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Thursday, October 27, 2016

My Pushkin

Igor Kochanowski — poet, needs no introduction. His lyrics from the 70-ies up to the present time is an example of a natural, even speaking, but for its easy intonation is a huge experience, high culture of the verse and an absolute human reliability. It is no coincidence that the book “Mismatch” — in a recent, updated edition, is recognized by many as the best poetry collection of recent years.

Published poem is a tribute to the memory of our great poet on the eve of his birthday (June 6).

Russian literature of the torch,

a gambler and womanizer…

Oh, Alexander Sergeyevich,

how am I sad for you.


Of course, from the current given

everything seems not the way

as you’re in those years,seen

when it came to the marriage —

time of marriage has come…

Your age is not cringe like a riot,

our banter is supposedly a good thing

not be called marriage…

To settle down all thought,

in the past to put an end…


And here Moscow presents

best of the brides.


But it was the sign from above,

that rash step of yours,

and a strange incident came out,

completely overshadowed the marriage,

when your candle wedding

accidentally went out suddenly,

when the wedding ring

slipped from his hands,

as if to resist was

the fact that you had…

Ring someone from friends

not a loss at all,

lifting as nimble footman

returned as if nothing had happened,

you allegiance to this symbol.


When they came around the podium

with the bride,

you hand

touched it inadvertently…

Because of this opaski

on the floor at once fell

the gospel and the cross,

what caused the failure in the ritual

and frightened all the neighborhood.

You immediately turned pale

from a miss too,

the whispering suddenly someone sentence:

“Tous les mauvais augurs”*.


Holding the crown wedding

over your head

the best man

that was brilliant

adventurer count Tolstoy,

nicknamed “the American”,

handsome, zhuir and bully,

in light of yesterday’s Maverick,

settled recently

in the ancient capital.

He was closely acquainted with you

and friendly, as they say,

reliable always and everywhere.

This minion of secular stores,

whom by his grace

God has given graciously

beautiful three daughters,

lucky the madness of the duels,

whose shot did not look bad

never, shooting at goal

three put on the spot,

he will be severely punished,

and daughters favorite of all,

one after another, over and over again

take God for daddy’s sin.

His father, stricken with grief,

madness in the throes of grief,

their death for no apparent reason

retribution finds its

for those three, they killed,

early grief of the funeral…

And often in the torture of insomnia

Pray to God he will:

“I accept, father,

rest I continue to find…

Now we’re even…

So forgive me, forgive me…”


There’s the head of a poet

wedding held of the crown,

There was something unkind in this,

sinister as the lead…

As if the hand of the bully,

who bore the flag of death,

cast a shadow mournful flair

for the upcoming marriage.


Another bad luck happened:

Tolstoy, when he was tired,

changed someone, made a mercy.

But like all once again for a reason…


Schafer change in that time

it was considered a bad omen,

such a belief prevailed,

and the light did not shun them.

The poet, out of the temple,

upon learning this, became downcast

and repeated obstinately:

“Tous les mauvais augurs” *.


“These are all bad signs.”

As though by them God himself

you promised mess

and life early result.


Ah, if know in advance would…

But the knowledge had not helped —

you were going to do anything for the wedding

with the brilliant Natalie.

Wanted his abode

painting only one

to decorate and to be forever a spectator

this picture of the Saint,

to the canvas, as an icon,

would have looked like from the clouds,

your young Madonna

overtaken you love.


Fulfilled your desire,

and sent down to you the Creator

wonderful creature,

the pure charm sample.


Reject you

one omission, alas…

Madonna did not love you,

when it wooed you.


You were first denied…

Behind you was a rumor

dubious persuasion different

shenanigans, in short, the sins…


But a year later gave

you to wife the beauty of Moscow

Love of you Natalia?..

Yeah I know you did not want

this was the night of possession

the loveliest of wives,

when to slake desire,

crazy passions in unison

she shared your flame,

you taught

and in bliss, spilled bodies,

as for the waves, she swam.


You are the first her man,

for women this fact sometimes

attachment reason

coloring years

spiritual gullibility,

sincerity warmth,

the looseness of the relationship,

the vastness of kindness.


All this in the everyday routine

fill your new shelter

mutual love like that

but not the love

soul Natalie owned,

when the mind is out of sight,

and there is no limit to the passions,

and heartbeat is not himself…


Such, alas, Natalia

was not with you, no…

And this, perhaps, the mystery

the causes of future troubles.


You woke the woman,


where as if willed

to be a victim of the feelings of the game.


In it, you have kindled the flame of passion,

not thinking at all about

that passion can out of our government

drag on a node



Close friends

gossiped among themselves,

what do you charge your wife

one headache,

it is in vain that you married, right

you who own every novel

made in a glorious list,

as a true don Juan,

where, at number 113,

among other who were able

to inspire you in love,

to be

privilege and Natalie.


Perhaps your Madonna,

for reviews of light about her,

perfectly did business at home,

raised children,

would proofread proofread

coffee bands

and in those days

was this procedure

the labor of the chimney sweep is akin to…

And little white gloves

is it, perhaps, in an hour

blackened as prints

efforts mesivta dirt.


But Natalie did not complain,

and these things, man

(of course, not instead of the ball)

easy and hard led.


And yet the essence of the poet’s life

was far from it,

and manners of the upper light

pushed into the shadows slightly.


Don’t know what other

could be your wife,

but, maybe, not the same

you the time of day

tried to read what came out

from the pen you have,

in response to you is barely audible

sounded: “what time is it?”

The morning almost…


Are you crazy, eh, gone…”

And buried in bed

an angry Natalie.


Once in secular fantasies

decided to entertain salon

a verse composed by the other day,

interrupted ganushkin a sharp tone:

“Oh, Pushkin, you with poems

anyone tired of long ago…”

The poet only shrugged

read, supposedly, not meant to be.


Can, living side by side,

don’t know who gave men God…

In this lurked Wraith,

confuse the tangle of everyday life,

understand not giving worthwhile,

whose next to your hand…

Great somehow

see only from afar…


Madonna was jealous of you…

When in the Palace of the king

you are with someone during the ball

flirted hurl,

after returning home,

with the move


slaps you…

About the heavy handle gancino

then you wrote to friends.


…Their departure, the outfits of Madonna,

presence with her at balls —

everything to which you are inclined,

welcomed dandy-the monarch…


All this crazy spending,

and your eternal debt

and creative days of no return —

as closed circles.


You secular receptions picture


Not to get off on the go

with the coach of the fate that wheeled

in the finale of the Black river trouble.


Oh, Alexander Sergeyevich,

could you imagine,

poets of the king-the king’s son,

you don’t have to endure the head

due to the intrigue of the Madonna,

for fun yard graciously

close first person

and became godly

your crown of thorns…


Out of all the ladies of the upper light,

to know, there was not one,

to become a companion of the poet,

worthy of your wife.


The marriage itself may

unnecessary was for you

a careless error,

as tricky misalliance,

a mistake, not seeing a complex,

the rebellious nature of Kadans.


Forgive me let the scholars,

strict men of science,

for arguments unsightly,

doubtful, as the mirages.


Not that a vow of celibacy

to take him in right,

but just went all b otherwise,

when he was not married.


Being the wife of a genius

few have this.

Always a genius out of time

it is the General rule.


Analogues boring list

but exceptions do not count…

Oh, Alexander Sergeyevich,

to live you, right, still…


Yes, that’s not what happened, unfortunately…

Brought your end

his unwitting complicity

the purest sample the delights of…

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