Anniversary reflections in a quiet village setting
An anniversary with a distant relative unfolds as a celebration for a person who has lived a long, tranquil retirement. Family, friends, neighbors, and former colleagues gather around a festive dinner table. Among them sits a remarkably sharp, outspoken, energetic elder woman who carries herself with the poise of a union leader. She occasionally takes charge at the table, lifts a glass, and proves to be a natural poet. A set of congratulations in verse has been prepared for the birthday honoree.
What follows is the reading of a verse that may not win prizes for its rhyme or originality. The reader speaks with emotion, takes his time, and seems oddly proud of his talent. A relative offers a polite smile, thanks the speaker, embraces a colleague, and the room fills with cheers and compliments as drinks flow freely.
Later, the celebrant confides that in the kitchen, where the guests help with cleanup, poetry has long been written for every occasion — holidays, anniversaries, and even funerals. He cherishes the act of composing and plans to publish a book someday, but for now he uploads his poems to a private site and asks for help finding it and for a review that might boost visibility on a platform with a large following.
There is nothing inherently wrong with turning poetry into a hobby. People have diverse passions: some sew, some knit, others embroider, bake pies, or make jams from special recipes. Yet the quality of these domestic crafts often matters less than the effort put into them. When a skirt sewn into a bag fits poorly, a hat sits crooked, or pies burn, people don’t brag about the results. Still, the standard for home poetry rarely comes under scrutiny, and writing poetry is considered, by some, a commendable achievement even if the craft feels casual.
Anyone familiar with the novel Twelve Chairs by Ilf and Petrov will recognize the reference to a character who writes for money. The concern here is different: a female designer who has built bridges in her career cannot tell a bad poem from a good one, yet she begins to make up words and craft rhymes. Does she truly feel the poetry she produces?
That question remains unanswered.
The author arrives at a site and observes a few likes. Whether pretentious or straightforward, amateur poets share one thing in common: they write without any notable artistic instinct. In the village once lived a quiet drunk who would arrive at every gathering offering to read his poems. He requested not to be read to, yet his verses, though simple, carried sincerity and tenderness that lingered with the listeners.
Reading verses about the hometown on a site called Dear Motherland raises a further puzzle. A passage about a renowned astronomer appears, yet the author wonders why a note about the professional life of an astronomer could not simply be published in a local newspaper rather than set to verse.
There is a playful game known as graphomania. A driver collects poems from a Writers’ Union collection, selects the most ridiculous piece, and reads the first two lines aloud. The rest are then filled in by participants who attempt to complete the quatrain in an originally stylized way. The host gathers the sheets, and players try to identify the original lines. The winner receives the authentic poem, and the rest of the group enjoys the imaginative results. It is a game that rewards sharp wit and creative improvisation, often producing verses that surpass the originals in charm and audacity.
The site Dear Motherland is described as a platform to popularize modern provincial literature. In the writer’s view, it might serve as a repository for grafomaniac tendencies, but it resembles thousands of similar poetry sites. The question remains: who truly benefits from such sites and why?
It is hard to imagine someone without a musical ear presenting poems to guests as if they were a performed song. Perhaps the person enjoys singing in private or shared spaces, yet the truth about performance and voice often reveals itself. The capacity to play an instrument or sing does not automatically translate to poetry. The exact mechanism behind why some people insist on calling their words poetry remains elusive.
In the mid-1800s the writer and critic Apollon Grigoriev argued that poets voice the experiences of the masses and carry the keys to life’s understanding. He opposed the notion that art exists solely for its own sake and defended a lively, folk-informed art that captures collective consciousness. His stance highlighted how literature can reflect national character and shared realities rather than serve as a solitary, perfected craft.
From that perspective, the collective imagination of many poets can seem banal. The landscape painted by numerous verse sites often depicts vast plains, icy waters, fertile soil, and familiar flora. Yet the portrayal tends to emphasize comforting, timeless scenes without much change or peril. The world they conjure is bright, abundant, and peaceful, with smiling faces and well-kept towns, yet it also feels static, dreaming of an era that has already passed.
Understanding why so many similar verses were penned remains a challenge. They appear to be repeated like a spell: sleep, Russia, sleep, Motherland. The cadence suggests a desire to preserve a cherished image rather than to confront the future or question the past.
The narrator ends by acknowledging a personal stance that may not align with editors or readers alike. This is a reflection on how individual taste intersects with collective judgment in the world of poetry and cultural expression.