Aleko

Probably not bad

Get up early

play billiards,

Understanding wine

Merry to love

young Moldovan women

Or prance

On a hot horse.

He is called a rake

Not new

But after wine

A tiring dream

And boring,

It's funny in Chisinau,

In the country where

Nason wandered.

So skinny

Not life, but a cripple,

Delights alone

And the only worries

Today behind the camp

Forget the past days.

And quiet and empty

Where was the song.

And golden dust

Smokes at the heels

The kids are screaming

blankets bloom,

goggle horses,

The carriages creak.

Scary and black

horse thieves,

And extraordinary

Legends and dreams

And everyone is good

At night, conversations

And the songs are beautiful

And thoughts are clear.

gypsy sun

Stands above the lights;

It's in damage

But light shines

And the steppe is endless...

Smell of horses

And you, like Aleko,

Gone far.

freedom seeker

And the lord's descendant,

But still a gypsy

The law is unknown.

And slender, and dexterous,

And thin at the waist

Dragged in red

Big sash.

Jealous gloomy,

Tramp homeless,

You seem to be dead

Longing, loving;

you were lonely

In this huge life

But I never

I dont forget you.

Already in Moldova

songs other,

And these in their own way

The songs are right

Spread out everywhere

Carpets are expensive

From the best flowers

From fragrant grass.

And the night is coming on

My hour is coming

My lonely

The lamp is on

And dear Aleko,

Aleko unhappy

Comes

And he talks to me for a long time.

Absheron Peninsula

Leaving Baku

remember what I saw

I am a fan of work

war and fire.

In the temple of fire worshipers

fire idol

for some reason

doesn't interest me.

Well, make a fire

beat head on stone

and the fire rises

smoky, horned.

Not! - I shout about the other,

that is raised by hand

and shoulders

Baku shock brigades.

Not Queen Tamara

singing in the castle

and Turkish women getting up

to the overall ranking.

I recognize them everywhere

good posture,

by the way they turn blue

thrown back burqas.

And, sweeping aside longing,

stutter, comrades,

about fatigue, about

that the work is not up to the shoulders?

Hell no!

This includes Baku in Transcaucasia,

In Transcaucasia, recaptured from the British ...

The wind thundered.

The weather was awful -

gray waves

hit at once

but the pier has departed,

waving handkerchiefs,

good wishes

escorting us.

Enough breakups.

Let's go to the suitcases

build, giggling,

provisions in the ranks -

let's drink teliani,

What are the seas, water to us?

Let's go, I think

from this water.

Living everywhere is great

on board washed,

a little recovered

from various crowds,

deck per minute

overgrown with life -

laying blankets,

drives tea.

Hear the lyric

telegrams from the front -

the sky is big

and great water.

Quiet on the horizon line

oil tankers balance ships.

And the hours are crawling

swinging and ticking,

like boats,

rustling on the water,

and the moon above us

shone silent -

moderately yellowish,

moderately good.

Bored watching

for the game of seals,

we swim and see -

we are oppressed by poods

different moods,

many impressions

homogeneous mass

sky and water.

Stop messing around -

let's go to the suitcases,

build, giggling,

provisions in the ranks,

let's drink teliani, -

what are the seas, waters to us?

Let's go, I think -

from this water.

Baku

You stand on the earth as a beloved son -

healthy, good in every way,

and, smelling through and through of kerosene,

you suck the earth like a son.

You took it in drills and drills,

well, close, deep,

and crawls down the throat of the oil pipeline

black thick milk.

Ragged wind from the sea, a lot of towers,

bitter Caspian wave,

you burned your four letters

in the book of the Revolution in full.

You stand - the breadwinner and drinker

all republics and everything and everything -

The tractor got out of Putilovsky,

carrying your milk in my veins.

One-sixth of the earth is waiting for you,

STO, VSNKh, NKPS -

our heart, our blood is thick,

our Baku is a drummer and a fighter.

Full move. Triple efforts -

musty sweat, fatigue - at least henna ...

field of AzNeft - line by line.

Bay of Ilyich, Surakhany.

Sabunchi bent their neck like a bull -

let the rise to socialism be steep,

invest five years of production

in a three-year precious labor.

Sweat competition, duel

the oil-bearing earth will pour out -

and the muzzle of Deterding soured -

face of the oil king.

He foresees his stronghold

roar, and salvation, as in a dream -

beats percussion drilling work,

above raising Azneft.

The roar of inevitable collapse

change of scenery and roles -

bey, baku,

We follow you without fear

cut to hell kings.

To top the departure of the tocsin,

a coiled stream of underground forces

above you is the fountain of Bibi-Heybat

exalted the triumph of the republics.

Without longing, without sadness, without looking back ...

Without longing, without sadness, without looking back,

Reducing life by a third,

I would like on the sixth ten

Die from a broken heart.

The day would drip with blue frost,

The sky would grow dim in the distance

I would choke to the floor,

Blood would still run in his hand.

Funeral songs are disgusting.

Shroud of the lightest muslin.

Copper would put the hryvnia

My swollen eyes.

And I fell asleep without hallucinations,

White and cold as a blade.

From public organizations

A wreath follows the wreath.

They will be placed mixed, together -

People gather to the body

It's a pity - most of the wreaths are made of tin, -

Say, okay, the dust will not make out.

I would come out with such an offer

Alive until it's gone

To be ruined for the living -

They die only once in a lifetime.

Anyway. And thanks for that.

This is so, for greater beauty.

You are probably more right, because

Dead and dead flowers.

Music booms. And this time,

So that everyone perceives grief,

Everyone bows. Monotonous

Funeral ceremony.

However, it's boring to talk about death,

I ask you not to bow your head,

You do not believe the poem -

I still live, comrades.

We'd better write about it now,

Like polished snow

We fly on skis, we breathe a song

And we work for the fear of enemies.

In our parish

It is quiet in our parish at night,

And on the blue crust a wolf

Runs away into gray forests.

Through the fields, through the forests, through the swamps

We will go to our native village.

It smells of cold, hay and sweat

My sheepskin travel coat.

Soon horses in soap and foam,

An old house, they'll bring it to you.

Our mother will cook dumplings

And cry a little loving.

Head from winter turned gray

My head is young.

But in a hurry from mischievous gatherings

And in the vestibule the lads roam.

Here is joy again on the threshold -

At the harmonica and trills, and ringing;

Burns well from the road

Bitter pervach-moonshine.

Only the mother looks sad,

Cross me at the door.

I'll go see the girls

And with one I'll leave as soon as possible.

Blue ... And from edge to edge

The moon walks along the roads ...

Oh you, my dear parish

And a travel cup of wine!

AT Nizhny Novgorod off the slope...

In Nizhny Novgorod from a slope

seagulls fall on the sands

all the girls walk without permission

and completely disappear from melancholy.

It smells of linden, lilac and mint,

unprecedented blinding color,

the guys walk - the cap is rumpled,

the cigarette burns in the mouth.

Here blew a distant song,

for a while it seemed to everyone

what blind eyes will see,

completely forgotten by everyone.

These completely endless expanses,

where any front garden burns,

Wet wind smelled a little,

light smoke, damp grass,

again the Volga goes like a road,

all swaying under the mountain.

Again touched by a long joy,

I sing that peace is dust

that high stars over the Volga

also go out at first.

What is in vain, forgotten early,

good, young, cheerful,

as in a pipe song, Tatyana

lived in Nizhny Novgorod.

Here again on the sands, on the ferries

the night is huge,

blows the smell of stunted bird cherry,

flying around the corner,

pulls with rain, torn cloud

envelops the dawn,

Our different conversations

our songs are intertwined.

Nizhny Novgorod, Dyatlovy mountains,

At night, the dusk is a little blue.

In the village of Mikhailovsky ...

In the village of Mikhailovsky

Winter is huge

The evening is long

And too lazy to move my hand.

Commonwealth of Shaggy Christmas Trees

Protects your peace.

Sometimes blizzards are a mess,

Snowdrifts stood by the river,

But the old nanny knits

On the needles are soft stockings.

On the field the wind goes like a thief,

Weak wine does not warm,

And the loneliness in which

You are cramped and dark.

Again the visions lined up.

Close your eyes.

And here's a ruddy

Onegin with Larina Tatyana

They are talking about something.

Listen to their conversation

They - confess, do not conceal -

your good neighbors

And your interlocutors.

You know their way

You invented them

Brought to light.

And you write, holding the alarm:

"He silently drops the gun."

And the heart burns with heat

You clearly feel: trouble!

And you ride a horse lean,

Not understanding where, where.

And the horse snores, arguing with the winds,

And thoughts are heavy

Do not run away from grief,

From loneliness and darkness.

Do you remember:

The songs were

You are forgotten in your trouble

Some comrades in the grave

Others are unknown.

You are surrounded by a harsh winter,

She's scary, unhappy

An exile by the will of the king,

Hermit of the Russian village.

Evening will come.

Nanny knits.

And dusk rises in the corners.

Perhaps the nanny will tell a fairy tale

Or maybe sing a song.

But what is this?

He got up and listened

The language of a cheerful bell,

Getting closer

Chime embroidered,

And the horses stood at the porch.

Dashing horses galloped

With a distant

Boiling champagne in a glass

A friend sits in front of him.

Light from end to end

And good.

The darkness has died

And Pushkin, extending his hand,

Reads "Woe from Wit".

Through the space of darkness and light,

Through the space

Through comfort

Two Alexanders,

two poets,

Shaking hands with each other.

And at night the curtain is down,

Memories lined up

Two friends are sitting

Pushkin, Pushchin,

And the candles are burning.

Scares forest fears

A country that has gone into darkness

Invisible Griboyedov with them,

And very good for him.

But here's the champagne...

What a terrible winter

The bell beats

Hooves rattling...

And loneliness...

Evening

The swan geese have flown

Slightly touching the water with a wing,

The girls want to cry

From a still unclear misfortune.

Read me a poem

How fresh our evenings are,

For apple jam tea

Put me on a saucer.

Desperate, took a walk,

Isn't it time, dear, to sleep, -

Sleeping daisies on a blanket

Wake up exactly at five.

The evening is thin and mosquito

Look how painted

Tomorrow it would be necessary for raspberries,

For the fragrant, for the forest.

Let's walk a little more

How cool are your evenings!

Show me for God's sake

Where is the Kerzhenskaya road,

Be sure to show.

Let's stand under the blue star.

The day left with its maeta.

I'll say that I don't deserve you

That you called the wrong one.

I call mine doll -

Her eyebrows are plucked

Lips painted with ripe cranberries

And blue eyes.

And the soul - I do not know the soul.

Shoulders are warm and good.

My wild strawberries

I don't know her soul.

Here I'm leaving. holy word,

Not worrying and not loving

From Rostov to Bologoy

I will remember you.

Your golden jam

Red cat on the stove

bird of blue plumage,

Singing in the night

New Peterhof

Everything will go away. Four hundred four...

Everything will go away. four hundred four

smart human heads

in this dirty and fun world

songs, kisses and tables.

Ahnut in the muck of the black grave,

including, probably, me.

Nothing, no joy, no strength,

and goodbye, my beautiful.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Write different motives

still not long before the grave.

Don't touch me now...

You don't touch me now -

I do not sing, do not dance -

I only have elbows

It was fun and drunk

and now I'm not like that

over four oceans

my peace is gone.

Whispering leaves on birch trees:

You're not good, you fool...

I'm going home - hard

I bypass.

Beer bitter on malt

flooded my peace...

All good, funny -

I alone am bad.

Children

I remember the forest, bushes,

Unforgettable hitherto,

The fun of market days -

Harmony and carousel.

How the collar of a shirt is embroidered -

Star, smooth and cross,

How the horses dance, the horses puff

And angry in the empty meadow.

We ran with a kite

And the river teaches us to swim,

Another powerless hand

And we can't do anything.

Still terrible are the ways of the earth,

The face of the cold moon

Another wall clock for us

Full of great wisdom.

More fun and fun

And haymaking, and harrowing,

But it still popped into my head

What is the fate of everyone.

What will be ahead, as in a fairy tale, -

One is Indian and the other is

A pirate in a silk bandage

With a leg shot in battle.

This is how we grow. But in a different way

Other years say:

eighteen years old from home

We leave, brave, in a row.

And now near Petersburg

Admire the damp cloud

Be content with one cigarette butt

Instead of dinner sometimes.

Swallow fog green with smoke

And hurry to sleep soon

And rejoice in such a loved one

Parcels from our mothers.

And the days go by. No longer children

Three summers, three winters have passed,

Already in a new way in the world

We perceive things.

Forget the pine forest

The river and the gold of the aspens,

And soon ten pounds

A son will be born to him.

He will grow up, hot and ringing,

But somewhere in the daylight

Who says "my baby"

About the bearded me.

I will not spoil them with a letter

About your incomprehensible.

This is how it goes round and round

My big life.

The whole area of ​​the earth is measured,

And I, worrying and mourning,

I'm sure I don't often

My son will write about himself.

From summer poems

Everything bloomed. Trees walked along the edge

Pink, glowing water;

I, looking for mine, steal,

Rushed into the deep gardens.

Flaunting silk renewal,

She walked. Grass grew all around.

And above it - above the tambourine -

Trees of various sizes.

Just a bush, showered with lilacs,

Golden oak is not to match,

Bird funny population

Still ordered to whistle.

And on a dark oak, on a huge one,

Also on a dense rosehip,

In every little nook and cranny

And under the beginning bush,

In blue swamps and valleys

Know the whistle and do not wait for rest

But on thin legs, on long

Come on, it's raining.

Flew. lit up again

Golden green edges -

How is your good update,

Is Lydia funny?

Shed or didn't shed

As the greenery did not shed, -

Changed or didn't change

Have you forgotten me, dear?

In the evening we went to the country,

I sang, the fun is not melting, -

Maybe not to the country - for good luck, -

Where is my true luck?

We were blown by the warm wind

And mist from slow water

Two white stars floated.

I said a couple of reasonable words,

What is warm in Celsius water,

What blooms in tulips and lawns

Our regional cities

What flies of a special kind -

Carved - street foliage,

What made me happy, Linda,

All in a row green Moscow.

Good - funny - the right word,

I am more beautiful this summer.

I liked your update

Your green blouse.

You rustled like an aspen

She moved her big eye:

This is the best… From Torgsin…

Imported ... Isn't it? Crepe de chine…

I was silent. Smells like warm summer

From foliage, from songs, from water -

Over your Torgsin beret

Two white stars floated.

We swam to the dusty dacha

And for no good reason

We got up where green above Moscow

Stars of all colors and sizes.

Tonight I will not hide -

I will whistle with a lonely bird.

Tomorrow these stars over Moscow

With visible love, I will seek it out.

How so?...

How so?

Not loving, not suffering

even the word hello is melting,

you're leaving my young

golden once mine...

Well, I’ll shake my head wearily, I’ll forget about your face - only the cheerful song didn’t become that they sang, they sang together.

How honey made a bear's teeth hurt

Sleep, boy, don't cry:

A bear walks through the gardens...

... Fat, thick honey

Wants a sweet bear.

And behind the bath in a row

The hives are round -

All on chicken legs

All in straw scarves;

And all around, as on featherbeds,

The bees sleep on the cornflowers.

He goes sideways to the beehives,

Opening the old mouth

And in deep silence

Just a handful of honey takes.

Right paw, right in the mouth

He pushes sweetness

And, of course, very soon

Grumbling eats ...

The paw is thick at the thief

All wet up to the shoulder.

He sucks and chews her

Puffing ... Kaput!

He ate half a pood, or maybe

I didn’t eat half a pood, but a pood!

Lie down now in languor

Hairy sweetie,

Run away while from Mishka

Didn't make sausages

Taking with you armpit

Thick beehive in reserve ...

Sleeping in the dark dog-loafer,

The village sleeps by the river...

Through the tyn, through the deck

Straight to the den.

He spluttered, looking at the night,

hairy mountain,

Mikhail - Bear - Ivanych.

And it's time for him to sleep!

Sleep, baby, don't cry:

The bear hasn't left yet!

And from the bear's honey

My teeth started hurting!!

The pain penetrated like a rogue

Walked in shaking

Immediately twitched, it ached

In the tooth of the right root,

It rumbled, it shook! -

Cheek smashed to the side...

Wrapped her in bast,

The bear lost his peace.

There was a bear - a handsome bear,

Now what does it look like? -

With a bandaged cheek

Ugly, not like that!

... Christmas trees are dancing in a round dance ...

Puffy gums whine!

Somewhere he threw a beehive with honey:

Not to honey, not to sleep,

Not up to the joys of the bear,

Not up to sweets for a bear, -

Sleep, baby, don't cry! -

Teeth can hurt!

The bear was walking, the bear was moaning,

The woodpecker was found by a bear.

The woodpecker is a dandy in the bird's light,

In a red velvet beret

In a black black jacket

With a worm in one hand.

The woodpecker knows a lot.

He tells the bear to sit down.

The woodpecker asks sternly:

"-What do you have, bear, hurts?"

"Teeth? - Where?" - with this question

He looks into the bear's mouth

And with his huge nose

Takes a tooth from a bear.

Fitted, and smack, rude

Picked it up right away...

That a bear is a bear without a tooth?

He is without a tooth - nothing!

Don't fight and don't bite

Fear every animal

Fear the wolf, fear the hare

Beware of the cunning ferret!

Boring: in the mouth - emptiness! ...

I found a mole bear ...

The mole approached the bear,

Looked into the bear's mouth

And in the mouth of a bear - stuffy,

The tooth has not grown young ...

The mole said to the bear: "It is necessary

Put a golden tooth!

Sleep, baby, you need to sleep:

Bears are dangerous in the dark

He agrees to everything now.

Just get the gold!

The mole said to him: "As long as

Wait, my dear

We give you half a pood of gold

Let's dig underground!"

And the hunchbacked mole leaves ...

And in the fields until dark

Digging the ground like a shovel;

Moles are looking for gold.

At night somewhere in the gardens

They dug up ... a nugget!

Sleep, baby, don't cry!

A happy bear walks

Flaunting a fresh tooth

The young bear is dancing,

And burns in the mouth of a bear

Cheerful, golden tooth!

Everything is darker, everything is blue

Night shadow over the earth ...

The bear has become smarter now:

Brushes teeth every day

Doesn't steal a lot of honey

Walks important and not evil

And fills with pine

New resin teeth.

... Birch trees are sleeping, a fat mole

Goes to sleep in the garden

Sleepy fish splashed ...

Woodpeckers washed their noses

And they fell asleep. Everything fell asleep

Only the clock is ticking...

Rolling on the Caspian Sea

Behind the stern the water is thick -

she is salty, green,

suddenly growing up

she reared up,

and, shaking, the shafts go

from Baku to Makhachkala.

Now we don't sing, we don't argue,

we are passionate about water -

Waves roll across the Caspian Sea

unprecedented size.

the waters subside

Caspian night,

dead swell;

celebrating the beauty of nature

the stars poured out

like a rash;

from Makhachkala

the moons float on their side.

I stand to myself, calm down,

I squint my eyes mockingly -

I have the Caspian Sea waist-deep,

don't care...

Trust me.

We were not rocked like that on earth, we

swung around in the mist -

the rolling in the sea begins,

but riot on the earth.

We were rocked in Cossack saddles,

only the blood ran through my veins,

we loved mean girls -

we were rocked by love.

Vodka, or what?

hot alcohol,

green, evil

we were rocked in revels like this -

from side to side

and off your feet...

Only the stars fly with buckshot,

tell me:

"Go, sleep..."

The house, swaying, goes towards,

you rock yourself, damn it ...

The salt is getting cold

ninth sweat

on the etched skin of the back,

and work shakes me

better than alcohol

and better than war.

What is the sea to me?

What's the matter

me to this green trouble?

Salt of a heavy, downed body

saltier than sea water.

What should I (I ask) if

our teeth

like foam, white -

and our songs are rocking

to Makhachkala.

Horse

Boys days

you left, good ones,

I was left with only words,

and in a dream I am a red horse

kissed soft lips.

He stroked his ears, quietly stroked his muzzle

and looked into sad eyes.

I was with you, as it used to be, next to you,

but didn't know what to tell you.

Didn't say there were other horses

from iron horses, from fire ...

You wouldn't understand me, my dear,

you would not understand the new me.

He spoke about the field, about the past,

as in the fields, near an old plow,

as in the meadows unrumpled and unmowed

I read you my poems...

I love it so much and I love it so much

my days to love and remember,

how, laughing, I shoved you in the lips

bread that my mother gave me in the morning.

Because you will not understand iron,

that the factory gave to the village,

good to cut the ground,

but you can't talk to anyone.

Boys days

you left, good ones,

I was left with only words,

and in a dream I am a red horse

kissed soft lips.

Occupation of Baku

Provisional government -

temporary screen,

second revolution -

sash on the side...

England sniffed -

smells greasy

played by notes

occupation of Baku.

Smooth, tough like an egg

oak, like a tub -

main character,

shaving blue.

Behind him in narrow uniforms

on weekend roles

Russian allies

the streets are dusty.

What are you, Bill Okins,

did the weather bring?

They go all the way

on the oilfield.

Boasting a smooth gait

(let it meet the north),

works my lord.

Then they let Wrangel in,

Yudenich here,

And here rocking England

oil court.

Be calm

what are you talking about?

Wars are like wars

As so far.

Both winter and summer

One color

Kipling about it

still says.

Only, shaved master, spit it out

Your black pipe

I give you a Kipling ballad

sing in my own way.

Monument

She told me many unforgettable

words and young and thunderous

the area near the Finland Station,

where a heavy armored car froze.

It seems that angrier and merciless

clicks the engine like a nightingale,

and stands at the loophole on the tower

bronze stooped man.

He is in the fog of the north and white

leader of the mighty forces

he didn’t manage to take a cap out of his pocket

pull it out, or maybe forgot.

He says to the strict Neva waters,

and all around, cast in an old fashion, she,

black and oily plant

The Vyborg side stood up.

In front of him is the Neva, pockmarked,

sparingly green like grass,

he stands, cutting down with his hand

terrible words on granite.

He laughs with narrowed eyes,

his gray coat rings,

seems to come alive

immovable forever granite.

Move, now go, probably

the storm will envelop him - fresh, -

transmission caterpillar measured,

viciously frightening, rattling ...

My hatred is forever famous

I am glad to you, my weapon, -

and words come out of granite,

on the armored car they burn.

Like fire, they fly into battle,

and they carry through the centuries

glory and victory, conviction

brilliant Bolshevik.

Because in our new world

and in our new language

the name Lenin will be the first word

palpable, as if on the hand.

Memory

I'm walking along Perovskaya street with a cigarette,

I put on my coat in a saddle, I bring home halva;

Worth the weather - charm, worth the weather - luxury,

And I see my spring city in reality.

My shirt is tight, and I unbuttoned the collar,

And I know, of course, that life is not hard -

I will forget you, but I will not forget the city,

Huge and green in which you lived.

Tested memory, it is mine by right, -

I will long remember river boats,

Gardens, Yelagin Island and Nevskaya Zastava,

And on white nights walks until the morning.

I still have half a century to live - after all, the song is not finished,

I see a lot, but I remember for a long time

Beloved professors and university

Cold and cheerful, cozy corridor.

The city woke up, boom, trams fly with a bang ...

And to me - I'm not lying, believe me - as a relative, I know

And every lane, and every house on Nevsky,

Moscow, Volodarsky and Vyborg district committees.

And the girls ... Laws for a young guy

Written with love, especially in spring, -

Walking in the garden of Nardom, getting to know each other - ready ...

I carry their phones in my address book.

We may grow old and be old men,

To replace us - others, and another world rings,

But let's remember the city in which every stone,

Any piece of iron is forever famous.

Song about the opposite

The morning greets us with coolness,

The river meets us with the wind.

Curly, why are you not happy

Merry singing beep?

Don't sleep, get up, curly!

Ringing in the shops

The country rises with glory

To meet the day.

And joy sings without ending

And the song goes along

And people laugh when they meet

And the opposite sun rises -

Hot and brave

Invigorates me.

The country rises with glory

To meet the day.

The team will meet us with work,

And you smile at your friends

With which labor and care,

And the counter, and life - in half.

Behind the Narva outpost,

In thunders, in fires,

The country rises with glory

To meet the day.

And with her to the victorious edge

You, our youth, will pass,

Until the next one comes out

I'll meet you youth.

And run into life in a horde,

I change fathers.

The country rises with glory

To meet the day.

And joy cannot be hidden

When the drummers beat:

We are followed by October

Burr songs are sung.

Brave, burry,

They go calling.

The country rises with glory

To meet the day!

Such a beautiful speech

State your truth.

We go out to meet life

Towards work and love!

Is it a sin to love, curly,

When, ringing

The country rises with glory

To meet the day.

Under the exhausted and cumbersome spruce...

Under the exhausted and cumbersome spruce,

That she grew up without crying for anyone,

I was fed crumb and nipple,

Steamy blue milk.

She was just swinging on a hillock,

Nature emerald candle.

Crust freed from the crumb

The dog was eating bubbling.

Did not recognize sorrow and boredom

Infancy is an animal time.

But the spruce fell, stretching out its arms,

She died from a saw and an axe.

The fluffy grass was crushed about,

And the wind of the needle began to wave

Then the old dog died,

And I stayed to live and live.

I dug the earth, I yearned in the barn,

I was hungry in a dream and in reality,

But I will not leave now halfway

and I will live until the end.

And by someone's right command -

I will never hide this -

I am to my big generation

I give a big preference.

Great, tough guys

Who has not seen - take a look with your own eyes -

They are in the fields of Bibi-Heybat,

And they are in the depths of the Caspian Sea.

Ringing and clear as glass

Above them the wind blows fighting ...

It's a pity that the dog died

And the spruce fell head down.

life continuation

I sniffed the barracks, I know the charter,

I will live my life according to the charter:

whether I study, whether I stand at the post at the outposts -

everywhere subordinate to the command staff.

Green, boring nothingness,

at least a splash of blood,

our dignity - yours and mine -

in another continuation of life.

Still the jets of fire sway,

military blowing weather,

and brought another me to battle

another cautious platoon commander.

Our country is alarmed behind them,

where are our fields and factories:

touched by black and stinking she

breath of military weather.

What is dear to me and to you,

muffled siren howling,

with enormous force goes to the enemy

according to the rules of battle tactics.

Encircling the enemy with fire and a ring,

tanks are slow like slugs

the communists go, numb in the face, -

my continuation of life.

I see it already

although my fate is different, -

fighters come out, crushing the grass,

crushing me with a boot.

But I rise and rise again

darken from sea to sea.

I see my earthly beauty

no battle, no blood, no grief.

I see the horizons of the earth in the distance -

harvesters, swinging along the edge,

to me, panting, they go ...

Then I really die.

Pushkin in Chisinau

Here freely ravens and owls,

Heavy from the yokes tied,

Smells stuffy

Air, thunder -

The army is dissatisfied with the king.

Soon a huge blizzard will thunder,

Yes, for half a century in a row, -

then in secret society on South

They talk about regicide.

Conspiracy, coup

Lightning flying from above.

Well, who

If not a poet

Burn, pick up, carry?

Where is the flat expanse for the wolf,

Where the expanses are dark and deaf, -

Rewrite on the sly

Forbidden his poems.

And they are according to the lists and according to rumors,

Trembling with indignation,

Were a song

conscience

Glorious forever rebellion.

Wounded by fate

He covered the wound with his own hand.

Never valued myself

Chanting the vengeful dagger.

About the homeland of the green

Finding love words

Like the beginning of a fiery lion.

Evil accompanied

And gossip -

And the deeds and thoughts are great, -

Relentless,

Twenty-two year old

drinking wine

And he loves balyki.

Stepson of Romanov Russia.

The days go by in a straight line.

He draws on verses barefoot

Legs of a young Moldavian.

Dear Inzov,

wise old man,

Follows the poet's heels

He says, hitting the notation,

According to old age.

But the verses, as before, are ready,

Set on fire -

Burn and burn -

And an avalanche of African blood

And splashes over the edge.

A hundred years can not be thrown out of the account.

in Leningrad,

in Kharkov,

We are now leaning

Accept our excitement.

We are living,

My country is huge

Bright and faithful forever.

You would have to be born in a century,

Favorite person.

You walked more often and arable land,

The wind howled, piercing and deceitful..

Stepson in the homeland of that time,

You fell before the deadline.

Vile crowned with deeds

People glorifying revenge

They drove bullets into the muzzle with ramrods,

And there is a bullet for you.

What will I answer?

I will avenge whom

Not a terrible hatred?

Is it just a conversation

Will my hatred remain?

Outside the window is light over Leningrad,

I am sitting at the desk.

Your essay books are nearby

I am reminded of the past.

The day will hit the ground with a hoof,

Change at the guard post.

I think about you, not about the dead,

And always about light,

All about life

Nothing about death

All about the word of songs and fire...

It's easier for me

Believe me

And forgive me dear.

Talk

That's right, five o'clock in the morning, no more.

I'm going - familiar places ...

Ships and yachts laid up

And the embankment is empty.

The Amazing Ruler of the Throne

And the ruler of young fate -

The bronze horseman raised the percheron,

Furious, angry, rearing up.

He, throwing his horse across the river,

Cities admiring the beauty,

And his bare foot hangs, -

It's cold, barefoot!

The winds blow from the ost or from the west,

The rider tramples the copper snake...

So you came to this place -

I recognize you instantly.

Brief greeting said

Shut up, sat down to smoke ...

Alexander Sergeevich, is it possible

Have a heart to heart talk with you?

I won’t offend with tightness and boredom:

The embankment is a huge hall.

I see you like this, thirty years old,

As Kiprensky wrote then.

And beautiful and varied

Courage, love and triumph...

Excuse me - maybe I'm cheeky?

This is from my embarrassment!

Because in the surrounding places

From five in the morning to six

You are with me - with such an uninteresting -

They agreed to do it.

You will survive bronze decay

And the movement of the luminaries, -

My first poem

I dedicated your planid.

And not just me, but hundreds, maybe

In future thunderstorms and fights

You will be multiplied to infinity

People of dedication.

You called from grief and deceit

In an easy and wise life,

And Sergei Uvarov and Romanov

They got theirs anyway.

You walked in the Tsarskoye Selo pines -

Young, light years, -

The death of all the descendants of the crowned

You foresaw even then.

Bullets do not out-arguing the people,

They can't dance in Anichkovo!

How are they to the Black to the sea

Ran away - hard to describe!

And behind them a string of others,

Golden junk, nonsense -

They are now fed abroad,

You wouldn't want to go there!

The clock is striking depressingly... It's getting light.

Waking up... Singing beeps...

So the interlocutor was gone -

I feel a handshake.

I follow my gaze ... I can hardly see ...

My dear, my unique ...

I'm walking along the Nevsky from the Headquarters,

I'll turn back home at Konyushennaya.

Semyonovskie forests

Quiet fatigue, evening

To the Nizhny Novgorod province

And in the blue of the Semenov forests.

Pine noise and aspen laughter

Again, it will pass in swarms.

I remember blue evenings

And smelling of smoke.

Birch tender body white

I see a spoon in my hands,

And again, unopened, whole

Dawn breaks.

You won't leave, my pine

My favorite country!

Someday, but I will be again

Throw seeds on the ground.

When the housewives slam the shutters

And - rest crooked hands,

I'll tell you about the city of stone

Gray-haired gloomy old men.

I know evening love again,

In the Nizhny Novgorod province,

In the run of the Semyonovsky forests.

Nightingale

I have this kind of business for you

that the whole evening will be spent talking, -

close your iron gates

and thicker canvas window curtains.

So that girlfriends walk by, guys by,

and would guess and sing, mourning:

“Why didn’t you go out under the window, Seraphim?

Seraphim, it's painfully boring without you ... "

To the most unkempt,

tearing scarlet silk at the collar of the shirt,

through the village of Ivano-Marino with a mob

passed the windows to the harmonica.

He's all tenor, all tenor, with malice

sang - hand extended to the knife:

“Forget me, beauty, try ...

I will show you this...

If you love at least half

I'll wait for you at the last window,

I will lay your jacket on the meadow

pre-war and fine cloth ... "

And the earth breathed, heavy with fat,

and from the pool of catfish left

the nightingales sat silently in order,

so on the right is the oldest nightingale.

In front of him the water - green, alive -

rushing past the backwaters,

he swings on a branch, covering

a one-year-old nightingale with a wing.

And the grass is crumpled by a spring thunderstorm,

heavy and warm earth breathes,

blue ones walk in a pool of catfish,

moving half a yard mustache.

And leeches, crayfish crawl through the silt,

water is fraught with a lot of horror ...

Pike - the younger sister of the crocodile -

lifeless near the shore stands ...

Nightingale in the silence of a big and stuffy ...

Suddenly struck golden in the distance,

apparently angry and young and naughty,

sang to her in nightingale language:

"Through forests, wastelands and plains

you will not find a more beautiful friend -

I will bring you ant eggs,

I will pinch the fluff from the abdomen in bed.

We will spread our bed over the water,

where the wild roses are all in roses,

we will rush over the storm, over the trouble

and we will give birth to two dozen nightingales.

It’s not for you to live, aging without joy,

you, stray, never bloomed,

fly away, young, quickly

from under the old and hard wing.

And she is silent, forgetting everything in the world, -

I follow the song, as for death, I follow ...

Downy shawl thrown over the shoulders ...

"Where are you, Seraphim?" - "I'm leaving."

Shawl tassels, like feathers, straightening,

she is in love, beautiful, simple, - she flew away.

I have no right to keep her -

I will sit near the house until the morning.

I'll wait for the dawn to sparkle on the windows,

the golden song of the nightingale will fade away -

let her come home with a beautiful, warm -

the eyes of her Tatar blades fade.

From her and from him smelled of mint,

he says goodbye at the last window,

and his rumpled jacket got wet in the dew

pre-war and fine cloth.

Young, cheerful, golden,

Crazy, ran out - did not come out -

I ran after the song after that one.

To yearn, my love, I will not -

How flirty you are

Barefoot, in a sundress

Flowers painted in red.

I myself was dressed fashionably:

Ridge breeches, belts,

I polished my boots to the ring,

New, they are chevroy.

Well, we walked ... Well, we talked, -

On the river darker and darker, -

And they cooked the ear for the first

We are redfin groupers.

I will not hide from you, comrades:

There is no tastier homeland throughout

Fried in sour cream - for the second -

Clumsy, lush crucians.

I then at this halt

Gave a kumach for a dress.

And on the third so kissed -

I don't want any compotes.

The rest is known to the young

It was at night, on the river,

The birds were talking

In your funny language.

Soon he will cry, dear, loudly,

Falling into the fluffy grass.

He will look like a somyonka,

I'll call him Simon.

I ask strangers not to touch,

I will scold him and praise him,

I will raise a healthy handsome man,

I will define him as a pilot.

I'll get old, maybe I'll turn gray,

I will fall into a heavy, eternal sleep,

But I still have hope

That he won't forget me.

I had a bride

I had a bride

White Wife.

Unfortunately, it is not known

Where does she wander?

Whether in the sea, or in the field,

Whether in combat smoke, -

I don't know anything more

And that's why I'm sad.

Who did you find, bride,

Ringing a pure song

Sincere, instead

Unhappy me?

who did you kiss

By the Danube, by the Oka,

At the pier, at the collapse,

By the cliff, by the river?

How tall will he be?

How old is he in the spring

Will it fit right, just

Say hello to me!

Suitable - then, of course,

Receive, my friend, a vow:

I'll tell you frankly

For him to take care of you

So that you do not know grief

Climber - on the mountain,

Komsomolskaya Pravda - somewhere in the sea

Or maybe in Bukhara.

Behind the garden fence

You hid - gray siskin ...

At least you make me happy with a song.

Why, dear, are you silent?

So I came to say goodbye to you

And friendly and earthly,

In her light chintz dress

As alive in front of me.

Is it all in vain?..

Can't even keep it in memory?

This girl and comrade

They were always called siskin.

For the fun that she managed ...

For the youth of the earth

Kos her golden ears

We protected from old age.

To like a linen tow

Before the time did not sit down,

Weaved together with a ribbon,

Unprecedented, did not fuck.

I remember this submissive hair,

The wave of your hand

Like a wild blackcurrant

We ate by the river.

Only joyful, fading,

In fading, in frosts, in snow

Our autumn is gone, and with it

You've gone somewhere.

Where are you - in Kyiv? Or in Rostov?

Are you crying or loving?

Cotton dress, simple

Have you worn out?

Dark tears in the throat lump,

I see the sorrows of an evil grin ...

I am familiar in our places,

Like a needle, I was looking for you.

Legs were sluggish from fatigue,

Bushes, flowers are indifferent ...

Maybe on a different road

Did you pass by by chance?

How many songs from the heart took away

How did he call you on a date!

Only all about you today

Found out the inside story.

I was heavy, evil were

Told in this garden

How the teacher was killed

In nine hundred and thirty.

We found them, famous killers,

Those are the troublemakers of the poor minds

And the owners of iron-covered,

Five-walled and dug into the ground

And boarded houses.

Who screamed at the gatherings to the point of wheezing:

It's only ours, no one's...

They are now called like this

Angrily, with rage... - Fist...

And now I probably know -

You were lying in a coffin, white, -

Komsomol, volost

The whole cell followed the coffin.

The way to the cemetery was not long,

But to madness fierce -

From Berdanok and double-barreled shotguns

They gave you a salute.

I stand on your grave

I remember in the darkness trembling,

How we loved siskins,

How they loved you, siskin.

For unparalleled happiness

All the girls in your village

Our girls in Leningrad

Accepted a heavy death.

Young, simple, you know?

I'll tell you not melting

That their smile is the same

As yours once was.

My table is crowned with a humpbacked lamp,

My bed is on the third floor.

What else? - I'm only twenty-five,

I'm good and happy already.

My desk drawer

I'm out of the ordinary

I don't write essays

I'll hide in a distant box

That which I will not put on fire.

And, covered with a dusty stench,

Darkened to the bone

Like the dead, they lie beside

Shreds of soft stories.

You will look at the table. And suddenly you

Reel back - longing and fear:

Like graveworms, letters

Wriggle on sheets.

Dead fly - up paws,

Mica wings in the dust.

But in this crimson folder

Poetic thoughts lay down.

Listen - and the rattle of the lyre

Will come in a year

About love souvenirs

About the January cold

About the ringing steel of Turksib

And "Putilovets" fat smoke,

About my Komsomol - for

I was once young.

Be careful, don't touch

The paper will spread. Here

All about a barefoot girl -

I forgot what her name is.

And I swing, big as a shadow, I

Retire to the edge of silence

On my robe of gossip

And the flowers are shown.

And what the hell for

Fooled by emptiness

I look at notebooks

And lay out the sheets?

But the heart is filled with arrogance,

And in the pupils of my triumph,

Because I hear a song

My writings.

Here she flies, young,

And what a throat she has!

Sing it while sitting

With a stroke of cavalry on horseback.

I'm sitting on an open table

The song comes to the ground from the heights,

And beats with a shod hoof,

And carries iron in his teeth.

And I'm trembling with chills -

Joy is given to me,

What song is out of this box

At least one got out into the people.

And I'm sitting - digging a box,

And my emptiness is gone.

Is there any overwhelming in it,

But as good as that one?

(16.VII.1907, Semenov, now the Gorky region, - 20.II.1938, the place of death has not been established) - Russian Soviet poet.
Until the age of 15 he lived in the village of Dyakovo. In 1922 the Kornilov family moved to Semenov. Here he graduated from high school.
At the end of 1925 he left for Leningrad, where he joined literary group"Change", which was led by V. Sayanov. The first poem was published in 1925 (newspaper "Young Army", Nizhny Novgorod). In the early 1930s he wrote a number of poems, of which the poem "Trypillia" gained wide popularity. Songs were written to Kornilov's verses, among them - D. Shostakovich's song for the film "Oncoming" ("The morning meets us with coldness ..."). From the mid-30s, he began to collaborate in the Izvestia newspaper. In 1936-1937 he wrote a cycle of poems dedicated to Pushkin.

In 1926, Kornilov, together with Olga Berggolts, also a member of Smena, entered the Higher State Courses in Art History at the Institute of Art History. Boris and Olga entered into a marriage that turned out to be short-lived - they lived together for two years, their daughter Ira died in 1936. Kornilov did not linger on art history courses either.

“I am now rereading the poems of Boris Kornilov - how much strength and talent they have! He was my first man, my husband and the father of my first child, Irka. Tomorrow is exactly five years since her death. Boris is in a concentration camp, or maybe he died.”
- From the diary entry of Olga Bergholz dated March 13, 1941

In 1928 he published his first book of poems, Youth. Then, in 1933, the collections "Book of Poems" and "Poems and Poems" appeared.
In the 1930s, Kornilov published the poems Salt (1931), Theses of the Novel (1933), Criminal Investigation Agent (1933), The Beginning of the Earth (1936), Samson (1936), Trypillya "(1933)," My Africa "(1935). He also wrote songs (“The Song of the Counter”, “Komsomolskaya-Krasnoflotskaya”, etc.), poetic propaganda (“Louse”), poems for children (“How the bear’s teeth started to hurt from honey”).

In 1932, the poet wrote about the elimination of the kulaks, and he was accused of "furious kulak propaganda." He was partially rehabilitated in the eyes of Soviet ideologists by the poem "Trypillia", dedicated to the memory of Komsomol members killed during the kulak uprising.
1, as the author and distributor of "harmful" works, was arrested in Leningrad on charges of active counter-revolutionary activity. All. Books are not printed, previously published books are withdrawn from libraries. And even the song for the 1932 film “The Counter,” set to music by Dmitri Shostakovich and which became a kind of song emblem of the era, is performed without mentioning the author of the words: “Folk Words.”
February 20, 1938 by the Field Session of the Military Collegium Supreme Court The USSR, under the chairmanship of Korvoenyurist Matulevich Kornilov, was sentenced to an exceptional measure of punishment. The verdict contains the following wording: “Since 1930, Kornilov has been an active participant in the anti-Soviet, Trotskyist organization which set as its task terrorist methods of struggle against the leaders of the party and government. The sentence was carried out on February 20, 1938 in Leningrad.
He was posthumously rehabilitated on January 5, 1957 "for lack of corpus delicti".

* * *
In the preface to the first posthumous one-volume book, Olga Berggolts was forced to write this: “If it were not for the senseless death that overtook Boris Kornilov at the time when he began to really gain height, he probably would have become a very great poet.” However, the date of death - 1938, and even with a hint of the difficult circumstances of the death of the poet - spoke for itself.
Is it any wonder that Olga Berggolts herself was the first to respond to the resurrection of Boris Kornilov? Let their marriage be very short-lived, let the muses be out of tune. But their joint past left an indelible mark on the soul and work of each of them, and after parting, they devoted confidential lines to each other. “Olga - alder” echoed in his poems. Olga also spoke with the “first and lost” in her poems, promising in 1939:
I won't ask for forgiveness
no oath
in vain - I will not give.
But if - I believe - you come back,
but if you can find out -
let's talk about mutual forget insults,
let's wander, as before, together -
and cry, and cry, and we will cry,
we know with you - about what.

Olga Fedorovna kept all of Kornilov's books, with the help of her friends she collected everything that was published about him in newspapers and magazines. It was she who initiated the case for the rehabilitation of Kornilov, regarding this as her duty to him, “as a poet to a great poet, and in the name of that bright and bitter first love, and the first motherhood that is associated with him.”

* * *

I curse myself at night.
I'm the same - with a secure grip,
with a cloudy eye and with a big song,
with your accent, with your habit,
with your painful soul.
….
I am the last of your kind -
I curse myself at night.
I'm tearing myself apart
for age-old kinship with you.
---------------

Bibliography:
Youth: Poems. L., 1928;
Book One: Poems 1927-1931. M.-L., 1931;
All my friends: Poems 1930-1931. M.-L., 1931;
Tripoli: Poem. L., 1933;
Book of poems. M.-L., 1933; Verses and poems. L., 1933;
Like honey, a bear's teeth began to hurt. M.-L., 1935 and other ed.;
My Africa: Poem. M.-L., 1935;
Verses and poems. M.-L., 1935;
New. M.-L., 1935; Poems and poems. L., 1957 and 1960;
Poems and poems. M.-L., 1966;
Selected lyrics. M., 1966 and 1968;
Favorites. Gorky, 1966 and other ed.; Poems. M., 1967;
Continuation of Life: Poems; Poems. M., 1972;
The country rises with glory: Poems. M., 1976;
Favorites. L., 1978; Selected lyrics. L., 1978.

Literature:
Purikova G. Boris Kornilov: Critical and biographical essay. L., 1963;
Zamansky L. Boris Kornilov. M., 1975;
Pozdnyaev K. Continuation of life: A book about B. Kornilov. M., 1978.

Boris Kornilov - a brilliant Russian poet fell victim to a denunciation

From the cycle "Pages of the history of the Nizhny Novgorod province"

The lines of M. Yu. Lermontov (The poet died! - A slave of honor - fell, slandered by rumors), made in the title, are dedicated to Pushkin. But they can also be attributed to the fate of the poet of another generation - Boris Kornilov. He, like Pushkin, was slandered by writing a denunciation, and then killed. The fate of poets is unenviable, and even more so in Russia. In 2007, in the glorious town of Semyonov, truly national celebrations took place in honor of the centennial anniversary of Boris Kornilov, a poet who was shot at the "Yesenin" age of thirty. However, real poetry no time, wonderful poems and songs, once born, are doomed to eternity. Indeed, don't the motifs of the famous song "On the Counter" to the music of Shostakovich not give us cheerfulness: "The morning greets us with coolness"?

UN anthem

This hymn of "working joy" is the anthem of the UN!

Of course, this happened thanks, first of all, to the music of Shostakovich, but the anthem was adopted and is performed with the text of Boris Kornilov.

Kornilov's daughter, having arrived from Paris after a long separation from Russia to her father's homeland, was simply happy. Irina Borisovna says:

- When I was born, my father had already been shot. And my mother, having remarried, gave me the patronymic of my stepfather - Yakovlevna. So I became Irina Yakovlevna Basova.

You kill all the poets to quote later

It was forbidden to talk about the father, as an enemy of the people, even in the family. After all, he was accused of attempting to assassinate Stalin himself! The case, of course, was inspired, the father was shot along with his bosom friend, the wonderful poet Pavel Vasiliev, who was not even thirty.

Certificate

“I will live to old age, to glory” - a line from a poem by Boris Kornilov came true only in part. The poet learned fame, but died very early

The third of their company, Yaroslav Smelyakov, was sent to the mines for ten years.

My mother told me about all this after Stalin's death, when I was 18 years old. And I immediately went to Semyonov to meet my grandmother, Taisiya Mikhailovna.

Author of the anthem to Leningrad

Boris Kornilov was born into a teacher's family and was very well-read. He began to compose poetry early, and at the age of 18 he decided to go to Leningrad, where his idol Sergey was at that time. I wanted to show him my poems.

Certificate

1928-30 - the time of a short and unhappy marriage of Boris Kornilov with Olga Berggolts. This marriage was a mistake, but O Bergholz quickly found herself in the literary establishment.

But they were not destined to meet - in December 1925, the great singer of Russia died. Kornilov stayed in Leningrad, studied and composed wonderful poems. Nizhny Novgorod and Semyonov visited regularly. Away from them - yearned and sang out on its own:

Quiet coolness, evening

to the Nizhny Novgorod province

and the blue of the Semyonov forests ... "

And about the capital city of the Volga region, Kornilov wrote such interesting verses that they have not yet appeared in literature better than them:

"In Nizhny Novgorod from a slope

seagulls fall on the sands.

All the girls walk without permission

And they completely disappear from melancholy.

However, the first love struck on the spot Boris Petrovich in Leningrad - he met Olga Berggolts there. Both were a brilliant couple: beautiful, talented, hot. But family happiness did not work out: two bears are cramped in one lair.

The second wife was quiet and inconspicuous, but perhaps this was the key to comfort, a reliable home rear, which the restless poet, whose life was spent on constant creative business trips, so needed.

Certificate

Neither Kornilov's second wife nor Boris's mother knew until 1956 that B. Kornilov was killed, they thought that maybe he was alive

In the early 1930s, Kornilov became famous throughout the country - every morning of the young Soviet state began with his song "On the Counter".

By the way, at that time the official anthem of the USSR was "The Internationale", but Sergei Kirov, by personal order, "appointed" the song "On the Counter" as the anthem of Leningrad - Shostakovich then also lived on the banks of the Neva.

The composer spoke about his co-author with frank certainty: “Boris Kornilov - great poet modernity". Such a flattering assessment from the lips of a talented musician after the death of Yesenin and Mayakovsky was the highest praise for our fellow countryman. But ... already hung over him sword of Damocles 37th year.

Denunciation of a respectable citizen

Why were Boris Petrovich repressed? Semenov local historian Karp Efimov says:

- Kornilov was rehabilitated under Khrushchev, but only during Gorbachev's perestroika I received access to the secret archives of the KGB. And that was thanks to his acquaintance with the general, who had a dacha on Kerzhents. And the general was one of Gorbachev's security advisers. Vile denunciations of the poet from people he knew ruined Kornilov.

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After Stalin's death, Kornilov was posthumously rehabilitated, his collections began to appear, individual poems were placed in anthologies

Of course, he was not involved in any preparation of an assassination attempt on the leader of all times and peoples. But the bright young poet was in plain sight, frank and harsh in his judgments. Much of what was going on in the country was not to his liking, although he sang the labor enthusiasm of the population and advocated the industrialization of the USSR. But ... the collapsing way of life of the village, its long-suffering inhabitants was sorry.

By the way, he was friends with Mandelstam, who wrote terrible lines about Stalin as a tyrant with dirty fingers and his "thin-necked leaders." Here any bast went into line, the sentence to the poet was passed unanimously at a closed meeting and shot on the same day. And then civil penalty- a ban on the publication of poems for almost thirty years.

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Songs based on Kornilov's poems were performed and published even after his death with the note "folk words", for example, the final song of the movie "Counter" (composer Dmitry Shostakovich)

The return to life of the poet's poems was facilitated by his first wife, Olga Berggolts. The first time, having arrived in Semenov, meeting with Taisiya Mikhailovna, the mother of the poet, she publicly knelt down in front of her and sobbed!

They quickly became friends. But with the second wife of Boris, such spiritual communication did not work out. But the grandmother found a wonderful granddaughter.

Daughter of an enemy of the people

Irina Borisovna tells, resembling her father with wide cheekbones and tenacious eyes:

- According to my passport, I am still Yakovlevna, but everywhere I call myself Borisovna, because I feel a blood relationship with my father. I loved my grandmother very much and often visited her, stayed for a long time in the Semenov forests. In 1979, Taisiya Mikhailovna died, and a year later my family life developed in such a way that we went abroad. How I yearned in Paris without my small homeland, everyone tried to see the "blue of the Semenov forests" behind the Seine. And today I’m just happy that they recognize me everywhere here, consider me one of their own.

By the way, Taisiya Mikhailovna Kornilova lived for 96 years, her years seemed to be extended due to such short life son. Writers (from Moscow, St. Petersburg) who arrived for the Kornilov holidays laid wreaths at the grave of the mother of the wonderful Russian poet. Nearby, mounds of relatives of the Kornilov family testified by the dates on the crosses that it was a strong wiry family of centenarians.

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On February 20, 1938, the Field Session of the Military Collegium of the Supreme Court of the USSR, chaired by military jurist Matulevich Kornilov, was sentenced to an exceptional measure of punishment.

One can only guess how long the glorious offspring of the Kornilovs could have been well and sing, because, looking at his daughter, everyone in Semenov was amazed - Irina Borisovna, on the threshold of her 70th birthday, looked not just cheerful and swift on her leg, there were no wrinkles on her face and she looked twenty years younger!

Everyone wanted to take a picture with amazing woman, in whose veins poetic blood boiled: she remembered so many wonderful poems by heart, read not only the lines of her father, but also the poems of his friends, the same Mandelstam.

And thank God that now they don’t kill for poetry, it’s only a pity that they are killed in people by a vain life. But poetry is not just a splash strong feelings, it is also a testament to time compressed into stanzas. Without Boris Kornilov, it is difficult to sort out all the contradictions of the era of the 1930s.

Born on July 16 (29 n.s.) in the village of Pokrovsky, Nizhny Novgorod province, in the family of a rural teacher. Baby and youth passed in the village of Dyakovo, then in 1922 the family moved to the city of Semyonov. He begins to write poetry, which is taken very seriously in the family.

Having become one of the first pioneers in Semenov, then a pioneer and Komsomol activist, Kornilov began to write articles for wall newspapers, to collaborate with the local youth theater Blue Blouse. Soon his poems were published in the Nizhny Novgorod newspaper. This decides his fate: in the summer of 1925, Kornilov turned to the district committee of the Komsomol with a request "to second him to the institute of journalism or to some literary school". At the end of 1925 he leaves for Leningrad.

In the group of V. Sayanov, who works with proletarian and student youth, Kornilov's "provincial verses" are admired. His rapid ascent to the literary Olympus begins. Youth publications willingly publish his poems. A year later, he is called the most talented poet of the "Change" literary group. V. Sayanov personally edits the first collection of Kornilov's poems - "Youth". But the poet himself will call the collection of poems of 1931 his "first book". In the same year, the second collection "All My Friends" is published. Becomes a professional poet: participates in writers' teams (Azerbaijan, 1932), literary meetings (in Moscow, Minsk).

In 1932, he decided to write about the liquidation of the kulaks, and he was immediately accused of "furious kulak propaganda." The appearance of the poem "Trypillia" (1933), dedicated to the memory of Komsomol members killed in the kulak uprising, saves him.

The success of "The Song of the Counter" (1932), Kornilov's most popular work, inspires him, and he begins to write mass songs - "The Song of the Revolutionary Cossacks", "October", "International", a song of athletes, a song of the Komsomol-Red Navy.

In August 1934, at the Congress of Writers, the author of Trypillya was declared a hope Soviet lyrics. During next year his poems appear in Izvestia almost every week: he wrote a lot and easily. In 1935 he wrote the poem "My Africa", which was highly appreciated by Romain Rolland. However, the works that appeared later ("The Last Day of Kirov", "The Beginning of the Earth", "Samson") spoke of a crisis. He tried to keep up with the times, but did not keep up either in poetry or in life (drunkenness and debauchery became his curse). In 1936 he was expelled from the Writers' Union.

After the assassination of Kirov in Leningrad, vigorous work was underway to purge "hostile" elements. In 1937 he was arrested. Died November 21, 1938. Posthumously rehabilitated.

Boris Kornilov. 1907 - 1938.

When it became possible ex-wife poet Boris Kornilov Olga Berggolts filed a petition for his rehabilitation:
"Statement.
To the Military Prosecutor of the Leningrad Military District Comrade Ershov
from OLGA FYODOROVNA BERGHOLTZ, poet, member of the Party since 1940, laureate of the Stalin Prize.

Dear comrade Ershov!
In the middle of 1937, the MGB arrested my ex-husband- Boris Petrovich Kornilov, a native of the city of Semenov, Nizhny Novgorod province (now the Gorky region), born in 1908, the son of rural teachers, a member of the Leningrad. otd. Union of Soviet Writers.
I was married to B.P. Kornilov from 1927 to 1930. After the divorce in 1930, I left his daughter Irina, who died in 1936. Our meetings with Kornilov after the divorce were accidental, only on the basis of the Writers' Union. I tell you all this only so that you understand that in this statement I am not guided by any personal motives, while it is I who decide to apply to you with a request for a REVIEW OF THE CASE OF B.P. KORNILOV FOR THE PURPOSE OF HIS POST-DEATH REHABILITATION.

I write “posthumously”: the fact is that at the end of the 30s the writing community became aware that Boris Kornilov died, either in prison or in a camp ... Not so long ago I was informed that his entire family, who lived in those years (1937–38) in the city of Semyonov, namely: the old father, the old rural teacher Pyotr Tarasovich Kornilov; mother - a village teacher - Taisiya Mikhailovna Kornilova, sisters Alexandra and Elizaveta - also died in camps, etc., as "relatives of the enemy of the people." We do not know anything about the whereabouts of his second wife, who married almost immediately after his arrest and changed her surname. I don't know if she filed a request for B.P. Kornilov. Therefore, I consider it my civic and poetic duty to raise my voice for him - alas! - post-mortem rehabilitation.

The Secretariat of the Leningrad Branch of Soviet Writers also joins my statement. I, like my fellow writers, are forced to ask for a review of the Kornilov case and his posthumous rehabilitation mainly by the fact that our writers' organization - from the oldest to the youngest - knows and remembers him as the author of several (about TEN) wonderful books poems in which Kornilov revealed himself as the most talented Soviet poet, one of the first young poets of the draft of the first five-year plan. It grew continuously and rapidly. It was on HIS words that was written famous song Dmitri Shostakovich "Morning meets us with coolness", for the film "Counter". This song - with all his words - is still being sung all over the world. His poems, for example, such as "International", many lyric poems, the poems "Trypillia", "My Africa", the libretto of the opera based on Babel's story "Salt" (which is an independent artwork- I'm talking about the libretto), - imbued with the spirit of high patriotism, friendship of peoples and marked with the stamp of the highest artistry. At one time, they were met by the reading and writing community with great joy. They are remembered by heart even now - even by those people who have not seen Kornilov in their eyes. He died in his prime creative forces He was not yet thirty years of age. I am convinced that what happened to him is this senseless and terrible tragedy, nothing more than the result of those hostile to the Soviet people and Soviet culture actions that were carried out by the Yezhovites and the Beriaites.

I, like the LOSSPR Secretariat, appeal to you with a request to review the case of Boris Kornilov and his rehabilitation, because his legacy - still alive, relevant, patriotic - cannot be kept under the floor, cannot be hidden from the people: it must become for our youth. The best of what Boris Kornilov wrote is more than worthy of it.

Once again, I earnestly ask you, Comrade Prosecutor, to reconsider the case of Boris Petrovich KORNILOV (he went either along Troika, or along Osobka precisely through our district ...) - for the purpose of his posthumous rehabilitation.

Everyone knows him in our Union of Soviet Writers. Behind witness testimony You can contact famous poets- to the laureate of the Stalin Prize Vissarion Sayanov, to the poet and deputy secretary of the party bureau Alexander Efimovich RESHETOV, to the poet B.M. ... I am enclosing an appeal from the Len Secretariat. otd. Union of Owls. Pis."

* * *
In 1957, the procurator's office overturned Kornilov's death sentence for "participation in an anti-Soviet Trotskyist terrorist organization and the illegal distribution of his counter-revolutionary works (poetry)". The Kornilov case was recognized as a falsification based on a review by the critic N. Lesyuchevsky and the methods of work of the NKVD officers Reznik, Gantman and Karpov.

N. Lesyuchevsky collaborated with the NKVD, more than once wrote devastating expert opinions that led to repressions of writers. After the war, he headed the Zvezda magazine, lived to an honorable old age. 2 months after the arrest of Boris Kornilov, in May 1937, Lesyuchevsky explained that Kornilov’s poems were “counter-revolutionary”, in them the poet resorted to “the method of“ two meanings ”- superficial for deception and internal, deep - genuine. He essentially uses double-dealing methods in poetry.
With this “Examination Act”, the case of B. Kornilov began to be formed by lieutenant of the State Security Service Reznik, the head of the 10th department, Lieutenant Gantman, and the head of the 4th department, captain of the State Security Department Karpov.

Lieutenant of state security Mikhail Yakovlevich Reznik was arrested on January 6, 1938, along with the leadership of the Special Department, on the charge that “he gave direct instructions to the operational staff to falsify the protocols of the accused artificially created the K/R group“ POV ”, allowed a mass beating of those arrested from in order to obtain forced testimony, took a personal part in this. Witness Kuzminykh testified, in particular, at the court session: “Reznik gave the sanction for beating and he himself beat the arrested - the hospital doctor Azarovsky, Krzhizhevich and Dick. He beat the arrested with an iron stick in the manner of a bayonet, with his hand and a strap from a revolver. Reznik was sentenced to 6 years in the camps.

Major General of State Security Karpov died in 1967, was buried on Novodevichy cemetery in Moscow. There are testimonies about Karpov's investigative techniques: “Karpov first thrashed with a stool, and then strangled with a leather belt, slowly twisting it ...”; “I was interrogating the arrested person, at that time Karpov and Stepanov (deputy Karpova) entered. They asked me: “Is the arrested person testifying?” I told them that he did not confess to his activities. After that, Karpov called Morozov, the commandant of the department, and ordered a bottle of ammonia and a towel to be brought into the office. Karpov soaked a towel with ammonia and tied the arrestee's mouth with it, while they themselves began to beat him, while saying: "This method helps the case well and is safe for health."

Without a month, Boris Petrovich Kornilov spent a year in prison.
He was shot on February 20, 1938.

Note. Olga Fedorovna Bergholz herself was arrested on December 13, 1938 and spent more than six months in prison, until the beginning of July 1939. She lost her child there ...
And the rural relatives of the nugget-poet from the town of Semyonov, Gorky region. (Nizhny Novgorod province region) suffered as ChSIR.

Lev Anninsky writes:

"Expert Nikolai Lesyuchevsky successfully survived dangerous times, he lived to be seventy years old, led the publishing house " Soviet writer and died in this post in 1978. In the era of the thaw, he happened to witness the rehabilitation of Boris Kornilov and even watch how he was published. One must think that Lesyuchevsky watched all this calmly: he did not feel remorse; he explained that in 1937 he simply fulfilled “together with everyone his party, civic duty”, as he was understood “at that time”; time has changed - the understanding of duty has also changed ... "

And was Kornilov alone on Lesyuchevsky's conscience?

And I have the first collection of poems I have purchased from my beloved poet Boris Kornilov - the 1976 edition. The first posthumous one-volume edition of his works was published already in 1957 and with a foreword by the faithful and fearless Olga Bergholz. But I repeat - this did not affect Lesyuchevsky's career and conscience.

There are many poems of my favorite poet published in my LiveJournal. Tag - "Boris Kornilov".