Growing up, the author found Moscow endlessly fascinating. The city felt full of wonders, a sprawling metro, and a rhythm that carried its own nursery rhyme. The scent of escalators and stations lingered in memory, echoing a line about the world beginning where the Kremlin stands. As years passed, Moscow revealed its layered character—its opportunities, its trials, its unique pace. The idea that tourism and immigration feel different there is almost a compact truth: life in Moscow often reads like its own sentence, unfinished yet full of forward motion.
Initially, the notion that “Moscow is a big village” seemed off. A visitor can feel overwhelmed, unsure of where to go, not fully “native,” always watching and listening. People hurry here from all directions, and the city invites exploration at every corner. Yet time reveals a other side: the big village has its own charm, a sense that space breeds rivalry and opportunity in equal measure. It is not merely a city; it can feel like a country of its own, where ideas clash and evolve. When Yuri Luzhkov spoke of Moscow, he reminded listeners that Moscow and Russia are not the same thing, and that the city’s ambitions can outpace national expectations. In such a place there is room for experimentation, for trying something new just because it might work elsewhere in the city, or even in the far reaches of the map.
Success in a large village is often a signal to others, a sign that freedom exists and can flourish. People move through layered hierarchies, finding roles as humble as a bank teller or as influential as a leader in a sports scene. The point is that living well becomes an accepted outcome rather than a rare privilege.
By contrast, a “small village” is a social framework rather than a mere geography. Here, people know more than they should, and jealousy thrives on information. If a neighbor’s cow dies, the mood shifts quickly; if a fence is nudged a fraction, passions erupt in dramatic ways. Life in a small village is rarely fun, and yet it remains a powerful force for shaping behavior and community norms.
These reflections surfaced while thinking about children’s poems. The tale of a sleeping princess and the ever-present fairy in whispers and sketches came to mind, and a friend added a new twist by gifting a poet’s voice to children’s verse. The colleague’s routine was simple: compose a poem, go to work, compose again. In one piece the lines spoke of cracked asphalt and the stubborn cracks on a wall, and the day’s questions gave way to a simple, hopeful observation: a dandelion was growing where doubt once stood.
Children and their parents embraced the poems, sharing them with kindergartens and schools. Yet publication proved stubborn. The author had published two dozen adult books and enjoyed radio commentary on current events, but the children’s poems faced repeated editorial roadblocks. A manuscript would be deemed beautiful or original, yet not in the house style. A kind editor would acknowledge the quality but still decline. The pattern persisted across newspapers and magazines, leaving the dream of a children’s book in limbo and the author’s work awaiting a home that would embrace it fully.
Multiple editors offered encouragement and then recanted. Some suggested sending the poems to a senior editor, others to a literary consultant, but the response never translated into a sale. A kindergarten curriculum might be interested, only to discover that the methodologists would not cooperate. The cycle continued: positive feedback, no publication, and the sense that the work deserved a broader audience beyond the usual channels.
Three dozen poems about dogs, a playful loop about punctuation, a book about seasons and months, and much more—these were the creative stones rolled across a canvas of quiet resistance. Local, regional, and even federal outlets spoke in one voice, reluctant to embrace the new author. The tale echoed the old anecdote about Vasily Shukshin, who faced his own waves of rejection yet found a path by distributing his stories to many outlets until one finally accepted them. For the current author, that same tactic proved ineffective, and the dream of publishing in the traditional way remained elusive.
The question persisted: is there a problem with the work, or is the system simply slower to recognize what is fresh and valuable? The answer seems to hinge on the stubborn reality that small-world dynamics can hinder even the most promising voices. The urge to defend one’s creative garden and keep undesired intrusions at bay feels universal, whether in Russia or across North America, where cultural ecosystems seek balance between innovation and tradition.
Admiration for writers such as Chukovsky, Marshak, Barto, and Zakhoder grew in the narrator. If Mayakovsky could illuminate children about what is good and bad, perhaps the landscape of childhood literature could evolve beyond the old village script. And perhaps the village is larger than it appears, with the potential for new ideas to bloom where they are most needed. Across different places, the need for invention, new projects, and practical innovation remains constant. The President’s call to close the gap with leading nations resonates everywhere, even if the path to progress is sometimes blocked by skepticism and red tape. Inventors continue to push forward, sometimes in fits and starts, chasing endorsements and credible references that will finally unlock the next step forward.
There are other avenues, too. A confident claim that a project fits the profile, but audacious enough to require more planning, can stall. Markets may demand perfection before a plan is accepted, and time can slip away while decisions hover. The idea that a royal decree or a grand budget can guarantee progress often proves too neat, and the practical reality is a slower, more deliberate process. Then again, the conversations return to children’s poetry. A lullaby to the woods and a call to notice the tiny things—bushes that hum with sparrows, a child’s question about what makes life true—these images linger, inviting readers to see the ordinary world with fresh eyes.
Perhaps it is not wise to rush into reinvention. A new magazine may be premature; growth can come from nurturing a village that is already present and awake. The writer’s voice remains a personal stance, not necessarily aligned with editors, but the core message endures: there is value in children’s poetry, and there is a place for it within the cultural landscape. The narrative closes with a quiet affirmation: there is more to discover, and the big village’s advantages deserve a fair chance to flourish.