"The Soul Preserves". The life and poetry of Nikolai Rubtsov. Bibliography. Lyrics by N. Rubtsov. The main themes and motives, moral and aesthetic ideal of the poet, stylistic originality Lyrics star of the fields of pine trees noise
Nikolai Mikhailovich RUBTSOV was born in the village of Yemetsk, Arkhangelsk Region, and was left an orphan early: he spent his childhood in the Vologda region in the Nikolsky orphanage. The Vologda "small homeland" gave him the main theme of future creativity - "old Russian originality", became the center of his life, "the land ... sacred", where he felt "both alive and mortal."
He passes army service in the Northern Fleet, then lives in Leningrad - a worker, in Moscow - a student at the Literary Institute. M. Gorky, makes a trip to Siberia.
In 1962 he entered the Literary Institute and met V. Sokolov, S. Kunyaev, V. Kozhinov and other writers, whose friendly participation helped him more than once in his work and in publishing his poems.
The first book of poems "Lyrics" was published in 1965 in Arkhangelsk. Then the poetry collections "Star of the Fields" (1967), "The Soul Preserves" (19691 "Pine Noise" (1970), which were being prepared for publication, appeared after the death of the poet, who tragically died on the night of January 19, 1971.) N. Rubtsov's death, his collections were published: "The Last Steamer" (1973), "Selected Lyrics" (1974), "Poems" (1977).
Nikolay Mikhailovich RUBTSOV: poetry
It is impossible not to think that poetry is a miracle. And to understand this miracle to the end is also impossible. Here, it seems, are the most common Russian words and combinations - boat, garden, river bank, willow. They can meet in a conversation or in a letter, even in a journalistic report. But a bald, shy young man comes, a former orphanage from the village of Nikolskoye on Sukhona, where not a single church remains (all were destroyed), this yesterday's sailor, locksmith and fireman, and now a student of the Literary Institute, comes ...
Comes, and quietly says or sings like this:
My red flowers
Everyone in the kindergarten withered.
Boat on river bank
Soon it will rot completely.
Slumbers on my wall
Willow lace shadow
Tomorrow under me
It will be a busy day!
As if someone invisible caressed, warmed you with these divinely inspired lines, lifted you with a warm, thrifty hand, took you out of the city, hectic day and moved, transferred to a marvelous, harmonious picture, which began with a silent mother, quietly returning from a well with a bucket of icy water. And you were sitting by the window, your head in your hands, and grieved about your idleness. And in your room your lila, meanwhile, your unearthly light, an unknown star. Probably tomorrow, after sunset, it will light up again. But by its appearance, God willing, I will already patch up my unfortunate boat ...
The fourth child in the family, the future great poet Nikolai Rubtsov, was six years old when his mother died. The father who went to the front, with whom they met much later, it turns out, considered his son dead. And his son had written for a long time, choosing words like field daisies, about something that did not in any way resemble his past and present: “O rural species! Oh wonderful happiness to be born in the meadows, like an angel, under the dome of blue skies! " Did he know then, unkempt and half-impoverished - he, to whom monuments and memorial plaques will be unveiled - about the engraved words of Pushkin's elder friend: "Poetry is God in the holy dreams of the earth"?
Source: FOMA Orthodox magazine for the doubters
RUSSIAN FIRE
1
Immersed in a painful frost
The snows around me are numb!
Little spruces were numb,
And the sky was dark, without stars.
What a wilderness! I was alone alive
Alone alive in the endless dead field!
Suddenly a quiet light - dreamed, or what?
Flashed in the desert like a sentry ...
I was just like Bigfoot
Entering the hut - the last hope! -
And he heard, shaking off the snow:
- Here's a stove for you ... And warm clothes ... -
Then the hostess listened to me,
But there was little life in the dim look,
And sitting motionless by the fire
She seemed to be dozing off completely ...
2
How many yellow pictures in Russia
With such a simple and delicate frame!
And suddenly he opened up to me and struck
Orphan meaning of family photos!
The earth is full of fire, hostile,
And the soul will not forget all loved ones ...
- Tell me, darling, will there be a war?
And I said:
- Probably not.
- God forbid, God forbid ... you can't please everyone,
And there will be no benefit from discord ... -
And suddenly again: - Will not, you say?
- No, - I say, - probably not!
- God forbid, God forbid ...
And long on me
She looked deaf and dumb
And, without raising his gray head,
She sat quietly by the fire again.
What was her dream? All this white light
Perhaps he stood before her at that moment?
But I am the deaf strum of coins
Interrupted her old visions.
- The Lord is with you! We don’t take money.
- Well, - I say, - I wish you health!
For all good we will pay with good,
For all the love we will pay with love ...
3
Thank you, humble Russian light,
For the fact that you are in an alarming premonition
You burn for those in the roadless field
Desperately far from all friends
For being friends with good faith,
Among the great worries and robbery
You burn, burn like a kind soul,
You burn in the darkness, and you have no peace ...
1964
TO END
To end,
Until the silent cross
Let the soul
Stays clean!
Before this
Yellow, provincial
Birch side
My,
Before the stubble
Cloudy and sad
In autumn days
Woeful rains
Before that
Strict village council,
Before that
The herd by the bridge
Before everything
By old white light
I swear:
My soul is pure.
Let her
Will stay clean
To end,
Until the death cross!
1970
WINTER SONG
You don’t prophesy longing to me!
Quiet winter night.
Silent shine, wonderful shine,
The sound of the ice hole is heard ...
My paths were difficult, difficult.
Where are you, my sorrows?
A modest girl smiles at me
I myself am smiling and happy!
Difficult, difficult - everything is forgotten,
Bright stars are burning!
- Who told me that in the haze of the swept
An abandoned meadow stalls?
Who told me that hopes are lost?
Who invented that, friend?
In this village, the lights are not extinguished.
You don’t prophesy longing to me!
Delicately decorated with bright stars
Quiet winter night ...
FERAPONTOVO
In the darkened rays of the horizon
I looked at the surroundings
Where the soul of Ferapont saw
Something of God in earthly beauty.
And one day arose out of a dream
From this praying soul
Like grass, like water, like birch trees,
Wonderful wonder in the Russian wilderness!
And heavenly earthly Dionysius,
Appearing from neighboring lands,
Exalted this wondrous wonder
To hell, never seen before ...
The trees stood motionless,
And the daisies turned white in the haze,
And it seemed to me this village
Something holiest on earth ...
STAR FIELDS
Star of the fields, in the icy haze
Stopping, looks into the wormwood.
Already on the clock, twelve rang,
And a dream enveloped my homeland ...
Star of the fields! In moments of shock
I remembered how quiet over the hill
She burns over golden autumn,
It burns over winter silver ...
The star of the fields burns without fading away
For all the anxious inhabitants of the earth,
With its friendly ray touching
All the cities that have risen in the distance
But only here, in the icy darkness,
She rises brighter and fuller
And I am happy while in the world of white
The star of my fields is burning, burning ...
About Person: Yuri Loshits about Nikolai Rubtsov
There is ample evidence that the poet avoided bohemians. Confirmation of this can be found in his poems, in his letters, in the memoirs of his contemporaries. What was behind this?
His view of the bohemian environment was first reflected in the poem "Away", written in 1962. It is here - the only time at Rubtsov's - that we meet the very word "bohemia". And here is his detailed definition of bohemianism as a lifestyle.
And the very similar poem, where the borderline hardness is indicated, is easily distinguishable by a discerning squint, for Rubtsov's work is unique of its kind. And yet - the impartialness of assessments, which neither before nor after that in his poems in relation to his contemporaries does not occur. It seems that none of the poets, except Rubtsov, spoke aloud so noticeably, so exactingly about bohemia - neither then, in the sixties, nor later.
1962 is a very special meta for him. This is the time of maturation of the confessional and visionary at the same time "Visions on the Hill". From here, in fact, Nikolai Rubtsov begins as a fateful name in Russian poetry of recent times.
Already on the way are such poetic revelations as "Russian light", "I will gallop through the fields of a dozing motherland ...", "My quiet homeland", "In this village the lights are not extinguished", "Upper room", "Cranes", "Star of the fields" … In a space of only ten years - what a delightful takeoff, what a truly angelic soaring, albeit in anticipation of icy breath!
In his poems again, after the first, still adolescent, tests, the vastness of the earth, mournful and blessed "rural views", transparent, as in an ancient icon, visions in the crown of ascending rays, burst with absolute power. They supplant in the poet's lyrics the deliberately rigid angularity of marine plots, black-and-white graphics of the city landscape and everyday life, which sticks out so much when you read Away.
However, the original name was different - not "Away", but "Poet". Exactly so - in the first collection of poems by Nikolai Rubtsov "Waves and Rocks", published by typewritten method in Leningrad in the summer of the same 1962 - in only six copies. The poet Gleb Gorbovsky, to whom the poem was dedicated, also remembered it under this name.
Slum yard. The figure at the corner.
It seems that this is Dostoevsky.
And yellow light in a window without a curtain
Burns, but does not dispel the haze.
A granite thunder burst from heaven!
A harsh wind rushed into the slum yard,
And I saw Dostoevsky shudder,
How hard he slouched, disappeared ...
It cannot be that it was not him!
How to imagine these shadows without him,
And yellow light and dirty steps
And thunder and walls on four sides!
I continue to believe in this nonsense
When in your stash house
Down the corridor in the terrible darkness,
Having bowed, the poet leads me ...
Already at the very beginning, the poem outlines the touches of a bohemian setting, which will be developed further, but for now, it is supported by Petersburg views in the spirit of Dostoevsky's prose.
But why did the renaming follow: not "Poet", but "Away"? Is it because the author in the described environment felt himself to be a guest, seriously overwhelmed, ready, it seems, to leave without entering. This state of his is eloquently conveyed by four lines that are absent in the collection Waves and Rocks:
Where have I, poor fellow, taken!
You have not seen such pictures before,
Such dreams did not hover over you,
And may such evil pass you by!
But only in a samizdat book of 1962 we read a large passage, removed from the following versions of the poem, as it is easy to understand, for censorship reasons. This is the first monologue of the owner-poet and the appearance of his habitual visitors.
He is like a sailor who is tormented
deaf life in the backyard and in a frenzy:
- What a time in the world, Harry!
- ABOUT! These are rough times, Smith ...
Miracles were happening in my life!
But I swear by any oath of peace
As your booed lyre
She will also set her sails!
More men of future times
(may their will be undaunted!)
disperse the darkness of a mediocre regime
for all living and true names!
... Hurray, the guys broke in again!
They don't sow or plow yet.
They scream
they are waving their hands!
They seem to have just been born!
They are the sons of tangled roads ...
And so,
verses written with obscenities,
caress the ears of desperate guys,
although, of course, all this is a vice!
And only then follows a stanza preserved both in the 1964 manuscript and in the collection "Green Flowers":
The poet, like a wolf, gets drunk on an empty stomach,
And motionless, like in a portrait,
Sitting harder on the stool
And everything is silent, not moving in any way.
Although he believed that the poem in its original form "contained many more stanzas than in the current, posthumous version," in fact, the picture is somewhat more complicated. The final version not only lost, but also gained. It is supplemented by a second monologue of the poet, whose drunken eloquence - about everything and everything - accompanies the disappointed guest with a bitter reproach:
And I thought: “What kind of poet are you,
When in the midst of a meaningless feast
The fading lyre is heard less and less,
And she heard a strange noise in response? .. "
This is not a condemnation, but a reproach, compassionate in nature. Indeed, the guest is clearly offended for the dying lyre of the poet. However, his own voice is about to disappear in the "strange noise":
But they are all entangled in earnest
Some kind of common nervous system:
A random scream, heard over the bohemia,
Brings everyone to screaming and tears.
As you can see, in this summarized (from 1962 to 1971) image of bohemia, there also seems to be no special condemnation. Rather, a gentle joke and light sarcasm are distinguished here. However, it is not by chance that the word “seriously” is present in the “collective portrait”. The weight of this word will increase even more when we remember that in the early edition the line sounded differently: instead of “But they are all entangled in earnest” it read: “But I am seriously entangled anyway”. Not only all of them - but me. The self-withdrawal gesture will appear later.
In any case, Rubtsov immediately noticed and defined exactly: bohemia is essentially impossible without compulsory adhesion, without being entangled in "some kind of common nervous system." Not only people, their words, gestures, but also objects and states of nature are chaotically involved in its electrified field.
And everything sticks out.
A neighbor sticks out in the doorway
The awakened aunts stick out behind him,
Words stick out
A bottle of vodka sticks out
A senseless dawn sticks out in the window.
Fortunately, we will never see such a "senseless dawn" in Nikolai Rubtsov's poems.
It would seem that the topic is over. The poet no longer needed to define bohemia as such. As a style of behavior, as a way of being in literature, she no longer interested him. There were only two or three light echoes based on the poem "Away", close to him in time - and that's it. Yes, in the poem "Sergei Yesenin", written at the same time, in 1962, Rubtsov resolutely rebelled against the widespread tabloid opinion about tavern sadness as the main motive of the work of his beloved poet.
Sadness, of course, was ... Yes, not this!
Miles of shaken earth,
All earthly shrines and bonds
Like b nervous system entered
Into the waywardness of Yesenin's muse!
This resistance of Rubtsov to rumors and tales that enmeshes the image of the poet is essentially aimed against the bohemian environment. The same one that during Yesenin's life, and after his death, tirelessly continued to feed her comfortable legend about the weak-willed author of decadent, sad motives. The legend seems to be condescending and sympathetic, but somehow it deftly intertwined with the harsh prosecutorial phraseology from the articles of Trotsky and Bukharin.
Is it necessary today, forty years after the death of Nikolai Rubtsov, to remember the old, seemingly completely outdated litigation of the poet with the literary bohemia?
In the preface to his "Waves and Rocks" he wrote: "Any" play "is not to the detriment of poetry, if it is from a living image, and not from an abstract desire to" play. " This remark is also about the portrait of the environment captured in his 1962 poem.
Unable to lofty, inspired work, bohemia tries to replace it with all kinds of verbal imitations.
Indistinctness, playfulness, impudence in dealing with the word, constant itching for verbal manipulation, ambiguity - a generic trait of bohemians, preoccupied with participation in literature.
In her seductive torrent, brisk self-assessments flash at every step: “masterpiece”, “genius”, “giant”, “charming”, “amazing” ... “incomparable”, “divine”, “wonderful”, “delight”, “shine” ...
In a typical bohemian hangout, an incredible brew is constantly bubbling. Everything is mixed here: flattery, gossip, great talk, slander, anecdote, bragging, lisping, everything is flat, vile, vulgar, lofty ...
Especially flattery - here it sounds constantly, like a small change.
Bohemia is constantly obliged to flicker around something authentic. Like a flock of moths near a hot lamp.
A fluid, unreliable, capricious, elusive mass - it wants to interfere in everything and discuss everything, without actually being responsible for anything. She enviously forges everything that is vital, real, reliable, and when she is caught in the ridiculousness of her attempts to live on her own, she immediately forgets her flattering tone, becomes cold, vindictive, insinuatingly vindictive ... “And spits on the altar where your fire burns And your tripod shakes in childish agility.
Pushkin was the first to give her a name, he defined her as rabble. Since then, it has continuously flowed from salon to salon, from basement to den. And she finally came up with a sticky place and occupation for herself: hanging out, hanging out ...
And what about Rubtsov? In fact, modern bohemia, as prescribed, is not able to understand and accept Rubtsov. The language of the cicatricial stars is alien to her, too rustic. Rubtsov's lofty feeling of the Motherland, her native faith sickened her.
Not knowing where else to go, sometimes she suddenly starts to imitate him without restraint. But apart from drunken anguish, loudly hypocritical declarations of love for Russia, nothing comes of it. He only signs in his mental and spiritual relaxation and dissipation.
Having overlooked the great tide of popular love for the word of Nikolai Rubtsov, she, bohemian, is now bustling to legislate in "Rubtsov's fashion" - "sticks out", as he aptly put it, on various stage stages with her graphomaniac musical skirmish to his poems. Yes, she would so much like to absorb him with her pop mudflow, to oust the lofty meanings of his lyrics from the consciousness of the old, and especially the new generations.
In vain efforts. Like Pushkin and Tyutchev, like Nekrasov and Yesenin, Nikolai Rubtsov cannot be separated from the unshakable foundations of the Russian world.
Plan abstract
1. Introduction
2.Biography
3.From childhood on the way
4.Literary Institute
5 life outside the institute
6 star of the fields
7.Last years life
8 conclusion
He was a poet.
As critics say
His poems shine with kind light
But the one who penetrated the heavy gaze
He could rightfully
Doubt it.
Introduction
The world of Nikolai Rubtsov's poetry is spacious and light, coldish and slightly transparent - this is usually the day of Indian summer.
This world, created by an original poet, is unusual and sometimes unexpected. The very world where we live, but we do not always look so intently at it, the world of which we do not always think about.
In the atmosphere of cicatricial lyrics, one breathes freely and freely. She is sad par excellence, but the sadness is light and sublime. It is not melancholy with its tiresome suffocation that reigns here, but the feeling that comes in moments of thinking about the big, about the main thing, when everything petty, vain retreats, disappears and remains one on one person and the world.
Now we are already accustomed to the poetic world of Nikolai Rubtsov, his poems have become close to many. “It seems to me,” notes Vadim Kozhinov, “that no one created these verses, that the poet took them out of the eternal life of his native word, where they always - although secretly, secretly stayed”.
N. Rubtsov's poems were born with natural necessity, there is nothing artificial, invented, calculated for effect. But they are not at all one-sided, but have depth.
Comprehending the image of the Motherland in Rubtsov's lyrics, S. Kusheev was the first to notice the fact, now obvious for many, that Rubtsov's poems "naturally, imperceptibly suddenly turn into a song, and into a song element."
The interest of criticism is not waning even today, popularity among readers remains stable, that is, we can talk not about fashion, but about true recognition. By the way, another important point testifies to this: not only poems, but also songs of N. Rubtsov went to the people.
About three dozen songs based on Rubtsov's verses were written by the composer A.S. Lobzov, who felt him in his poems, by his own admission “a new poetic element expressing spiritual quest modern man". Singing at first N. Rubtsov's poems, A.S. Lobzov was surprised by his discovery - "how much music, faith, hope and light were found in them!" The poet shook him to the depths of his soul with "a deep sense of involvement in the fate of our Motherland, the power and sincerity of feelings."
Let's send songs of Nikolai Rubtsov to the people, let's go. And I believe that this is only the beginning of a new, but already beaten path. And the more fully the poetic world of Nikolai Rubtsov opens before us, the more acute the feeling of loss becomes over the years.
Biography.
Nikolai Mikhailovich Rubtsov was born on January 3, 1936 in the village of Emetsk on the Northern Dvina. Rubtsov was the fifth child in the family after three sisters and an older brother.
Very little is known about the parents of Nikolai Rubtsov. His father, Mikhail Andrianovich Rubtsov, worked as the head of the ORS, and his mother, Alexandra Mikhailovna Rubtsova, was a housewife. In all likelihood, they were Vologda residents, natives of the Totem region. Before the start of the war, the Rubtsov family moved to their native place, to Totma in the Vologda region, where his father received a high position in the local party. There Rubtsov's father worked for about a year, after which the Great Patriotic War began in June 1941.
This war destroyed everything. The father went to the front, and on June 26, 1942, the mother of Nikolai Rubtsov died of chronic myocardial inflammation. And after 2 days, the youngest sister, half-year-old Nadezhda Rubtsova, dies.
Nikolai was only 6 years old when he ended up in an orphanage. The aunt took the older children - Galina and Albert - to her place.
Later in his poems Rubtsov writes:
The mother is dead. My father went to the front.
The evil neighbor does not give a pass.
I vaguely remember the morning of the funeral.
And outside the window, the meager nature. ("Childhood")
The only ray of light for him was the hope that after the end of the war, his father would return from the front and take him, but this did not happen. His father turned out to be a scoundrel: he married a second time and soon had new children. He forgot about the old ones. Therefore, Rubtsov mentions his father shortly and dryly.
Orphanage.
On October 20, 1943, Kolya Rubtsov appeared at the Nikolsky orphanage. Teachers and pupils remember that from an early age Nikolai loved animals very much, that he studied well and was hardworking. This is confirmed by school documents, letters of commendation preserved in the archive. But everyone remembers Rubtsov in their own way, for example, Yevgeny Bunyak recalls Kolya: "Kolya Rubtsov was uneven in character: sometimes impudent, then quiet and thoughtful."
Teachers recall that during breaks Nikolai was playful, nimble, that there was no insolence in him, he did not harm anyone. Nikolai Rubtsov was far from an easy person. The most seemingly incompatible traits coexisted in him - meekness, kindness, acute anxiety, gloom, sometimes anger - in short, light and darkness
But the years fly by, and sometimes Rubtsov realizes the movement of time, which since childhood goes into unknown infinity, from the usual friendly circle into the big and unfamiliar world.
From childhood on the way.
In 1950, on June 12, after graduating from a seven-year school and having barely received a diploma, he left for Riga. The dream of the sea calls, he dreams of entering a nautical school. However, his dream never came true. He has not yet turned 15 years old required for admission. Rubtsov writes about his experiences and disappointments in verse:
How I was torn to the sea!
Threw the house recklessly
And in the seaman's office
Everything asked for the ship.
Begged, watched ...
But drunk, with a roll,
The sailors laughed
And they called it a baby ...
("Violets", 1962)
Not enrolling in a sailor, Rubtsov returns to Totma on June 29, But it is necessary to arrange life somehow, and Nikolai enters the Totem forestry school. The exams were passed, and on August 30 Rubtsov leaves for Totma, leaving the orphanage. It is unlikely that studying at the forestry school carried him away, he was just passing the time until he received a passport. Having received a passport, in 1952 he went to Arkhangelsk, where he soon got a job as a fireman's assistant on a minesweeper.
At the beginning of 1955, Nikolai Rubtsov came to Leningrad and became a factory worker here. Six months later, the time came for conscription. Rubtsov serves in the Northern Fleet. What to say, "to keep the blows", life taught Rubtsov, and the harsh naval life hardly frightened him.
Throughout his service Rubtsov wrote poetry, most of the poems of the naval period were written very skillfully.
At the end of May 1959 N. Rubtsov was hospitalized, here he reads a lot of various literature, but at this time he writes new works.
On November 30, 1959, shortly after demobilization, Nikolai Rubtsov was accepted as a fireman at the famous Kirovsky plant.
In 1960 N. Rubtsov entered the 10th class of working youth without interruption from production. Here he participates in the work of a literary circle at the factory newspaper "Kirovets". In 1961, several of his poems were published in the newspaper Vecherniy Leningrad.
We can say that by 1962, when he graduated and applied to the Literary Institute, the poet was on the verge of creative maturity.
Rubtsov set out his clearly defined literary and moral positions in the preface to his first, handwritten collection, Waves and Rocks, composed of thirty-eight poems.
Waves and Rocks is a magnificent typewritten book that has yet to be fully published or commented on. The book "Waves and Rocks" was Rubtsov's favorite book for many years. Nikolai Rubtsov himself chose 38 poems for the collection.
Then some of the poems of this collection were published more than once and became very famous. These are, first of all, "Elegy", "Birches", "Morning of Loss", "Violets". In these verses Rubtsov reflected all his experiences, feelings, thoughts. Most of these poems are autobiographical.
Nikolai Rubtsov passed a competition with this book and entered the Literary Institute (he was then 26 years old)
Literary Institute.
Upon entering the Literary Institute, Nikolai Rubtsov took exams, like everyone else, on time. On the 4th of August he wrote an essay on "4", on the 6th he received "5" in Russian and "3" in literature, as well as "4" in history and "3" in a foreign language.
Of course, the marks were not brilliant, but this did not prevent Rubtsov from going to college.
The opinion of the censors and members of the commission was unanimous: the unknown Leningrader was a real poet.
Two months later, on 23 August 1962, N. Rubtsov was enrolled as a first-year student. Upon entering the institute, Nikolai Mikhailovich was asked: "Name your favorite poets", - N. Rubtsov firmly answered: "Pushkin, Blok, Yesenin" - and stressed "Of them Blok".
Indeed, according to the recollections of friends, from the notes in the diary of the seminar, from the Scar lyrics, it is obvious that at the end of the first year he experiences a strong passion for Blok - he quotes poetry, reads a lot of his works.
But also in the early poetry of Rubtsov, echoes of Yesenin's lyrics, Yesenin's imagery are heard. Nikolai Mikhailovich is only trying to catch his own intonation. The young poet seeks different ways the embodiment of his lyrical "I", resorting to an objectively - narrative manner about a third person, widely uses the methods of "displacement" of reality - fantasy, irony. As a collection of the internal organization of poetic speech, Rubtsov's alliteration is especially attractive. He titled one of the sections of the collection - "sound-painting miniatures".
The most characteristic in attempts to "sound writing" is the poem "Levitan", created based on the painting "Evening Bells". In it Rubtsov seeks to embody in the word the ringing of cathedral bells and, at the same time, the ringing of sultry summer fields.
Ringing roundabout and roundabout
By the windows, near the column.
Bell bells ringing
And the bell ringing.
("Levitan")
For the poet, the most important task was to convey the thought that excited him, a living feeling in his immediacy. We will find the search for peculiar poetic solutions in almost every poem of the Leningrad period in numerous versions of some poems on a variety of topics.
Tireless in his search for poetic expressiveness, Nikolai Rubtsov reads a lot, compares reflections on contemporary poetry. Poetry occupies him, first of all, as a phenomenon.
As for studying at the institute, it was not stable for Rubtsov. He often could not appear at the institute, did not attend lectures, and Rubtsov's behavior was expected to be better. For bad behavior: drunken fights, foul language, absenteeism, on December 4, 1963, he was expelled from the institute.
But Nikolai Rubtsov writes a statement addressed to the director, in which he asks for reinstatement to study, after which on December 25, Rubtsov N.M is restored to the number of first-year students
However, he continues to violate discipline. He is often seen again not sober. For drunken brawls in 1964, he was again expelled from the Literary Institute, which meant for him the loss of a permanent home and livelihood, albeit very small, but regularly received.
Life outside the institute.
Oddly enough, after being expelled from the institute, Rubtsov did not become discouraged. There were several explanations for this. Firstly, his personal life was developing more successfully then. In the summer, he had a great time with his wife and daughter. Secondly, the first large collections of his poems appeared in the magazines Yunost and Molodaya Gvardiya.
But happy life did not last long. The money received by Rubtsov from the publishing house of his poems has run out. Mother-in-law was opposed to Rubtsov sitting on his wife's neck, not working and not bringing money home. This gave a crack in family relations, and it is for this reason that the scar was never officially registered with his wife.
In January 1965, Rubtsov returned to Moscow and thanks to the efforts of his friends and himself, he was restored to the Literary Institute only for the correspondence department.
In general, 1965 was very successful for Nikolai Mikhailovich. A book about the village "Lyrica" \u200b\u200b(Arkhangelsk 1965) was published.
It was published in three thousand copies and has now become a bibliographic rarity.
The book was opened with a poem "Native Village" with a clearly named address: "I love the village of Nicola, where I graduated from elementary school." This was the beginning of the development of the theme of "small homeland" in Rubtsov's poetry. The theme was revealed somewhat more broadly in the poem "Mistress".
But Rubtsov has already clearly defined the path along which his poetry will develop. A sense of the historical past is the main component of his attitude to the world as a whole. This is most fully expressed in the poem "Visions on the Hill", where the past is revealed in the modern, present, as if it receives a reverse perspective - the poet penetrates into the depths of the past centuries:
Run up the hill and fall into the grass
And suddenly it will blow from the valley of antiquity!
Arrows will whistle, as if in reality,
Will shine in the eyes with the crooked knife of the Mongol!
Also, the life of the poet this year was noticed by another event. On June 9, he signed an agreement to publish the book "Star of the Fields". More than five verses were written then laid the foundation for this book.
"Star of the fields"
In the fall of 1967, the publishing house "Soviet Writer" published the long-awaited book by Rubtsov "Star of the Fields". This was his first real book. She was in great demand, since the name of its author was famous thanks to magazine publications. There were printed reviews for the Star of the Fields.
Some of the poems that were included in the first collection, N. Rubtsov subjected to partial - such as "Visions on the Hill" - or radical processing. So, "Russian light" in comparison with "Hostess" - a version of the poem published in "Lyrics" - has become clearer and stricter. Instead of the line "And she looked at me dimly again" appeared "And for a long time at me! ..". The poet also removed the ear-cutting word "epitaph", the newly written beginning and end, as it were, enclosed the poem in a frame. The light of the peasant house acquired a deep inner meaning of the “Russian light”.
In the further development of the theme of the homeland by Rubtsov, he already had features that were not in the Lyrics: he almost always writes about life with tart sadness, he is consistent in feeling the fragility and transience of the world, its mysterious beauty and inner incomprehensibility of nature.
The image of Rubtsov's rural homeland, starting with the "Star of the Fields", is colored with sadness, his soul is increasingly "seized by light sadness, like the moonlight takes possession of the world", and this sadness arises from the fact that the poet feels the fragility, fragility, unsteadiness of the sacred peace dear to him ...
He painfully feels that he himself sometimes loses contact with him. That is why the village peace in his poems is not at all calm and not frozen - no, he hid all in anticipation of the coming changes: clouds are hovering over his "native village", a blizzard is spinning and groaning over the "hut in the snow" straight to the "living eyes" of a person. The poet experiences a depressing feeling of loneliness, which could have been guessed even when he said thanks to the "Russian light" for what he says for those who "are desperately far from all friends."
The feeling of the Motherland makes the poet the voice of the people, the spokesman for their thoughts and aspirations, even if it covers only a modest part of it within the radius of the village outskirts: "the mother of Russia is whole - a village, maybe this corner." The ability to see the big in the small gives Rubtsov's lyrics depth and capacity:
The fiery east flaunted between the bog trunks ...
October will come - and the cranes will suddenly appear!
And they will wake me up, the crane clicks will call
Over my attic, over a swamp forgotten in the distance ...
Widely in Russia, the predetermined withering period
They proclaim like the legend of ancient pages ...
("Cranes")
The feeling of indissoluble unity with the world found its complete embodiment in the poem "My Quiet Motherland". It strikes with amazing reliability.
Confidence in intonation captures the reader and makes him walk with the poet through places close to him, imbued with his feelings. It would seem, what new can he say about the willows above the river, the church, the nightingales in his quiet homeland? But, reading these lines, we again and again experience the joy of discovering the beautiful, a deep sense of aesthetic pleasure. When the poet calls the signs of this, precisely his homeland, he seems to be unable to stop, he wants to show as many unpretentious, but such dear signs, and they move from line to line: willows, river, nightingales, churchyard, mother's grave, church , a wooden school, hay meadows, a wide green space ... And - like a flash of lightning that illuminated all this, like a powerful discharge of love that overwhelmed the soul - the ending of the poem:
With every hitch and cloud,
With thunder, ready to fall
I feel the most burning
The most mortal bond. ("My quiet homeland")
Rubtsov shows nature in his poems in a special way, there was a constant feeling of "formidable being." Even the landscape poetry of Rubtsov is captured by many pictures of summer thunderstorms, floods, chilly frosts.
Suddenly the sky broke through
With cold flames and thunder
And the wind began at random
Download the gardens behind our house.
("During a Thunderstorm")
The depiction of native nature in Scar's lyrics is always full of expression and inner expressiveness, it is always correlated with his state of mind, the world of his experiences. All this is in his collection "Star of the Fields".
Outwardly, the poet's life has not changed, and he remained the same. He listened to many praises, but remained indifferent to them. Whether or not they spoke about the book, he knew they had read it.
1968 turned out to be eventful for Rubtsov: joyful and sad. This year he died best friend writer Alexander Yashin. In the same year, Rubtsov was admitted to the Writers' Union, he took it for granted, without much enthusiasm. He was finally given a room in a hostel, he finally had his own roof over his head. And he also lost interest in the institute at that time, finishing it only when necessary.
In the spring of 1969, Nikolai Rubtsov came to Tverskoy Boulevard, to the Literary Institute, to defend his thesis. For defense, he provided the collection "Star of the Fields", which, by all accounts, received the highest mark - "excellent".
In the summer of the same year, N. Rubtsov left for Vologda, where he then lived and worked. He worked a lot. Sometimes the impression was that the poems were born by themselves. In the work in the Vologda organization of writers, which included Rubtsov, he took a constant part: he attended meetings, meetings with readers, reviewed manuscripts, gave consultations.
In verses reprinted from previous collections to subsequent ones, Rubtsov makes corrections that reinforce minor feelings. Such an amendment in the poem "Pollination" is interesting and indicative. In the collection "The Soul Keeps" the end of the second stanza of this poem sounded like this! "But, looking into the distance and listening to the sounds, I still regretted nothing." A year later, in the book "Pine Noise" the line was changed: "I DID NOT regret ANYTHING ELSE". Only one letter has been replaced, and the semantic meaning has changed very significantly: "regretted" expresses a short, time-limited action, a phenomenon, so to speak, one-time, and the imperfect form of "regretted" speaks of a constant, infinitely long feeling, state, and not even action ... And Rubtsov has a lot of such replacements.
The last years of Rubtsov's life
At one of the seminars for young writers in Vologda, a large-bodied woman with a whipped hairstyle read her poems. This woman's name was Lyudmila Derbina. It was with this woman that fate brought him. He connected his personal life with her, wanted to call her wife ... And it was this woman who played a fatal role in the life of N. Rubtsov.
The relationship between Rubtsov and Derbina developed unevenly: they either diverged, then converged again. They seemed to be attracted to each other by some invisible force. In January 1971, it became clear to everyone that it was a force - dark, evil ..
On January 5, Derbina, after another quarrel, again came to the poet's apartment. They made up and even more so - decided to go to the registry office and legalize their relationship. There they were promoted for some time (the bride did not have a certificate of dissolution of the previous marriage), but, in the end, they achieved their goal: the marriage registration was scheduled for February 19.
But on the night of January 18-19, 1971, during the Epiphany frosts, during another quarrel based on jealousy, Nikolai Rubtsov was strangled by Lyudmila Derbina.
For many, Rubtsov's death was unexpected, although the poet himself predicted his own death, he wrote:
I will die in Epiphany frosts.
I will die when the birches crack.
("I will die in Epiphany frosts")
But few people attached importance to these words, but in fact it turned out to be a prophecy.
But even after the death of the poet. His poems are printed and read by many people.
In the posthumous edition of the poet's poems "Plantain", for the first time, poems were published in which this discord with people takes on a truly tragic tinge. Now the poet is seized not by the former "bright sadness", but by the "dark", "disturbing" sadness, and the word "sadness" itself is becoming the most common in Rubtsov's vocabulary.
Repeated seven times in one poem - "Farewell" - the epithet "sad" organically fits into the context and does not allow any semantic substitution.
Yes, what happened in the evil Epiphany frosts was unexpected for Rubtsov's friends. But even in that tragic situation behind Nikolai Rubtsov - poetry as a kind, bright beginning, defining him spiritual world, the features of its living appearance.
Before last day Rubtsov felt the living breath of poetry. He clearly felt some kind of pass in his work, sometimes he was even frightened of it. Probably because the outlines of his future paths have not yet become clear for him.
The life of the poet N. Rubtsov was cut short. But his spiritual existence continues, the artist's fate does not fit into the framework of his life.
Cycles of the last poems of Rubtsov in many magazines, poetry collections "Green Flowers", "The Last Steamer", "Selected Lyrics"; the most complete editions - "Plantains" in the publishing house "Young Guard" and one-volume from the series "Poetic Russia" by the publishing house " Soviet Russia”- came out after the death of the poet. But the poet is alive as long as his poems are alive. And Rubtsov's poems, apparently, will become a series of durable creations.
Of all Rubtsov's poems I read, I remember and liked the poem "The Star of the Fields", written in 1964.
Star of the fields
And a dream enveloped my homeland ...
Star of the fields! In moments of shock
I remembered how quiet over the hill
She burns over autumn gold
It burns over winter silver ...
The star of the fields burns without fading away
For all the anxious inhabitants of the earth,
With its friendly ray touching
All the cities that have risen in the distance
But only here in the icy haze.
She rises brighter and fuller
And I am happy while in the world of white
The star of my fields is burning, burning.
The poet's star is one of the main symbols: the star is fate, the star is beauty, the star is happiness, the star is Russia, the star is the whole earth, all of humanity.
The main theme of this verse is the triumph of life, eternity,
beautiful on earth.
From the "star of the fields", from the beauty of his native land, he went to moral values.
Poem "Star of the fields" - four lines. A stanza is a part of a poem, a group of lines united by poetic thought, rhythm and a certain order of rhymes. Consider a verse from this poem.
The star of the fields in the icy haze,
Stopping, looks into the wormwood.
Already on the clock, twelve rang,
And a dream enveloped my homeland ..
The rhyme of this verse is cross: the first line rhymes with the third, and the second with the fourth.
Lines: 1 .oh
This poem by Rubtsov is written in a poetic size of iambic.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ Yamb
When writing a verse "Star of the fields" he used the following expressive means of language - metaphors. Metaphor is the use of words in a figurative sense to depict or characterize an object and phenomenon. For example: a star ... looks into the wormwood, touching with its friendly ray, a dream enveloped my homeland.
And also epithets. Epithets are artistic definitions that serve to outline, explain, characterize any property or feature of an object: icy haze, anxious inhabitants, a friendly ray, autumn gold, winter silver.
The stars at Rubtsov give more light than the sun and the moon. He needs the light of these stars for insight. In the light of the night star, he sees everything better than on a bright sunny day. Stars for Rubtsov are everything!
Conclusion.
Rubtsov did not have time to reveal the full force of his poetic gift, something in his work may seem controversial and objectively wrong. But he was a great Russian poet.
The miracle of Nikolai Rubtsov's poetry has firmly taken its place in Russian literature, and its value will undoubtedly increase over time.
Today, without Rubtsov's creative achievements, it is impossible to imagine the development of Russian poetry in the 60s - 70s. And over the years, the meaning created by the poet remains more and more complete. Great talent always brings a new look at familiar phenomena, influences the culture, the culture of the word.
The poetry of Nikolai Rubtsov, to the understanding of the true meaning and nationality of which we, perhaps, are only now approaching, gives a source for new creative searches.
Rubtsov's work, which has become a significant phenomenon in our literature, will be able to give the joy of discovery and ethnic pleasure not only to the modern, but also to the future reader.
Nikolai Rubtsov's "Thunderous Life" is illuminated by a heartfelt, tender and sad love for his native North, for his mother - Russia.
This love was manifoldly embodied in his elegiac thoughts, in his talented poems. Years pass, and indeed, the modest star of Nikolai Rubtsov, his beautiful star of the fields, began to rise above the horizon.
P . S In 1973, a tombstone was erected on the grave of N. Rubtsov - a marble slab with a bas-relief of the poet. At the bottom, the inscription was beaten out: Russia, Russia! Keep yourself, keep! "
In 1996, on the occasion of the poet's 60th birthday, a memorial plaque was opened in Vologda on the “Khrushchevka”, where he lived and died.
P amyatnik Rubtsov in Totma .
Dictionary
Alliteration Is a repetition of homogeneous consonant sounds, which gives a literary text a special sound intonation and intonation expressiveness.
Epitaph - gravestone inscription, short poemdedicated to the deceased
Bibliography.
1 ... Valery Dementyev "Verses" Moscow 1979
2 . Magazine "Sever" No. 1 and No. 2 Petrozavodsk Karelia 1992
3. Nikolay Konyaev "A traveler at the edge of the field" (The Tale of N. Rubtsov)
4 ... Nikolay Rubtsov "Poems" Moscow 1983.
Nikolay Rubtsov - Soviet lyric poet was born on January 3, 1936 in the city of Yemetsk, Arkhangelsk region in a simple family His lyrics are dedicated to the soulful poetry of nature, rural life. The first book of poems "Lyrics" was published in 1965 in Arkhangelsk. Then the poetry collections "Star of the Fields" (1967), "The Soul Keeps" (1969), "Pine Noise" (1970) were published. The collection "Green Flowers", which was being prepared for publication, appeared after the death of the poet, who tragically died on the night of January 19, 1971 in Vologda as a result of an absurd incident, namely: a family quarrel with his fiancée, the aspiring poet Lyudmila Derbina (Granovskaya). The judicial investigation established that the death occurred as a result of strangulation. Lyudmila Derbina was sentenced to 7 years.
In addition, after the death of N. Rubtsov, his collections were published: "The Last Steamer" (1973), "Selected Lyrics" (1974), "Poems" (1977). Biographers talk about Rubtsov's poem "I will die in Epiphany frosts" as predicting the date of his own tragic death. Nikolai Rubtsov himself wrote about his poetry:
I will not rewrite
from the book of Tyutchev and Fet,
I will even stop listening
the same Tyutchev and Fet.
And I will not invent
yourself special, Rubtsova,
I will stop believing for this
In the same Rubtsov.
But I am with Tyutchev and Fet
I'll check the sincere word
so that the book of Tyutchev and Fet
continue with Rubtsov's book! ..
A nightingale trill in my soul
do not ring, distant days!
A quiet house covered by a blizzard
do not beckon me, do not beckon!
Is my heart so tired
that it's time to turn and leave?
I'm so little, so little,
not even twenty more ...
Snow fell - and everything was forgotten
than the soul was full!
My heart suddenly started beating easier
as if I had drunk wine.
Along the street down the narrow
a clean breeze rushes,
the beauty of old Russian
the town was renewed.
Snow flies to the temple of Sophia,
on children, and they are countless.
Snow flies all over Russia
like good news.
Snow is flying - look and listen!
So, simple and cunning,
life sometimes heals the soul ...
Well, okay! And good.
Nikolai Mikhailovich Rubtsov (01/03/1936 - 01/19/1971) - an orphanage during the second Great Patriotic War, a student of a forestry technical school in Totma in 1950 - 1952, a sailor of the Arkhangelsk trawl fleet in 1952 - 1953, a student of a mining and chemical technical school in Kirovsk (September 1953 - January 1955), an assembly fitter at artillery range near Leningrad from March to September 1955, seaman of the Northern Fleet (1955 - 1959), worker of the Kirov plant in Leningrad (1959 - 1962), student of the A.M. Gorky Literary Institute ( full-time department - September 1962 - June 1964; correspondence department - January 1965 - May 1969). During the poet's lifetime, 4 collections of poetry were published: "Lyrics" - 1965, "Star of the Fields" - 1967, "The Soul Keeps" - 1969, "Pine Noise" - 1970. Publications of poems in newspapers and magazines since 1958 of the year. After the death of Rubtsov, the poet's collections were published in hundreds of thousands of copies, translations were made into a number of European languages. Folk composers are continuously mastering songs based on the poet's verses (more than 100 songs). The annual Rubtsovskaya Autumn festival takes place in Vologda in early September. The first Moscow festival of songs "Rubtsovskaya Vesna" took place in May 2005. Thematic contests of poetry, prose and songs on poems by Rubtsov are held annually by the library named after Rubtsov St. Petersburg and the first Moscow Rubtsovsky Center (North-Western Administrative District).
Before the start of the performance, the songs "Cranes", "My Quiet Motherland" and others are sung to verses by Rubtsov (from Yuri Kiriyenko-Malyugin's disc "Distant"). The beginning of the performance opens with the song "In the Upper Room" performed by N.M. Rubtsov and his poem "I will ride over the hills of a dozing motherland ..."
I will ride the hills of a dozing home
Unknown son of amazing free tribes!
As before, they rode on the capricious voice of luck,
I will ride in the footsteps of bygone times ...
……………………………………………………………………………………….
Russia! How sad! How strangely drooping and sad
In the darkness over the precipice, my unknown willows!
A faded star chandelier flickers desertedly
And my boat on the river rots shallow.
And the temple of antiquity, amazing, white column
Lost like a vision between these faded fields.
I'm not sorry, I'm not sorry for the trampled down royal crown.
But I'm sorry, but I'm sorry for the destroyed white churches.
Rural views! Oh wondrous happiness to be born
In the meadows, like an angel, under the dome of blue skies.
I am afraid, I am afraid, like a free strong bird,
Break your wings and see no more miracles.
I'm afraid there won't be a mysterious power above us,
That, having sailed out on a boat, I will reach everywhere with a pole,
That, understanding everything, I will go to the grave without sadness ...
Fatherland and will - stay my deity!
Stay, stay, heavenly blue vaults!
Stay like a fairy tale, Sunday night fun!
Let the sun on arable land crown abundant shoots
With the ancient crown of its rising rays! ..
I will ride without breaking my night breath
And the secret dreams of motionless large villages.
No one between the fields will hear a dull gallop,
No one will call out a flickering light shadow.
And only suffering, the wounded former paratrooper,
In a delirium, he will tell his surprised friend,
That some mysterious horseman rushed in the night
The unknown youth disappeared into the fog of the fields.
Leningrad, July 1962, dormitory of the Kirov plant, table, bed, radio, desk lamp, books, sheets of paper, fountain pen). Nikolai Rubtsov enters.
Nikolay Rubtsov. Well then. Let's plunge into the element of poetry. Less than a month left before college exams. Let's take another look at what I put into my collection. (Nikolai Rubtsov reads)
How I was torn to the sea.
Threw the house recklessly
And in the seaman's office
Everything asked for the ship.
Begged, watched,
But drunk, with a roll
The sailors laughed
and called the baby.
So why my soul
So the wave worried
Sending to land
Splashing a violent squall?
Except the sea and the sky
Except for the wet mole
I need bread, I need bread.
Shut up the radio.
I got on a white bus
White warm good.
It spun like a globe
The controller's head.
Called a bully
Called me a fruit.
How rotten it all is.
Eh, conductor, conductor!
Don't ask for a ticket
Take it to the flea market.
I'm like mom for this
I will kiss your hand.
And why did our graphomaniac "From Narvskaya Zastava" not like these verses? They said: "Violets" are crayons on the topic. This is my life itself! Each of them feels good under the wing of their parents. What was it like for me? In my then Arkhangelsk. At 16 - no stake, no yard. I shouted at the market, at the flea market:
Oh, buy a sweatshirt!
I'll give it for a gold piece!
At least the old lady bought the sweatshirt. I managed to hold out for a week on bread. They didn’t like Visions in the Valley, Levitan, Old Horse, or At Home. Give them, the sufferers of love, my "Harmful-unfaithful". (Nikolai Rubtsov reads with sarcasm)
Come what may!
If I find out
What I don't like - am I sticking in a noose?
I often curse the earth,
Cursing, I still love!
………………………………..
Harmful,
Unfaithful
Probably.
Nervous, probably ... So what?
I'm not sorry,
But it's a pity incredibly
That you probably don't expect me!
I will not include "harmful" in the collection. Better this:
I'm all in fuel oil, all in grease.
But I work in the trawl fleet.
I made these freaks laugh. All in the mud and something rejoicing. And at least they put me on allowance! I eat to the bone. And they gave me a robe. And he did not live under the fence. And they dumped some money after the flight. I even bought a coat with "fish fur", a suit, a couple of shirts.
These unfortunate critics did not want or were unable to see my bell Russia. (Nikolay Rubtsov reads from the sheet)
And each bell to the soul -
Ask any Russian! -
Rings like a bell
- not more muffled, -
ringing of Levitan's Rus!
And the ancient Russian city of Vologda was not seen in the poem "The Old Horse". (Nikolay Rubtsov sings)
I was dragging for a long time
And long night forest
The brass bell was listening to everything
Ringing under the arc.
Links, links are light
My bell, ring!
Walk, walk quietly,
My good old horse!
And in "Visions in the Valley" I said something that these "friends of the people" will not reach in their entire life:
Russia, Rus - wherever I look!
For all your suffering and battles -
I love yours, Russia, old times,
Your lights, churchyards and prayers ...
Your icons, the riots of the poor
And your steppe rebellious whistle of robbery,
I love forever your sacred flowers
I love forever, until eternal rest.
But who is there again to block the stars?
Who killed your flowers and paths?
Where they stomp in crowds,
Bloody floods drown life there ...
They carry a black cross on their flags!
They crossed the sky with crosses,
And it's not the forests I see around me,
And the forest of crosses in the vicinity of Russia ...
I have prepared the main sections for the collection. Then I'll add it. We must now give a living stream of poetry. I will present at the exams. I hope they will understand. I need to add something more fun. (Nikolai Rubtsov reads with humor and bitterness)
How much vodka has been drunk!
How many glasses are broken!
How much money has been crushed!
How many women have been abandoned!
Somewhere children were crying ...
Somewhere the Finns were ringing ...
This is pure life! Okay, I'll put it in the collection. I'll call it “Holiday in the Village”. Some idiots like that. But I won't write such nonsense again. It is a pity for innocent children. "How many women have been abandoned!" This is still not poetry. Why do I need a tavern run? Yesenin was already descending into this hold. Enough! And I have no time for taverns. What to go for? In the morning, when you get up, so:
Hit on the pocket - it does not ring.
I hit it differently - not to hear.
To communism - a cloudless zenith -
Thoughts flew to rest.
But I'll wake up and go out the door
And I will go to the wind, to the slope
About the sadness of the roads passed
Rustle with remnants of hair.
(Nikolay Rubtsov pours tea, drinks, reflects)
Still, I want to go to Nikolskoye. I would like to see rural children. Play the accordion. To poison the stories. Sit by the fire, by the river. See how heavenly colors change on the water. Either the light is joy, or the sadness comes. Evening blue will flow from the bushes, due to the turns. And then night - melancholy.
(Nikolai Rubtsov takes a sheet with a poem and reads)
And above me are the immortal stars of Russia,
Sapphire quiver of silent stars ...
What is this "sapphire"? We must look for a suitable epithet. And that is far-fetched. Sapphire? Purple? Diamond? And the trembling? (Nikolai Rubtsov thinks) I'll look. You need something eternal. And the collection should work out. What should you call it? After all, the waves of my life are breaking against the rocks of demagogy, the waves of love against the rocks of hatred, the waves of Good against the rocks of Evil. Let it be Waves and Rocks.
Eh, the horse and the daring of the Asian
Instead of inkpots and papers for me, -
As under the flexible body of Azamat,
A b argamak soared under me!
…………………………………………………..
But probably just and without laughter
You will say to me: “God forbid!
Why did you come on a horse?
Aren't there enough taxis in the city ?! "
Do not forget to give the preface. Bora must be told to print the insert in the preface. (Nikolai Rubtsov reads)
“And let not the dull and well-fed“ poetic ”snouts that swarm literary yards and backyards with their opinions here. Without them, we'll figure everything out. In life and poetry - I can not stand any falsehood calmly if I feel it. I understand and accept every sincere poet in any form, even in the most confused. I really love very few of my contemporary poets. "
(Nikolai Rubtsov stops, writes and reads)
“I consider the clarity of the poet's social position not an obligatory, but an important and beneficial quality. This quality is not fully possessed, in my opinion, by any of the modern young poets. So far, I feel this sign on myself. Collection "Waves and Rocks" - the beginning. And, like any beginning, the collection's poems do not need serious evaluation. It is also good if someone will have a fond memory of these verses. " It is necessary to say so that these all sorts of rhymes do not get into our poetry, into the poetry of the Russian soul.
(Nikolai Rubtsov turns on the radio. The song “Fly migratory birds". Nikolay Rubtsov sings along, turns off the radio)
I must, I must fly to my homeland, to Nikola. Who are there friends? How do people live there? And the good Filya is working there again from morning to night. And he does not need anything, except the morning dawn, diamonds in the dew, cloudberries, saffron milk caps, fish. Nothing but a horse, a goat, and loud cocks in the morning before mowing. Nikolsky sunrises and sunsets are needed!
And for the afterword I will put my idyll in the collection - "Forest Farm".
I remembered as a miracle
that forest farm,
The farm is not bad
this is a world, not a world!
There in a wooden hut,
without claims and benefits,
so, no gas, no bathroom,
kind Filya lives.
Filya loves cattle,
Eats any food
Filya goes to the valley
Filya is blowing the dudu!
The world is so fair
even nothing to cover ...
- Phil! What is silent?
- And what to talk about?
In the pause between scenes, "Autumn Song" performed by Nikolai Rubtsov
Hut in the village of Nikolskoye (couch, stove, window, icon in the corner, a frame with old photographs on the wall, books on the table, lamp). Nikolai Rubtsov leaves the table. Reads slowly:
My quiet homeland!
Willows, river, nightingales ...
My mother is buried here
In my childhood years.
Where is the churchyard? You did not see?
(Nikolai Rubtsov stops, addresses the audience, pause, reads on)
I myself cannot find it.
The residents answered quietly:
- It's on the other side.
The inhabitants answered quietly,
The wagon train drove quietly.
Dome of the church monastery
Overgrown with bright grass.
Where I swam for fish
Hay is rowed into the hayloft:
Between river bends
People dug a channel.
Tina is now a swamp
Where he loved to swim ...
My quiet homeland
I haven't forgotten anything.
I went to the forest to follow Tolshma. Ryzhikov brought it. And again my throne church is on the way. There is a lonely cross under the birches. You won't see enough without tears. Why was the church destroyed? Thank God they didn't break it. And now at least 4 evangelists remain on the frescoes under the dome. They look, look from above at the curious.
Eh, do not forget to me the owner of the hut last November. Could freeze on that unfamiliar path What kind Russian people! And she gave me boots. Otherwise, in the cold and not to reach Nikola. To Lenochka, to Geta.
What a wilderness! I was alone alive.
Alone alive in an endless dead field!
Suddenly a quiet light (dreamed, or what?)
Flashed in the desert
as a watchdog ...
I was just like Bigfoot
Entering the hut (the last hope!) ...
How much grief the war brought! Grandma had no one left. One Lord. And in this saving hut, with an elderly mistress, I finally saw, saw the main thing:
How many yellow pictures in Russia
With such a simple and delicate frame!
And suddenly it opened up to me
And struck
Orphan meaning of family photos:
Fire, enmity
The earth is full,
And the soul will not forget all loved ones ...
Tell me darling
Will there be a war? -
And I said: - Probably not.
And so, in every Russian family, dead children, brothers, fathers and grandfathers look from photographs. Enmity is the main cause of all troubles and wars. And here is the hostess - a simple Russian woman communicates such folk wisdom, to which many will still have to go strong world this:
God forbid, God forbid ...
You can't please everyone
And no benefit will come from discord ... -
And suddenly again:
Will not, you say?
No, - I say, - probably not.
God forbid, God forbid ...
The hostess no longer cares about herself, but about those who live somewhere, for the hut of those close and distant, and even about the departed. And she asks God that there is no war: - God forbid, God forbid! I could not give her confident hope. Could not! It does not depend on me! I can console you. And I can only pay with pennies. This is her for a couple of loaves of bread. And she says to me:
The Lord is with you! We don’t take money!
Well, I say, I wish you health!
For all good we will pay with good
For all love we will pay with love ...
And I just thank the Russian light:
Thank you, humble Russian flame,
For the fact that you are in an alarming premonition
Burning for those in the roadless field
Desperately far from all friends
For being friends with good faith,
Among the great worries and robbery
You burn, burn like a kind soul,
You burn in the darkness - and you have no peace ...
And damn it, the war and everyone who continues it and profits from it. (Nikolai Rubtsov looks out the window, hesitates)
And what kind of villages we have on the hills! Open spaces, God forbid! The sky is completely visible, from horizon to horizon. Not like in the city. And the horse can be found. It grazes, does not bother anyone. And it works like a horse. People in the village, smart, original, most with a great sense of humor. You just play cards, you can laugh to death! Different people, kind and mean, gloomy and funny, but all interesting for some reason.
(Nikolai Rubtsov reads from the poem "In the evenings)
There is a road going uphill from the bridge.
And on the mountain - what sadness! -
The ruins of the cathedral lie
As if the old Russia was sleeping.
……………………………..
What life has echoed
Burned out, moved away!
And yet I hear from the pass
How it blows here than Russia lived!
Everything is also fun and domineering
Here the guys get along the stirrups,
It's warm and clear in the evenings
As in the old days ...
Still, there is a silver lining. Well, they expelled me from the Literary Institute, from the day department, thrown out of the hostel. The first time because of Sergei Alexandrovich Yesenin. I stood up for him. How! (Nikolai Rubtsov - sarcastically) These education specialists did not include Yesenin in the school curriculum. Can you imagine ?! Well, I spoke out. And they began to throw me out of the hall, concocted a protocol and sent to the institute. And we must drive away the enemies of our Yesenin from the trough. They do not understand the elements of the Russian soul and poetry. And I, like Yesenin, am a real Russian poet. I'm not boasting. I state.
Let's see what I wrote to Yashin. Alexander Yakovlevich. Otherwise he doesn't know my Nikolskoe. (Nikolai Rubtsov reads)
“There are magnificent (or it seems to me) hills on both sides of the narrow Tolshma River, villages on the hills (village views), forests, heavens. By the river, or rather, over the river, right at the entrance to Nikola (as the village is called here for short), under the birches is a ruined church. In this area, I once finished seven classes (this is my homeland for my soul), I like it here, and I have been spending here for the second summer.
The village is cultural: they subscribe to all kinds of newspapers. I also read them sometimes. I read your poems in "Vologda Komsomolets". I was very, very happy about your name in the newspaper and your poems.
In fact, Vologda Komsomolets is a dull newspaper. Prints surprisingly clumsy, trifling "modern" poetry. How many times have they told the world that we are hammers, town planners, etc., and they keep repeating, repeating! And where is lyricism, naturalness, sonority? Otherwise, where is the poetry? Moreover, many of those who write, with their frivolous idea of \u200b\u200bthis matter, are scampering like a chicken and an egg! However, this is now widespread in Russia ... (Nikolai Rubtsov pours tea, drinks)
Two collections of my poems were published this summer. In "October" and in "Youth". The selection in Yunost is worthless. I would not agree to print it if I didn’t really need money this summer. Moreover, some places were edited like that ... As a result, the rhyme became tasteless.
And yet, if not for you: I would sit behind an iron grate, sing and compose prison songs, and peck, like a bird, cranberries in a swamp during smoke breaks. Yes, a guard with such a huge bayonet would follow me!
Here for a month and a half he wrote about forty poems. Basically, about nature, there are bad and there seems to be nothing. But he wrote in a different way, it seems to me. I preferred to use words only of spiritual, emotional-figurative content, which sounded before us for hundreds of years and will live the same after us. "
(Nikolai Rubtsov thought) Again yesterday I saw cranes in the meadows. They play and shout. Preparing for departure. And why do they fly to us? What did Tyutchev say about cranes?
(Nikolai Rubtsov takes Tyutchev's book, leafs through it). And here is his verse.
How quietly it blows over the valley
Distant bell ringing
Like the noise from a flock of cranes, -
And in the resounding leaves he froze.
And the "son of the north" - Fet, what does he write? (Nikolai Rubtsov takes a book, finds a poem)
But the news is alive
Already there is in passing cranes ...
Fet made interesting remarks about the revival. (Nikolai Rubtsov takes Blok's book, leafs through it) But Blok wondered what the cranes were crying about.
Owin will spread low smoke
And long under the barn
We are watching intently
During the flight of the crane ...
They fly, fly at an oblique angle,
The leader rings and cries ...
What is it ringing about, about what, about what?
What does autumn cry mean?
Blok has no answer about the meaning of the flight of a flock of cranes. Yesenin did not overlook the cranes either. Of course, they sat down in Konstantinovo. Eh, I'll have to go there.
Dissuaded the golden grove
With a birch cheerful tongue
And the cranes, sadly flying,
They do not regret anyone else.
(Nikolai Rubtsov thought, sings after a pause):
Here under a strange sky, I am an unwelcome guest,
I hear the cry of cranes flying away into the distance
Oh, how it hurts for the soul to hear the call of the caravan,
I accompany them to dear lands.
Now they are getting closer and crying louder,
As if they brought me bitter news.
So tell me where you are from
Have the cranes arrived here for the night?
But I'm not here under a strange sky. I am at home! I'll write my cranes. And Kolya Belyakov sang well! Yes, with a guitar! That was a long time ago. Unforgettable Priyutino.
And the age-old oaks are above us
They shook vividly the foliage.
And from the strings under your hands
The cranes flew away to the south ...
Why are they flying over us? Where are my cranes? In my swamp? Over my attic? IN
my soul? October is coming soon. My relatives will fly away. (Nikolai Rubtsov lies down on the couch, pause, thinks out loud)
The fiery east flaunted between the bog trunks ...
When October comes, the cranes will suddenly appear.
(Pause. Nikolay Rubtsov gets up and continues)
And they will wake me up, the cries of the cranes will call
Over my attic, over a forgotten swamp in the distance.
……………………………………………………………………………….
Here they fly, here they fly ... Open the gates quickly!
Come out soon to look at your tall ones!
Here they fell silent - and again soul and nature become orphan
Because - be silent! - so no one can express them.
Water is more immobile than glass.
And deep in it is light.
And only a pike, like an arrow,
Water glass pierces.
Oh, humble and dear kind!
Birches, huts along the hillocks
And reflected by the depth
Like a century-old dream, God's temple.
Oh, Russia is a great astrologer!
How not to overthrow the stars from above,
So the century will pass silently
Without touching this beauty.
As if this species is ancient
Captured once and for all
In the soul that keeps
All the beauty of the old days ...
It is necessary to scribble Stasik (Nikolai Rubtsov writes, the song "In the wilderness" sounds). I report about the delights of life: “Some random joys brighten up my vegetation here ... Well, for example, in a semi-dark room I heat a small stove on a cold evening, sit next to it - and am very pleased with this, and I forget everything.
In general, everything would be fine, but sometimes I really want vodka, but there is nothing to get it, and I curse this corner of God for not working anywhere here, but I curse silently so that the local people do not hear anything about me with their brains did not think. How can they know that after a few (any: successful and unsuccessful) poems I have written, I need relaxation - to drink and pamper! (Nikolay Rubtsov pours tea, drinks)
Sometimes I remember the last evening at the Central House of Writers. ... You know that I tried in every possible way to avoid noise, how scary and uncomfortable I am in front of some good people for my previous scandalous stories. Yes, and I myself am tired of it all to the extreme. " (Nikolai Rubtsov puts on a coat) We must go for a walk (Leaves, the song “My boots creak and creak ...)
(Nikolay Rubtsov returns, takes out a bottle of wine) Here are the bosses! Long, long looking! And finally found! They put me on the board of honor! Parasites! (Nikolai Rubtsov pours wine into a glass, drinks). I'm a poet! I have to think, look for images, listen to what is sent from above. I'm not some kind of pop talker. Well, they don't pay me now for poetry. Or they pay funny money. Do they want me to leave Nikola? Where to go? I was expelled from the full-time department of the institute. In the dorm, they chase me like a criminal. They have no place for me. And why? Are they taking revenge? Maybe for the verses: "And I'm sorry, and I'm sorry for the destroyed white churches." But there was no need to destroy them! First, do something yourself, and then break it. I'm leaving. I'm leaving. And at the institute I need to recover. It's only a pity for Lena and Getu.
(Nikolai Rubtsov sits down, writes)
Well, be simpler, be it, brothers and sisters (Nikolai Rubtsov sings a fragment from
"Farewell song")
I will leave this village ...
The river will be covered with ice.
Doors will creak at night
There will be deep mud in the yard.
Do you hear the wind rustling through the barn?
Do you hear your daughter laughing in her sleep?
Maybe the angels play with her
And under the sky are carried away with her ...
You don't know how the trails go at night
Behind my back, where I will not go,
Someone's evil, overtaking stomp
I can hear everything as if delirious.
We are like different birds!
What can we expect on one shore?
Maybe I can come back
Maybe I never can.
What should I do? You have to go to Moscow. I can't do without education. I will carry out all the tasks and finish the institute. No matter how they bother me. I will live under the fence and get a higher education. So that no bastard could humiliate me.
I will not rewrite
From the book of Tyutchev and Fet,
I will even stop listening
The same Tyutchev and Fet,
And I will not invent
Himself special, Rubtsova,
I will stop believing for this
In the same Rubtsov,
But I am with Tyutchev and Fet
I'll check the sincere word
So that the book of Tyutchev and Fet
Continue with Rubtsov's book! ..
In the pause between scenes, the song "Distant" sounds ("In the land, where through the wilds, along the rivers ..."),
music and performance by Yuri Kirienko-Malyugin
(Nikolai Rubtsov's apartment in Vologda, a table, a chair, a sofa, a typewriter, a record player, a portrait of Gogol, the painting "The Rooks Have Arrived", not a decorated Christmas tree, an icon on the table).
Nikolay Rubtsov. I have not been in Nikola for two years. Do not forget my arrivals and departures. Ferry crossing to Ust-Tolshma. All nature is sad, or rather, the Lord indicates to me that I must not part with my homeland.
There was a harsh pier at late hour.
Sparkling, cigarettes burned in the darkness,
And the ladder groaned, and the gloomy sailors
Tiredly hurried us on.
And suddenly such a breath came from the fields
Longing for love, longing for short dates!
I floated away ... farther and farther ... without looking back
To the hazy shore of his youth.
I see my paintings. Wooden bridge across Tolshma, round dances on the bridge (Nikolai Rubtsov reads from the poem "Morning")
When, laughing in the deaf courtyard,
Adults and children meet the sun,
Recovering my spirits, I'll run up the hill
And I will see everything in the best possible light.
A friend came from the sultry south and was all delighted: what palm trees are there! Palm trees of the south. And what are these palms against a simple Russian birch? Compared to our winter, the snow is white.
I will forget everything.
I will do my work
And everything will go
In the usual way
But the voice of a friend
Confirms that there is
Wonderful country,
Everything is wonderful there -
And the mountains and the moon
And the palms of the south!
I will not believe
to his friend
I will go into my December darkness -
Let there be a blizzard!
I answered him! I know my fate. And that all the abstruse chatter about life and poetry to me. (Nikolai Rubtsov reads)
I love my destiny
I'm running from obscurations!
I'll stick my face in the wormwood
And get drunk
Like an evening beast!
How many miracles were there
On a holy and ancient land,
Only the dark forest remembers!
He is napping today.
From the snowy ice
I raise my knees
I see a field, wires
I understand everything.
Here is Yesenin -
In the wind!
The block stands slightly in the fog.
Like an extra one at a feast
Khlebnikov is a modest shaman.
Shamanite, shamanite Khlebnikov. He is fooling readers with abstruse moves. Yesenin is our element. "Face to face, you can't see the face, The big is seen at a distance." And who will understand Blok? You must be able to see him. He could not openly say that he understood. As well as myself. Let them read between the lines. Russia will open to those who understand the poets. I have already said: - We have a "fabulous Koltsov". And about him and his songs - silence. Tyutchev comes to Petersburg from the West. The salon thinks that it will admire cities, countries. And the great Tyutchev told them about Russia, about the Slavs, about the arrogance of Westerners.
Russia is flying. And where to? And with whom? Even the great Gogol gave the image of Russia as a "bird-three", and did not say who rules it. Times are changing. Again the eternal fork. Three roads. If you go to the right, you will find a shish. If you go to the left, you will hit a fool. If you go straight, you will find laurels, and you will be tormented by friends and enemies, both left and right. Now Russia is flying by express train. Where to? And there is no answer. Probably the driver himself does not know which way he is going, who and where he is taking.
The train raced with the same tension
Somewhere in the wilderness of the universe,
Before it can be a wreck
Among the phenomena without a name ...
Here he is, sparkling with a fiery eye,
Flies out ... Give way on foot!
At the junction somewhere near the barn,
Picked up, carried me like a goblin!
Together with him and I in the vastness of the mist
I do not dare to think about peace, -
I rush somewhere with a clang and a whistle,
I rush somewhere with a roar and howl.
I rush somewhere with full tension
I, as I am, the mystery of the universe.
Just before the crash, maybe
I shout to someone: "Goodbye! .."
But enough! Fast movement
Everything is bolder in the world from year to year,
And what a crash can be
If there are so many people on the train?
Will it be a wreck or not? Who will answer? (Nikolai Rubtsov puts on the record, the song "Cranes" performed by Alexei Shilov sounds)
Nikolay Rubtsov (at the end of the song). What a fine fellow Lesha Shilov! Felt my soul! Why do I need a professional composer if he does not own a folk melody, does not hear Russia? And Lyosha is a folk composer. It's a pity that I don't own a guitar that much. But I have an accordion. I will not give up her soul. All the more so for the demon who burst into my room in the "Fairy Tale-Fairy Tale".
He suddenly grabbed my accordion.
I see everything, I'm all on fire!
I tell him: - Don't touch,
Don't touch the accordion! - I say.
(Nikolai Rubtsov pondered) Where is my brother, Albert? This is who played and how he played the harmonica! Disappeared in search of the meaning of life, or what? I am looking and can not find it. Will I sing something?
(Nikolai Rubtsov sings the song "Evening").
Here is my collection - "Green Flowers". Included here are "Cranes", "Hello Russia", "My Quiet Motherland", "In Minutes of Music" and "About the Moscow Kremlin." We have such a difficult and beautiful story!
Gloomier than the clouds formidable John
Under the icy gaze of the boyars
Here he healed the hardships of the state,
Hiding the pain of my soul wounds
And dimly I hear a distant ringing:
Now he is mournful, then angry and sovereign!
Napoleon himself fled from here,
His inglorious path was covered with snow ...
I will definitely leave “The Soul Keeps”, “Kind Phil”, “Poetry”, “Visions on the Hill”, “Russian Light”, “At the Blurred Road”, “Blue Handkerchief”, “Winter Song”, “Star of the Fields”. Is it really unclear that the most sacred thing is our Russian village? Yesenin asked me before:
Am I not yours? Am I not close to you?
Do I not value the memory of the village?
In the darkened rays of the horizon
I looked at the surroundings
Where the soul of Ferapont saw
Something of God in earthly beauty.
……………………………………………..
The trees stood motionless,
And the daisies turned white in the haze,
And it seemed to me this village
Something holiest on earth ...
What are they doing there in Moscow with the collection? My title, "Green Flowers", does not please the editor. No, they say, green flowers. And the fact that I have been looking for them all my life does not bother him. This is my dream. What if I find them. At the defense of the diploma at the Lithuanian Institute, no one objected to the Green Flowers.
How not to find an extinguished star
As never before, wandering in the blooming steppe,
Between white leaves and white stems
I can't find green flowers ...
But I found my Russia! (Nikolai Rubtsov reads from the heart)
Hello Russia is my homeland!
How joyfully I am under your foliage!
And there is no singing, but I clearly hear
Choral singing of invisible singers ...
As if the wind was driving me along it,
All over the earth - in villages and capitals!
I was strong, but the wind was stronger
And I couldn't stop anywhere.
……………………………………………………………….
I don’t give up for all the mansions
Your low house with nettles under the window ...
How peacefully in my room
The sun set in the evenings!
"Poems are driving us out of the house." Who said that? I said! Who understands this? You cannot write anything sensible in the four walls and under the ceiling in the mansion. I went to the regional committee, I guessed why I was invited, to a conversation about life. But Viktor Petrovich came. What is this for? Well, I spoke out. And the secretary of the regional committee suggested: “Come on, Kolya, let's agree. We had a desire to talk to you heart to heart, and nothing more. If you find it necessary to meet with us, then we are ready to meet. If you don't want to, then so be it. "
Yes, you must write to the regional committee (Nikolai Rubtsov writes, the song "Guest" sounds, Nikolai Rubtsov reads at the end of the song)
“Dear Viktor Alekseevich!
I'm sorry to bother you. And let me address you not in the form of a statement, but simply in the form of an unofficial letter.
Then at your reception, I didn’t feel very well, so I was absent-minded, did not understand what was happening, and this led me to some kind of frivolity in the conversation.
Now, in absolutely good condition, I deeply realize the seriousness and justice of your remark that I need to streamline the everyday side of my life.
I assure you that I not only took note of your remark, but also that it will serve as a good lesson for me in future life and, of course, will give the necessary results.
With deep respect "Rubtsov
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I will not rewrite
From the book of Tyutchev and Fet,
I will even stop listening
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And I will not invent
Himself special, Rubtsova,
I will stop believing for this
In the same Rubtsov,
But I am with Tyutchev and Fet
I'll check the sincere word
So that the book of Tyutchev and Fet
Continue with Rubtsov's book! ..
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…….
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