The inscription on heaven

One of my students wrote: “Tonight, the driver of a white car hit a pedestrian with two fingers in front of me. The pedestrian kept walking without realizing that he had been killed.”

Such is the unnoticed transformation.

An ordinary person walked along the street, crossed the line – he is now an angel. An angel comes to his house, meets an angel’s wife there, puts angel food on the three-course table and eats it.

Then they quarrel, an angelic ugly boring scandal: “you said”, “I said”, “I’m sick of you”, “I’m sick of you”. Then the angel’s wife cries for a long time on the angel’s pillow, the passing angel nervously smokes on the balcony. Oh yes, angels don’t smoke.

I suddenly stopped walking my long daily miles. Like Forrest Gump, running and running, unwittingly dragging more and more supporters, and suddenly stopping, turning, passing through a crowd of followers, and no longer running.

That’s why I don’t walk around the city anymore. I cannot persuade myself to leave the house. This is my transformation.

…A venerable old poet wakes up one day and is found crying just before he wakes up. He also remembers that today is August six, if you do not believe in the Soviet and global calendar. old way.

And the sixth of August is the Transfiguration of the Lord. Apple Spas.

So, Pasternak actually woke up on August 19, but what do we care about global time when we have it ourselves: that’s where it flows – your old age, your maturity, your youth, your childhood – and it flows through you and your past. you, on the contrary.

why did i remember
The pillow is slightly damp.
I dreamed to see me
You walked in the woods with each other.
You walked in the crowd, separately and in pairs,
Suddenly someone remembered today
Sixth of August the old way,
Metamorphosis.

Theophanes the Greek, to whom one of the icons of the Transfiguration of the Lord is attributed (and made in a completely traditional way), acts as an innovator, unexpectedly painting his first church in Novgorod to our joy. .

There are only two colors in the frescoes – ocher and white. The “earthy” color of mustard seems to flash: white accents. Whitish dissections, “strikes” cut through the earth, as if he wanted to burn it.

This is such a strange, unusual color solution that some researchers have even suggested a version of fire that discolors the frescoes.

However, no signs of fire were found, and restorers confirmed that such a layer of paint was genuine. Just mustard and white. Just earth and white.

Human
all possible whites
red to blue
Human
numerous soft options
solid to liquid
Human
endless options for good
from violence to sacrifice
All phenomena and objects are called the cry of his throat.
The lengths of his body parts became the first scale of the universe.

These are the poems of the Soviet poet, master and freelance theorist of poetry Vladimir Burich.
He was born on August 6, 1932. He was born consciously to dive into poetry, sometimes not to see himself.

I looked at my window at night
And I saw
that I’m not there
And it’s understood
that I may not

By the way, Buric himself almost never existed as a poet in the USSR. Well, it sleeps and starts. They say that one of his poems was not liked by the front-line soldier David Samoilov (a very good poet, by the way). And in Izvestia (For teenagers, I don’t even know what to compare now; well, imagine being beaten on Channel One – no, not him; imagine Artemy Lebedev driving you or Nikita Mikhalkov – and again, not him) a Once, with a negative mention of its name, even a feuilleton “The Huntsmen Climb to Parnassus” was published.

There is only one line about Burich, which they scold more than any other typed, goes both to the venerable Akhmadulina and to the general audience, who said nothing to Sapgir and Kholin. But there is still a line in Izvestia, especially if it’s abusive. At least not in Pravda.

Feuilleton begins like this:

“There is a small but very unpleasant young person who thinks that a certain muse flying over our sinful world is turning their positive attention to them. (His tentative and possibly accidental glance was taken by the teenagers for a revelation). And by this time they have successfully depicted a house of smoke that rhymes with “love” and “blood” or curling up a chimney on a sheet of paper, decisively and irrevocably choosing to serve the muses as a profession.

Reading this about yourself in the mainstream press is like experiencing a literary clinical death. (I saw it somewhere: “A resident of Anapa, who survived a clinical death, said that a text about the Krasnodar Territory was written on the gates of heaven. To be honest, I always suspected something like that.” Me too).

* * *
why hug
if you can’t drown
why kiss
if you can’t eat
why buy
if you can’t take forever
with myself
there
to the garden of paradise

…And more about whitewash and white.

Never thought of the famous local house set in Trier’s Dogville, whose borders are painted only white on the ground, recreate their Dog City on screen as a site for old crime footage. The state of fear, the state of fear. (When someone “hits” you with a finger from a car and now you still do not know that you are an angel, you go from earthly mustard and heavenly white and to your earthly home, which is no longer your home).

A crime will be committed here, only nobody knows. It’s still nice, everyone is smiling at each other, but we are already doubting what will happen to everything.

By the way, are you wondering which of Buric’s poems David Samoilov disliked? (Well, at least they said they didn’t like it.) These are:

the world is full
post war people
post war stuff
located between letters
pre war soap
I didn’t know what to do
wash
Cry
pre-war period
sunken Atlantis
And we
miraculously survived

Interestingly (if this is true and not memory distortion, invention or someone’s slander): what might David Samoilov not like here?



Source: Gazeta

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