Rus Articles Journal




Imagine noise in Nessebar - noise, shouts, the rushing, motley crowd. It is impossible. The city is cherished by silence, and it reveals gently in her easy palms.

of the Street where having extended hands the adult easily can concern opposite walls. Nobody leaves the coziest lodges.

Group of sweaty idle people with cameras; sharp clatter of the German speech.

the Tiny fountainlets, hard streams of water casting blue - hot, all the time getting thirsty.

I - the sea, the sea all the time felt somewhere nearby, blue, bottomless, with gold richness of coastal sand.

I see 2

Through transparent lace of years again - curve streets of Plovdiv; I feel - something Turkish soars in air. the Secret ligature of associations will not concede to

complexity of the Turkish alphabet.

the Massive gray fence and wide leaves of a fig,

I which are generously reclining on its top … still I remember a cathedral - bulky and dark, obviously other than the Russian temples, with department (or - the false hint of memory?) with gloomy, dark, east faces …


Tsentralnaya Street of Sofia (I do not remember how it is called).

White little tables of cozy cafe, and the yellow tram by passing. Far patina of a university dome. Went to watch Alexander Nevsky`s temple - massive, all stuck around by extensions, with flat domes. The Orthodox church giving the mosque.

Lived in Sofia, at the grandfather; he is Russian, ran in the 17th year, being a cadet, but that is very strange for the Russian emigrant, settled in Bulgaria, married, gave birth to children, and here - the old, portly, noble, knowing three languages - shows us Sofia.

Motley rags of children`s my memoirs … St. Nedelki`s temple - gloomy, black, high. Strictly looking faces.

Numismatist Shop. Speculators surrounded, entailed to some yard, offered the sparkling expensive kommemorativa - the symbols of the Bulgarian history imprinted on obverses and a reverse caused children`s delight, but the prices grinned crafty …

Giving near Sofia, the woody district, a dinner under a plane tree. Dabs of an impressionistic cloth - white with greens the tarator, juicy is banned, the mutton flowing nourishing juice. And from here from giving, in the gentle water color morning, a trip in Rila Planina - a red tile among the greens - oversaturated,

flowing … To Bourgas already went with mother together. Lacunas in memory are obvious, but Nessebar and Sozopol remained miracle, a crystal of terrestrial magic. From height looked at blue - the blue sea, blue and together transparent so that the gray seaweed streaming on a stone were visible. Turn between houses, wild grapes and an ivy, an exit to the area, fountainlets from which it is possible to drink.

Game of paints. Juice and relish of life. Why everything grows dull?


(the poem in prose)

Darkish Riga flickering in knots of the small areas,

Whose paved surface caused medieval associations; Riga aspiring up spikes of the cathedrals available to birds, but frightening the child`s look; Riga which is miraculously rounded an organ concert in Domskom.

the Gothic heavy twilight, pictures in niches whose religious plots frighten the child (all - by the USSR - the pressing atheism crown), the benches going to waves of the mysterious twilight. High - honor it and it is not visible - likely, perfectly decorated body. Listeners take seats.

Slow density of accords! One, rod subject around which imperiously, gradually, slow action of sounds is smoothly developed. And - as if walls vanish, and the arches lose the stone power; and only - above, above - to doplesnut to the sky … Flow, sound waves are poured.

Seems, the organist came for bow; but it is obligatory - ordinary action did not break the harmony presented by body.



Anapa of the childhood rising before eyes again and again.

Already night departure with placement to a compartment, with analysis of a bed, with the rocking in the glasses polished with darkness, motley Moscow on fires, gave happiness.

In Anapa lodged in the private house, on a site there was an arbor, and the garden and a kitchen garden were poured, flew a variety of color, glorifying power of a range. This morning air! A cool behind which the pressure of the future heat is felt. The beach is desert in the morning, and crabs safely go a coastal edge where ringlets of foam leave mysterious letters. And then - sharp, salty split of water, bouquets of beams, iodide smack of the sea, and - the sea horses floating flocks, nimble fishes - needles - all this attracting, unclear underwater living creatures.

At midday, escaping from a heat, had dinner in the cozy dining room, and milk soup played a gentle opal luminescence.

Then, in the evening - the mass of waters, unattainability of the horizon, whispers of waves.

Why this painting of the childhood is necessary?

And whether it is necessary?


- Well and where they are your bats?

Darkness of the Anapa night - easy. Not capable to frighten. Trees … and what trees? From where the nobility to the teenagers who were not too diligent learning biology. In the distance - the quiet sea sighing silence, connected to an infinite arch of the sky.

- Should shake a tree.

Teenagers shake clumsy trunks, expecting that mice posypitsya as pears. Anything similar.

Under legs the rigid, burned-out on the midday sun grass.

Blinking of stars.


(the poem in prose)

From Moscow to Kaluga - the whole necklace of the cities - Nara, Obninsk, Maloyaroslavets.

What they?

How many went, never came to mind - suddenly, having sharply risen, to go out of the car, at random, without the accurate purpose, to walk on unfamiliar small streets, to come into the temple, to have dinner in cafe … In a sense power of imagination surpasses by

reality, and in any case compensates its shortcomings.

Passing Nara, always admired a cathedral - yellowish, strong, ancient, I hope; and, despite the massiveness - as if soaring over the city dawning on it unsteady, bluish, spiritual light …


(the poem in prose)

the Estonian town of Vyz - the fishing village, and accurate, is white - red - ice cream with strawberry! - wheelbarrows.

Blue - the blue gulf, a forest wall with sharp cuts of tops on other party; reflections of trees in water reminds the bats hanging down the heads.

Like, oborodatevshiya zelyono - blue, soft seaweed.

Walking, came across strict black church; the cemetery near it reminded extensive, extremely accurate room for storage of household accessories.

Stocky, broad-shouldered monuments, linearly - equal paths, and at an entrance - two black angels who are eternally inclined, eternally crying …


(the poem in prose)

Red gravel chilly crackled under legs, and red squirrel tails flashed among plentiful greens. Vorony gray tore air as paper.

the Black, smooth, flickering anthracite pond, and fat lazy carps rise directly to a surface from cold, cozy, oozy depths.

In the pavilion was an exhibition of the Venetian artist of the 16th century. Masks of a carnival flashed floridly, without coming to life, however. Mysteriously music sounded.

a way lay Then to a black angel over the gulf - and highly lifted cross accumulated on a panorama of far port, and the gulf became blue … a little severely, however.


(the poem in prose)

the Kalyazinsky belltower - metaphysical reproach osuyetivshemusya to mankind; the angry sustavchaty finger which rested against the sky.

the White steamship floating by.

Someone (possibly, the child) looking at the flooded belltower, thinks of the fishes who are freely floating, almost flying between water, the through, becoming blue flights …

Foam it is yellow grows white, and brownish lumps flash in it - in the unpleasant color answering dark potyoka and cracks on once kipenny belltower … with


(the poem in prose)

Motley cards with views of the different cities.

Water of Venice seems greenish and vitreous, and the muscles of buildings bared by the flying plaster suggest an idea of the Middle Ages.

Ovalnaya Square of Luka tenderly flickers to the one who never was in Tuscany.

the Red two-storeyed bus against the buildings which are densely covered with various advertizing.

Tile Is big - Tyrnovo - as if a theatrical scenery for magnificent statement which will never take place.

White boulders before an entrance to the Dublin park …

the Whole world in one envelope.


(the poem in prose) whether

Remained where - nibud in Moscow Polenovsky court yard? Such - with warm feeling of a cosiness (scrappy motley blankets, brilliant shishechka of beds, the samovar which is ovally distorting faces), with lovely daws, uneven (pulled off a blanket?)

a relief and a water color vzmyv of a belltower on a background?

of Pereulochnaya Moscow. Kruchyonny, krivokolenny, similar to the erased ladders or zigzags of the imagination lanes are piled up. Are restricted, bear submissively various houses, a honey lilac flash on spring …

I - business spheres over the capital, spheres of metaphysical property; the skyscrapers which are dimly breaking sunshine, laborious ant vanity …

Europe competing to Asia.

the Night advertizing expiring temptation juice.

I - the fluffy, pure, new boulevard snow promising happiness.


(the poem in prose)

Looped, it is lazy - tiger shadows of Deribasovskaya.

Duke - and as if Julius Caesar: person bezvyrazitelno, too generally.

the Tremendous ladder, sustavchaty power, and the thick, magnificent sea which is reliably keeping secrets.

A in the museum - stands with coins, under massive glass - various kruglyash: blyostky points of history …


(the poem in prose)

the Tram, rocking, rounded the boulevard, without noticing naked rigid branches, ignoring hoarse voroniya gray.

struck the Area of the admiral Fokin with a through deficiency, loneliness, malevolence of a metaphysical look in you, the stranger.

Pier low bent down to water, and somebody with poetic soul endeavored to consider Japan, allegedly flickering in a nacreous haze.

Somewhere the hills densely overgrown with everything, than you want …

the Bay the Gold Horn …


(the poem in prose)

Swimming on Northern lakes, on the powerful rivers whose mass of waters and the epic already.

Departure from Moscow,

I the white motor ship seemed important as a monument to, and the bravura music accompanying departure sounded excessively vigorously.

Lakes, boundless, as seas; and pinkish sunset light east fabric covering them.

Dark rather small Uglich - as if withdrawn from the past, a little changed, with shabby, old houses where warm life is invariable as life and death.

arrived To Leningrad at night - and tart white light solution poured in majestic silhouettes of palaces and streets in memory.

approached Valaam dressed by a fog cope in the Morning; approached under symphonic Tchaikovsky`s sounding, and it was horrible - mysteriously.

Kizhi, a dark ligature of the tree pierced skillfully, rooms. Svetyolki, not coming to life old times.

I again great rivers, with woody coast, and memories is not present the end …


(the poem in prose)

Motley, different, sharp dabs of Zagorsk - Zagorsk because the Soviet empire is still strong, and other name is not thought.

of the Collar, passing to the monastery; arch, convention of frescos, their fluid variety of colors.

the Service in one of churches, everything flickers, densely floats, basses are heavy; strikes existence of chairs - folding, as at movie theater on perimeter of walls. Cripples, old women, all hot, is terrible …

Then went across the territory of the monastery open for a review, and I, ten-year-old, hardly thought to belief, hardly needed it.



(the poem in prose)

the Two-headed Protestant cathedral - high. Dark, strict.

White, kipenno - pure first snow softens a picture a little, is fluffy, with tenderness touching mighty shoulders of a cathedral.

the Street removing to it entirely consists of private lodges - shabby enough, with the lop-sided fences and small sites.

Traces on snow write intricate texts of human destinies … to


(the poem in prose) with

of the City around Kaluga … Honey of with pleasure flowing words, a luscious charm of Medyni; fragile, hrustko - a sharp cane of Peremyshl, and suddenly - some Iznoski - exhaustion, fatigue … The small, monotonous cities penetrated by uniform current dense. Warm life …


(the poem in prose)

Kanev. Never happened. Here I examine the card - smoothly - lakovo shining, sent from editorial office of the magazine which printed my verses.

Park, snow-covered, covered by snow comfortably; and heavy paws of fir-trees reply with darkness to this lantern world.

the Monument to someone - black having soared up a pedestal, the figure seems pointed - it is given against the growing white house and the same fir-trees; and snow, snow …

the Christmas card from the unfamiliar far city concerns mysteriously … with


(the poem in prose)

the Carved stone of gravestones of the Lviv cemetery. Snow on paths, snow on wings of angels, snow at end faces of plates; the beautiful, reaching for the sky obelisks remind stiffened

shout; and the city is full the, various, motley, violent life nearby.


Fantastic, winter Velikiy Ustyug - white in white, crystals of crystals, ice crystals on branches, and, as light wreath - white - the white temple for the sake of Saint Prokopy.

White secret of spirit.


the Small town of the Urals which is strongly storing a cosiness and heat in gingerbread houses.

Ashy mountains, whose topmost cuts are fancy as star patterns in good night.

Lime, malachite, karminny declines, richness of shades, fabulousness of their modulations, and - life below - for the sake of bread, not for the sake of the fairy tale, alas …


(the poem in prose)

Zvenigorod, snow rings which is densely floating in air bell-ringing (or - it only seems? Because soyuzen with a name of year …) are mysterious

In early winter twilight of the house as children`s imaginations; and yellow oil of windows is rich as original gold.

Snow blue of roads, and transparent heavenly air.

Rings of Zvenigorod.

the Black hands of trees given to the sky.


(the poem in prose)

the quiet, small town which is Cut up by twilight. Vzbleski of show-windows, and asphalt in snow bald spots. Protvino`s

. Or this village?

Block, balcony, monotonous boxes, which - where fires which started to turn yellow already; and the small river Protva who did not freeze nowadays, in the warm winter, gave the name to the city … to

Or village?.

And are represented - log huts, baking sheets rattle, and in bellies of furnaces golden, nourishing, juicy pies …

I nevertheless - the city, the city …

concerning NICE

(the poem in prose)

the City of mountains - gray, overgrown with greens, pepelno grow ripe - serious they as if protecting festive are piled up, yellow, red, it is swarty - terracotta houses whose cosiness does not raise doubts.

City of country houses. City of reserved luxury and water patches of light.

the Hard tension of water caresses boards of yachts, emphasizing unsteadiness when not illusiveness of any reality …

the SHOT: ROVIN of

(The poem in prose)

When to look from a bay, joyfully shining brightly blue - all city children`s cubes of motley houses reaches up for a mighty cathedral in which twilight the hidden, mystical wood is hidden; and the city - tourist, festive, in breaks lanes, with twisted lattices of balconies where motley flowers are looked by the sums of children`s dreams … (the poem in prose)

the Country country - densely - green, with crooked shtaketina of fences, with narrow passes between sites on which lodges in something are similar at each other and together with it are very individual


. Clumps of apple-trees hardly suffer from invasion of pears, and raspberry brakes at times serve as dividing line, a peculiar bezzaborny border. Tents of a gooseberry and currant; hotbeds, huge as whales; and a weather vane, cut out from a tin, strengthened, which - where on roofs, drobno answer wind - if suddenly flies.

Haze, heat of mature August, shashlik smoke, guitar searches, scraps of phrases. On that site billiards is established, and the neighbor who glanced on a visit clicks spheres, playing with the owner. The shaggy dog barks; from a subfloor there is a dusty capacity. Juicy, excess world; density of emotions, and summer, pleasant languor … a warehouse of unnecessary things - weight clocks do not work as

In old giving, at shelves of the book mixed up with any boxes long ago; and the twilight is mysterious as children`s dreams.

A here is lonely in the winter - Xing - chyorno - white scale, houses are driven in so they seem sad. Everything waits for spring.

Rigid inscriptions of branches on sky paper.


(the poem in prose) to

Attempt to restore the past is equivalent to aspiration to enter the dreaming wood - the irreality of its shimmer immediately escapes from a circle of day memory.

the Trip to Tula of thirty (if it is no more) summer prescription.

I Remember a gray dusty wall, all lasting and lasting - and there is no end to it, and the children`s look seeks to record the black bird who took seat on the top of a wall.

What the wall is? Perhaps, Tula Kremlin?

But - is bright, convex, flashes of various details - remember the museum the weapon: tiny ladies` guns, and massive, hardly brilliant kukhenreytor; strange forms of the modern sports weapon - as if representatives of fantastic fauna; little, spiteful “bulldogs“ …

the Dreaming memory wood - why you do not release me?