to the voices
and just thought: last,
damp land native happiness,
and you, nivyanki, decorate
far beyond the river, near the river,
and you, wheat, ear
on both sides of the road
and you wait, deadlines
goodbyes - the duration of a lifetime!
And you, whom I still love,
and you, whom I still cherish,
take care: the whole treasury
still pay the nightingale,
you will pay chilly evenings,
my elderberry hot
and those arrogant, blind,
words you haven't read
which ones in my book
Moscow spring entered, -
when she was known as a beauty,
when you were a lover!
When I stepped into gold
a meadow of suffocating colza ...
And after - rags and chips,
and this cinder, and this smoke,
And after - only shards
that grape full bowl,
in which our laughter and tears
still burning among the line,
still being taken out of the village,
still planted under the window,
where the bitter harmonica roams
and the whole night is light!
EVENINGS OF RUSSIAN MUSIC
Not at all scary - on the flute,
on the lyre, the blade of the knife,
so far in May and April,
sheet music rustle,
blizzards circling Sviridov,
Gavrilin's soul sings.
And touched by the evening sacrifice,
you hide between the columns.
What an immortal joy
here every sound is silvered!
What humble sadness
what a powerful dream...
And the night cries under a black shawl,
and the young moon dances.
And the stars themselves carol,
and ribbons of voices wind,
and the muses kiss you on the forehead,
letter reader, day laborer of words.
The breath touched you
free spheres, open bowels -
oak forest Kupala excitement,
Tabora golden-domed wind.
So she became a dashing mistress
with an ancient fold of a deep mouth.
The wormwood grew with the swan,
but I say that I'm drunk and full.
Kneaded road clay
but I say that - grainy bread,
Straightened high back -
I see the month is coming to an end.
The spring years have gone
dull years fly by.
A fun job
will never leave.
HOUR BELOVEZHIA
When my homeland was gone,
I haven't heard anything about it:
so, protected by God, she was ill! -
so that I would not be bitter and sicker ...
When my homeland was gone,
I was there, where not a grain of light:
obscured, rejected, rebuffed -
or burned to ashen coals.
When my homeland was gone,
I walked the path to the Unearthly Fatherland.
But even there, as on a combustible feast,
Volokolamsk nightingale did not sing ...
When my homeland was gone,
at the gates of hell I then knocked:
take me!.. If only she would rise
my country out of its weakness.
When my homeland was gone,
Death rose up in the whole sublunar world,
bony hand on an iron lyre
rattling song of discord and chains.
When my homeland was gone,
The one who came to us from Nazareth,
orphaned no less than a poet
the last terms of my Motherland.
And the land into which I will descend,
which I inherited
already rushed about in fiery delirium -
as if suddenly pressed against my cheek ...
As if these yellowed hands
she waited from dusk to dawn,
as if this inconsolable sound
promises her rain or the sun from the sky.
Promises ears full of grain,
cattle - offspring, and a girl - a new one,
fire in the window, and shadows at the window,
and someone's loyalty to the spoken word.
And someone's shared love
and someone crushed separation,
and the traveler - already unexpected shelter,
and the sinner - just the forces of flour.
Promises spring - and thawed black soil,
and this tender pity for the motherland,
and everything that we fearfully call
not death, no, but the continuation of life.
FOREVER FRESH RED RED...
The dawn is still rising outside the windows,
golden autumn is still flowing.
But no Moscow. And there is a flock of crows
over the stacks of a country that does not exist.
Above the battered Building of Trouble,
what the "White House" wanted to be -
servant's wing near Washington,
Where do the blood trails lead?
And over my deafened head
when I doze, when I get up before the light,
and I see: the corpse floats by the parapet,
torn away by the depths of the river.
You will not hide the ends in the water,
neither in the chest of the earth, nor in the abyss of the sky ...
Wandering in the guarded rags Freedom,
leads a blind horse by the bridle.
Skinny, like Death, like a black widow.
And then - the cart rolls loudly ...
The spills of bread have not been cleaned up in the fields.
The bodies were not removed until the Veil.
And I hear: the roll tanks are thundering
along the old Presnya - just like in Berlin! ..
We are bent into an arc. And we'll straighten our back.
Holy wrath embraces the horizon.
Forever Presnya Red is red.
Forever black this raven is black,
that circles over the spacious Motherland
and over the soul - like the Savior, not made by hands,
that cries, suffers, rushes about without sleep ...
Forever Presnya Red is red!
ELIMINATION
All the same vaults of serene blue.
September. Holy Cross triumph.
But the whole world was a province of Russia,
now she is his province ...
ON POKLONNAYA MOUNTAIN
Flying sculptor! What did you carve?
And what did you learn from Mount Poklonnaya?
That everything is rootless - stone and metal,
how are you, captivated by empty glory? ..
Some dried up dragonfly
some kind of winged goosebump
you planned to soar over my Moscow,
to her shame, in the days of grievous resentment?
Caressed by the black pack of boyars
and that, and this sold capital,
but you will be blown away - like a midge or a mosquito,
from the sovereign, white-stone right hand.
And bronze and concrete will become ashes...
And if we call someone from the Caucasus,
then he will be called - Bagration,
let him be only a reserve sergeant for now.
All Seven Hills will bow to him,
Borodino will sigh with hot breasts.
Is he swarthy?.. But it seems to be in the smoke.
He is Russian with all his eagle essence!
AUTUMN 1991
In memory of Boris Primerov
We live ... And now we lived to gray hair
in longing for the youth of the original.
Let the clusters of black rowans
me to put sad on this coffin.
What's hotter than autumn? Well, are you spring?
Your bird cherry cold is disturbing.
Nightingale awaits the silence of the night.
A seven-pound hammer is knocking at the temples.
About what? .. And let the speech be tongue-tied -
the genius of tenderness for the motherland soars in her ...
What will I save? What could I save
from that, almost dying of our life?
How they went to Vertushino on a damp hill -
one another quieter and disease -
for village goat milk:
it is thicker and more useful than poetry.
How did they go ... First - by the shore of the pond,
a swamp, along a flooded forest ...
In those days already the Baltic water
did not wash the shores of Russia.
How did they go ... Some kind of miserable rearguard ...
Above the willow swirling in the ravine...
“And you imagine that I am a cavalry guard!
That I, like Pushkin, in a swallowtail coat.
“And you imagine,” I joked in response, “
that's just how I imagine…”
My friends, my friends, my friends,
shouted my spirit, - I, too, am dying!
Under that mound: mound up to heaven ...
Under the scree of the Soviet Union...
Already unequal marriage petty demon
I married you, sunny Muse.
The words were no longer heard. Already
"Church, churn me!" - one was torn from the heart ...
And gray ashes lay in the soul
exile, kaliki, burnt victim.
Who we seemed to the inhabitants of the grass -
grey-haired hedgehogs and plump voles? ..
How did they go ... To Moscow, or maybe from Moscow? ..
On the ladder?.. On the smoldering ropes?..
Everything was crumbling ... Only this tart bush -
a piece of grace - black blue
beamed... Come back! Come back! How do I get back
when I close my eyes for the last time.
MONUMENT TO PUSHKIN
How gloomy, how scary in Moscow!
The snow has melted - and the greenery is thick
on a glorious, unruly head
suddenly appeared, frightening the living gaze.
It runs down your chest
according to the frames, according to the old lionfish.
Oh my God! It's not Pushkin ahead,
then death - and decay evil imprints!
H a d a p a r a x a rage over you!
They sneer: they say, and you are like dust ...
O snowfall, give him his shirt,
wrap yourself in a fluffy snow coat!
He is cunning, your senseless executioner!
He strangles oblivion, then love.
He stench swirls to the holy headboard,
he laughs, hearing a Russian cry.
He will call the irony of fate
an accidental game of bad weather
and rust in place of gilding,
and open ancient coffins.
He will open the temple near the tavern,
the patriarchal miter flashes in bedlam.
And I dream that your hand
compresses the sword, not the fields of the cylinder.
Like demons at midnight, the mob roamed.
Her tryn-grass is the very end of the world:
acquires grains of miraculous stars,
drives the father's city of the poet into the ground.
And I know that decay will run away -
forever free! - the soul in the cherished lyre, -
but everything is unbearable, when in the daytime,
in the sublunar, with the words of the enlightened world
the clawed crow is circling over the Genius!
WINTER BIRDS
We are silent. We mourn. Orphaned.
Or maybe she's dead
that Death to the music of a blizzard
on Christmas Eve?
After all, even disheveled birds
left her shoulders
to dig into the musical pages,
screaming, guttural bubbling,
But suddenly brighter, turning pink,
so that, dropping the black feather,
weave into the tunes of the snowman,
tunes of heavenly silver ...
II
And wax affectionate Christmas Eve,
like honey from the sun, it smelled.
And the spruce tree whispers, the spruce forest whispers:
“What was - dust, lay down in dust;
But what is spirit is irresistible:
yourself fresh, yourself free,
flies - pray tirelessly
about my dear motherland!”
NINTH DAY
Also, my spruce is fresh:
lit for the sake of the new year.
But the Soul of Music is crying,
soul abandoned by the flesh.
Also Pushkin's shadow
sharp, fast in the hall of columns.
But the candles on the piano go out,
and the ninth day is full of darkness.
More dragonflies will flash
in the golden hair of a winged harp,
and strings will shed honey,
like myrrh from the palms of Martha.
And the flute, distinct and there,
where the South Slavs huddled,
still blaring through the forests,
shepherds in the sunny fog.
Still humming Green Noise
wide festive cantata, -
and we are full of anxious thoughts
and secret timidity embraced.
Like a ghostly canopy
We see blindly, we sense drowsily...
That blizzard white lilac
brow chills us with a kiss.
That enemy network - il cover
prayerfully stretched out over us? ..
And a blizzard of a handful of pearls
throws into the deadly flame.
“Everything is darkness and whirlwind,” we say,
Yes, there are no relatives of her font,
in it - the brilliance of gray hair, flowering smoke,
iron clang and shot drops;
But lie down at the cross,
flutters like a cloud at the foot,
pure swan thought,
as comforting as the word of God.
And, rustling with a coniferous branch,
she's up to the mountain
exalt you, soul:
to the Father - from the father's threshold! ..
UNDER SRESTENE - MARKIES
Now let go...
Candlemas Day, you are the day of parting!
Farewell call... Greeting call...
How greedily old hands
extended tired Simeon!
How tenderly he will receive the Child,
how tremulously he will enter the temple! ..
Snow white towels
around the icon in the corners.
After all, really, there is no longer a reason
to languish in the valley shores ...
And you, soul, from father's clay
fly, fly, leaving the ashes.
Mourning the ashes that were beautiful -
your earthly homeland,
where is the bare bush of red ashberry -
sees a distressed sparrow.
Where are the hymns to the Russian expanse
blizzard bows sing;
where vsklen is full of happy pain
soul free from bondage.
Where is the blue Lukomorye
eclipsed the sight of reality and near;
where by the will of the sun on the hill
winter seedlings rose.
Where the willows turned dark at once
and dream of the Entrance to Jerusalem...
Where timidly on Holy Week,
Bypass me, cup ... "we repeat.
II
And we call Candlemas - Tomb.
And behold - a loud candle
golden among the frosty stars,
like a summer afternoon, hot.
And se - kutya remembrance
from red, stone wheats.
Spruce branches wave...
A barely audible exclamation of the floorboards...
And, like a tombstone of sorrow,
like sadness itself,
black notes on the piano,
like black ice, the piano shines.
THAT VERSE THAT THE HEART RELATES
Dmitry Shevarov
"Rossiyskaya Gazeta" - Week No. 5754 (81)
12.04.2012, 00:00
These poems are forever inscribed not only in Russian poetry, but also in the history of the Fatherland.
When my homeland was gone,
I haven't heard anything about it:
so, protected by God, she was ill! -
not to make me feel worse
and sicker...
When my homeland was gone,
I was there, where not a grain
Sveta:
obscured, rejected
otpeta -
or burned to ashen coals.
When my homeland was gone,
I walked the path to the Unearthly
Fatherland.
But even there, as if on fuel
feast,
Volokolamsk nightingale did not sing ...
When my homeland was gone,
at the gates of hell I then knocked:
take me!.. If only
rebelled
My country is out of its weakness.
When my homeland was gone,
death has risen in everything
sublunar world,
A bony hand on an iron
lyre
rattling song of discord and chains.
When my homeland was gone,
The one who came to us
from Nazareth,
orphaned no less than a poet
the last terms of my Motherland.
Tatyana Glushkova
Twenty years ago, in the early spring of 1992, two poems were written in memory of the Soviet Union: "Belovezhye Hour" by Tatyana Glushkova and "Lament for the Lost Motherland" by Boris Chichibabin. Two requiems that absorbed the silent pain of millions of people. Two testimonials. If children or grandchildren ask us: where were we then, what were we thinking about, what were we going through, and we cannot find our own words, then the words of poets will help us.
It is not a mere coincidence that the authors of these poems were born in Ukraine. Boris Chichibabin (we will tell you more about him in the next issue) was born in Kremenchug, lived most of his life in Kharkov. Tatyana Glushkova was born just before the war in Kyiv, in a family of physicists.
She was two years old when the refugee stream carried her away from the advancing Germans, but she did not manage to go far, they were surrounded and found themselves under the Germans in a remote village. "Smoker, infancy, hunger..."
Only by May 9, 1945, the family returned to Kyiv. Tanya did not see the Victory Parade in Moscow, but this event became her starting point, the measure of all things, the criterion of truth. Handing over her last book to me in April 1998, she underlined two poems in red in the table of contents: "Victory Parade" and "Farewell Parade". And she called the book of memoirs "After the Victory."
The girl grew up closed and sharp. Grandmother was worried, called her "savage" (and then, in adulthood, they talked about her when she threw in her face the truth that others did not dare to tell).
At thirteen, Tanya was orphaned. Reading "Eugene Onegin", I recognized myself in Pushkin's Tatyana. "Dika, sad, silent ..." Soon fate brought her to Mikhailovskoye and for several years she worked in the Pushkin Reserve. Her graduation work at the Literary Institute was the cycle "Sophia of Kyiv", dedicated to the first Christian pages of Russian history. The topic was considered dangerous "tinsel" and she was given a diploma six months later than other graduates.
So all her life she went against the current, and even the surging new times could not do anything with her. She, an uncompromising child of war, did not want to know any other country, except for the one where, as a child, she saw off the militias, swarthy from dust and burning, and plucked the dandelions of Victory.
Tatyana Glushkova was the only one of the great poets who dedicated to the events of 1991-93 not a mean line, not a hidden sigh, but a whole book of desperate and bitter poems. She saw off the USSR, as Russian women see off a loved one - not melting tears. One of the poems was called: "Through the tears."
In the late autumn of 1993, an unknown hand inscribed lines from her poems on the walls of Krasnaya Presnya, near the White House. Her poems were rewritten and reprinted as folk. “I didn’t prove,” Tatyana Mikhailovna said shortly before her departure, “that the author is known. It is important that the poems live in the hearts of people, and who wrote these lines of anger and sorrow is not so important ...”
Hanging in the damp fog
at the first sun shines...
We don't know how to save
the verse that touches the heart.
Is he kind, is he sarcastic, is he strict,
but the face is forever imprinted in it:
invisible to us our secret appearance
preserves the language of poetry.
