Almost every month we learn about the creation of a new writers' union. The Russian Union of Writers has recently appeared. Send a certain amount - and get a membership card of this public organization. If things go on like this, then, you see, in ten years almost the entire adult population of our vast Motherland will be in the writers' unions. And what? If you have learned to write a note in a newspaper, a protocol, an anonymous letter, a poem for the birthday of a second cousin of a wife or husband, etc. means a writer. And if you have a membership card in your pocket, then - truly a writer!
No wonder there was such an anecdote. Reporting meeting of the Union of Writers of the Tula province after the revolution. The speaker is proud: “Before the revolution, there was only one writer in our province. After the revolution, there are already a thousand of them.” Question from the audience: “And who was there before the revolution?” Speaker - quieter: " Lev Tolstoy».
They say the sites Proza.ru and Poems.ru already three million writers and poets. What's this? "Mass run" in literature? And what is characteristic, all the "runners" are trying to take the literary magazines by storm. Already some editorial offices of the "leading" literary magazines have pretended that they have not yet purchased computers and, therefore, they do not accept texts from authors by e-mail, other editorial offices constantly "lose" "masterpieces" sent by regular mail. However, the new literary geniuses keep trying and trying. Well, how can you not remember I. Ilfa and E. Petrova: "Do not knock your bald head on the parquet."
The current state of affairs is saved by “new technologies”. Yes, yes, the Internet. I opened the site, threw out the slogan "Literary magazine" and - "no nails." Does what is placed there have anything to do with literature? - a rhetorical question. You see the sign “Literary”, which means that everything below this sign is literature. And the quality of the published “product” is another matter.
If the text is already completely unreadable, the author of this opus can be safely presented as a prominent representative of conceptualism, or as an academician of the Zaumi Academy, or as a talented follower of post-conceptualism, or as a participant in the “zero style” poetic movement, or as an active supporter of the “neo-primitive”, or as a theorist caricatured - grotesque poetry. And then there is metarealism, continualism, presentalism, polystylistics, the poetry of the vanishing "I". Yes, there is nothing there! If writing does not fit even within this framework, then you can come up with a new "ism" and loudly declare that this is today "the latest fashion" in literature. And it does pass. Won, Sergey Sutulov-Katerinich invented a new term "poellada" - and everyone is happy: both the authors of poems and the authors of ballads. Some ballad writers are already beginning to think that they are supposed to be poets too. Of course, most of all, apparently, the author of the invention himself is satisfied.
Or here's another. Poetry has been added to some school curricula. Yuri Kuznetsov. The recommendations for studying the work of Yu. Kuznetsov in the school curriculum say: “... how to preserve our identity, our worldview, our view of good and evil, truth and lies, to preserve our attitude to life, our conscience, our shame? How not to disappear from the face of the earth, not to dissolve in other nations? We find the answer in many of the poet's verses." Schoolchildren will not find answers to these questions in Yu. Kuznetsov's poems during the day with fire. Viktor Barakov In his article "Marginal Notes" he writes: “In most cases, critics approached the last poems of Yuri Kuznetsov traditionally, with their own yardstick, not understanding the true nature of the symbol, not seeing its spiritual basis.” But let me! Even if literary critics "do not understand" and "do not see", then how will schoolchildren understand and see. What's this? Sabotage under the guise of stupidity?
The exam in schools is not just annoying, but already infuriating. They say that in five years, when checking dictations, they will lower the mark for missing emoticons. High school students do not even read what they are asked by the program. They don’t read War and Peace either, but tell each other the following anecdote:
How I hate Leo Tolstoy's "War and Peace"! Four volumes! You can be stunned!
What did you read?
Kirill Ankudinov In his article "Inside after" he writes: “There are situations when there is too much information (including fiction), and the need for it is small”. K. Ankudinov does not specify the quality of fiction, the need for which is small. Then he writes: "There was an information flood." Apparently, in this flood, K. Ankudinov choked - and blurted out something wrong. The demand for high quality literature has always been great. And a hundred years ago they read M.Yu. Lermontov, A.N. Tolstoy and other classics, and today they are read. They do not read and do not honor graphomania, outwardly having signs of poetry or prose. There were 10,000 writers in the Writers' Union of the USSR. Who are they reading today? Well, about a hundred or two prose writers and the same number of poets. And where are the other 9,600 "engineers of human souls"? Whoa! - Can not hear. Apparently, the "diplomas" of these "engineers" were fake. It's even funny to talk about it.
By the way, about humor. With what interest did we once read the last page of the Literary Gazette or watch the TV show Around Laughter, which was hosted by Alexander Ivanov. Today, neither in "LG" nor on TV there is no worthwhile humor at all. But how much humor our today's literary critics have. Here, for example, the same K. Ankudinov in the above-mentioned article writes that "the literary process simultaneously exists and does not exist" or "poetry has acquired the status of invisible." Like this? His further explanations of these theses are chaotic and contradictory.
The desire to throw overboard the "Literary ship of the new Russia" almost all of Soviet literature led to the fact that the best traditions of Russian classical literature were thrown overboard. And the holds and decks of the new "Literary Ship" are filled with ugliness, quirks, anomalies and marginality. And who will clear these Augean stables - only God knows.
Almost all modern writers have already forgotten what a "beautiful person" is in Russian literature. And if the theme of the “little man” appears today, then the authors no longer treat him as “carefully” as our classics did.
From detectives already dazzle in the eyes when you go into bookstores or approach the kiosks of Rospechat. It would seem, why should the killer kill the killer of the killer, but stop Dontsov- this is from the realm of fantasy. If the idea of Harry Potter came to her mind, it's scary to imagine how many books would appear on the shelves. No wonder someone came up with the following phrase: “An attempt by Daria Dontsova to paint a ballpoint pen ended with another two-volume book.”
You read new books and think: a generation of proofreaders who do not know the Russian language has grown up. In a word, wherever you throw - everywhere yin, wherever you look - everywhere yang.
Lived up! Russian spelling is checked by American Word.
And the speech of our major officials: “And in general, I have a large vocabulary ... this ... like his ...”.
When readers accuse modern writers of the poor quality of their texts and exclaim “Where is the new Pushkin!”, some literary critics mumble something about the presumption of innocence. To paraphrase Irina and Leonid Tyukhtyaev, the dialogue between reader and writer today looks something like this:
How you bored me! It would be better if you didn't.
And there is no better than us, - the writer answers.
You can, of course, not engage in the analysis of modern literature. In other words, as the English writer said Helen Fielding: "I realized: the secret to losing weight is not to weigh yourself."
Well, it's enough! I'm tired of writing about all this. How is it Igor Guberman? “It happens that you wake up like a bird, with a winged spring on a platoon, and you want to live and work, but by breakfast it passes.”
I am sure that not everyone likes what I write about and how. Someone has already given me the name "Literary Budyonny", but you must admit that in literature it is better to have such a name than not to have any.
In his article “Literary journals are going through hard times”, the editor-in-chief of Roman-gazeta Yuri Kozlov writes: “... Yes, most literary publications - Novy Mir, Moscow, Banner, Youth, October ”, “Roman-newspapers”, “Literary Russia” - an interesting story and great services to society.
Well, that's right. It is unlikely that anyone will seriously argue with this. But the trouble is that the merits mentioned by the editor are in the distant past. And what are the merits of these publications today, or at least over the past ten to twenty years? Someone, of course, may consider it a notable phenomenon that Znamya published five times the “masterpieces” of the former minister A. Ulyukaev, and the editor-in-chief of Novy Mir A. Vasilevsky has a tendency to regularly publish his wife’s poems. (Well, how not to please your own little man). However, readers noticed this, but did not attribute what they read to the bright events in modern Russian literature.
Let's look at one of the main "achievements" of the "leading" literary and art magazines. The circulation of the Banner in 1990 was 1 million copies, in 2016 - 2 thousand copies. The "Friendship of Peoples" in 1989 had a circulation of 1 million 100 thousand copies, in 2017 - 1200 copies. The circulation of Novy Mir in 1990 was 2 million 700 thousand copies, in 2017 - 2300 copies. The Neva had 675,000 copies in 1989, and 1,500 copies in 2017. The circulation of "October" in 1989 was 380 thousand copies, in 2016 - 1 thousand copies. "Youth" in 1989 - 3 million 100 thousand copies, in 2015 - 6500 copies.
These figures simply "scream" about the obvious trouble both in literary magazines and in the country.
Let's return to the above-mentioned article by Yuri Kozlov. He proposes: “The “gold” list should (without discussion) include Novy Mir, Our Contemporary, Banner, Moscow, Roman-newspaper, October, Youth, Literary newspaper”, “Literary Russia”, “Neva”, “Zvezda”, “Siberian Lights”, “Volga”. And further: “The government ... makes an indefinite decision to finance annually, as a separate budget line, a mandatory subscription to this “package” for at least five thousand of the largest Russian libraries and educational institutions where they study modern literature.”
But the question arises: why no discussion? Just because 30-50 years ago these publications published the best works of Soviet writers? The argument, frankly, is unconvincing. And why should the government finance this particular package? Because many editors in chief prefer to print themselves, each other, their friends, associates, etc.?
The editors-in-chief at least read what they write about their journals on the Internet. Here is just one example. “Recently I was in Moscow. I witnessed how in one of the bookstores they laid out a pack of “thick” literary magazines (already outdated issues) at the entrance, apparently not sold at the time. The store thus "cleaned" their shelves. Unfortunately, these magazines were stale for free: in my presence, not a single buyer took a single copy from this pack. And, judging by the thickness of the pack, few of the readers were interested in them. It became very insulting for modern writers!
The government, of course, urgently needs to finance the publication of literary journals, but the editorial boards must first change the vicious practice of selecting texts for publication.
In a conversation with director Ella Agranovskaya, the editor-in-chief of the Znamya magazine, S. Chuprinin, talks about the fall in the circulation of his magazine by 500 times over the past 25 years and names three main reasons: “Social issues have largely gone to the Internet, to television, to mass publications . Further, along with the paper version, we have an electronic version, and those who read it are much more than those who pick up a paper copy. And the third reason, perhaps the most serious: ... Reading in Russia ... has become incomparably less than it was in the years of our youth.
S. Chuprinin is right, but only partly. There is only one main reason: reading has become catastrophically less. But Chuprinin is either afraid to fully admit this main reason, or he is cunning, and therefore he bashfully hides behind the introductory words “maybe”. Otherwise, it will be necessary to recognize their mediocre policy in the selection of texts for publication.
We are opening the latest available issue of the Znamya magazine (No. 11 for 2017). We take the first (according to the content of the magazine) poet Andrei Permyakov and read his poem, which is called "Yelnik":
- You yourself are a cuckoo, and this is a zigzitsa!
- If it cuckoos, then it's a cuckoo!
- And if it's a zigzag, is it zigzag?
- If it's a zigzag, it's probably hibernating.
- No, if it hibernates, it means a frog!
And kicking at this time snag
Drive along the path.
And hands at this time mash
pass on to each other,
Not mash, but store mash - Elahu.
Bank on the jacket makes such a wet imprint.
Having heard a sudden capercaillie, you will certainly gasp with fear.
For two of us, we are in our ninth decade.
Ashes to ashes.
And these are poems that should be on the pages of the "leading" literary magazine?! What is it, the artistic taste of the editor or something else? (The prose writer Alexander Karasev, apparently, was so angry with the chief editors that he called his notes “Crime and betrayal of thick literary magazines in Russia”). And after reading such rubbish (the language does not dare to call this nonsense poetry), we can safely assume that the prose in this magazine is most likely the same "highly artistic".
That's why "they began to read catastrophically less." This is a significant merit of the editors-in-chief. By the way, on the Internet you can find a lot of reviews of both writers and readers about the editors-in-chief. There is such Evgeny Stepanov, who is known as the publisher and editor-in-chief of the literary magazines "Children of Ra", "Futurum ART", "Foreign Notes" and the newspaper "Literary News". The author of the anonymous article “From the world in a thread” (not everyone is as brave as Alexander Karasev) very accurately described this editor: “Evgeny Stepanov is a strange character in the literary space and what he does also smacks of some kind of amateur art.”
I typed on the Internet the phrase “Why don’t they read modern literary magazines?” and received hundreds of responses from readers. Let's take a look at some of them:
- “... because these magazines do not contain what is relevant today, there is no voice of honor, dignity and pain for what is happening ... I often think, what would Vysotsky say now? ..”;
- “I don’t read for several reasons: it’s hard to buy, the fear of wasting time on boring reading”;
- “In the late 80s I read just a huge amount. Didn't fit in the mailbox. And recently I tried "New World" - no, not quite the feeling ";
“Modern youth cannot and does not like to read! Because there is nothing special to read: modern literature is in deep decline”;
- “If there is a degradation of society, then music, and cinema, and literature (I read it and threw it away) degrade, which we are successfully observing now. Real talents disappear, because they have neither promotion nor patrons, only a huge number of mediocre bloated competitors, crushing with their majority and advertising ”;
- “I take magazines, of course, in the library (these are houses where they give books to read home for free, who doesn’t know)”;
- “And it's not even about the decline of the literary-journal tradition. In my opinion, the point is in literature itself: it has ceased to be the mouthpiece of fresh thinking”;
- “You know, there is such an anecdote. Pobedonostsev arrives in some provincial town, goes into a local newspaper, asks the editor-in-chief, what do you write about, how do you live? A wizened old man comes out and answers: “We are feeding, your honor!” That's how it is now";
- “Brevity - p. t.! Plus the clip thinking of the youth, the Internet in a rush and a liquid brain that can thicken for a few seconds and again ... uh, I forgot what I wanted to say ... ";
- “Before perestroika, I regularly read Novy Mir, Foreign Literature, October, etc. These magazines were like a ray of light in our lives, they gave a lot of food for thought, broadened our horizons. I don't read now. I don't find anything interesting."
Reading the first verse:
Is it possible to frighten us with all sorts of nonsense
like eyes, his mother, Bataille?
It melts in our spring,
Oh my God!
In our multichannel passage yard
You can only move on the map.
And what was still breathing and moving in December,
It became a purple "snowdrop" in March.
Most likely, M. Okun, when he wrote these lines, simply suffocated with inspiration.
The poetic selection of the above poet is completed by such a “work”:
"Are you cold?" -
Mom asked.
to me this cold
Not cold for a long time.
How can one not recall the aphorism of the unforgettable V.S. Chernomyrdin "This has never happened before, and suddenly - again!" I believe that comments on this "poetry" are superfluous (isn't that why the magazine "Ural" today has a meager circulation, although in 1991 its circulation was about 2 million copies?) And how nice it would be to see real poetry in this place! For example, read Mikhail Anishchenko, well, at least his poem "Lady":
The pain is late. Conscience is unclear.
Darkness over the country, but darker thoughts.
What are you, incredible Motherland,
Are you moving into the realm of shadows?
Don't go, please stay
Freeze in the cold, get wet in the rain
Fall and lie, pretend and complain
Just please don't leave.
Dear motherland! In fear and rage
Let me figure it all out...
Or am I doomed by mentality
To drown Mumu the dog forever?
The river splashes and in the morning haze
Someone's voice flies straight to me:
“It is necessary to kill not a dog, but a lady,
Vanya Turgenev will understand and forgive.
It is bitter that all kinds of writing "perches" easily "moor" to the editorial offices of literary magazines, and such talented poets as Mikhail Anishchenko die in obscurity and poverty.
Quite often, writers share their impressions of communication with literary officials on the Internet. Here is how one young author describes a visit to the editorial office of Novy Mir: “I ran into a short, slender man of retirement age - the editor of the prose department (?) He interrogated me:“ What was the last thing you read in our magazine? I did not offend him with the truth (that there was nothing special to read there), but answered that I had read “miscellaneous”, without naming a specific one. He angrily threw: “You don’t read us - why should we read you ?!” and almost threw a manuscript at me.”
Well, why not a plot for a short story? However, this topic deserves a separate discussion.
Valery Rumyantsev lives in Sochi, writes fables, parodies, stories, laconisms. Published in the literary magazines "Southern Star", "Golden Pen", "Ray", etc.
IMAGES AND TRAPS OF POETRY.Valery Rumyantsev (Zorkin Boris Ivanovich) was born in 1951 in the Orenburg region in the family of a judge. He graduated from high school with a gold medal. He studied at the Kuibyshev Aviation Institute, at the Faculty of Law of the North Ossetian State University. After graduating from the Faculty of Philology of the Voronezh State Pedagogical Institute, for three years he worked as a teacher, head teacher in one of the schools of the Chechen-Ingush Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic. After graduating from the Higher Courses of the KGB of the USSR, he served in the state security agencies for thirty years. From the bodies of the FSB of the Russian Federation he retired with the rank of colonel. He is married, has two children and four grandchildren. Lyrical and humorous poems, fables, epigrams, literary parodies, laconisms; realistic, satirical and fantastic stories by Valery Rumyantsev were published in 140 editions of the Russian Federation and abroad (including 37 literary magazines).
* * *
She came twice
But I turned her down twice.
And raise your eyes to heaven
She said dejectedly:
“Oh my god, what an idiot.
Time is running faster and faster
And he is a prisoner of empty worries
Can't get any wiser.
What did he think of himself?
Tell me: come back later...
Go against fate...
Lord, let me be stricter with him."
In the break of the clouds flashed light,
A hundred guns rumbled.
And from the sky came the answer:
"Leave him. He is incorrigible."
The clouds rose like a candle,
Whose flame in the last moment beats.
And Death left, grumbling under his breath,
Anyway, she'll be back.
Life went nowhere
And it seemed to us
That all the past years
Such a small thing.
What's ahead is a long way
And only towards the light.
And we don't have to turn
From him to the ditch.
Meanwhile, our bright path
Appeared suddenly dark.
And timidly beats anxiety in the chest:
Are we going there?
It makes me want to go crazy sometimes...
But the ladder was removed by the Cerberus of reason.
The mind cannot - a floating prison -
To stick to a foreign land for a minute.
We sail according to the will of the wind and fate
Towards endless dawns.
Although it is bitter to realize, but we are slaves
Not by us created plot.
Life does not end suddenly.
She hints a hundred times
That this circle has ended
And our time is running out.
It would seem, what to be sad about,
After all, the new path is still unclear.
You can't judge him yet.
All of a sudden, he's beautiful.
But that's the way man is
That is always afraid of change.
But in fact, life is a run,
And you need to take the plunge.
To be late with wisdom in the blood,
Because life is always impatient.
When the nightingales sing at night,
We have no time to listen to their overflows.
When we get stuck in life
And it looks like it's time to think
Life freezes in confusion for a moment
And again throw us into a series of madness.
And only in the evening the sunset of life,
Enveloping time in red waves,
It will suddenly take us back many years
Where wisdom follows us.
And we will meet with her eye to eye,
And stupidity will burst into flames.
And life is like a vine
Filled with life-giving nectar.
THE CANDLE WAS BURNING
There was the sound of swords and the rustle of arrows
Habitual business.
And chaos ensued
And anger seethed.
Thundered wars on earth
They didn't interrupt.
Poems were written in silence
Poems were composed.
People were thrown like balls
To all limits.
But the souls were hot
And the blood boiled.
Met people in the war
And they parted.
Poems were written in silence
Poems were composed.
People were burned at the stake
For dissimilarity.
But their thoughts, passing through fear,
They gave rise.
Human fate under the moon
Intertwined.
Poems were written in silence
Poems were composed.
In all ages, through the hustle and bustle,
Through the wildness of feeling
Stand up for beauty
Priests of Art.
They soared above
Didn't go down.
Poems were written in silence
Poems were composed.
Eagle was born in captivity.
The time has come, I was going to take off,
But someone invented the chain
To stay on earth.
And no matter how he beat his wings,
But to the long-awaited flight
Did not bring eagle ardor:
Reliably the chain was made by someone.
So man. No matter how you strive
Up from deceit and deceit,
You are pulled down by a magnet
Persistently chain the state.
Go crazy in the dead of midnight
And along an unknown path
Walk until dawn
In a silent joyless crowd.
Throw away the hopes of the network
And Tomorrow to see point-blank,
To accept everything without a shudder
And do not enter into an argument with the real.
To see the Truth in the foamy Braga,
Calmly accept blasphemy.
How easy it is on paper.
How difficult it is for real.
A ray of sunshine only missed for a moment.
Clouds, suddenly appearing as a monster,
In memory, all out of place swirled.
Bitter dreams passing right into reality.
Wise thoughts that revealed worthlessness.
The past is like an ardent enemy of the present.
People who lived meaningless lives.
In the memory of life, others, ringing,
Filled with sharp sparks soul,
Vieingly inviting into the unknown,
Feelings are hot, feelings are frozen.
Clouds over the past and clouds over the future
Tears of annoyance shed like rain.
A symbol in the heart forever abode,
They are circling, having absorbed everything in the world into themselves.
ROMANCE
Today, at this hour, when the moon
Shines in the sky like a coin,
I want to sing about the one that is in love
Was once a Russian poet.
Oh, how hard this lot was!
Loving someone who doesn't love himself
The one who just came here for a moment,
And as soon as it comes out, it immediately cuts everything off.
And how many insults were demolished,
When he left her for the Muse.
And my heart still hurts
From the weight of the lost cargo.
But there is sweet pain in sorrow.
And, remembering what happened to her,
She whispers barely audibly, like a password,
Poems of what I once loved.
Moonlight pours through the windows into the house,
She is filled with memories...
And few people think about
That without her there would be no poet.
What a sound this word is!
How many secrets are hidden in it!
I repeat it again
The soul burns with his fire.
Divine word.
It contains the essence of being.
It is the foundation of the universe.
It contains death. It has pain in it.
In it is my life.
Valery Rumyantsev (Sochi)
Our Contest
Valery Rumyantsev was born in 1988 between Sochi and Volgograd from a creative union of two men (see below). Lyrical and humorous poems, fables, epigrams, literary parodies, laconisms, as well as realistic, satirical and fantastic stories by Valery Rumyantsev were repeatedly published in newspapers and magazines (Chayan, Kapkan, Okroshka, Wasp, New Crocodile ”, “Nakhalyonok”, “Young Technician”, “Nizhny Novgorod Province”, “Ray”, “Russian Echo”, “Literary Bashkortostan”, “Literary Strangers”, “Golden Pen”, “South Star”, “Niva”, “ Lights of Kuzbass”, “Black Sea Star”, “Prioksky Dawns”, etc.). From 2003 to 2007 ten books by Valery Rumyantsev were published.
VALERY RUMYANTSEV
THE ROAD TO PARNAS
* * *
The road to Parnassus is thorny,
And there are no signs.
But a traveler with the soul of an artist
Everything is beckoning guiding light.
Through day and night, through heat and cold...
A string of years passes
And the traveler is just as young at heart
And warmed by the same flame.
In the swamp of momentary affairs
The people are up to their necks here,
And the traveler has no shelter here:
His destiny is to move forward.
Sometimes he curses the road
But unable to turn.
To know that God needs something
For him to walk this path.* * *
Call through time: how are you?
We, in general, know how, but still? ..
Though we go to the same gate
But we are not the same in everything.
How are the people there? Or the crowd?
Does it still confuse understanding?
The people are tall. The crowd is stupid.
And as a result: all people are brothers.
One and the same... My God!
For centuries, time flows into eternity,
And the world was like a big prison
For thought, it remains so.
Trying to change something
Slow and microscopic.
But the thread stretches through time
Insights and personal empathy.
And if the world is destined
Someday, come out into the light
We'll drink light wine
For the bright fate of poets.* * *
The stars sang about love in the night,
People huddled under the stars.
It seemed to them that the sky was silent,
That it has always been and always will be.
The star choir continued its vocals,
He sang about the eternal, about beautiful feelings.
The voice entered the ears of the people,
But it was all in vain.
The human ear is not accustomed
Receive revelation from above.
Hint only about the stellar language,
They will immediately say: the roof has gone.* * *
Sapphire lakes
Among the sparkling snow.
And here, wherever you look,
Everywhere cleanliness and bliss.
A swirling mist below
Hides the houses of the villages.
There are squabbles, vanity, deceit
And the flickering of generations.
Here - the thoughts of eternity flow
Slowly, without emotion
But only here to find shelter
We can't do it for a long time.* * *
Immersed in politics - there is no way back.
The drug of power saps the soul
And under the empty pompous nonsense
The remnants of former ideals destroys.
And life flies headlong into hell,
Though it seems - to greatness and glory,
Under the whisper of admiration - for the time being,
Until you suddenly find yourself in a ditch.
And a swarm of comrades-in-arms will flutter to others,
To vehemently tear your whole life to pieces.
In what we will do for the sake of power,
And the drops are not in our power to change.* * *
It makes me want to go crazy sometimes...
But the ladder was removed by the Cerberus of reason.
The mind cannot - a floating prison -
To stick to a foreign land for a minute.
We sail according to the will of the wind and fate
Towards endless dawns.
Although it is bitter to realize, but we are slaves
Not a story we created.* * *
Life in dazzling delirium
And I wander through life.
To speak the truth,
Now I honor one thing - the charter.
In the charter, that not a couple of phrases,
A new paraphrase is out.
The charter has the answer to everything,
And there is nothing else in it.
The charter, in fact, is a book of books.
Not one question perished in it.
For those who are blind, he is a bright light.
For the sighted - utter nonsense.
He frees us from thoughts
So that we can live in delirium.
And we live, in spite of the brains.
And how lucky the brainless...* * *
Iron tread follows the age of the century
Fragile human minds.
Man clings to myths
Not realizing that life is just a joke.
A spring murmurs through the time of the mind,
But it doesn't end up going anywhere.
And only one mysterious joker,
Maybe he understands something.* * *
Truth has a thousand faces
And a thousand words to cover up.
She follows from under the eyelashes
For the sacrament of bloodshed.
And blood is shed for the truth,
And she, bloodthirsty, is not enough.
The battle will end - and again
It's the same song from the beginning.* * *
Life does not end suddenly.
She hints a hundred times
That this circle has ended
And our time is running out.
It would seem, what to be sad about,
After all, the new path is still unclear.
You can't judge him yet.
All of a sudden, he's beautiful.
But that's the way man is
That is always afraid of change.
But in fact, life is a run,
And you need to take the plunge.* * *
The thought came, wagged its tail
And in the depths of the subconscious
dived mockingly,
Breaking the learning process.
And I sit stupidly
Saying, "What was that?"
And I'm still waiting: maybe again
The thought will come. After all, she came...* * *
Unsteady shadows in the fluttering curtains.
Snow pattern on window canvas.
Shadows of heroes, with silent reproach
Suddenly flying headlong into the void.
Shadows of creatures of a diseased mind,
Abandoned by him in the world of fairy tales and dreams.
What for the author was just a joke,
It caused pain and tears.
So not connected by a plot tape,
Shadows rush about in the nonsense of years.
And the thought is imperceptibly strengthened:
Maybe that was the whole plot?* * *
Minutes pass, years pass.
Turning pages of life.
The plot, if truth be told, is nonsense.
The characters are all boring faces.
Why was this boring novel published?
Really without meaning, without purpose?
Fog creeps from the pages of lace,
Like smoke from a locked door.
What if the book turns out to be
A collection of vague prophecies?
And secret signs crowd around
But the mind does not want to see them?
The answer obviously comes at the end
In the chased words of the epilogue.
And in a strange smile on a kind face
Far near God.* * *
No tricks of fate
Not able to turn us off the path.
We are walking in the midst of the plain of life
And we still have a long way to go.
Nothing that the path lies in darkness.
We believe that the light will shine at the end.
It is better to live with hope in a barracks,
Than without any purpose in the palace.* * *
The smell of dampness and mushrooms.
A fallen leaf is filled with moisture.
Close trunks of oaks
The hidden mouth of the ravine.
Walking along the path through the forest,
Just like that without bad plans.
Rain falls from heaven
Monotonously rustling in the weeds.
Drops-beads on the branches
Scattered everywhere autumn.
Last days of October
Time takes away in a quiet distance.* * *
On the chessboard, passions boil up in a battle.
The enemy's horse is hot - as much steam comes from the mouth.
The rooks duel with the nimble queen,
And the elephants rush to the right and to the left.
The king hides behind a palisade of pawns:
It's time to pay for everything, but he's not without sin.
Mistakes and bugs. Calculations and miscalculations.
Communities of figures like people settle scores.
And the participants in the battle are hardly aware,
What is brought to life is not at all their decisions.* * *
When with a cold mind
You flip through all the past
Then suddenly you will understand: in yourself
All that was trouble is fault.
And you branded fate, enemies,
The era and the decline of morals,
Not understanding: the world is
Like balms and poisons
Here everyone chooses for himself.
And he makes his own destiny.
Well then to heaven
Blames it for it.* * *
Forgotten flights in a dream.
Hanging on my old biplane.
And does not beckon already in the spring
The wind of wanderings in the salty fog.
In the hustle and bustle of everyday life,
Endless little things
The plane is overgrown with cobwebs,
And the permanent pilot turned gray.
But sometimes in the past it will flash
A shaft of unfulfilled plans.
He will discard and oppression of age,
And useless occupations blockage.
And when this wave comes,
And the vanity will recede for a moment,
Suddenly you want to sit at the helm
And again shout: “From the screw!”
______________________________________________________________________________________
Valery Rumyantsev
- pseudonym of two authors. Zorkin Boris Ivanovich was born in 1951 in the Orenburg region in the family of a judge. He graduated from high school with a gold medal. He studied at the Kuibyshev Aviation Institute, at the Faculty of Law of the North Ossetian State University. After graduating from the Faculty of Philology of the Voronezh State Pedagogical Institute, for three years he worked as a teacher, head teacher in one of the schools of the Chechen-Ingush Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic. After graduating from the Higher Courses of the KGB of the USSR, he served in the state security agencies for thirty years. From the bodies of the FSB of the Russian Federation he retired with the rank of colonel. Lives in Sochi, works as a director of a sanatorium. Since 1988, he has appeared in print in collaboration with the Volgograd writer Grebenyuk Valery Vladimirovich.
I recently received an email from our reader:
To the editors of the portal LitKritika.by
Thank you for reprinting my article from Literaturnaya Rossiya newspaper recently.
I would like to send you my new articles for publication.
Please answer one question: are you only interested in unpublished articles or can you send those
what appeared in print?Valery Rumyantsev,
Sochi.
It's about the article ". Of course, I am interested in any works of Valery Rumyantsev, because I published his article for a simple reason - I liked it for its objectivity.
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Zorkin Boris Ivanovich(Literary pseudonym Valery Rumyantsev) was born in 1951 in the Orenburg region in the family of a judge. He graduated from high school with a gold medal. He studied at the Kuibyshev Aviation Institute, at the Faculty of Law of the North Ossetian State University. After graduating from the Faculty of Philology of the Voronezh State Pedagogical Institute, for three years he worked as a teacher, head teacher in one of the schools of the Chechen-Ingush Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic. After graduating from the Higher Courses of the KGB of the USSR, he served in the state security agencies for thirty years. From the bodies of the FSB of the Russian Federation he retired with the rank of colonel. He is married, has two children and four grandchildren. Lives in Sochi. Lyrical and humorous poems, fables, epigrams, literary parodies, laconisms; Realistic, satirical and fantastic stories by Valery Rumyantsev were published in 150 editions of the Russian Federation and abroad (including 47 literary magazines). Ten books by Valery Rumyantsev have been published. |
It turned out that B. Zorkin and I have something in common in our biography.
I am publishing an interesting article about awards. We don't write like that. Moreover, the author's approach is original: who are the judges? V. Rumyantsev decided to see who the "evaluators" are, those who evaluate, to whom to give the award, and to whom - not, who directly works with the texts of the nominees? And here's a pretty interesting analysis.
Thank you, Boris Ivanovich, for your attention and trust in the Belarusian literary portal. I hope your work will attract the attention of our readers, because what you write about is also relevant for us.
Ales Novika
Literary awards in the role of jewelry
It was recently reported that Alexandra Nikolaenko received the Russian Booker Prize for 2017 for her novel Killing Bobrykin. The story of a murder. And I thought: in a bunch of novels written today, the most interesting thing is the murder? Or, perhaps, in modern Russia, it is murder that is the main content of being? Neither service to the Motherland, nor love, nor friendship, nor ... Namely, murder?
I once read a book marked by the Russian Booker: in 2010, Elena Kolyadina became a laureate with her novel Flower Cross. The impression was terrible: a mixture of graphomania with timid pornography. In a word, "afedron". In my opinion, the author does not understand that a temporary alliance with vulgarity turns into a permanent capitulation to it.
If the "Russian Booker" is considered one of the main literary awards in Russia, then, logically, the jury should include the best masters of the artistic word. I wonder if there are poets on the jury? I thought. Still, poets feel better the "taste" of the artistic word. It turned out that there is: a poet and critic from St. Petersburg Alexei Purin, who works as the head of the poetry department and part-time head of the criticism department of the literary and art magazine Zvezda.
Before reading, most likely, a long novel about a murder, I decided to get acquainted with the poems of A. Purin. If the poems are good, then the evaluator of the novel is unlikely to “miss”. I read two dozen poems on the Internet - I didn’t get hooked. Well, how can delight, for example, the poem "Event"?
Officers' fees ... Such a fume
in the morning it is impossible to enter the assembly hall.
It won't start at all. Ten forty. Nightmare!
Why were they ordered to arrive at nine?
Who would bring beer? .. Every minute major
runs some, "now,–He speaks,–
Let's start…” Half an hour more. Into the corridor
emboldened, we crawl out to smoke. Lit,
tearing apart!
looking around, with things to go out already ...
All of a sudden, everyone is driven back. "Colonel Paley
will bring you now ... "Bring nothing
he can not. He is also on training camp in Moscow
just flew away ... And again running around.
Finally, for fifteen minutes: "boo-boo-boo ..."
Recorded? Adyu! .. And how it was not a day.
What can I say? Literary heights can only be reached in the depths of thought or feeling. And here thoughts and feelings do not smell. Apparently, A. Purin believes that poetry is the same prose, but only arranged in a column and periodically “flavored” with rhythm and rhymes. Most likely, that is why he was taken to the jury, which should evaluate prose works. And how can one not remember A. Griboyedov: “And who are the judges?”
If the rating in the Russian Booker is given by people like A. Purin, then I will not read the novel by Alexandra Nikolaenko yet.
Moreover, literary critic Sergey Morozov adds "fuel to the fire", who in his article "And yet it's not there" writes: “…it is hardly possible to reward a text product that usually gets shortlisted. It is simply unreadable, that is, in essence it does not imply the existence of a reader.
And yet, what are literary awards for? Writer Yuri Buida directly and frankly answered this question: “Any writer is pleased to receive awards... For us, literary awards are, first of all, financial assistance.” In short, where there are prizes, there is fuss around money-money.
The newspaper "Private Correspondent" put the question before literary critics "To what extent do literary awards reflect the literary process?" and got answers.
Sergei Belyakov: “Reflect, but not quite adequately. Often frankly weak writers become finalists and even laureates.”
Vladimir Novikov: “As is the process, so are the reflections. Axiological chaos, creative backwardness of literature and the practical absence of meaningful philosophical and aesthetic reflection in criticism and in the literary press.
Olga Novikova: "... it is very rare that the names of the awarded authors coincide with the result of the selection that time produces."
Other literary critics have spoken in much the same vein. Familiarization with the "poetry" of various laureates in the "leading" literary and art magazine "Znamya" confirms the conclusions of the literary critics cited above. Let's honor together.
Andrey Polyakov is a laureate of the Moscow Transit Prize, the Andrei Bely Prize, the Russian Prize, the Andrei Voznesensky Parabola Prize, (No. 1 for 2018).
Red Orpheus
… as if the sun had sunk
crimson mirror in the river
and the shadow of Orpheus shook his head -
moon head in your hand
so that words become other stars
in the blinding haze of the internet.
This is already from the series "Ostap suffered." One would like to advise A. Polyakov: you need to look after yourself. We read the following poem.
…an interesting bodily skeleton
nineteen years lived
Komsomol women in a military scarf
in the lotus position anti-war
you noticed in the Museum in a dream
thundering through the hall on a horse
like some kind of Buddhist weekday -
remember something about it sometimes!
What does not withstand any criticism tends to become a standard. You can write whatever you want, unless, of course, you are not being read.
Dmitry Vedenyapin is a laureate of prestigious literary awards (what awards are in question, the editors bashfully keep silent), (No. 12 for 2017).
Faith is not in this and that,
Specifically, what is
Ours, in the sense, our everything,
And there is no more hope.
The outlook is not clear.
But when a careless bird
Spring will break
I hope out of habit.
The nightingales chirp,
The night will rise in the doorway.
No one will be in the house
Except truth and love.
The editors of the magazine tried to present D. Vedenyapin's repeated laureate to readers as a safe-conduct, but, in this case, the safe-conduct turned out to be filkin. Such “poems” only confirm the words of the Metropolitan of Kaluga and Borovsk Clement: “…today we lack Pushkins and Dostoyevskys. There are not enough writers who would be followed by the people and began to build Holy Russia, who would teach goodness, love, fidelity.
Maxim Matkovsky, laureate of the "Activation of the Word", "Debut" and "Russian Prize" awards (No. 12 for 2017).
I came to Moscow
and you didn't meet me
then I went down to the subway,
and went, and went, and got up,
and went down, and asked, and asked again,
and came, but not there, and returned,
but not there, underground Asia,
and some people in the clothes of the late eighties,
and football fans, and bastards, and bastards, and bastards.
a lot of bastards!
where did I need to go?
either to Dostoevskaya, or to Paveletskaya,
I bought a map in a stall and looked at the map:
and there, oh, oh, oh!
Spiritual food is increasingly found in semi-finished products. Even when you read this "masterpiece" for the second time, it's still funny. And then - very sad.
Vasily Borodin is a laureate of the Andrey Bely and Bella awards (No. 7 for 2017).
Just dreamed of backyards
some stall in the wall:
night, snow, and everyone eats stew -
dogs, people, and me
dog poking in pockets
and there is no food, only tea.
I tell her without deceit
as a person: “you see: tea”,
I shake a red pack at my ear,
and next to the woman is silent.
Steam flies, and the smoke is bitter.
Crowds of graphomaniacs rush to glory. They do not even suspect that real glory is when they recognize in profile.
I wonder what kind of poems the manager writes. Olga Ermolaeva, the poetry department of Znamya, who has been in charge of poetry in the magazine since 1978? I read a dozen of her poems on the Internet - and was surprised: very good poems.
I also got acquainted with the review of the poet Yuri Belikov about her, where there are these words: “Yermolaeva, during the service of Russian poetry, did not publish any of her poems in the Banner”. It certainly commands respect. Or maybe she is just ashamed to publish next to graphomaniacs, and of the lowest standard? But why such a selection of tests? Or maybe Olga Ermolaeva does not decide who and what to publish in the magazine? There are many questions, and, first of all, to the head of the journal, S. Chuprinin.
The former editor-in-chief of Literaturnaya Gazeta, Yuri Polyakov, once bluntly said: “Do you know what, with rare exceptions, the crisis of current magazines is largely connected with? With the fact that under the Soviet regime, magazines were led by prominent writers. And even very large ones: Tvardovsky, Narovchatov, Kataev, Polevoy ... Now, even such serious magazines as Novy Mir or Znamya are run by little-known people and it is not clear what they have done in literature.
There are questions to those who determine who to give this or that literary award. I remember once read the phrase - "Everyone gets what he deserves, according to the one who is on the distribution." Apparently, therefore, the palm dries quickly. We have more than sixty literary awards in our country. Where are the masterpieces? Indeed, most awards are given after imaginary victories.
In 2007, Novye Izvestia published an article by Evgeny Yevtushenko “Venichka Erofeev from Samara”, in which the outstanding poet admires the work of Mikhail Anishchenko: “Finally, the long-awaited great Russian poet has come - the best gift to poetry readers in the last thirty years, if not more ...”
And over the last thirty years of his life, Mikhail Vsevolodovich Anishchenko has not received a single literary award.
Your deeds are wonderful, Lord!
Valery Rumyantsev,
