Biography of Tula poets

Poems and poem. Prose and poems. Poems of different years. In 2 volumes, Khodulin passed away on December 19. He was buried in Tula in the first Smolensk cemetery, an honorary alley. Until now, I do not want to forget her, I can’t ... The hammers were knocking easily, hastily and fun, like grasshoppers in the morning in the grass in the spring meadow. And the cold metal blossomed the hawk flowers, as if I myself went into a light, somewhat meadow.

Leaning toward the ground, I easily spoke with partridges, long -legged woodcocks fluttered from my hands. Clumbled ducks shyly shied into thickets if I passed near mossy swamps. I took it in my hands, told them affably: - Hello! And with rabbits together he wandered at birches and aspen. A frozen tree blossomed at my hand. The streams of golden sun were in a hurry to drink.

I worked as an engraving ... I believe me, I sincerely believe that a person’s hand is able to revive metal. She rose - the eighth miracle of the light, for twenty miles is visible from afar, the All -Site rocket rushed up, and clouds swayed to the side. She captivates the world with her dissimilarity, piercing the heaven through with a needle, over modern typical ugliness, over everything, over everything that was born after.

She soars on the hypocrisy, over the lies, and affirms her rightness. And I, insignificant, at her foot, as if at the edge of the abyss. And there is no strength to move away from the edge. And the lips whisper sadly: I'm sorry. And the angel - golden, white -winged - flies from her to save me. And then the church was scheduled for scraping. My young godfather, not believing in God, the rituals of the ancients kept strictly.

And the first thing, having come to the feast, he took off his hat before bread and salt. He led the lifestyle simple and sober: in love - open, in the work - frisky. Only once he allowed himself to get drunk when he could not stand up for the church. And how - to stand up when - pickets, when - buttonholes and pistols. So Vera was killed among the people. So another era came, the era of fear, the time of non -wake.

There was a godfather - a person. And who am I now? In the land of the distant lies my godfather: I got into reconnaissance under the cross. And those that the Church was scheduled for a break, in the rear they did not suffer. Now we know: Stalin is guilty. And how do we live among the ruins? But I pray for God only: God, return my beloved woman to me, the one who loves more life forever.

Let her be at least three times married, let me caress her only in a dream, the most tender, most necessary, necessary woman to me. With his own enlightenment, Lord, that without her life is not living. Let me see her hair scattering, let me enjoy her smile. Do not turn me into the third superfluous, do not overshadow my bright days. How I beg you, the Almighty: give this woman to me, return it.

Do not turn me, Lord, into a suicide bomber, only one can save me: tear her out of the opponent’s arms, turn her away from him. God, heed my daring prayers. I don't melt anything from you. I did not kneel before anyone, in front of you, without hesitation, I get up. To God is omnipotent, the Lord Eternal, this prayer with the hope of a whore: God, return my beloved woman to me, the one who loves more life forever.

He goes along Kronstadt in the overseas camisole, but such as in Tula, you will not meet the king with a sledgehammer, so that the hands in the corn, so that the hair, thick, like in June, falls out of the wavy waterfall, so that the sleeve’s sleeve is burned above the tsar, so that the apron is burned in thick -skinned boots in the Swedish manner. Spreading that it was not worried that the kings did not work, Peter stood at the horn, the hammer with his hand up, his palms fell tiredly to the end.

The piles were dull ...

The blows of the copra sailed over the sleepy deserted Zarechy. How much is there, the fortresses were killed over, how much sweat mixed with a wave of her blue so that the thunder of clumsy wheels of the water flows far flew over the expanse of Russia. It is difficult to believe that this monument is the king, it’s just a blacksmith for a moment froze, majestically, looking at dawn in a dubbing in a gloomy blacksmith with his eyes.

I calm down in the morning not soon. The bells of the old Assumption Cathedral were buzzing over the Kremlin. Sanny traces were drawn to the market, the carts gathered a long string. Yesenin entered the revived shopping ranks - just to ask. Under the hat - golden whirlwinds of the coat are graceful in the last fashion. He has been visiting a friend at a beer factory for a week and a half.

The rushing civil war rumbled in the south in the south. Moscow was poor and hungry, and here it is around - either ham or lard. He muffled sudden longing. With a heavy sigh, remembering the capital: “Now it would be fat to us in Moscow, to share hungry friends ...” Buy, son, buy, tea is not poor! Sergei straightened the stilled porridge, and his grandmother, squinting his eyes green, said: - Open in the moshna, - I suppose, there, there under the tie of lemon ...

He clearly looked at the old woman with transparent eyes: - Well, what a millionaire I am, - I am a grandmother, a peasant from Ryazan. It was a frosty sun of Osiyan, and my grandmother slyly replied: - Do not lie, son, such among the peasants - I did not meet something ... The days rushed - not to count the numbers. And the winter day replaces the spring day. The old woman went into oblivion, Sergey Yesenin went into immortality.We will all leave - such is the fate of the law, but the words of the old woman Tula will not forget.

She is right: there were no others like him, and there was no, and will not be. It seems to everyone that he has gone crazy: in the area of ​​the construction construction, the rumble does not subside, and he is hacking in our canvases, and he draws these rolleries, where the ancient old women are on the benches, where on any window, wherever you look, the bourgeois geranium behind the glasses.

The guy draws old houses ... And in those houses - the story itself. He distinguishes carved curls in each collapse of the platbands, and in the corners there are naive cherries, and in those old women - Blok's goddesses. A house is already collapsing behind the house, that’s why the guy is in a hurry, the plan does not leave the plan, for the great -grandchildren, those houses saves, in which Kuter is dangled.

The guy is drawn by old houses ... Let the centuries dull your toughs slightly, let your temples stand, from time to time he is stooping chilly, on your bright face I see the battles of scars and I hear your biography in the names of the streets. My good -natured city, you survived in the battles of eras! The ringing of swords, whistling bullets to us the alive legend.

In no centuries, a foreign robbery boot in the anticipation of victories did not step on your bridges! This is not enough to say that I divide life with you in half. You are in sight of a new glory, the past glory, and as a son that is involved in your loud deeds, I kiss your weapons and I kiss. But how beautiful the eyes are with the masters! Work, like a beloved wife, is reflected in their affectionate eyes.

The masters are not just skill. For them, work is a celebration of happiness. And fortunately for centuries, they lead their students. A good master cherishes honor, does not run after an easy penny, and the conscience is that like a glass is clean, he will not sell for his left half. Does not recognize hack and kalym. A good master is not angry. In his hands, the file holds Il Poro - the good always glows in the gaze.

Such a custom lives in their dialect: for example, there is a lever in the shutter, but the gunsmith pronounces - a lever. So they are used to saying so for a long time, and I have no right to condemn fellow countrymen. There is a good profession of engraves, but the gunsmith pronounces - the engraver. I have a friend. He is not old. And he studies at that in the evening school. He knows well that he is a carpenter, but for some reason he says-a carpenter.

Of course, my friends are wrong. And yet I do not feel anxiety: they have words like a shot from a gun, and the charm of words in the shock first syllable. I do not argue that the grammar of the right, that, condemning, someone will grin, but I do not appreciate friends for words, not for words, but for work. From the thickets of green, like from the forest, emerging, like from under the ground.

“Mercedes”, “Toyota”, BMW and “Zhiguli” freeze before them.