Rus Articles Journal

The soul was born winged?

Acquaintance to the poet begin with his verses. At me - with all - acquaintance, significance - from a name.

From Tsvetaeva - too.

in the Spring of 1981 at a festival of creative youth of the Vitebsk region after my poetic performance me approached the person, and with admiration exhaled: Tsvetaeva!.

With all youthful maximalism I - even without knowing this Tsvetaeva`s verses: well, a silver age, well, on a joint of eras, well and that? - declared: I - just I.

Then after arrival to Vitebsk - the city in which I then studied and once lived Marc Chagall, my friend Galya Krasilnikova read us Tsvetaeva`s verses at night (the small volume at that time was a big rarity - in a rotaprinta, and it is natural, from - for borders, and also only - a reprint at us).

In waves of hobby of Tsvetaeva were picked up all our friends (except me). One more girlfriend, Natasha Turkina, the remarkable guitarist, the artist from Babruysk, set to music 2 poems of Tsvetaeva, from the cycle Komedyant . And only then I - began to see clearly.

Both of these poems (and still - a sandbox) still my the most favourite of Tsvetayeva`s.

in the Summer 82 years in Odessa Yura Kondratyuk, the remarkable poet - the visionary with whom I was acquainted by Galya (the friendly circle so began to develop - mutual responsibility), stretched me two turned yellow leaves from the " magazine; Spark beginnings of the sixtieth. Such thaw pakhnut from lines: Tsvetaeva. From not printed:

Time hour or so at us .

A went years further, from time to time in talk the name of Tsvetaeva emerged. I to it was compared unless for eyes, knowing about my attitude towards the Poet from capital letter. The poet - the personality, he therefore also the poet - that - it is unique! But the name of Tsvetaeva at once caused association in me: Komedyant and once again it turned out that anybody - does not have these verses.

Last spring (nearly twenty years later) - and I already knew that this cycle is devoted to the actor Yury Zavadsky with whom Tsvetaeva was in love - whether yes it is possible so about the poet - is in love!? - in whom Tsvetaeva splashed out soul. - Winter of 1918. - Dedication - to Komedyant playing Angela - or Angela, playing Komedyant - whether not all the same, time - your favor - I, instead of a snow duty of Moscow of the 19th year bore - gentle.

And so, is ringing last spring: brought the next book of Tsvetaeva. (Inga in St. Petersburg transferred).

- Oh, I do not love your poetry, but - began to read in the train... It is possible, I will read up? It it was

The Story about Sonechke Marina Tsvetaeva. I open, as always, the end where the appendix - verses, and there: cycle Komedyant . And I drank greedily verses, but did not touch the story. By then Marina`s prose " was already read; My Pushkin presented by Yura from Odessa who already had a daughter - Marina!? Memoirs of the sister Tsvetaeva are already read, but Marina for me is first of all - verses! and still before - the cycle Komedyant which for the first time: completely - me and mine!

the Preface, I thumb through now: only 16 pages, and then read to N e d e l yu. Stopped on tochnost . After monthly approach to the story, it was taken away from me by Valentina Galysheva (the poet, a yashnitsa, my age-old friend), selected, read and in the conversation which dragged on for the whole day declared categorically:

- I to you repeat long ago and only you always turn a deaf ear:

You - It, but - now.

Ya did not listen to her explanations about any karmic nasledovaniye, about desire of the Poet to improve the gift and many other. It was so possible to agree to the fact that It is brisk from Odessa - it is spirit of Yury Zavadsky embodied etc. Because ours It is brisk - the inhabitant of Odessa figlyarstvut eternally, writes about actors and actresses, dramas and plays, even soap bubbles burst in his verses theatrically. I buried in myself and as once Marina about: Who do I am?. I am not a noblewoman - (neither arrogance, nor the speech) and not the hostess (I have too fun), I not common people... and not bohemia (I suffer from unpeeled boots, their roughnesses I rejoice - will rush!) I it is valid, absolute, to the core - out of estate, a profession, a rank. - For the tsar - tsars, for the beggar - beggars, for me - emptiness. - Looked back, feeling this emptiness behind the back. There was the second stop when reading the preface.

is farther: Tsvetaeva writes not only plays. Still, certainly, and verses. Sea of verses! - This is already Irma Kudrova, the originator. And at me: reason stupor, heartbeat / speeded up: to twenty day is born poems. / I do not go, and I fly on the way... - It any more not it - then, but I - now.

A the very first Stop - on the first page (twice!): In the one thousand first (or in the one million first?) time - about love... In effect, all world literature - about love, behind the few exceptions. It is impossible to solve love because its secret is infinitely many-sided and every time it is unique - as the human person is unique. How many people on light, are so much also features of love feeling. But even the same person can love differently different people who met to him on a course of life... Tsvetaeva natively possessed extraordinary developed and powerful emotional world - at subtle acute intellect and passion to introspection. Plus to that it was the person of ruthless sincerity. - this is Irma again.

I I did not listen any more to Valya because I - now am and she is Marina, and she is Sonechka - together - I, I - loving all:

To Love was its calling - and appointment Tsvetaeva says about it. As I like - to love! - Sonechka repeats again and again. Also insists: most to love!

I here traps us (according to Irma) the most interesting. Sonechk`s

- undoubted alter ego of Tsvetaeva... For the first time Anastasia Tsvetaeva paid attention to it. I precisely heard the same about love that speaks in Sonechk`s story, from Marina! - Anastasia Ivanovna spoke. It could not confuse at least because never met Sonechka herself.

In the Tsvetayeva`s biography is struck by nearly continuous series of its vlyublyonnost. It is inescapable requirement of her heart. I when I do not love - not I - she wrote down in the notebook all in a year until the end of a course of life.

I one more Stop, is already Sonechka in the story:

As I then was frightened of you! As was afraid that you it at me to an otymeta! Because not to fall in love - you, Marina, not to fall in love with you - on a lap - is impossible, unrealizable, it is simple (the surprised eyes) - silly? Therefore I to you so long did not go because knew that I so will fall in love with you, you which is loved by him, from - behind which he does not love me, and did not know that to do to me with this love because I already loved you, from first minute then, on a scene when you only looked down - to read. And then - oh, what knife in heart! what knife! - when it the last approached you, and you stood it on the edge of a scene near, having fenced off from everything, one, and he quietly told something to you, and you did not raise eyes - so he absolutely in you spoke... I, Marina, the truth did not want to love you! And now - me all the same because for me it is absent, there are you, Marina, and now I see that he could not love you because - if he could love you - it would not rehearse endlessly Saint Anthony and Saint Anthony - was, or not Anthony, and in general the Saint...

- Yury.

- Yes, yes, and at all would never have dinner and had not breakfast. Also would go to Army.

- Saint Georgy.

- Yes. Oh, Marina! Saint Georgy, with a spear, as on the Kremlin gate! Or simply would die of love.

I how she said it died of love, it was visible that she - - both to me - and to everything - dies of love to it; revolution - not revolution, rations - not rations, Bolsheviks - not Bolsheviks - all the same will die of love because this its calling - and appointment.

- Marina, you will always love me? Marina, you will always love me because I will die soon, I do not know why at all, I so love life, but I know that I will die soon and therefore therefore I so madly, hopelessly love everything... When I speak: Yura - you do not trust. Because I know that in other cities... - Only you, Marina, is not present in other cities, and - them!. - Marina, you sometime thought what here now, this minute, in this most this - minute, somewhere, in a seaport, can be on some island, ascends to the ship - the one whom you could love? And can be - descends from the ship - at me is it is for some reason always the sailor, in general the seaman, the officer - all the same... descends from the ship and wanders about the city and looks for you which here, in Borisoglebsky Lane. And can be just passes on the Third Petty-bourgeois (now in Moscow awfully many sailors, you noticed? In five minutes - you will lose all eyes!), but the Third Petty-bourgeois, it is also far from Borisoglebsky Lane as Singapore... (Pause.) I at school loved only geography - of course, not all these latitudes and longitudes and degrees (meridians - loved)... And the most awful, Marina that there is a lot of cities and islands, the full globe! - and what on each point of this globe (you have a globe? I would show) - on each point of this globe - because a sphere only by sight such small and a point only by sight - a point - thousands, thousands of those whom I could love...

Marina who invented the globe? You do not know? I know nothing too - neither who the globe nor who cards nor who hours. - What we at school are taught to?! - I bless the one who invented the globe (probably, some old man with a long white beard...) - for the fact that I can embrace these two hands all globe at once - with all my darlings!

Who - hours ... Once it at me played

hourglasses, children`s, five-minute: a glass pile in wooden poles with interception - a waist - and here, through this waist - the thinnest struyechka - sand - in five-minute time.

... So it played - long, having frowned brows, having gone to this struyechka. (I - in it). And suddenly - a desperate cry:

- Oh, Marina! I passed! I - suddenly - it is deep - reflected and did not turn time, and now I will never know, what time is it now...

Oh, Marina, I have a feeling that I killed someone!

- you time killed, Sonechka:

What time is it now? - it was asked here,

A it answered curious: Eternity .

- Oh, as it is wonderful! That it! Who this it and it is the truth - was?

- It, it from mind the sshedshy poet Batyushkov, and it, however, was.

- is silly to ask time the poet. Without - darno. Therefore he also went crazy - from such silly questions. Found to yourself hours! It needs to tell time, but not at it - to ask.

... But, Marina, imagine that I would be - God... no, not so: what instead of me God would hold hours and would forget to turn. Well, reflected on a sekundochka - and - time is over.

... What terrible, what strange toy, Marina. I would like to sleep with her.

I still - 55 p.:

- Marina, you think, God will forgive me - what I so kissed many?

- And you think - God considered?

- I - too did not consider.

... And, above all, I always kiss - the first, it is as simple as I shake hands, only - neuderzhimy. Just I cannot wait in any way! Then, every time: Well, who pulled you? Itself is guilty! I know that it is pleasant that all of them like to bow, beg, look for a case, to try to obtain, hunt to nobody... And, above all - I hate when another kisses - the first. So I at least know that I want it.

- Marina, I could never understand (and I do not understand myself) as it is possible - just tselovavshis - to say a prayer. Same lips... no, not those! I when I pray - never kissed and when I kiss - never prayed.

- Sonechka! Sonechka! From surplus of heart kiss your lips.

Ya I stop because I am lost: I speak with myself, no, it is Marina with Sonechka, but I so do, so I consider, so I behave now as they - then...

I so - all book in 216 pages. With stops that heart did not become torn not to go crazy: whether it is possible at first that you wrote, and then - you are? At first (the 19th century) - an image, and then (in 20 - m) - the person? Always was on the contrary: at first a prototype, then only - an image. Or Tsvetaeva flew so highly what from height of the soul flying saw all the twentieth and me - in the middle (or with edge?) - I do not love comparisons, as well as I do not like to go into extremes. - Nonsense. - Who do I am? Just I.

read the Book only by winter, rejoicing when found the obvious (shown) inaccuracies mine an image and me - now. But at heart understood that discrepancy - only external: clothes style, and from here and habits, are dictated a century.

the End 20 - go centuries. Marat Tarasov, having read my verses:

- is Too much feathers and wings, is torn off from reality, continuous love...

Began 20 - go. Marinin of a cloud, stars to verses, as precious " wines; (1913). All wings of Marina - not to count

, and love, love - a red thread - as a trail of blood of her life - in every line.

of the Shower therefore flies that - loves.

of the Shower therefore cannot live without love... my

I Love breath shy nights

I all - and hands is already - wings, and inspired with love - up!

I here, in this poem, an image was iznachalen, to a prototype.

A Yevgeny Yevtushenko last summer, having heard, it was got about a floor - a turn, half an hour struggled with the last quatrain and stretched to me corrected: I Like to be forgotten by

on a bed of crumpled

between forgotten and desire to know,

that threw me again on a bed,

where I fly, having become on it crucified. Yevtushenko`s

- our pride Russian, and - did not see that here not a sensuality, not down and feathers of feather-beds and pillows, but - departing from all ordinary (even from usual idea of love!) soul.

He saw grammar:

- Is impossible!!! - he cried - to be crucified on a bed - it is like on a ladder, there has to be an instrumental case here - t in about r and t e l N y y a case (whether well it is wild: to create, falling?) . No, Evgeny Aleksandrovich! There is an act of creation, but not falling, and a case accusative (set by a question, and the managing director of a pretext). Because the woman - from apple paradise - is guilty of falling. And my heroine - not the woman in a bed, on a bed, my heroine - soul, and it creates, as well as is created just like God`s.

for you, Evgeny Aleksandrovich, poetry - driving in neznayemy, and for the woman is flight. But I tell to

it now, and then on all its attacks - three times - with a smile: there is no

, Evgeny Aleksandrovich. the Poet always costs

in the center of contradictions, consists of contradictions which break off it in two: on a body and soul, on wordly and spiritual. And the poet always - the Person, but not the woman or the man, he is independent of a floor. I said to the friends - poets that we are nedozhenshchina and nedomuzhchina. I repent, measured on itself. I repent because Tsvetaeva - the poet - more, than the woman. The poet - the woman is always more, than the woman. Her love seems passion, but it is only impetuousness of desire to find harmony of two beginnings:

my today`s story - not rather - the comparative analysis of creativity of Marina Tsvetaeva and my opuses, and not poetry of Tsvetaeva in a prism of my outlook. It only the beginning of conversation on soul, about initially winged soul which always is coming back (departing) to The one who inhaled it in the image that the Person appeared. whether

Will manage to realize each of us in itself ease, weightlessness of soul whether it will manage to keep its pure light is already a question not of literature, but life.