Leonid Gubanov. Whether there are fatal figures?
He could live still. On July 20 this year to it 65 years would be executed. But he died at age, fatal to many poets, - 37 years...
… From me at figure “tridtsat sem“ hop flies to the moment.
Here and now as cold blew:
Under this figure Pushkin did in time to himself duel,
I Mayakovsky laid down a temple on a barrel.
We will linger on figure “tridtsat sem“. God is artful -
the Edge put a question: or - or.
At this boundary laid down both Byron, and Rimbaud,
A present somehow slipped.
Duel did not take place or is postponed,
A in thirty three crucified, but is not strong.
A in thirty seven - not blood, in any case blood - and a gray hair
Soiled whisky not so plentifully …
(V. Vysotsky, “The song about fatal dates and figures“)
Is the famous song of Vladimir Vysotsky. He mentioned not everyone, left in 37 years. And most of all for some reason in this sad list - poets. Really, fatal number.
Vysotsky and Gubanov - people of one generation. And during lifetime of Vysotsky, contrary to his words, slipped not all “present“. In 37 G. Shpalikov left (“I walk across Moscow“), and Leonid Gubanov died in 37 years too. Gubanov was called “the best Russian poet of the second half of the XX century“. It is difficult to find out - who better, not that category for poets, but the fact that the poet was exclusive talent - now is not called any in question.
Leonid Georgiyevich Gubanov (1946-1983) is the Russian poet who was almost not published. Only more - less solid publication - in the Smena magazine, and that is by means of E. Yevtushenko. It was known “Polina“.
Polina - an ice-hole
Polina! My ice-hole!
When loves snow, so molds,
and I as a floating swan,
in you who is not loving me.
Polina! My ice-hole!
You get used to a silly swan,
and is not known to you my grief -
that you get dark, closed,
when I fight about silence ice .
Future poet in a family of the Moscow intellectuals was born on July 20, 1946. In spite of the fact that mother was a worker of OVIR, the boy was christened in church. And it - in 1946...
Also smelled of calfs, God`s frescos, a harvest.
the Tavern surprised with the prose - sober and squeezed.
I foamed women, they were beaten by dairy tears,
as though indeed nursed their birches .
(L. Gubanov) of
Leonid Gubanov began to write Verses with the childhood, in 1965 creates independent poetic association: SMOG. Poets V. Aleynikov, Yu. Kublanovsky, V. Batshev entered it (nowadays - the chairman of the Union of the Russian writers in Germany). Verses left abroad and in a samizdat. Someone from these poets famous now passed prison terms, someone - lunatic asylums.
I am banished to the Muse on galleys...
(L. Gubanov) of
L. Gubanov worked as the worker of archaeological expedition, the janitor, the photolaboratory assistant, the loader. Common story for those times.
Gubanov is called “the concealed genius of an era“, verses sometimes define him as S. Yesenin and Velimir Khlebnikov`s inconceivable mix (the last left in 37 years … too). But Gubanov`s verses - are absolutely original. Also are still underestimated. Unless the present, remained “in overwhelming minority“ and “the leaving nature of the leaving era“ bards sing the songs on its verses.
Today I want behind the Gipsy songs
on eternity to be forgotten, and only unless by
on a cranberry of a lip to feel your Persia in which both the Devil and Razin trusted
Russia is exclusively rich with poetic talents. If to make the anthology of original, real poetry of the end of the 20th century of Russia, then this poetic “national team“ quite could contend from “national team“ of the whole world. It is not simple to contend, and one easy whiff to put the world on all his numerous shovels. Russia - the country of poets whom would be on a nationality no those who created poetic masterpieces in Russian. Russia - the country of poets. But in Russia the poetry, seemingly, is necessary to nobody.
My soul - you tal and opal.
a double-exit courtyard for pain thirst.
But if the prostitute coughs,
you shudder as a hail.
But nevertheless you are warm and green
and a rhyme is fine grounded.
Ya I sleep absent-minded Yesenin, all Russia having put
to myself under the head .
Strange “catacomb“ culture in Russia which there is no end - and it irrespective of the authorities and political regimes.
And somewhere with shout outstanding,
under a laughter and an applause,
Garshin goes to flight of destiny,
having broken a muzzle against immortality.
So bring down the wood, without trusting summer.
So, damning women and life,
edges without berries
the foreheads started by belief grow blind.
So begin to trust the sky
of selling eyes, the burned-down figures,
to the New Economic Policy
talented rascals so fall.
(L. Gubanov) of
By bad tradition to the poet should die before he begins to live as the poet. But also here not too it turns out. However, and it is Gubanov expected:
I know that I am protected for later,
I in halls where withered kiss candles,
Leave me to ingenious coats,
Removing all trifle which there is nothing .