Soldiers of the Third World War play in the shadow of the sandbox. Nikolai Zinoviev from the new book Soldiers of the Third World rhyme
The rain will wake us up at dawn
Thunderstorm thundering in the heights
The Lord will not condemn those explosions
They are not the same as in the war
And the fact that lightning flashes
Among the blazing lightning
They only scare you with sparks
And the taste of tears from under the eyelashes
And the morning is rainbow colored
Will fill with brightness of lights
And the smell of sunny summer
Intoxicating with its freshness
"...Butterflies flutter over the flowerbed
And the sky is pouring blue
They play in the shade of the sandbox
Soldiers of the Third World War"
Reviews
It seems that the last four lines were written by another (FROM EVERYTHING ELSE) person - they are completely self-sufficient! Although no - upon a thoughtful reading: the poem is mysterious, calling for deep reflection. Maybe, “The Lord will not condemn those explosions”?..." the shadows of the sandbox are played by the Soldiers of the Third World War" - sounds like a call for universal Peace: as fragile as a child "in the shadow of a sandbox"... This poem is a unique contribution of the poet to the CASE OF PEACE on planet Earth, and in the Universe too.
Thank you.
I just found information that the last quatrain is by Nikolai Zinoviev.? This is true? This means that my first impression was correct and someone else’s aphorism should be highlighted in quotation marks.
I have already explained this story of writing the poem many times.
Representatives of the journalism department sometimes gave topics, and sometimes some lines and asked to write a poem. They gave these last four lines. To my shame, I never read Nikolai Zinoviev and did not even think that this could be a repetition. These are really the last four lines by Nikolai Zinoviev.
From the first reading the difference was striking for me! I immediately thought that it was written by two people. All you had to do was put a quatrain from another author in quotation marks. Your idea is excellent: a pre-dawn thunderstorm; thunder like explosions; frightening lightning, tears (I wonder - whose?; the triumph of the freshness of the morning and in the end - this powerful quatrain of Nikolai Zinoviev! Of course, your three quatrains are inferior to Zinoviev’s alone. His “And the sky is pouring blue” alone excites the senses!!! And your first quatrain - very realistic, like a listing of facts: thunder roars - this is known not only to poets... You can also feel it and edit it.
I also heard “They Play in the Shadow of the Sandbox” from a writer friend a long time ago, without knowing the author. and only yesterday I started searching on the Internet and immediately came across your “thunderstorm”. I was immediately surprised by the discrepancy, which is what I wrote about. I also have an assignment for today (literary studies) on the topic of war. I'll write a story...
Thank you. I re-read your poem many times and learned it by heart..."And the morning is rainbow-colored" - beautiful and very individual; a worthy prelude for "And the sky is pouring blue"!!!
Inspiration and creative success to you!
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Among the huge flow of books, it is sometimes very difficult to find the “real”. Either you need to have your own innate sense of words, or there should be an experienced, knowledgeable teacher nearby who would unobtrusively turn your interest in the right direction. What shines brightly and is painted in all the colors of metaphors is almost always a fake, and not real poetry. The nightingale does not need to paint itself like a parrot; the amazing song of the little gray singer puts everything in its place.
Life and creative biography Nikolai Zinoviev once again confirms that poets in Rus' have always had a hard time. As people close to him testify, his poems were noticed and published back in the early 80s, and wide fame is only coming now, almost a quarter of a century later, when several collections have already been published, and collections of poems have appeared in thick central magazines.
It is absolutely clear that he was born a poet, but he showed himself as a poet in full voice when storm clouds descended over his big and small homeland. The poems of N. Zinoviev are not only the spiritual biography of the poet, but at the same time the true history of Russia at the end of the 20th century - beginning of the XXI centuries, transmitted through thoughts and feelings ordinary people, among whom he himself grew up.
The poet's great-grandfather on his mother's side, Kondrat Sergeevich Sobol, was a Cossack, served the Tsar faithfully, and had the St. George Cross, IV degree, for outstanding courage and bravery. In 1941, he was taken into the NKVD as an enemy of the people, and then (posthumously) rehabilitated. My maternal great-grandmother was a Cossack woman with many children, a believer, and kind. Having escorted her husband to the camps, and her three sons to defend the Motherland, she and her three daughters helped all the farmers survive during the hard times of war. My maternal grandfather was a Cossack; before the Great Patriotic War, he worked on a collective farm as a combine operator. He did not return from the war; he died in the Crimea, replacing the deceased commander in battle.
The paternal great-grandfather was a coachman for a lady, and the great-grandmother was a maid. My paternal grandfather (a native of Kursk) is a builder. Grandfather Dmitry died in 1941, leaving a “barn book” of poems in the editorial office of a local newspaper. But after his death (the war had already begun), this book was lost, and no one now knows what kind of poems they were. Father - Alexander Dmitrievich Zinoviev - after serving in the army, returned home to Korenovsk and worked as a builder for 46 years. He married a teacher primary classes Lydia Alexandrovna Sobol, she is now 72 years old.
Nikolai Aleksandrovich Zinoviev was born in the village of Korenovskaya, Krasnodar Territory, on Palm Sunday, April 10, 1960. They took him home from the maternity hospital on Bright Sunday of Christ. The baby was born strong, with thick black hair and huge eyelashes.
After school, the poet graduated from a vocational school, where he received a welding degree. Then he studied at the machine-tool technical school and in absentia - at the Krasnodar University at the literary department. He worked as a loader, electric welder, and concrete worker at a construction site. He started writing at the age of 20. I wrote for myself, without sending it anywhere. Later, my mother persuaded me to send the poems to the regional newspaper, they didn’t believe me, they said: “He’s copying it somewhere.” But they still decided to check it out by giving him a topic. He wrote poetry there, in the editorial office. And a little later the manager arrived from Krasnodar. poetry department V.P. Inappropriately, I found where N. Zinoviev lived, took the poems, and since then they began to appear in the regional newspaper.
For the poem “My Grandfather” N. Zinoviev was awarded his first prize. After he was recognized in the region, our “district” began to often publish his poems. The first small book, “I Walk on the Earth,” was published in 1987 by the Krasnodar publishing house.
His poems were read, printed, sent to each other, people came for them, collected money and published them in small books. The publications included poems selected by the editors themselves. And so these poems traveled across the country, reaching Moscow. Soon he received the Big literary prize. Then he became a laureate international competition“Poetry of the Third Millennium”, “Golden Pen” competition, Delvig Prize.
Nikolai Alexandrovich is married, has a daughter and a son. Currently lives in the city of Korenovsk.
In 2005 V.G. Rasputin invited N. Zinoviev to Irkutsk for the “Radiance of Russia” festival and, introducing the poet, said: “Russia itself speaks in Nikolai Zinoviev’s poems”.
The happiness of Russia, its salvation is that at all times when it was difficult for it, somewhere in its distant outback talented people were born who were capable of sowing faith in the souls of people through useful deeds or bright, figurative words. Nikolai Zinoviev is one of those people for whom the meaning of life is, first of all, for Russia to exist, for it to become stronger and cleaner, so that it does not interrupt the connection of times, and does not lose what it was proud of in the past. And he was able to express this meaning in his poems, which cannot be confused with anyone else.
†††
Oh, how I have fallen a lot,
Walking the path of life!
As a mother, always to the detriment of herself,
Russia lifted me up.
Exhausted and weakened
My Russia, my mother.
Now I have nothing else to do -
Raise her in response.
†††
You can only believe in Russia.
F.I.Tyutchev
Not a day, not a month or a year -
You always need to believe in Russia.
And as for adversity,
They will leave like dogs, obediently.
They will run away in their underwear,
Persecuted by the scourge of the Lord.
†††
I don't understand what's going on.
In the name of good ideas
Lies triumph, fornication rages...
Give up, as they say?
But how can I be baptized then?
A hand that waved at people?..
†††
A friend of mine has a sick daughter.
Disabled, you know, since childhood.
And no one can help her.
There is no such remedy in the world.
I understand that I have nothing to do with it
I understand, I understand mentally...
But it goes numb under the left shoulder,
When I look up at her...
†††
At the map of the former Union
With a landslide roar in the chest
I'm standing. I'm not crying. I don't pray.
But I just don’t have the strength to leave.
I stroke the mountains, I stroke the rivers,
I touch the seas with my fingers.
It's like I'm closing my eyelids
My unfortunate Motherland...
VISION
The soldier goes down the hill,
Meeting with family ahead.
Medal "For the Capture of New York"
I see it on his chest.
I see his daughter Tanka
Drives two geese to the river,
Where from the turret of a NATO tank
Son Fedka catches crucian carp.
†††
Gaining cheapness
Life, and nothing to value.
Lose your Fatherland -
How to survive a child.
I UNDERSTAND
I understand - I'm not a fool -
So that fingers clenched into a fist
Unclench for the sign of the cross,
Both strength and skill are needed,
But most of all, patience.
†††
I changed it era era,
What's the saddest thing about this?
We used to secretly believe in God,
Today we secretly do not believe in Him.
TO FRIENDS
We may not be fit to be prophets,
But so that the boors don’t be so rude,
Friends, let's call each other,
Like temples...
IN KINDERGARTEN
Butterflies flutter over the flowerbed,
And the sky is pouring blue.
They play in the shade of the sandbox
Soldiers of the Third World War...
†††
I believe Russia will wake up,
To do a good deed,
But before this begins,
What I'm afraid to talk about.
†††
There are days of special power,
When all day long
In addition to “Lord, have mercy!”
There is nothing else on my mind.
WEALTH
Vegetable garden to the river. In the hut
Table with the Bible. Bench.
Noon... Book of Genesis...
Isn't that enough?
†††
When the soul is boiling with anger
On my brother - this is not without reason,
You hammer nails too
The wrists of white Christ.
FATHERLAND
One writes novels about her,
Another one is shouting about her from the stands,
And only the one who breathes it,
While silent...
†††
How rejoicing abroad
And he howls with happiness,
That we were on our knees.
And we got down on our knees
Pray before the fight...
†††
The soul could not bear the discord,
But God with an omnipotent hand
Give her peace for a moment -
And she doesn’t need it for longer.
†††
Terrible era!
We are building a temple behind the temple,
We affirm that we believe in God,
But He doesn't believe us.
FAMILY TRADITION
For the sake of saving the souls of loved ones,
Having become known around the area as a praying mantis,
Once a year my great-grandfather went to church...
On the knees…
To the neighboring county.
CROSS
And I realized at the end of the day,
When the sunset flowed like a scarlet river:
I am not my cross, but he is mine
Carries you through life like never before.
WIDOW
There is a cold outside the window and in her chest.
Ninety-two years old widow.
God told her: “Live for your husband too,
That he died at thirty in the war.”
IN THE HOSPITAL
This room smells disgusting
And there are strokes on the bars of the windows -
Isn't the fee too high?
For poems that people don’t need?
†††
Bag, prison, bag, prison.
Where are you, people's freedom?
Eternal grief from the mind,
The mind is sad from grief.
REQUIEM
Sympathetic words are false.
Don't get out of a rut
Leading to hell when strangers
They are standing around. Some are strangers.
All strangers. Even your own.
RUSSIAN FIELD
I'm under your dim sky
I realized this not yesterday:
So that you remain Russian,
It's time to become a Kulikov.
Otherwise you will be hunched over,
A terrible misfortune will squeeze -
You will become a mound of sorrow
Right up to the Last Judgment.
It will be summer nights
Dream about golden rye.
Wooden crosses
You will grow to the top...
†††
Rumors have been creeping around the world for a long time,
In the minds of not being born into the poor:
Russia will fall soon.
Don't have fun in advance!
If it falls, it will crush many.
Or it may turn out to be everyone.
What, besides the wet trail,
Then what will remain of the world?
Better pray, gentlemen,
For our Rus', otherwise there will be trouble.
This is how the lyre prophesies to me.
†††
Grandfather stayed in the war
And he left the country to me.
And now I look with guilt,
What are they doing to my country?
It's not rubles that are being stolen -
Human souls.
And I'm sorry
It will, won't it?
I don't know.
All the people are brought into a flock,
Those who resist are included in the herd.
Something must be done, something must be done!
I'm tormenting my soul,
I don’t dare do anything else.
Bloody smog over the country...
They won't forgive
Neither grandfather
Neither God.
†††
On our farm, in Europe,
No skirmishes or fights yet.
Only the cat hides in the dill,
Watching out for sparrows.
Both life and death walk quietly
They're going - pah-pah, so as not to jinx it.
And grandfather Antip with a wild grin
He's making a coffin for himself.
And he says there is no hope
Not for anyone - everyone in the family drinks -
And what is not good for a baptized person
Then, like a dog, lie in the ground.
COAT OF ARMS OF RUSSIA
I don’t cry in front of people, I’m not a woman.
But, two-headed, isn’t it too weak?
Do you have the rest of the country in your clutches?
Can you feel Satan's gaze?
You dig your claws in deeper
Forget age-old fatigue.
If you loosen your grip, then immediately
They will even tear out what is left.
†††
Smoke with shag, on the heap
An old man with gray hair like a harrier sits.
I am in front of him like a little boy,
He doesn't even look at me.
And suddenly he looked:
“What’s with the sour face?” —
“I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time...”
But he interrupted: “Russia is dead
Can’t be seen alive.”
UNITY
I'm walking along the edge of life,
Chasing away a bad thought.
The pulse of the Fatherland is shaking,
Like a drunk me.
I'm afraid to fall into the abyss,
After all, I have no wings at all.
Sing a song out of fear?
But I forgot everything.
I'm walking along the edge of life,
Not stupid and not smart.
The pulse of the Fatherland is not even,
And my hour is not equal.
†††
The clouds floated low and gray,
And it was given to me to see
The way demons are grain and tares
They sifted and burned the grain.
I looked and stood, but unsteadily,
When the demon winked at me:
“Perestroika is underway, perestroika,”
And he moved the poker in the fire.
And I comprehended the poet's inspiration,
Because the gift of the prophet is related:
This perestroika will end
With the coming of Judgment Day.
†††
It was no surprise to us to have fun,
There was joy in every town.
And you went out on holidays
In an Orenburg down scarf.
But suddenly the evil spirits grew stronger
And the trouble was in full swing.
And in a scarf made of black crepe
You are wandering to an unknown place.
†††
And there, under the eternal firmament,
Where the ice lay on the rocks,
Today the grandmother of the old river
Loops wind through the swamps,
And at the bottom of the former sea
The cosmodrome lay down in the dunes...
Only the soul is still the same field
After the battle between evil and good.
OLD WIDOW
And in the morning it’s dark in the eyes.
The roof of the house is completely gone.
And it’s scary to remember how long ago
The soul of the soul has burned out.
But on the face from that life
There is light left. It is indelible
Like a reflection of the saint's poverty
On a bowl with a chipped edge...
IN THE BEER
1.
“What do you know, bastard, about attacks?
You, I see, are only weak to drink.
We threw grenades at tanks,
You only rush at women.
What do you know about artillery attacks?
Can you kill a fascist with a butt?
What do you know?
And exactly who are you?
Why are you drinking here on an equal footing with me?..”
The gloomy guy drank vodka in silence,
He hid his gaze, which was gloomy and heavy.
Got up from the table and took a couple
The creaking dentures are gone.
2.
Pulls up in a wheelchair
And unshaven and gray-haired.
I pour it to the brim.
I do not mind. He is a Hero.
He left his legs in Chechnya
And half of his platoon.
And the guys were gods,
Remembers every single one of them.
After drinking, he winces: “Poison.”
He drinks more. Then he shouts:
“To hell with this fame,
Do you hear? The homeland is silent.
IN THE TEMPLE
You ask God for peace,
And hot prayer after
You cross yourself with your left hand,
Holding a paratrooper beret in it.
And with a serious angelic face,
Having created your wrong cross,
You sigh. Near the city of Grozny
Your right hand remains.
She did not remain in granite,
Not in bronze, but simply rotted...
You stand and your Guardian Angel
Stands behind. Without a wing.
†††
As far as I remember, he is like this:
sparse beard,
Dirty, gray, dry.
Tripping.
Antediluvian Armenian.
Childish smile.
- Hello, Vanya the Fool.
How are you?
- Not very good.
- Do they bully you or beat you?
What's to blame?
- They serve too much...
Just like before the war.
†††
You don't create an idol for yourself,
Don't worship fate
So why is all the evil in the world
Do you sometimes feel in yourself?
Think about who, beckoning with temptation
"End the world's evil"
Leads you with an imperious hand
To the rotten and crooked walkways?
And end all troubles
Calling cold water…
Cross yourself! That's all. About it
No more needed. Never.
DREAM
I had a dream - everything is over:
Huge golden calf
Choking, he chewed not a variety of herbs,
And our Orthodoxy is with you.
Taurus was from the desert,
Where does all the trouble come from?
And all the shrines disappeared
In a huge mouth forever:
Crosses, banners and icons,
Which were hundreds of years old...
Even though this is a dream, are you calm?
Since then I have had no peace.
BIG
POEM
The war is World War III
It has been walking around the planet for a long time.
And, hoping for victory,
Who will wake up their sleeping mind?
What nonsense are they talking?
About world domination! People!
After all, there will be no winners,
The result will be the Last Judgment.
And a little earlier the end of the world
Will show everyone that there is darkness.
At least someone would heed the words of the poet
And he made the right conclusion, but
Again hoping for victory,
This one and that one screamed excitedly.
The Third World War is coming
On a dying planet
Where, without realizing the horror,
Flowers and children are still growing.
THOSE WHO ARE UNCONSCIOUS
Of course, this is a punishment -
Look how many these days
People living unconscious
The fact that they are Russian.
There's nothing worse Russian poet,
How to contemplate this picture.
My soul and spirit and verse
They want to bring them back to consciousness.
†††
Where is our power and wealth?
I know the answer to the question -
Where there is no spiritual brotherhood,
Devastation and chaos reign.
“We have ourselves to blame for everything!” —
I’m not shouting to the people, but to the crowd,
Where everyone blinks their eyes
Through a hole in your shell.
ABOUT YOURSELF IN A THIRD PERSON
Let him deceive and offend his neighbor,
But know, godless world and terrible age,
He hates his sins immensely
Only the Russian is a sinful person.
I won't talk about too much
Just one stroke is enough:
After all, the Russian bitterly repents before God
Even before committing a sin.
HUMAN RIGHTS
What are these rights?
There is only one right and strength,
The grass will whisper to you about him
At your own grave.
These words are sad
The winds carried everywhere:
“What are these rights?”
Only one right is in force.
In Russia…
LERMONTOV
Lights of Pyatigorsk.
Years are like clouds.
How many are there in life? A handful of?
Or is it centuries?
Oh, how tired everyone is!
He is smart and strict.
Until the last duel
A few more lines.
He's as cunning as a Demon
And sad as God
Between earth and sky
I can't take a breath.
The wind shakes the branch,
Empty, hollow in the chest.
He sits down and writes.
Death is already behind us.
CRANES
Come out quickly
to look at your tall ones!
N.Rubtsov
What year is it over our region?
The cranes don't fly by.
And we live and die
In petty worries, in dust.
We carry no light in our hearts,
We live more thoughtlessly than grass.
I greet my neighbor myself
A casual nod of the head.
We do not serve bread to the poor,
And we drive away with irritation.
Christ, who sees everything from heaven,
How can you not become exhausted from melancholy?
We do not stretch out our hands in prayer
At the sight of the morning dawn.
And therefore over our region
Cranes don't fly by...
PRAYER
I ask not for glory, not for pleasure,
I ask you, grieving for my brother,
Save my country from those
Who once crucified You.
Christ, they are your enemies!
They are slaves of the golden calf,
You know yourself. Help me
Only Your words are enough...
†††
Being famous is not nice.
B. Pasternak
Being famous is very scary
You need to have nerves of steel:
After all, the standard bearer, by the way,
In battle, they kill first.
He has such a meta,
There is a special interest in him.
Is it defeat or victory?
Can only be seen from heaven.
†††
I write my poems so that
A Russophobe became a Russophile.
I know it's very difficult
But, if it is possible in principle,
I'm ready to write day and night,
In order to help your country.
Ready to neglect myself
Just to save the Motherland.
This is, in fact, what we are talking about.
†††
Write about joy, about life -
This is what I imagined the lot of a poet to be,
But in the dying Fatherland
Is this possible?
And I write on the topic of the day,
God willing, I will continue to write.
After all, this very evil of the day
Permeated by millennia.
†††
I am a lyricist, essentially a lyricist:
I would write about the songs of the rains,
About the dawn on the lake half,
About the mysterious cries of owls.
Doesn't let me fall into lyricism
This black, slippery power,
What is so similar to the marsh leech,
Attached to the neck of the people
And drunk blood to the point of horror...
...I am a lyricist, essentially a lyricist.
†††
There's no point in anything,
Which has been since time immemorial?
Why am I flagged like a wolf?
Human rights?
Why is the Third Rome burping?
Why doesn't the light shine on us?
Why are we talking in vain?
Will anyone answer?
No answer. Some are silent
I am unable to comprehend this world.
And those who were able to comprehend lie
Long in their graves.
TO ENEMIES OF RUSSIA
Oh, how miserable you look!
You are fools, I must assume.
You are us who are looking for a meeting with God,
Have you decided to scare us with death?!
Our poet has been talking about this for a long time
He said contemptuously and sparingly:
All this would be funny
Whenever it wasn't so... stupid!
†††
Writing about the stars is wasting days.
How many days are there left?
I write about people, because they
Much closer and dearer.
Yes, we are all, in general, quite good,
Scoundrels have their advantages too,
But there are some
It would be better if I wrote about the stars.
Am I not one of those people myself?
That's it, I'm finishing the verse.
†††
Penetrating with spiritual vision
Into the depths hidden from view
The picture looks like this
For me, as a poet, for the hundredth time:
The path to heaven is all overgrown,
Believe it or not.
The road to hell, the road of evil,
The devils dressed in asphalt.
It's easy to walk along it now,
Slide like on parquet.
And heaven is so far away now
It's as if he's not there.
CROW
A flock of black kerchiefs is flying,
The blue sky is gloomy.
Sitting on a tree - simple
The birch will become like a widow
Or the mother who buried her son
Yesterday was terrible: no tears...
And in Rus' there are such scarves!
And in Rus' there are such birches!
VICTORY DAY
Sung both in poetry and in plays,
He is like a father to his sons,
Already half a century on prosthetics,
Whatever spring comes to us.
He is both scarier and more beautiful
All celebrated years.
There is one such holiday in Russia.
And thank God there is only one.
ABOUT IT
I don't want to write about it
I shout to the muse: “Get off!”
But the poet demands a sacrifice
Not Apollo, but our life.
After all, we are all drunkenness, brothers,
This is not slander, this is not mockery.
Last chance we must come to our senses,
Until the mind is completely drunk.
Oh, poor poet's heart
And a spirit that has lost peace!
I didn't want to write about it
But God led my hand.
Or maybe they're getting us drunk?
But that's a different story.
†††
I scratched the back of my head in Russian,
And he looked up thoughtfully,
And walked on the glass from the bottles
All that I managed to drink in my century.
I cursed myself all the way,
And I vowed not to drink anymore...
And there is such a road to God.
Why shouldn't she be like that?
†††
Everywhere you look - grief,
A silent chill in my chest.
Oh Lord, how long?!
How long, Lord?!
Like jackdaws from bell towers,
The words come out of my mouth.
Who is always dissatisfied
By itself, it is not empty.
It’s so bad for the soul, -
Well, we know, not in heaven,
No wonder from a glass
It stinks so much of sulfur.
To the devil in the choir -
Go find him...
Oh Lord, how long?!
How long, Lord?!
†††
She has no pity for the poor beggar.
N.A.Nekrasov
I feel sorry for the poor and beggar
And the one who is in cheap wine
I drowned my days out of need;
There aren’t even thousands of them anymore,
And they are all Russians.
†††
Drunk people fighting in an alley
Mixing with obscenities a hoarse cry.
Pressed against the dirty plaster,
An old man is sleeping at the bus stop.
A drunken girl laughs
Getting into a passing Mercedes, -
Her cast buttocks
The demon is pulling the thread.
In a vacant lot since the beginning of May
Construction of a prison is underway.
All this calling life,
Are we wrong?
THIRST
Overcome with great thirst,
He sold an old button accordion -
Your last joy,
And he drank two bottles in a row.
I came home in the smoke, in the insole,
He sat down on the wretched bed;
Overcome with great thirst,
I forgot that I drank my button accordion.
And he threw on imaginary belts,
And he parted the imaginary furs,
And he fiddled with his fingers,
And I forgot everyone, and I forgot everything.
I only remembered one melody
And filled the room with it.
Even though the hand met emptiness,
The music sounded and sounded.
And the wife looked with horror
For such an unprecedented thing.
†††
One morning at the inn
(And not a penny in my pocket)
With the omnipresent prince of peace
Gloomy met Lefty.
Prince Leftsha hugged the shoulders:
"Friend! Shall we come in? I pay for everything!”
It's easier to shoe a flea,
How to answer: “I don’t want to.”
And they went in... And they left
On the eyebrows - in all its glory.
Lefty was punished from above:
I became right-handed, like everyone else.
†††
Gray clouds hung over.
The depths of Russia. Night. Railway station.
“You see, there is no life,”
The man said to the man.
Rode around the buffet
This phrase. They started drinking.
“Pour it up!” Where there is no life
Where can there be death?
†††
He is irrepressible in vices,
Not holding back on words
But my soul is not yet dark,
Because the mother is alive.
Is there anyone else to pray to?
For him through a haze of tears.
How long will this last?
That's another question.
†††
The first gray streaks in the hair.
Thin stockings in this cold weather.
Eyebrows are like threads.
And in the eyes -
Nothing like a soul.
And stands, blushing with grief,
“Station Bitch”, “Katyukha”,
“Katka-Half-a-glass”, “Katka-whore”.
Katya... My classmate...
†††
Not because I suddenly got drunk,
But again I won't recognize
Who is it that bowed so bitterly
At the entrance to my hut?
Yes, this is the Motherland! From dust
Gray-haired, covered in scabs and with a stick...
Yes, if we loved her,
Could she become like this?!
SCENERY
Snow is flying from the sky, circling,
On the road, on the homeless,
What sleeps so sweetly in a ditch,
Forgetting about everything in the world.
The snow is spinning, the snow is flying,
The homeless person’s face doesn’t melt...
†††
It's time for spring to float
Violets bloomed among the garbage.
Homeless woman gave birth to triplets
In a cardboard house in a landfill.
Babies want to eat, to empty
And flabby breasts fall.
Through birth fever smoke
Mother says: “Let them disappear...”
Russia! Mother of all human beings!
Who dared to crucify you like that?!
...In paradise with Dmitry Donskoy
The hand rested on the handle.
†††
Oh these meager pensions
Old women and decrepit old men.
They strive to feed them with songs
Shameless show vulgarities.
What a vile robbery!
Whatever the official, he is also a rogue.
Are you Russian, government?
I have doubts.
WITHIN MERCY
Help us, Mother of God,
Find your way among the off-road.
And those who block our path,
Don't forget about them either:
For their unkind zeal
Lead us astray, drive us crazy
Come up with something yourself
Within the limits of mercy.
†††
And I saw how they beat a homeless person
For a ring of sausage. They beat me for a long time.
They beat him thoroughly, slowly,
With a merciless smile -
Like a wolf.
He tried to bite their shoes
I wanted to roll under the counter.
And no one dared to intercede
I just decided to write...
†††
O days of wickedness! The evils of summer!
The path of lies and betrayal!
It's nicer to hit the barrel of a gun
To look your neighbor in the eye.
It’s not even enough to be a poet,
Here you only need to be God,
To people for everything for this
Don't hate, but love.
RETURN PRODIGAL SON
From boredom or laziness
Didn't show up. Finally
Came back. On knees
The father stood in front of his son.
He cried, his shoulders shook,
The ashes of the earth were clutched in handfuls:
"Son, forgive me, forgive me,
I didn’t save my mother until the meeting..."
OLD PICTURE
Melancholy... Unbelief... Blues...
Sour grimaces in the morning.
We are all so used to bad things,
So dear to us there is a feeling of discomfort in our souls,
What if someone suddenly shouts:
“I feel good!” - they will kill him.
They will kill with a cold, evil word,
Twist your finger at your temple
And they will calm down. And again:
Blues... Unbelief... Melancholy...
Yes, it's an unsightly picture -
Centuries will not erase this, -
So the river becomes overgrown with mud,
This is how the pond becomes overgrown with duckweed.
NEWS
The world has been unclean for a long time,
Look into his insides:
Evil is well-fed, broad-shouldered,
And Good... And where is Good?
And love has run out of time,
Sex has replaced love.
Vice reigns everywhere,
Loyalty hits its head against the wall.
Lust amuses itself, jokingly,
And debauchery spits on the sky.
A child sells himself
For a piece of rotten bread.
Someone's twisted nonsense
They called it education.
The deadline has come White light
Call by another name.
If you don’t have the strength to live like this,
If the heart is not in the right place,
If you are also a poet,
Shudder at this news.
†††
Who's shooting on the street?
And then, hanging on the fence,
The neighbor is knocking out a rag,
The so-called "carpet".
It should be thrown into a landfill
But the bitch poverty doesn't give,
And, raising the stick high,
The mistress beats him and beats him.
With some kind of hussar dashing
The rag is beating harder and harder!..
Probably poor, she thinks
Which settles scores with the state.
†††
I remember everyone's names
Who taught us that work is a reward?
Forget it, darlings, don’t...
Labor is God’s punishment for us.
How can my spirit be high?
When you're sweating and exhausted
I'm for a piece of beef
A luxurious palace being built by a thief?
Cause I indulge him
After all, I am one of their pack...
Oh century! Neither heart nor mind,
Not a soul can find support.
SMALL
APOCALYPSE
There's some confusion in the air
Thickens the unbearable darkness.
Like I owe someone
Just what and to whom?
It's like your wings have been cut off
Soul. They began to interfere.
All the windows have already been opened,
But still I can’t breathe...
†††
Wandering in impossible dreams,
I'm worn out like a coat.
I didn’t know what I wanted.
But what he did was not right.
And the nephew is right: “It’s too late, uncle,
You started reading the Bible."
...Let, looking at my fall,
At least he will learn to fly.
CRAZY
How nice it is in the hospital garden
And for us, and for the birds, and for the flowers!
I feel great.
It's good that I'm not there
Where people miss the sun
Where because of the torn chervonets
Stabbed with a knife and thrown into a ditch,
Where there is no shadow of a gentle smile,
Where is the evil and lies, where is real hell!..
No wonder it’s surrounded by bars
Along the entire length of our quiet garden.
LOVE OF THE EARTH
She loves everyone indiscriminately
That right was given to her from above.
Holy Elder or Thief
They will bring it to her - she doesn’t care.
Her dresses are made of grass and snow,
And her disposition is by no means evil,
But who fell into her arms,
He himself becomes the earth.
And free again, bride again
She is submissive and quiet,
And a new place is ready
For the groom.
TO MY GODSON
It's good to lie under the willow tree,
The wave splashes quietly.
Life as a lively cow
It only seems. She
In its deepest essence
Quiet gentle chick.
There is no horror in it,
Take care of her, son.
†††
I don’t understand, where did it all go?
If you know, tell me.
Where is the strength of the spirit and the courage of the heart?
Where is the kindness of the human soul?
Or from birth our souls
Didn't kindness visit?
Afraid to hear “yes” in response,
I close my ears in fear.
†††
Why is the sunset so red?
As if bathed in blood?
Was criminal and terrible
The age given to us for love.
Woe to us who have forgotten God!
The axle will soon rust,
Because there's too much
Blood was spilled into the Earth.
The planet will stop
Not by chance and not suddenly.
But I don't want to talk about it
People have no time to think.
LOST SOUL
I've lived with her all my life,
Nerves went to hell:
What if her “ow”
Will God not hear first?
If only I were a freak
It was like that - a shiver on the skin,
But so are my people.
The same person lives with the soul.
And all our prayer
Lets the demon go around in circles,
And all he hears is gunfire
Our God for each other.
Under the roar of the Kalash
Only the dark spirit will rise.
Lost soul
It's about to become a disaster...
RECOGNITION
I'm a victim of the devil's era
And heaven does not shine for me, alas.
But I'm writing. I write about God
In the hope that you will be saved.
Is it recognition or a calling?
But may your days be long!
And human knowledge
Akin to complete ignorance.
And that's why I don't shake:
Perhaps I will be saved with you.
RETRO
The peasants plowed the poles,
And someone drank cognac in Astoria,
But then we were already pushed
Not yet to hell, but out of history.
How the past has faded today!
Now we are being dragged straight into the inferno.
†††
I do my best to preserve
backwardness from our century,
Which destroys in the bud
All that is human left in us.
And let it not be stopped
This age is playing on a pathetic lyre,
May God at least save your sanity
In this crazy world.
†††
And the fact that there is evil around without measure,
And there is darkness all around,
Only those of little faith are guilty
And we are these people of little faith!
What are we actually ready for?
If you don’t have the strength to stand the fast?
The question of Christ will find us
Taken aback when He asks, “Who are you?”
And we, without daring to raise our eyes,
We will hear: “I don’t know you.”
And we will begin to bite our elbows,
And then... I don’t want to write.
†††
And this problem is called “the market” -
The sad result of someone's wise plans,
When chocolate Kazbek is on display
Sparkles with tears in the eyes of children.
And the mother who dotes on her child,
He cuts him off with a jerk: “Get off!”
Life greets children with bitter salt.
Only salt, without bread, greets their life.
†††
Pour it up, neighbor Vasily,
My heart is troubled:
Is there Russia? No Russia?
I don't understand.
Who has us on the lasso?
Devilish laughter behind my back.
Are we really in a glass?
Drowned with the country?
†††
How rejoicing abroad
And he howls with happiness,
That we were on our knees.
And we got down on our knees
Pray before the fight...
IN KINDERGARTEN
Butterflies flutter over the flowerbed
And the sky is pouring blue.
They play in the shade of the sandbox
Soldiers of the Third World War.
Nikolay ZINOVIEV, Krasnodar
†††
I believe Russia will wake up,
To do a good deed,
But before this begins,
What I'm afraid to talk about.
Nikolay ZINOVIEV, Krasnodar
†††
Now the era has changed,
What's the saddest thing about this?
We used to secretly believe in God,
Today we secretly do not believe in Him.
Nikolay ZINOVIEV, Krasnodar
FAMILY LEGAL
For the sake of saving the souls of loved ones,
Having become known around the area as a praying mantis,
Once a year my great-grandfather went to church...
On my knees... To the neighboring county.
Nikolay ZINOVIEV, Krasnodar
†††
Not a beard, but a shovel,
You'll look and say: bandit.
What does he want from me?
Why is he watching me?
Dirty, thin, like all homeless people,
So he went to the wall.
Here he is back. Oh my God,
Here he is coming up to me.
†††
A friend of mine has a sick daughter.
Disabled, you know, since childhood.
And no one can help her.
There is no such remedy in the world.
I understand that I have nothing to do with it
I understand, I understand mentally...
But it goes numb under the left shoulder,
When I look up at her...
Nikolay ZINOVIEV, Krasnodar
FROM CHILDHOOD
There is no measure of water and sun here,
And how many songs to accordion
Here it is sung by us, the pioneers, -
Children of workers and peasants.
We sing about the mighty Motherland,
About good, valiant deeds.
And develops over the steep
Native red flag from birth.
In the heat we lie face down under the awning,
Throwing pebbles into the ravine
And we know for sure: the president
Perhaps the enemy, and only the enemy.
Nikolay ZINOVIEV, Krasnodar
MEMORY
It was summer heat.
And mom fried cutlets.
And I did my “things” -
Launched a boat from a newspaper.
And the Russian song flowed
From the loudspeaker in the hallway.
I don’t know whose power it was,
But life was similar to life.
I remember how happy my uncle was
When my wife gave birth to twins.
A neighbor was like a brother to a neighbor.
I live by remembering this.
Nikolay ZINOVIEV, Krasnodar
†††
In a dream I prayed and cried,
And he squeezed the candle in his fist,
And wax dripped from her hand
And blood flowed down my hand.
And the blood began to flow
The river valleys are cramped,
And the boy floating on the roof
He told me, frowning:
“Don’t you dare interpret dreams!..”
Nikolay ZINOVIEV, Krasnodar
FREAK
The old man collects bottles
And - eccentric - he doesn’t give up anywhere.
He just scratches his head thoughtfully.
I thought: the old man is an idiot.
But he asked: “For what?” - with quiet flattery.
And he answered with a toothless mouth:
“Fill with an incendiary mixture -
We will need a lot of them later.”
Nikolay ZINOVIEV, Krasnodar
†††
One day after drinking
You will wake up gray and gloomy,
Look out the window: Yankees
They catch chickens for breakfast.
Alien guttural laughter
Drilling the silence
And they drag it for fun
To the barn your wife.
Screams and feathers fly up,
The dawn is bleeding
Are you hungover?
There is no strength to rise.
Nikolay ZINOVIEV, Krasnodar
VISION
The soldier goes down the hill,
Meeting with family ahead.
Medal "For the Capture of New York"
I see it on his chest.
I see: his daughter Tanka
Drives two geese to the river,
Where from the turret of a NATO tank
Son Fedka catches crucian carp.
Nikolay ZINOVIEV, Krasnodar
IGNORANCE
The superliner flew on course,
And in the cabin who was quietly snoring,
Who solved the stupid crossword puzzle,
Someone took medicine in vain...
After all, people did not know that the board
Two hours from the Heavenly Kingdom.
Nikolay ZINOVIEV, Krasnodar
Reviews
Alexander, good afternoon! Thank you for the selection of poems by Nikolai Zinoviev. From the very first meeting I became a fan of his work. If possible, could you give me his phone number or email, I would like to do an interview with a newspaper.
Sincerely!