Valentin Berestov - We loved you for no particular reason! Valentin berestov - they loved you for no particular reason.
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Berestov Valentin Dmitrievich (1928-1998) - Russian children's poet,
writer, translator.
Valentin Berestov was born on April 1, 1928 in the city of Meshchovsk,
Kaluga region in a teacher's family. The future poet learned to read at four
of the year. He began to write poetry from childhood. During World War II, the family
The Berestovs were evacuated to Tashkent. And there he was lucky
meet Nadezhda Mandelstam, who introduced him to Anna
Akhmatova.
Then there was a meeting with Korney Chukovsky, who played a big role
in the fate of Valentin Berestov. Both Akhmatova and Chukovsky reacted to the beginning
his creativity with great interest and care. While
K. I. Chukovsky wrote: “This frail fourteen-year-old teenager possesses
a talent of a huge range, surprising all connoisseurs. His poems
classic in the best sense of the word, he is endowed with a subtle sense of style
and works with equal success in all genres, and this work
combined with high culture, with stubborn efficiency. His
moral character inspires respect for everyone who comes into contact with it. "
The first collection of poems by Valentin Berestov "Departure" was published in 1957.
and has received recognition from readers, poets and critics. In the same year comes out
the first book for children "About the car". This was followed by collections of poems:
"Merry Summer", "How to Find a Path", "Smile", "Skylark", "First
leaf fall ”,“ Definition of happiness ”,“ Fifth leg ”and many others. "Berestov,
- wrote the poet Korzhavin, - this is primarily a talented, intelligent and, if
you can put it that way, a cheerful lyric poet. " Anna Akhmatova about short
In humorous verses, Valentina Dmitrievich Berestova told him:
“Take this as seriously as possible. Nobody can do that. "
“If I was asked who is the man of the century, I would say: Valentine
Berestov. Because these are the kind of people the twentieth century lacked more.
Total". This statement by Novella Matveeva could be joined by
many. Many wonderful children are grateful to Valentin Berestov
writers whom he helped to take the first steps in literature. ... ...
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Loved you for no particular reason
For being a grandson
For being a son
For being a baby
For growing
Because he looks like mom and dad.
And this love for the rest of your days
Will remain your secret support.
V. Berestov
A wonderful writer (including children’s one) Valentin Berestov has such a short but brilliant poem.
"We loved you
For no particular reason:
For being a grandson
For being a son
For being a kid
For the fact that you grow
For the fact that - like mom and dad ...
And this love for the rest of your days
It will remain your secret support ”.
This poem is easy to remember, like a counting rhyme, and it seems that it is not worth the trouble to understand it. However - it costs, and exactly what - labor. Intellectual.
It seems that most “normal” families do what the poem says, and even do it with interest. But let's separate the two concepts: "sentimental lisp" and ... love.
What many families with small children are doing is more often a sentimental lisp.
Let's rewrite the rhyme ...
Let's replace the words “loved” and “love” with the more accurate words “admired” and “rapture”, albeit with a violation of the verse.
"They admired you for no particular reason ..."
And once again we will re-read the received poem. Only the ending then needs to be redone too. From sentimental enthusiasm "secret support" ... it turns out not strong ...
“And this delight until the end of your days
Will remain your secret disease "
Blimey. Well, how do you like the poem after the alteration? This is a typical clinical picture.
Why then "gush" being tested about someone is bad? Because it goes away quickly like a vinegar and baking soda reaction, and ... it doesn't stand up to problems ...
You can continue to love a person, even when he did something bad or inappropriate. Even when he develops into an independent Personality and does everything in spite of everything.
Even when he got sick. Even when I broke up with you and stopped feeling you as “mine”. As they say, "Love is longsuffering, merciful, does not seek its own"...
But sentimental delight can be experienced only for strictly defined sentimental reasons. (Approximately, as with a package of New Year's themes, you can not disgrace yourself only in December-January). And these reasons are extremely few. A person who is hooked on the needle of sentimental enthusiasm deliberately narrows the repertoire of his actions in order to find himself in the field of constant sentimentality. You go beyond the edges of the field - it's cold there, no one admires there ... so a person becomes a clown, a cutie, a room dog.
A person who is accustomed to the taste of sugary sentimental delights, then, all his life, wants to receive exactly that - sentimental delight - “mothers”, “women” ... This is approximately how the taste of semolina with lumps is liked by a normal adult. You understand that this is an imprinting of kindergarten rubbish, but sweet childhood memories do not pick and do not remake ...
And it could be worse ...
As an adult, such a person can take and reject true love and friendship. Because they are "not so sweet" - as sweet the over-mellow sentimental delight he is used to.
Growing up, such people become greedy for flattery. And if we compare the life and deeds of a person with a ship, then the conclusion is disappointing: a ship in which a person greedy for flattery “for the captain” will certainly sink.
So is it necessary to “love a child for being a baby”? Necessary! But how to distinguish "expression of love" from "sentimental antics"?
Well, God bless you, I do not know how to explain such obvious things ...
How to distinguish sour cream from mayonnaise?
Elena NazarenkoLoved you for no particular reason
For being a grandson
For being a son
For being a baby
For growing
Because he looks like mom and dad.
And this love for the rest of your days
Will remain your secret support.
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More poems:
- How they loved you during your lifetime! I thought it was impossible to love anymore. And friends swore on your grave forever to remember you. Why? There are no questions here, He who knew you - He will understand ... And ...
- Many, my friend, loved you, To many, and you surrendered ... But you surrendered to them not loving ... It was just a prank, Or the command of hungry need, Or despair explosions ... But your pure beauty ...
- They loved each other so long and dearly, With a deep longing and an insanely rebellious condition! But, like enemies, they avoided recognition and meeting, And their short speeches were empty and cold. They...
- No, I do not love you so ardently, Not for me your beauty shine: I love in you the past suffering And my lost youth. When sometimes I look at you, B ...
- Loving you, I am embarrassed And I do not know how to say that I am seduced by you And I am afraid to become wine. When I am in front of you, I sit all in confusion, What to say then, I don’t know, Only ...
- There have been many difficult days, There will be many difficult days. Hence, it is too early to summarize. So we met with her, So we met with her Somewhere on a country road. Only a few ...
- Shouldn't I remember you? As long as I breathe, I will never forget You and the lost one. You are dearer in sorrow and in the gloom of storms, Than the rest of the world in the shining of the sun. Be free, great and ...
- Well, eh, distant, do I not love you, if here again I am drawn to a handful of grabs, so that I can see your appearance nearby. And such a heavy languor, What do you want ...
- With a secret, heavy longing, I look at you, my heart! What lies ahead for you? - A doll that will amuse you first, and then this doll will get bored ... Later, when you grow up, you ...
- My love, Russia, I love it while I live, Your slanting rains, Your grass glades, Your wandering roads, Your dashing guys. And there is no excuse for not loving you. My love, Russia, You are with everyone ...
- The world is crammed with the severity of the old, but birds chirp from the rooftops, but quiveringly, with every eyelash, you talk about youth. And the green flames of maples flow into the heart, sparkling. I don't know when between us ...
- I would like to call you my wife Because others did not call you that, That in my old house, broken by war, You will hardly be a guest again. For what I desired ...
- I don't remember you, why should I remember? This is only what I know, Only what you can know. End of the earth. A streak of smoke Pulls into the sky, slowly. Lonely, unsociable Curls ...
- The little man learned to walk from the sofa to the edge of the table. He already has eyes and shoulders, and his own young deeds. It is necessary to touch everything hastily, to try a tooth for a milk one: oh, like a grandmother ...
- Grand Duchess Elizabeth Feodorovna I look at you, admiring every hour: You are so inexpressibly good! Oh, truly under such a beautiful appearance The same beautiful soul! Some kind of meekness and inner sadness ...
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Loved you for no particular reason
For being a grandson.
For being a son.
For being a kid.
For growing up.
Because he looks like mom and dad.
And this love for the rest of your days
At ten years old at home with their
You have your own name.
But I just hit the street,
You have lost that name.
There are no names here. They have nicknames here.
And at school? Here are their habits.
They think you are big here
And they call me by their last name.
Like this. Three titles, three roles -
In the family, on the street and at school.
There is no need for notes in the journal and in the diary.
About adults! About grandmothers and aunts!
When, when will you finally understand
What am I twelve years old! Not two! Not five!
You can't kiss me when you meet!The older brother had a sonorous father:
The idol of the town, teacher and singer.
Imitating him in this and in this,
The son became the historian and the poet.
The middle brother had a quiet father:
A fisherman and a fugitive from boredom.
He spread a flower bed, a vegetable garden behind the house.
And the son, in imitation, became an agronomist.
The younger brother had an old father:
A sage, a dweller of the transcendental world.
He searched for books, collected and read.
And the son, in imitation of the scribe, became.
So age and time have changed him,
Spun the era of my father.
And only in one thing the father did not change:
For every son, he was a model.It's strange to remember what he urged me to!
As it happened, he made me laugh and teased.
And he called "Murzilka" "Zumrilka",
And the magazine "Crocodile" called "Dragonil".
"The bourgeois who buys a ticket to the cinema!"
He forged two tickets with ink brilliantly.
I was banished. And he did not look after me,
Taking out a real ticket instead of a fake.
He lured me to the greenhouses for the village,
To dazzling red large tomatoes.
Tempted me, break the glass in the greenhouse,
He would have enjoyed my shame.
If we were adults, I would not forgive him,
I would break with such a scoundrel forever.
In childhood, everything is different. I caught it. Beaten up.
And again we play as if nothing had happened.At school matinees
Ask the kids: - Do you have any questions?
And - the hand raised is innumerable.
If you ask high school students, they will be embarrassed.
Are afraid of the foolish
Show up?
But there are no stupid questions.
The answer may be silly."MOM, DAD" - takes the baby out slowly,
And the lead at the pencil breaks.
"PETYA" - the boy writes, we languish with pride.
He will mark everything with his proud name.
"NINA" - the teenager writes.
Again for him
Someone in the world is more important than himself.
And those letters are not erased all my life.
Now one thing, now another comes up from the bottom.One day he made a mistake
Scared, didn't know where to go
And, cherishing the peace of mind,
Swore not to be wrong at all.
So as not to stumble, he slowed down,
So as not to forget, I did not dare to argue,
And hid his own opinion so
That, in fact, remained without an opinion.
He did not bother anyone in the world.
He was greeted with a polite smile.
He no longer made mistakes.
His whole life was now a mistake.FAVORITE NAME
I wrote your name in the snow,
I stand and admire him.
And before, I decorated everything I could
In our proud name.
Wrote so someone could read
That I was here once.
Like some kind of message
That I am
I loved my name.Sat embarrassed in the company of liars.
He was silent. I did not try to insert a word.
And I didn’t notice myself in the end,
How, without saying a word, he lied.FIRST CLASS MESSENGER
Daughter, tell me, did you eat?
- Mom, the whole bowl is empty.
- Daughter, did you have some tea?
- Mom, poured two cups.
- Is everything all right with the assignment to the house?
- Mom, check my notebooks!
- And how is your daughter doing with the lesson?
- I memorized the whole rhyme to the line.
- How's your doll doing?
- Mom, don't ask about her.
I really don't know what to do with her.
Doesn't want to eat, doesn't want to drink.
If you ask about the task, it will cry
And he will hide the notebook under the bed.
And ask to tell a rhyme,
Goggles eyes - and silence.
The novel "Life of Arseniev" is a completely new type of Bunin's prose. It is perceived unusually easily, organically, since it constantly awakens associations with our experiences. At the same time, the artist leads us along such a path, to such manifestations of personality that a person often does not think about: they seem to remain in the subconscious. Moreover, as he worked on the text of the novel, Bunin removed the “key” to unraveling his main search, which he first spoke about openly. Therefore, it is instructive to turn to early editions, blanks for the novel.
In 1903, the first review, written by Alexander Blok, appeared in the Novy Put magazine. It was no accident that he met with the publication, which was headed by Z. N. Gippius and D. S. Merezhkovsky. Before personal acquaintance with them (in March 1902), Blok studied the works of Merezhkovsky a lot and carefully, and as noted by Vl. Orlov: “Almost all of Blok's reflections in his youthful diary about the antinomy of pagan and Christian worldviews (“ flesh ”and“ spirit ”).
The first "short sketch of the life and work" of Pribludny was published by A. Skripov in 1963. A close friend of the poet, who corresponded with him during 1929-1936, Skripov published a large number of previously unknown materials. His work, which has the undoubted merit of reliable evidence, obviously has not lost its value at the present time, but it fully reflected the views and assessments characteristic of Russian literary criticism of the 60s, such as the following ...
Valentin Berestov
Poems about children
Loved you for no particular reason
Grandma Katya
Third attempt
From the cycle "School lyrics"
He pulls and pulls his hand over the party
Where is the right, where is the left
Reader
We were friends with you, as boys are friends
Loved you for no particular reason
For being a grandson.
For being a son.
For being a kid.
For growing up.
For being on dad and mom
And this love until the end of yours
Will remain your secret support.
Grandma Katya
I see grandma Katya
Stands by the bed.
Came from the village
Grandma Katya.
Mom a bundle with a gift
She serves.
Me quietly
Dried pear vanishes.
I ordered my father
As a child:
"You, child, yourself
Unharness your horse! "
And with respect she asked
Leaning over me:
"Would you like a fairy tale,
My father? "
Again, like many years ago,
The yard is empty. And no one in the garden.
How can I find comrades?
Nobody ... But still there is someone.
One, two, three, four, five,
I'm going to look!
I will tear off my palms from my eyes.
Hey guys! Who fell into the grass?
Who is there behind the birch trunk?
I don't believe in an empty yard.
I still play with you.
Taught lessons. I repeated my lessons.
Having done my homework, I rushed to my lessons.
How I listened to the lessons in the lesson!
How I answered the lessons at the blackboard!
And having earned reproaches or reproaches,
Nothing distracted me.
Drawing theorems in the sand.
Third attempt
You don't leave the arena right away
And you don't immediately draw the line.
Three attempts are given to the athlete
To take the height.
Bad luck, but you're not at a loss:
The decisive moment is close again.
Watching others try.
Announcing a new struggle
The bar is set higher, and again
Three attempts are given to you.
Grit your teeth, get ready and wait.
And it turns out that the third attempt
It always remains ahead.
From the cycle "School lyrics"
He pulls and pulls his hand over the party.
Surely no one would even look at him?
He is all impatient: "Ask me!"
It is enough that he has penetrated into the secret,
That a miracle happened, the problem was solved ...
Please ask! Do mercy!
Where is the right, where is the left
"Victory!" - there was a jubilant cry.
Don't bother your mom
No need to go to grandma:
Please read it! Read it!
No need to beg your sister:
Well, read another page!
No need to call.
Don't wait.
And immediately the battle begins.
We are not tired of these battles,
Still would! She was hardened in battle!
Grandma Katya
I see grandma Katya
Stands by the bed.
Came from the village
Grandma Katya.
Mom a bundle with a gift
She serves.
Me quietly
Dried pear vanishes.
I ordered my father
As a child:
"You, my child, yourself
Unharness the horse! "
And with respect she asked
Leaning over me:
"Would you like a fairy tale,
My father? "
Giant
I was friends with a giant as a child.
We had fun alone.
He wandered through the forests and glades.
I skipped after him.
And he was a real man
With the consciousness of their own strength,
And a penknife turned,
And wore long trousers.
We walked together all summer.
Nobody dared to touch me.
And I am a giant for this
He sang all the songs of his father.
Oh my noble and proud
Protector, giant and hero!
At that time you finished the fourth,
And I moved on to the second.
The guys will be equal in height
And they will become friends on an equal footing.
I grew up. I finished ninth
When you died in the war.
Wreath
Sometimes I happened to be an object
Silent adoration and worries.
Infancy. Lawn in early summer.
And the girl sits, weaves wreaths.
And putting on the golden crown
On my bobbed head,
Everything glows. And I am not protesting.
I recognize myself as an idol.
And, rejoicing in a shining gaze,
I look at the girl, at the clouds,
I obediently play the role of the king
And I feel the heaviness and the coolness
And the freshness and solemnity of the wreath.
Evening. In wet colors the window sill ...
Evening. Wet flowers window sill.
Grace. Purity. Silence.
At this hour, head on palms,
The mother usually sits by the window.
Will not respond, will not turn,
Will not lift the face from the palms.
And she will wake up as soon as she waits
Father smiles outside the window.
And he will pull up the weights at the walkers,
And rush to meet him.
What is love in this world
I know, but I won't understand soon.
Return from the east
And there, in the steppe, there is a fire, cooled ashes ...
We're home. The steppe is not visible from here.
And yet, even though we left the steppe,
She does not want to leave us.
We are also a steppe. We are like her
Sunburn and chapped skin
And by the fact that we carry silence in our hearts,
And the fact that we see the moon in the city.
It also wakes us up in the middle of the night somewhere,
Touching the eyes with an invisible ray
Three hours before dawn here
Steppe sun, rising without us.
Away, in the crowd among the whirlpool,
Again, albeit weaker than yesterday,
A sudden slumber will overtake us, -
Steppe night will whisper: "It's time to sleep."
But little by little everything will fall into place:
Rise, rebound, and look, and complexion.
And the steppe? It will go away, melt, sink
And yet it will not be erased to the end.
An old friend will show up, remind,
And again the steppe will fill you all.
Where is the right, where is the left
The student was standing at a fork in the road.
Where is the right, where is the left, he could not understand.
But suddenly the student scratched his head
The very hand with which he wrote.
And he threw the ball and leafed through the pages.
He held the spoon and swept the floors.
"Victory!" - there was a jubilant cry.
Where is the right, where is the left, the student recognized.
The game
We used to sit down at chess.
One board was not enough for the strategists.
And the proud honed host
To play the fate of mankind
Descended to the floor, into the world of simple toys -
Ships, boxes and reels.
And now the kings sit on the throne,
And pawns into tanks and ships.
Parades. Inspections. Conspiracies. Troubles.
Something someone will not forgive someone.
And the kings throw the fleet into the fleet,
On the army, on the people, on the people.
From under the perfume, one gallant bottle,
Although he was fragile, he fought with glory.
Where the spirit is heroic, there is a heroic appearance.
He was intertwined with everything with the army
Crimson medal thread.
People tired of bloodshed
Overthrows kings and governors.
The last battle. The last uprising.
Great worldwide fraternization.
Chess on the table, a bottle on the chest of drawers.
And two people are running around the yard,
Those who have ended the world war.
Who is twelve years old
Whoever is twelve goes to kindergarten
Went thousands of years ago.
About this very childhood in gold
He recalls almost with shame.
Forget it soon! After all, it
There is a spot in the heroic biography.
Horse
I am for my daughter
The best of horses.
I can laugh loudly and clatter loudly.
And riding, riding, riding
On a horse with dashing
This is how the girl rider runs.
And in the morning there is no horse.
It goes away for half a day,
Pretends to be angry
Business-like,
But he dreams of one thing:
To become a horse again
And, trembling with impatience, beats with a hoof.
Cat puppy
The cat had an adopted son -
Not a kitten, but a puppy,
Very sweet, very humble,
Very affectionate son.
Without water and without wet
The son's cat was washing;
Instead of a sponge, instead of soap
Tongue of my little son of soap.
Licks the tongue quickly
Neck, back and side.
Mother cat is an animal
Very clean.
But the adopted son grew up,
And now he's a huge dog.
Poor mom can't do it
Wash the shaggy bruiser.
On huge sides
There is not enough language.
To wash my son's neck
We must climb onto his back.
Oh, - the mother cat sighed, -
It's hard to wash your son!
Splash yourself, bathe yourself,
Wash yourself without your mother.
The son is swimming in the river.
Mom is napping in the sand.
Ski trail
And again the ski path
Like rails cut into the snow.
Pushing and sliding
I run, I keep up with everyone.
May my last ski trail
Melted so many years ago
But the memory of childhood whispers: - No,
He's here. Things are going well!
My childhood is suddenly returned.
It, rejoicing, moves me,
As if it wasn't at all
Remained somewhere behind the war.
Loved you for no particular reason ...
Loved you for no particular reason
For being a grandson
For being a son
For being a baby
For growing
Because he looks like mom and dad.
And this love for the rest of your days
Will remain your secret support.
Love began with a solid deception ...
Love began with a solid deception.
I ran from school in the courtyard
And again appeared on the corner, blushing,
To, as it were, accidentally meet with her.
And, understanding everything, a little embarrassed,
She listened to my explanations:
Like, I need to meet with someone from here.
O white beret in the gloom of snow!
And again in yards I rushed through the darkness,
And she came across on every corner,
And, having met, he ran to meet him again ...
This is how I saw her off for the first time.
Patron of the 41st year
One of them lived in Tashkent,
Another came from Kaluga.
Everything was different for them,
And only grandmother is alone.
From the letters of his grandmother
They learned about each other
And in forty-one brought them together
Patriotic War.
The younger brother tells
About obscurity and anxiety
Like a Junkers so big
The nimble "hawk" fought,
As the herds walked through the city ...
And the elder brother, serious, strict,
He asserts: - You write it down!
After all, you have a wonderful syllable!
And the younger brother cries bitterly,
Hearing the woeful report.
He remembers the Messerschmitts hum
And the sharpness of the military commands.
And the elder is looking at him,
He looks like his find,
And he is glad that he discovered
(What did you think!) Talent.
Man
Father was called to the front,
And for this reason
I must live from now on
As a man should.
Mother is always at work.
The apartment was empty.
But in a house for a man
There is always a case.
Buckets full of water.
The apartment was swept.
It is not difficult to wash dishes -
Not a drop of fat on it.
With three cards coupons
They cut my hair at the grocery store.
Provider and breadwinner.
Man. Senior in the house.
I am sincerely sure
That he became a substitute for his father.
But in that distant life
Blissful, pre-war,
Father did not study
By doing similar things.
Mother replaced dad.
I help my mother.
Only once, and then at the beginning of childhood ...
Only once, and then at the beginning of childhood,
My uncle, the one who died in the war,
He stopped by to see us. But still peer
I can in his eyes. They are in me.
Everything else - the appearance and the words -
Forgotten. But also, I remember
There was grass. Non-local grass.
Tall and thin. Forest.
Must be in the forest (he's at the end of the earth
Was for me) my uncle brought me in,
And there we lay down in the clearing,
Happy, looking into each other's eyes.
And I noticed the threads on the squirrels
And the folds of the eyelids, and rare eyelashes,
And two pupils, two dots-pupils,
In two gray and radiant pupils.
And the way I myself was reflected in them,
And the way they were covered with drag.
And the eyelids moved ... Just a moment
I remembered. One blink of an eye.
He pulls and pulls his hand over the party ...
He pulls and pulls his hand over the party.
Surely no one would even look at him?
He is all impatient: "Ask me!"
As if, having driven a horse along the road,
He rushed here with an urgent package,
With an urgent package and a precise answer.
No journal or diary notes needed
It is enough that he has penetrated into the secret,
That a miracle happened, the problem was solved ...
Please ask! Do mercy!
Chukovsky's paradox
“You began to write finely,
Hastily, dexterously, sluggishly.
For the craft,
Trinket
For a trinket.
Why spin a squirrel?
You seem to be paid little?
I don't see the point in this, -
Chukovsky sighed. - Enough,
Write disinterestedly -
They pay more for this! "
First friend
Once the primitive children went to the primeval forest,
And the primitive sun gazed at them from heaven.
And the children met in the thicket of an unknown animal,
What have never been seen yet.
The primitive pope said: “Well, play with him.
When it gets bigger, we will eat it together. "
Night. Primitive people sleep in a primitive dream,
And primitive wolves creep in the darkness of the night.
The trouble is for primitive people, who are so defenseless in a dream.
How often did the animal belly become a grave for him!
But sensing evil cannibals, a brave animal barked,
And with this he saved the primitive people from death.
He started hunting with his dad when he grew up.
So a cheerful and faithful dog became a friend to man.
Song of frogs
We have eyes like diamonds
And the skin is the color of emerald.
And we are born three times
And this, brothers, is just a miracle.
Small egg in a lump,
And a tadpole in a frisky flock,
And here is a frog on a bump
Sits il gallops across the lawn.
Frozen into the ice - and again alive.
What a frog it is!
We breathe with gills like fish.
We breathe with lungs like humans.
We could fly like birds.
But it is better to sing like birds, we will!
Of course, not bad trills
Sometimes these birds breed!
But we were the first to sing
When they were not in the world.
A million years, maybe two
Heard the world one "kva-kva!"
We are record holders on land
And in every puddle of a champion.
We have bouncy knees
We have membranes on our paws.
Of course we're cold
But our songs are so humorous.
We are stupid in your fables
But in your fairy tales we are princesses!
Become a queen - kva-kva!
Reign with the power of magic!
Subtext
You won't find a catch in my poems.
Latently smart and latently brave
I can't be. Hide lies under the truth
Under the lie, the truth is overwhelming
I think. I write what I want.
I will not say anything about what I want.
Well, and the subtext, as opposed to the catch,
Walking with Chukovsky
I am fourteen years old and he is sixty.
He is huge, and gray, and blush, and wear.
He grieves for his son. I am sad without a father.
May is blooming. And the end of the war is not in sight.
Carefully mine, he decides fate
And anxiously looks at my thinness.
Tomorrow morning he will rush to save me.
Until then, he will show you how to write.
And read me poems that the great poet
I wrote about love at twenty-seven years old,
Will remember what is still ahead of me.
Oh poetry! The souls of people are bent
To find strength and a common language in you
This frail boy and sturdy old man.
Hide and seek
Again, like many years ago,
I go into a familiar courtyard and garden.
The yard is empty. And no one in the garden.
How can I find comrades?
Nobody ... But still there is someone.
Empty ... But they should be here.
One, two, three, four, five,
I'm going to look!
I will tear off my palms from my eyes.
Hey guys! Who fell into the grass?
Who's in the barn? Who's around the corner?
Who is behind the birch trunk?
I don't believe in an empty yard.
I still play with you.
Early glory
"Poet! Poet!" - shouted after.
The poet was few years old.
He did not dream of fame.
He dreamed of reprisal
With everyone who follows the poet
Shouted: “Poet! Poet! Poet!"
Dawn. Sokolniki. Glade ...
Dawn. Sokolniki. Polyana.
We are exactly forty-five together.
It's strange when you leave
Remember these things.
To our first embrace
The last star is looking.
May belated curses
They will never be touched.
We were friends with you, as boys are friends ...
We were friends with you, as boys are friends,
They fought and argued without respite.
Sometimes, as soon as we get along with you,
And immediately the battle begins.
Again in hand-to-hand or chess
We hasten to put each other on the shoulder blades.
Where the sword flashed, the ball would roll.
Rejoice, winner! Defeated, cry!
We are not tired of these battles,
At least everyone died a hundred times in a duel.
But we have kept our friendship.
Still would! She was hardened in battle!
Firefly
I have a furry worm in my hands.
He carries a greenish light.
And the guys call him - firefly.
It is a pity that in childhood I did not have to find you!
I would say, "This is my firefly!"
I would take you home, firefly.
I would put you in a box
And I could not sleep for joy.
Because I didn’t find you, that mother
Did you go to bed too on time?
Is it because I was cowardly as a child
And did not wander through the forest in the evenings?
No, I wandered, in spite of evil wizards.
Obviously, I was out of luck then.
And then came the blazing July.
The roar of explosions. Shine of tracer bullets.
Leaving the darkened town
Echelons stretched to the east.
I lost my childhood somewhere along the way ...
So shine brighter, little one! Shine!
Third attempt
You don't leave the arena right away
And you don't immediately draw the line.
Three attempts are given to the athlete
To take the height.
Bad luck, but you're not at a loss:
The decisive moment is close again.
You're getting ready for your third try
Watching others try.
He ran away. Take off. And you're done!
Announcing a new struggle
The bar is set higher, and again
Three attempts are given to you.
But it didn't work out (try is not torture),
Grit your teeth, get ready and wait.
And it turns out that the third attempt
It always remains ahead.
Therefore, there is no need to return to class.
The bell will ring, get dressed soon
And wait for me at the school doors! "
And in pairs, in pairs after her,
For her sweet teacher
We are solemnly leaving the village.
And in the puddles from the lawns, foliage poured!
“Look! On dark Christmas trees in the undergrowth
Maple stars burn like pendants
Bend over for the most beautiful leaf
Veined with crimson on gold.
Remember everything, how the earth falls asleep,
And the wind falls asleep with foliage. "
And in the maple grove it is brighter and brighter.
More and more leaves are flying off the branches.
We play and rush under the falling leaves
With a sad, pensive woman next to him.
Lessons
Taught lessons. I repeated my lessons.
Having done my homework, I rushed to my lessons.
How I listened to the lessons in the lesson!
How I answered the lessons at the blackboard!
And having earned reproaches or reproaches,
I immediately learned from them.
I followed the teacher with my gaze.
Nothing distracted me.
And who then sat at a desk next to,
Let him forgive, I did not hear him.
Learning ... Man is ruled by passions,
And I was at the mercy of this passion.
In any of us there is a slave schoolboy,
Afraid of being called to the board.
A cheerful schoolboy lives in any of us,
Drawing theorems in the sand.
For the school spirit without an admixture of schooling,
As for a horse, I am ready to give my kingdom.
Oh, you are the locomotive kingdom!
How much boiling water do you want.
Wait, commodity!
Drink, brigade, boiling water.
Skip the sanitary
Echelons to the east.
Wait, passengers!
Sit down, children, on the grass.
Fight Siberian regiments
They rush by courier to Moscow.
Cautious commanders
The disguise was put on.
Ah, taiga birches,
They took you far away.
The locomotive will jerk and move
And the cars will fly.
And birches are like a trinity,
As they rustle in the huts.
Marina Korotkova
Head of the library of the Center for the Development of Creativity of Children and Youth named after A. V. Kosareva, Moscow
2008 has been declared the Year of the Family in Russia. And on a holiday, during the holidays, one of the readers, a teacher by profession, asked to pick up "poems about the family." The first author who came to mind is Valentin Berestov. A poem from the cycle "The Crossroads of Childhood":
Loved you for no particular reason
For being a grandson
For being a son
For being a baby
For growing
Because he looks like mom and dad.
And this love, until the end of your days
Will remain your secret support.
In his book of memoirs "Childhood in a Small Town" VD Berestov wrote: "How many gentle eyes shone over me! I got used to the fact that everyone loves me ... The kindness of my relatives and fellow countrymen spoiled me at the beginning of my life. As an adult, I could not get used to the fact that someone is not happy with me and does not expect anything good from me at all. "
In Berestov's poetry, the words "mother", "father", "grandmother", "brother" are especially common. If you put all these poems together, you get a kind of "family chronicle." One of the poet's collections is called "Family Photography" (Moscow, 1973), based on the poem of the same name:
I put on a new sailor suit
And grandma straightens her hair
Dad is wearing new striped trousers
Mom is wearing a loose jacket
Brother is in a great mood,
Blush and smells like strawberry soap
And waits for obedience to sweets.
We solemnly carry the chairs out into the garden.
The photographer guides the camera.
Laughter on the lips. Excitement in the chest.
Silence. Click. And the holiday is over.
2008 marks 80 years since the birth of Valentin Dmitrievich, he was born in 1928, on the most frivolous day of the year - April 1:
And I was born on the first of April.
My father, returning from a trip,
I heard this news on the way
And he didn’t believe: “So he wasn’t born,
And if he was born, it is not a son.
No, the jokers were over the edge.
To joke, to joke, but in jokes know the measure! "
One of the first childhood memories (Vale was then no more than three years old) and his mother's favorite poem:
Evening. Wet flowers window sill.
Grace. Purity. Silence.
At this hour, head on palms,
The mother usually sits by the window.
Will not respond, will not turn,
Will not lift the face from the palms.
And she will wake up as soon as she waits
Outside the window of the father's smile,
And he will pull up the weights at the walkers,
And rush to meet him.
What is love in this world
I know, but I won't understand soon.
Vali's mother played in an amateur performance, and when she was preparing the role, there was only a prison for food in the house:
Mom walks, frowning eyebrows,
Loudly whispers, teaches the role.
So, today there will be a prison:
Onions and butter, bread and salt.
The floor is not washed, the flower is not watered,
The fire was extinguished under the stove.
And no one teaches children
Doesn't educate us.
Artistic nature
No business on the day of the premiere
Until the worries of everyday life. Tyurya -
Here's our holiday lunch.
Glasses are breaking
Fight off the hands.
We pour water into the bowl from the tap,
Chop the bread and cut the onion.
And there’s a storm in my mother’s eyes
And in the movements of the triumph.
That's a jail!
What a jail!
There is nothing tastier!
And now the son in the auditorium looks at his mother-artist:
Mom played the machine gunner
And the son's soul froze.
How cheerful and brave
This machine gunner was.
Mom, mommy, that's what you are!
Without concealing your triumph,
Shaking and pushing all the neighbors,
The son whispered: - This is my mother!
And then his mom played
The daughter of a white general.
How cowardly and evil
There was a general's daughter.
The son wanted to fall through the ground.
After all, the family is covered with shame.
And around admiring faces:
"Did not recognize? Is this your mother "?
(« Amateur performance»)
In his memoirs, Berestov wrote about himself - a "social half-breed": one grandmother is a peasant woman, the other is a noblewoman. Valentina Berestov's mother, Zinaida Fyodorovna, was the daughter of the well-known landowner Fyodor Telegin and Alexandra, a noblewoman of the old Trunov family. Fyodor Telegin, however, himself was from peasants, but he became rich and became the owner of the Serebreno estate, not far from Meshchovsk. Valentin Berestov's father, Dmitry Matveyevich Berestov, was from the peasants, but from the economic peasants, those who belonged to the treasury and did not know serfdom. From childhood, he fell in love with reading, studied in Poltava at the Teachers' Seminary, then, when the First World War began and there were not enough officers from the upper classes, he was admitted to an officer's school, from where he was sent to the front. Later he worked as a school teacher, taught history. Possessing a wonderful voice, he sang as a child in a church choir, and later sang lullabies by Mozart, Tchaikovsky and Vertinsky's songs to his sons.
My father did not whistle at all,
Didn't hum at all.
Not that I, not that I,
When I was with him.
Not in full voice, just like that,
He did not sing anything.
Everybody says the voice was
My dad's.
I didn't become a singer, I taught children,
He fought in three wars ...
He sang for my mother, for the guests.
No, he didn't hum.
And what are we just singing -
Ta-ra da ti-ri-ri, -
Probably sounded in him
But somewhere inside.
No wonder he had
The gait is so easy
As if the music was calling
Its from afar.
The Great Patriotic War began, and my father was called to the front, about this the verses "The First Evening of War":
It was the first evening
perhaps the last war.
As at a commemoration, we eat pancakes with tears.
We sit for a long time and eat and look at our father.
Quiet, so quiet that you can hear the beating of hearts.
The gulls are sweet, but the faces of sadness are stamped.
Why doesn't the messenger come to hand over the summons?
Maybe with this one, like with the First World War
Or from the Civil, the father will return alive.
Threads. Needle. Straight razor. Notebook.
The fees are really short for a long trip.
The infantry will go out to save the planet and the country.
As for work, my father got ready for the war.
The Berestov family had three sons (the third son was born after the war). Valentin Dmitrievich wrote about himself and his brothers:
* * *
House
Hodun.
The mother is embraced in horror:
- Fighting again!
Brother goes to brother.
And drives us into the yard
Into the crowd of guys.
Yard shaking:
Brother stands up for his brother!
* * *
So, I take the scissors
A comb and a bathrobe.
Sits like in a hairdresser
My five year old brother.
And he asks for all the curls
Cut to one
So that women are at ease
They left him.
YOUNGER BROTHER
After all, it must be the same! Brother still seriously believes
That which has long been in question for me.
When he puffs, he is still a locomotive.
And I will no longer be a locomotive.
Valentine was the eldest of the brothers, and when his father went to the front, he is the eldest man in the family:
Father was called to the front.
And for this reason
I must live from now on
As a man should.
Mother is always at work.
The apartment was empty.
But in a house for a man
There is always a case.
I follow my brother
Are the clothes in order?
Cooking lunch: in uniform
Hot potato.
Buckets full of water.
The apartment was swept.
It's easy to wash the dishes -
not a drop of fat on it.
With an imperturbable look,
solid and worthy,
Into the yard, to the cesspool,
I go with a garbage bucket,
With three cards coupons
they cut my hair in the "deli".
Provider and breadwinner. Man.
Senior in the house.
I am sincerely sure
That he became a substitute for his father.
But in that distant life
blissful, pre-war
Father did not study
By doing similar things.
Mother replaced dad.
I help my mother.
Meanwhile, there was no news from his father for a long time, and in 1942 a fourteen-year-old teenager wrote a poem to "Father":
My father! You don't send news
For a whole year, my dear family,
But the days we were together
In a dream they stand in front of me.
And the lived comes to life:
The reeds and the distance of the native river,
And you, bending over the water,
You look tired at the floats.
Again I, baby, next to you
I stand, keeping silence,
And you look so welcoming
Sometimes you look at me ...
And again a passing cart
Knocks, dust swirls like smoke.
And the old horse, tired of running,
Weaving at a slow pace.
The silence does not break a sound.
Only a stupid quail in the morning
Repeats without stopping
Everything is "time to sleep" and "time to sleep".
And life flows from the beginning again
Still full of the same joy
As if it didn't tear us apart
Relentless war.
As if they were a nightmare dream
All the shocks and need
And the morning with radiant light
They were dispersed without difficulty.
Father returned alive and with this, for him, the third war. He raised three sons and for each of them was an example in life:
The older brother had a sonorous father,
The idol of the town, ethnographer and singer.
Imitating him in this and in this,
The son became the historian and the poet.
The middle brother had a sad father
A fisherman and a fugitive from boredom.
He spread a flower bed, a vegetable garden behind the house.
Imitating him, his son became an agronomist.
The younger brother had an old father,
A sage, a dweller of the transcendental world.
He searched for books, collected and read.
And the son, in imitation of the scribe, became.
So age and time have changed him,
Spun the era of my father.
And only in one thing the father did not change:
For every son, he was a model.
“The era of my father was twisting,” writes Berestov. In 1936, Dmitry Matveyevich was expelled from the party, summoned at night for interrogations by the NKVD. Saving his family, he left Meshchovsk. In 1988, Valentin Dmitrievich wrote a poem about this "Proofs (1936)".
“Berestov,” they said to my father, “
Admit it: you are a Social Revolutionary.
They were looking for evidence
The dust in the archives was raised,
In Ukrainian, for example.
And now we will present them.
You hid the Socialist-Revolutionary Party for a reason.
What's in Yekaterinoslav
Did you speak at the convention?
With what did you go to these Socialist-Revolutionaries?
What told them about terror
In nineteen hundred and three? "
- What did you say? Probably nonsense.
What else to say at the time
Could a child of about eight years old?
“How eight? Ouch, the enemy's seed!
Got it out, damn it! "
During the war, Berestov's father was in captivity and upon returning to his homeland was forced to work in a rural school, in Kaluga he could not find a job.
Two grandmothers lived in their family: Baba Sasha, mother of Zinaida Fedorovna, and great-grandmother Alexandra Gerasimovna, mother of Baba Sasha. Valentin Dmitrievich also talks about them in his poems.
BABA SASHA
Our affectionate fairy!
Arches of proud eyebrows.
I called it "Baba Sasha"
My mother's mother.
There was talk in the town
About your past sins,
And with the zeal of the praying mantis
You prayed for them.
In a black shawl, in a strict dress,
Asking for ourselves, for us,
Kneel before god
Has dropped many times.
Fading needles
A blue look from under a scarf ...
Well I drove on the floorboard
Inflated buttons troops.
I beat the cadets with Budyonny,
Interventions, cadets.
Cry "Hurray!", "For the power of the Soviets!"
Was shaking your quiet roof.
In his book of memoirs, Berestov wrote about her: “My blue-eyed black-haired grandmother, the mother of five children, fell in love with a defrocked monk, abandoned my grandfather. I heard rumors about this in Meshchovsk half a century after my grandfather's death. "
And about my great-grandmother:
A deprived great-grandmother, a noble great-grandmother
I was always in a hurry to visit early.
Why is honor given to the landowner?
Great-grandmother! Not everyone has it.
"Great-grandmother, hello!" -
“Have you come, disobedient?
For gingerbread, eat. Take the earphone.
Again Kovalev. Sing, honey, sing!
Ah, radio! A treasure for a blind old woman!
Well, that's enough. The newspaper is a hotbed of culture.
Let's tell the cartoons.
An eye circle? Ah, the monocle! Well well!
In a top hat with a bomb? Give, they say, war! "
Oh, how she made fun of Briand,
Over Churchill, Hoover, Zhang Xue-liang,
As she snorted, holding her lips with her palm,
Over the petty arrogance of the great powers.
She joked, drank, rolled in the carriage.
Laughing and joking, she lingered in the world.
Ten tenths! .. old ladies crowd
Yes, the yellow riza of the priest is cone-shaped.
Here it was not heard "You fell a victim."
According to the ancient order, it was funeral.
Great-grandmother loved to listen to folk songs performed by the singer Kovaleva, was fond of politics and, despite the fact that at that time she was already blind, she subscribed to the Izvestia newspaper. Thanks to Izvestia and his great-grandmother, little Valya Berestov learned the first letters and read the first word. He talks about this in his memoirs: “And yet she (great-grandmother) taught me the first two letters. In some of the cartoons I told her, a proud cliff with four letters on a steep cliff rose amid the stormy sea. “Three identical letters side by side? - asked the great-grandmother. - Not otherwise the USSR! " The first word I read! " Valya and his brother Dima were called by their grandmothers Dragotsunchik and Strekotunchik. Grandmothers were "deprived" - that is, deprived of voting rights for noble origin.
Father's mother, grandmother Katya, lived in the village of Torkhovo. She was the second wife of Matvey Berestov and bore him 18 children, of which nine survived. From the village, she came to visit in a cart and herself ruled the horse.
GRANDMA KATYA
I see grandma Katya
Stands by the bed.
Came from the village
Grandma Katya.
Mom a bundle with a gift
She serves.
Me quietly
The dried pear is thrusting.
I ordered my father
As a child:
"You, my child, yourself
Unharness the horse! "
And with respect she asked
Leaning over me:
"Would you like a fairy tale,
My father? "
Many of the Berestovs' relatives died in the war. The two sons of Baba Sasha did not return from the war. Valentin Berestov's cousins Vasily and Konstantin, grandchildren of Baba Katya, also did not return from the war. In the poem "Shirt" Valentin Dmitrievich told about Vasily's cousin:
The parents are different, but the grandmother is one.
And she brought her brother from the village to us.
And there was I, six years old, he was most glad of all.
My cousin studied to be a teacher.
How funny he was! How kind he was!
What beautiful shirts he wore!
He came in a white shirt. And on our porch
We looked at the clock of the cathedral for a full hour.
And before mom said: "March to bed!"
We have learned to recognize time by arrows.
Then in a blue shirt he came for me,
He brought me to the other students and made them sit at the table.
And the announcer, like a teacher, led a story for everyone.
So I listened to the loudspeaker for the first time.
But in a black shirt my brother came into the house,
And my mother let us go to the village together.
Ah, the new shirt has one big secret:
In a trough of paint in the kitchen, it changed color.
And again she - look! - as the new one looks.
And the loudspeaker speaks more and more strictly ...
Brother, dear, he did not return from the battlefield.
The gramophone shines like a silver trumpet.
Favorite record, hissing, went in a circle:
"Faceted cups fell off the table."
The windows are open in the hut. Friends are under the windows.
"They fell and shattered like my youth."
Vasily fought near Kiev, was a political instructor, was surrounded. Then he was in a partisan detachment. In 1944, Vasily Grigorievich disappeared without a trace. Not long before that, his parents received two letters from him, in one of them he asked not to worry if there was no news from him for a long time.
The father of the hero of the poem "Kostik" Nikolai Matveyevich Berestov was the chairman of the collective farm. When the Germans came, he was appointed headman, but he managed to save the collective farm herd without giving out a single head of cattle to the invaders. Despite this, after the liberation of the village by the Red Army (at the beginning of 1942), he was arrested and sent to Uzbek camps. The villagers stood up for him, and in 1945 he was released and rehabilitated, but his health was undermined, and he soon died. And his son Konstantin, who was not yet 18 years old, was drafted into the army and, as the son of an "enemy of the people", was sent to a penal battalion. He died a few months later, in 1942, blown up by a mine (penalty boxes were thrown into the minefield in front of the vehicle):
Who remembers Kostya,
To our cousin,
About brother soldier
About our long-term loss.
He graduated from school
And he died immediately in the war.
You remembered him
I dreamed about him in a dream.
In family albums
He lives on an old card
(He did not play,
But filmed for some reason with a guitar).
And something more important
Than just sadness and kinship
Tied us all
Who has not forgotten about him yet.
Poems about deprived grandmothers and brother Kostika were published only in the 1970s. And here it would be appropriate to recall another poem by Berestov.
SUBTEXT
You won't find a catch in my poems.
Latently smart and latently brave
I can't be. Hide lies under the truth
Under the lie, the truth is overwhelming
I think. I write what I want
I will not say anything about what I want.
Well, and the subtext as opposed to the catch
Poems are given not by the author, but by the era.
Years passed, and Valentin Berestov from grandson and son turned into a father, and then into a grandfather. When his daughter Marina was born, poems for children appeared. “My daughter Marina inspired me to poems and fairy tales for kids,” VD Berestov wrote in his autobiographical note “About Me”. For example, the famous poem "About the girl Marina and her car" or the poem "Horse":
I am for my daughter
The best of horses.
I can laugh loudly
And clink loudly.
And riding, riding, riding
On a horse with dashing
So it is worn
Girl rider.
And in the morning there is no horse.
It goes away for half a day,
Pretends to be angry
Business-like,
But he dreams of one thing:
To become a horse again.
And, trembling with impatience,
Beats with a hoof.
And then poems about the grandson appeared.
FOR BIRTH OF GRANDSON
As a child, grandmother
She is friendly with me.
But this grandmother -
My wife!
WALK WITH GRANDSON
Grandfather likes birches
And aspens.
Grandson likes stalls
The shops.
He took the mask of a cannibal,
I took the stickers.
Didn't stay with my grandfather
Not a penny.
At one of the meetings with readers, Valentin Dmitrievich said: “I took all the plots from my own life. Everything that I have written in my poems was with me ... ”The verses given here, united by a single theme, the theme of the family, are a kind of history of the Telegins-Berestov family, inextricably linked with the history of our country.
And a few more poems that were not included in the article, also on the "family" theme: "A letter from grandmother", "French", "Waking up, I go to the window ...", "Bathing", "Door", "At my father's desk ... "," Father on a fishing trip "," Father's gift "," At the grandmother's "," Parents' day (1940) "," Night talks with father "," Terrible dream "," Mom left "," Parents went to the theater ", "Paper crosses", "Only once, and then at the beginning of childhood ...".