Among the huge flow of books, it is sometimes very difficult to find the "real". Either you need to have your own innate sense of the word, or there should be an experienced, knowledgeable teacher nearby who would unobtrusively turn your interest in the right direction. What shines brightly and is painted in all the colors of metaphor is almost always a fake, and not real poetry. The nightingale does not need to paint like a parrot, the amazing song of a little gray singer puts everything in its place.
The life and creative biography of Nikolai Zinoviev once again confirms that poets in Russia at all times have had a hard time. As people close to him testify, his poems were noticed and published back in the early 80s, and wide popularity comes only now, after almost a quarter of a century, when several collections have already been published, and selections of poems have appeared in thick central magazines.
It is absolutely clear that he was born a poet, but he showed himself as a poet in full voice when thunder clouds descended over his large and small homeland. The poems of N. Zinoviev are not only the spiritual biography of the poet, but at the same time the true history of Russia at the end of the 20th - beginning of the 21st century, conveyed through thoughts and feelings ordinary people among which he grew up.
The poet's maternal great-grandfather, Kondrat Sergeevich Sobol, was a Cossack, faithfully served the tsar, had the St. George Cross of the IV degree for outstanding courage and bravery. In 1941 he was taken to the NKVD as an enemy of the people, and then (posthumously) rehabilitated. Maternal great-grandmother is a Cossack woman with many children, believing, kind. Having escorted her husband to the camps, and three sons to defend the Motherland, she and her three daughters helped all the farmers to survive in the hard times of war. Maternal grandfather was a Cossack, before the Great Patriotic War he worked as a combine operator on a collective farm. He did not return from the war, he died in the Crimea, replacing the deceased commander in battle.
The paternal great-grandfather was a lady's coachman, and the great-grandmother was a maid. Paternal grandfather (a native of Kursk) is a builder. Grandfather Dmitry died in 1941, leaving a "barn book" of poems in the editorial office of a local newspaper. But after his death (the war had already begun), this book was lost, and no one now knows what those poems were. Father - Alexander Dmitrievich Zinoviev - after serving in the army returned home to Korenovsk and worked as a builder for 46 years. He married a teacher primary school Lydia Alexandrovna Sobol, she is now 72 years old.
Nikolai Aleksandrovich Zinoviev was born in the village of Korenovskaya, Krasnodar Territory, in Palm Sunday, April 10, 1960. They took him home from the hospital on the Bright Sunday of Christ. The baby was born strong, with thick black hair and huge eyelashes.
After school, the poet graduated from vocational school, where he received the specialty of a welder. Then he studied at the machine-tool technical school and in absentia - at the Krasnodar University at the Literary Faculty. He worked as a loader, electric welder, concrete worker at a construction site. Started writing at the age of 20. I wrote for myself, without sending anywhere. Later, my mother persuaded me to send poems to the regional newspaper, they didn’t believe it, they said: “He’s copying somewhere.” But still decided to check by giving him a topic. He wrote poetry there, in the editorial office. And a little later came from Krasnodar head. department of poetry V.P. Unlikely, he found where N. Zinoviev lives, took away the poems, and since then they began to appear in the regional newspaper.
For the poem "My grandfather" N. Zinoviev was awarded his first prize. After his recognition in the region, our "district" began to often publish his poems. The first small book "I walk the earth" was published in 1987 by the Krasnodar publishing house.
His poems were read, printed, sent to each other, people came for them, collected money and published them in small books. The editions included poems chosen by the editors themselves. And so these poems went around the country, reached Moscow. Soon he received the Great Literary Prize. Then he became a laureate of the international competition "Poetry of the Third Millennium", the competition "Golden Pen", the Delvig Prize.
Nikolai Alexandrovich is married and has a daughter and a son. Currently lives in the city of Korenovsk.
In 2005 V.G. Rasputin invited N. Zinoviev to Irkutsk for the Shining of Russia festival and, introducing the poet, said: “Russia itself speaks in the poems of Nikolai Zinoviev”.
The happiness of Russia, its salvation lies in the fact that at all times when it was difficult for her, somewhere in her distant outback, talented people were born, capable of useful thing or a bright, figurative word to sow faith in the souls of people. Nikolai Zinoviev is one of those people for whom the meaning of life is, first of all, for Russia to be, for it to become stronger and purer, so that it does not interrupt the connection of times, does not lose what it was proud of in the past. And he managed to express this meaning in his poems, which cannot be confused with anyone else.
†††
Oh, how I fell a lot
Walking the path of life!
Like a mother, always to the detriment of herself,
Russia raised me.
Weak and weak
My Russia, my mother.
Now I have no other business -
Raise her back.
†††
One can only believe in Russia.
F.I. Tyutchev
Not a day, not a month, not a year
You must always believe in Russia.
As for adversity,
They will leave like dogs, obediently.
They will run away in one underwear,
Persecuted by the scourge of the Lord.
†††
I don't understand what's going on.
For good ideas
Lies triumph, fornication rages...
Wave your hand, as they say?
But how can I be baptized then
A hand that waved at people? ..
†††
Friends have a sick daughter.
Disabled, you know, since childhood.
And no one can help her.
There is no such tool in the world.
I understand that I'm nothing
I understand, I understand...
But numb under the left shoulder,
When I look up at her...
†††
At the map of the former Union
With a thunderous roar in the chest
I stand. I'm not crying. I don't pray.
And I just don't have the energy to leave.
I stroke mountains, I stroke rivers,
I touch the seas with my fingers.
Like I'm closing my eyelids
My unfortunate motherland...
VISION
The soldier comes down the hill
Family meeting ahead.
Medal "For the Capture of New York"
I see it on his chest.
I see his daughter Tanya
He drives two geese to the river,
Where from the tower of a NATO tank
Fedka's son catches carp.
†††
Gaining cheapness
Life, and nothing to cherish.
Lose your homeland -
How to survive a child.
I UNDERSTAND
I understand - not a fool, -
So that fingers clenched into a fist
Unclench for sign of the cross,
We need both strength and skill,
But most of all, patience.
†††
That changed era era,
What is the saddest thing about this?
We used to secretly believe in God
Today we secretly do not believe in Him.
FRIENDS
Let us not be fit to be prophets,
But, so as not to be so hameli boors,
Friends, let's call
Like temples...
IN KINDERGARTEN
Butterflies flutter over the flowerbed,
And the sky turns blue.
In the shadow of the sandbox they play
Soldiers of World War III...
†††
I believe Russia will wake up
To do a good deed
But before it starts
What I'm afraid to talk about.
†††
There are days of special power
When during the day
In addition to "Lord, have mercy!"
There is nothing else on my mind.
WEALTH
Garden to the river. In the hut
Bible table. Bench.
Noon... The Book of Genesis...
Isn't that enough?
†††
When the soul boils with anger
On a brother - this is no accident,
You hammer nails too
In the wrists are white Christ.
FATHERLAND
One writes novels about her,
Another from the stands screams about her,
And only those who breathe it,
While silent...
†††
How foreign countries rejoice
And from happiness howls howls,
We're on our knees.
And we got on our knees
Pray before the fight...
†††
The soul could not bear discord,
But God's almighty hand
Give her peace for a moment
And she doesn't need much longer.
†††
Terrible era!
Behind the temple we build a temple,
We affirm that we believe in God,
But He doesn't believe us.
FAMILY TRADITION
For the sake of salvation for the souls of loved ones,
Praying mantis having passed around,
Once a year, great-grandfather went to church ...
On the knees…
To the neighboring county.
CROSS
And I realized at the end of the day
When the sunset flowed like a scarlet river:
I am not my cross, but he is me
Carries an unprecedented life.
WIDOW
Outside the window and in her chest - a cold.
Ninety-two years old widow.
God told her: “Live for your husband,
That he died at the age of thirty in the war.
IN THE HOSPITAL
This vile-smelling chamber
And on the windows of the lattice strokes -
Is the fee too high?
For unnecessary people poems?
†††
Suma, prison, sum, prison.
Where are you, people's will?
Eternal grief from the mind,
The mind is sad from grief.
REQUIEM
Sympathetic words are lies.
Don't get out of the loop
Leading to hell when strangers
They stand around. Some strangers.
All strangers. Even their own.
RUSSIAN FIELD
I am under your dim sky
I didn't realize this yesterday.
So that you remain Russian,
It's time to become Kulikov.
Otherwise, you will be burned
A terrible misfortune will squeeze -
You will become a mound of sorrow
Until the Last Judgment.
Will be summer nights
Dream of golden rye.
wooden crosses
You will rise to the top...
†††
For a long time the rumor has been creeping around the world,
In the minds of being born not in the poor:
Russia will soon fall.
Don't have fun!
If it falls, it will crush many.
And it may turn out that everyone.
What, apart from a wet trail,
Will there be left of the world then?
Pray better gentlemen
For our Russia, otherwise it's a disaster.
Thus the lyre prophesies to me.
†††
Grandfather stayed in the war
And left the country to me.
And now I look with guilt
What are they doing to my country.
Not rubles is theft -
Souls of people.
And forgive me
Will it, won't it?
I dont know.
All the people are brought down in a flock,
Who opposes - those in the herd.
Something to do, something to do!
I torment my soul
On the other - I do not dare.
A bloody smog over the country...
Won't forgive
Neither grandfather,
Neither God.
†††
On our farm, in Europe,
So far, no skirmishes, no fights.
Only a cat hides in dill,
Watching out for sparrows.
Both life and death with a quiet gait
They go - pah-pah, not to jinx it.
And grandfather Antip with a wild grin
He makes his own coffin.
And says there is no hope
On no one - everyone drinks in the family -
And what is worthless to the baptized
Then, like a dog, lie in the ground.
ARMS OF RUSSIA
I don't cry in front of people, not a woman.
But, two-headed, isn't it too weak
Do you hold the rest of the country in your clutches?
Can you hear Satan's gaze?
You sink your claws deep
Forget the age-old fatigue.
If you loosen your grip, then immediately
Even what is left will be torn out.
†††
Smoke shag, on the mound
The old man, gray as a harrier, sits.
I'm in front of him like little boy,
He doesn't even look at me.
And suddenly looked:
"What's with the sour face?" —
"I wanted to ask you for a long time..."
But he interrupted: “Dead Russia
You can't see it alive."
UNITY
I walk along the edge of life
Drive a bad thought.
The pulse of the Fatherland is shaking,
Like a drunk, me.
I'm afraid to fall into the abyss
After all, I am completely without wings.
Sing a song with fear?
But I forgot everything.
I walk along the edge of life
Not stupid and not smart.
The pulse of the Fatherland is not even,
And my hour is not even.
†††
The clouds floated low and grey,
And I was allowed to see
The way demons are grain and tares
They sifted, burning the grain.
I looked and stood, but unsteadily,
When the demon winked at me alone:
"Perestroika is underway, perestroika" -
And he stirred the poker in the fire.
And I comprehended the poet's infusion,
The fact that the gift of the prophet is relatives:
Perestroika will end this
With the advent of Judgment Day.
†††
It was not surprising for us to have fun,
Joy lived in every town.
And you went out on holidays
In an Orenburg downy shawl.
But unexpectedly evil spirits got stronger
And trouble was all over the place.
And in a scarf of black crepe
You wander off into nowhere.
†††
And there, under the eternal firmament,
Where the ice lay on the rocks,
Today the grandmother of the old river
Loops wind among the swamps,
And at the bottom of the former sea
He lay down in the dunes of the cosmodrome ...
Only the soul is the same field
After the battle of evil with good.
OLD WIDOW
And in the morning it's dark in the eyes.
The roof on the house is completely rotten.
And it's scary to remember how long ago
The soul of the soul burned out.
But on the face of that life
The light remains. He is indelible
Like a reflection of poverty saint
On a bowl with a chipped edge...
IN THE BEER
1.
“What do you know, bitch, about attacks?
You, I see, only drink is not weak.
We rushed with a grenade to the tanks,
You rush only to women.
What do you know about artillery raids?
Can you kill a fascist with a butt?
What do you know?
And exactly who are you
What are you drinking here on an equal footing with me? .. "
Silently drank vodka gloomy guy
He hid his gaze, which was gloomy and heavy.
I got up from the table and
The creaking dentures are gone.
2.
Rides in a wheelchair
And unshaven, and gray-haired.
I pour "to the eyeballs."
I do not mind. He is a Hero.
He left his legs in Chechnya
And half a platoon of his.
And the guys were gods
Remembers every single one.
Having drunk, frowns: "Poison."
Drinks more. Then he screams:
"Fuck this glory to me,
Do you hear? Motherland is silent.
IN THE TEMPLE
You ask God for peace
And hot prayer after
You are baptized left hand,
Holding a landing beret in it.
And with a serious angelic face,
Creating your wrong cross,
You sigh. Under the city of Grozny
Your right hand remains.
She remained not in granite,
Not in bronze, but simply rotted ...
You stand, and your Guardian Angel
Stands behind. Wingless.
†††
As far as I can remember, it's like this:
rare beard,
Dirty, grey, dry.
Tripping.
Antediluvian army.
Children's smile.
- Hello, Vanya the Fool.
How are you?
— Not very.
- Are they bullied, beaten?
What is to blame?
- It hurts a lot ...
Like before the war.
†††
You do not create an idol for yourself,
Don't worship fate
So why is all the evil in the world
Do you sometimes feel in yourself?
Think who, beckoning with temptation
"To end the evil of the world",
Leads you with a powerful hand
To the bridges rotten and crooked?
And put an end to all troubles
calling cold water…
Cross yourself! And that's it. About it
Don't need more. Never.
DREAM
I had a dream - the end of everything:
Huge golden calf
Choking, chewed not herbs,
And our Orthodoxy is with you.
The calf was from the desert,
Where does all the trouble come from?
And all the shrines disappeared
In a huge mouth forever:
Crosses, banners and icons,
Which was hundreds of years old...
Although this is a dream, are you calm?
Since then, there has been no peace in me.
BIG
POEM
War is World War III
Has been walking the planet for a long time.
And hoping for victory
Who's sleeping mind will wake them up?
What nonsense are
About world domination! People!
'Cause there won't be no winners
The result will be the Last Judgment.
A little early end of the world
Show everyone that there is dark.
At least someone would heed the words of the poet
And he made the right conclusion, but,
Hoping to win again
They scream excitedly, then those, then these.
The third world marches
On a dying planet
Where, unaware of horror,
Flowers and children are still growing.
TO THOSE WHO ARE UNCONSCIOUS
Of course, this is a punishment -
See how many these days
People living unconscious
The fact that they are Russian.
No bitterer Russian poet,
How to see this picture.
My soul and spirit and verse
They want to bring them back to consciousness.
†††
Where is our power and wealth?
I know the answer to the question -
Where there is no spiritual brotherhood,
Ruin and chaos reign.
"It's all our fault!" —
I shout not to the people - to the crowd,
Where everyone blinks their eyes
Through a hole in its shell.
ABOUT YOURSELF IN THE THIRD PERSON
Let him deceive and offend his neighbor,
But know, a godless world and a terrible age,
He hates his sins
Only a Russian sinful person.
I won't talk too much
It only takes one stroke:
After all, the Russian bitterly repents before God
Even before committing a sin.
HUMAN RIGHTS
What are these rights?
Only one right and in force,
The grass will whisper about him
On your own grave.
These sad words
Everywhere the winds carried:
"What are those rights?"
Only one right and in force.
In Russia…
LERMONTOV
Lights of Pyatigorsk.
The years are like clouds.
How many in their life? A handful?
Or is it centuries?
Oh, how tired everyone is!
He is tight and strict.
Until the last duel
A few more lines.
He's cunning like a demon
And sad as God
Between earth and sky
Doesn't fit a breath.
The wind shakes the branch
Empty, hollow in the chest.
He sits down and writes.
Death is over.
CRANES
Come out soon
to look at your tall ones!
N.Rubtsov
What year is over our land
Cranes don't fly.
And we live and die
In petty worries, in dust.
We do not carry light in our hearts,
We live thoughtlessly than grass.
I myself greet the neighbor
A careless nod of the head.
We do not serve bread to the poor,
And with irritation we drive away.
Christ, who sees everything from heaven,
How to not get tired of longing?
We do not stretch out our hands in prayer
At the sight of the dawn.
And therefore over our edge
Cranes don't fly...
PRAYER
I ask not for glory, not for comfort,
I ask you, grieving for my brother,
Save my country from those
Who crucified you once.
Christ, they are your enemies!
They are the servants of the golden calf,
You know yourself. You help
Just your word is enough...
†††
Being famous is not nice.
B. Pasternak
Being famous is scary
You need to have nerves of steel:
After all, the standard-bearer, by the way,
In battle, they are the first to be killed.
He has such a meta,
He has a special interest.
He is defeat or victory
You can only see from heaven.
†††
I write my poems so that
Russophobe became a Russophile.
I know it's very hard
But if in possible,
Ready to write day and night
In order to help his country.
Ready to take care of yourself
Just to save the Motherland.
This, in fact, is what we are talking about.
†††
Write about joy, about life -
So I imagined the fate of the poet,
But in the perishing Fatherland
Is it possible?
And I write on the topic of the day,
God willing, I will continue to write.
After all, this very topic of the day
Thousands of years gone by.
†††
I'm a lyricist, a lyricist in fact:
I would write about the songs of the rains,
About the dawn on the lake floor,
About the mysterious cries of owls.
Doesn't let me fall into the lyrics
This black, slippery power
What is so similar to the marsh leech,
Sticking to the neck of the people
And blood drunk to the point of horror ...
... I'm a lyricist, a lyricist in fact.
†††
From which there is no sense in anything,
Which was from the ages?
Why am I flagged like a wolf
Human rights?
Why does the Third Rome burr?
Why is there no light for us?
What are we talking about for nothing?
Will anyone answer?
No answer. Some are silent
This world cannot be comprehended.
And those who could comprehend lie
Long ago in their graves.
ENEMIES OF RUSSIA
Oh, how wretched you look!
You are stupid, I suppose.
You are us who are looking for a meeting with God,
Decided to scare death ?!
Our poet has been talking about this for a long time
He said contemptuously and sparingly:
All this would be funny
Whenever it was so ... stupid!
†††
Writing about the stars is wasting days.
How many days are left?
I write about people because they
Much closer and dearer.
Yes, we are all, in general, not bad,
There are pluses in scoundrels,
But there are such
What better would I write about the stars.
Am I not one of those?
That's it, I'm finishing the verse.
†††
Spiritually penetrating
In depths hidden from view
The picture looks like this
To me, as a poet, for the hundredth time:
The path to paradise is all overgrown,
Believe it or don't believe it.
The road to hell, the road of evil,
Devils dressed in asphalt.
It's easy to walk now
Slide like on parquet.
And heaven is so far away
As if he doesn't exist.
CROWS
A scarf of a black flock flies,
The sky is dark blue.
Plant a tree - simple
Birch will become like a widow
Or the mother who buried her son
Yesterday in a terrible way: without tears ...
And in Russia there are such kerchiefs!
And in Russia there are such birches!
VICTORY DAY
Sung in poetry and in plays,
He is like a father to his sons,
Already half a century on prostheses,
Whatever spring comes to us.
He's scarier and prettier
All celebrated years.
One such holiday in Russia.
And thank God that one.
ABOUT IT
I don't want to write about it
I shout to the muse: "Get off!"
But the sacrifice requires a poet
Not Apollo, but our life.
After all, we all drink too much, brothers,
It's not slander, it's not bullshit.
The last chance for us to take up the mind,
Until the mind is completely drunk.
Oh poor poet's heart
And the spirit that lost its peace!
I didn't want to write about it
But God led my hand.
Or maybe they are making us drunk?
But that's another story.
†††
I scratched the back of my head in Russian,
And thoughtfully looked up,
And went on the glass from the bottles
All that I managed to drink in my lifetime.
I cursed myself all the way
And I vowed not to drink anymore ...
And there is such a road to God.
Why shouldn't she be like that?
†††
Wherever you look - grief,
Silent chill in the chest.
Oh Lord, how long?!
How long, Lord?
Like jackdaws from bell towers
Words fly from the mouth.
Who is always dissatisfied
Himself, that one is not empty.
It's so bad for the soul -
Well, we know, not in paradise,
Not in vain from a glass
It strikes so gray.
To the devil in the singing choir -
Find him go...
Oh Lord, how long?!
How long, Lord?
†††
She does not feel sorry for the poor beggar.
N.A. Nekrasov
I pity the wretched and beggar
And the one who is in cheap wine
He drowned his days from need;
There are not even a thousand of them,
And they are all Russians.
†††
Drunk fight in the alley
Interfering with the mat hoarse cry.
Clinging to the dirty plaster
An old man is sleeping at the bus stop.
Laughing drunk girl
Sitting in a passing "Mercedes" -
Her cast buttocks
The devil pulls on the thread.
On the wasteland since the beginning of May
The prison is under construction.
All this calling life,
Are we wrong?
THIRST
Filled with great thirst,
He sold an old button accordion -
Your last consolation
And drank two bottles in a row.
Came home in a smoke, in an insole,
Sat down on a miserable bed;
Filled with great thirst,
I forgot that I drank my button accordion.
And put on imaginary belts,
And parted the imaginary furs,
And fiddled with his fingers
And I forgot everyone, and I forgot everything.
I only remember one tune
And filled the room with it.
Though the hand met emptiness,
Music sounded, sounded.
And the wife looked with horror
For something so unseen.
†††
One morning at the tavern
(And not a penny in my pocket)
With the omnipresent prince of the world
Gloomy met Lefty.
Prince Leftsha hugged his shoulders:
"Friend! Let's go? I cry for everything!
It's easier to shoe a flea,
How to answer: "I do not want to."
And they went in ... And they went out
On the eyebrows - in all its glory.
Lefty was punished from above:
Became right-handed, like everyone else.
†††
Gray clouds hung.
Deep Russia. Night. Railway station.
"You see, there is no life,"
The man said to the man.
Ride through the buffet
This phrase. They began to drink.
“Pour it up! Where there is no life
Where does death come from?
†††
He is indefatigable in vices,
Not refraining from words
But the soul is not yet dark,
Because the mother is alive.
Is there anyone else to pray
For him through the haze of tears.
How long will this last?
That is another question.
†††
The first gray hairs.
Thin stockings in such a cold.
Eyebrows are like threads.
And in the eyes
Nothing like soul.
And stands, blush of grief,
"Suka railway station", "Katyukha",
"Katka-Half-glass", "Katka-whore".
Katya... My classmate...
†††
Not because I suddenly got drunk,
But again I don't know
Who is this bitterly bowed down
At the entrance to my hut?
Yes, this is the Motherland! From the dust
Gray-haired, in scabs and with a stick ...
Yes, if we loved her,
Could she be like this?
LANDSCAPE
Snow is flying from the sky, circling,
On the road, on the bum,
What sleeps so sweetly in a ditch
Forget about everything in the world.
The snow is spinning, the snow is flying
On the face of the homeless does not melt ...
†††
The time of spring floated,
Violets blossomed among the garbage.
Homeless woman gave birth to triplets
In a cardboard house in a landfill.
Babies want to eat, to empty
And flabby breasts fall.
Through the generic fever smoke
Mother says: “Let them disappear…”
Russia! Mother of all mankind!
Who dared to crucify you like that?!
... In paradise with Dmitry Donskoy
The hand rested on the handle.
†††
Oh, these beggarly pensions
Old women and decrepit old men.
They seek to feed them with songs
Shameless vulgar show.
What a vile robbery!
Whatever the official, then the rogue.
Are you Russian, the government?
Doubts take me.
WITHIN MERCY
Help us, Mother of God
Find your way in the off-road.
And those who block our path,
Don't forget about them too.
For their unkind zeal
Lead us astray, drive us crazy
Come up with something yourself
Within mercy.
†††
And I saw how they beat the homeless
For the sausage ring. They beat me for a long time.
They really beat him, slowly,
With a ruthless smile
Like a wolf.
He tried to bite their shoes,
I wanted to roll under the counter.
And no one dared intercede
I just decided to write...
†††
Oh days of wickedness! Evils of summer!
Lies and betrayal path!
More comforting in the muzzle of a gun
Take a look than your neighbor in the eyes.
It's not even enough to be a poet,
Here only God must be,
To people for everything for this
Don't hate, but love.
RETURN prodigal son
From longing or from laziness
Didn't show up. Finally
Returned. On knees
The father stood before the son.
He wept, his shoulders trembled,
The dust of the earth squeezed in handfuls:
"Son, forgive me, forgive me,
I didn’t save my mother until the meeting ... "
OLD PICTURE
Anguish… Unbelief… Spleen…
Grimaces sour in the morning.
We are all so accustomed to the bad
So sweet to us in the souls of discomfort,
What if someone suddenly shouts:
"I feel good!" - he will be killed.
They will kill with a cold, vicious word,
Twist your finger at your temple
And calm down. And again:
Blueness… Unbelief… Longing…
Yes, ugly picture -
Such a century will not be erased, -
So the river is overgrown with mud,
So the pond overgrows with duckweed.
NEWS
The world has long been unclean,
Look into his insides:
Evil plump, broad-shouldered,
And Good... Where is Good?
And love has expired,
Sex has replaced love.
Vice reigns everywhere
Loyalty beats forehead against the wall.
Lust amuses, joking,
And depravity spits on the sky.
child sells himself
For a piece of rotten bread.
Someone's perverted nonsense
They called it education.
The deadline has come all white light
Call it by another name.
If there is no strength to live like this,
If the heart is out of place
If you are a poet
Tremble at this news.
†††
Who is shooting on the street?
And then, hanging on the fence,
A neighbor knocks out a rag,
The so-called "carpet".
It should be thrown into the landfill
But bitch-poverty does not give,
And, raising the stick high,
The hostess beats him and beats him.
With some kind of dashing hussar
Beats the rag more and more! ..
Probably poor, she imagines
That settles scores with the state.
†††
I remember everyone by name
Who taught us that work is a reward.
Forget it, darlings, don't...
Labor is God's punishment to us.
How high can my spirit be
When to sweat, to exhaustion
I'm up for a piece of beef
A luxurious palace for a thief?
'Cause I indulge him
After all, I am one of them, it turns out, a pack ...
Oh age! Neither heart nor mind
No spirit can find support.
SMALL
APOCALYPSE
Some confusion in the air
It thickens the unbearable darkness.
Like I owe someone
That's just what and to whom?
It's like they cut off their wings
soul. They began to interfere.
Already everything windows opened,
And still there is nothing to breathe ...
†††
Wandering in unfulfilled dreams,
I'm worn out like a coat.
I didn't know what I want.
And what he did is not the same.
And the nephew is right: “It’s too late, uncle,
You started reading the Bible."
... Let, looking at my fall,
At least he learns to fly.
CRAZY
How good it is in the hospital garden
And us, and birds, and flowers!
I feel great.
It's good that I'm not there
Where people miss the sun
Where because of the torn gold piece
Knife stabbed and thrown into the ditch
Where there is no shadow of a meek smile,
Where is evil and lies, where is hell! ..
Nedaremno surrounded by bars
Along the entire length of our quiet garden.
LOVE EARTH
She loves everyone without discrimination,
That right was given to her from above.
Holy elder or thief
They bring it to her - she doesn't care.
From the grass and snow of her dress,
And her temper is by no means evil,
But who fell into her arms,
He himself becomes the earth.
And again free, again the bride
She is submissive and quiet,
And the new place is ready
For the groom.
TO MY GODDESS
It's good to lie under the willow,
The wave crashes quietly.
Life as a cow vigorous
It just seems. She is
In its deepest essence
Quiet affectionate heifer.
There is no horror in her
Take care of her, son.
†††
I don't get it, where does it all go?
If you know, tell me.
Where is the strength of the spirit and the courage of the heart?
Where is the goodness of the human soul?
Or from birth our souls
Did kindness visit?
Afraid of hearing "yes" in response,
I close my ears in fear.
†††
Why is the sunset so red
As if redeemed in blood?
Was criminal and terrible
A century given to us for love.
Woe to us who have forgotten God!
The axle will rust soon
Because there are too many
Blood spilled into the earth.
The planet will stop
Not by chance and not suddenly.
But I don't want to talk about it
Think people, lack of time.
LOST SOUL
All my life I live with her
To hell with the nerves:
And suddenly her "ay"
Wouldn't God hear first?
Alone I would be a freak
Such was - trembling on the skin,
But my people
Lives with the same soul.
And all our prayer
Lets the demon go around
And hears only the firing
Our God for each other.
Under the roar of "Kalash"
Only the dark spirit will rise.
Lost soul
It's about to get lost...
RECOGNITION
I'm a victim of the devil's age
And heaven does not shine for me, alas.
But I am writing. I write about God
Hoping you will be saved.
Is this recognition or a calling?
But may your days be long!
But human knowledge
Complete ignorance is akin.
And that's why I don't shake
Perhaps I will be saved with you.
RETRO
The peasants plowed the field,
And someone drank cognac in Astoria,
But then we were already pushed
Not yet in hell, but out of history.
How the past has faded today!
Now we are being dragged straight into hell.
†††
I keep with all my might
From the age of our backwardness,
Which destroys at the root
All that is human is left in us.
And don't let it stop
This age of playing on a miserable lyre,
God bless you keep your mind
In this crazy world.
†††
And that evil around without measure,
And what is around without a measure of darkness,
Only the unbelievers are guilty
And these unbelievers are us!
What are we actually ready for?
If there is no strength to endure fasting?
The question of Christ will surprise us
Surprised when He asks, "Who are you?"
And we, not daring to raise our eyes,
Let's hear: "I don't know you."
And we will bite our elbows,
And then ... I do not want to write.
†††
And this trouble is called "market" -
The sad result of someone's wise ideas,
When chocolate Kazbek is in the windows
Sparkles with tears in the eyes of children.
And the mother, who does not have a soul in her child,
He cuts him off with a jerk: "Get off!"
Life meets children with bitter salt.
Only salt, without bread, meets their life.
†††
Pour, neighbor Vasily,
Troubled in my heart:
Is there Russia? No Russia?
I don't understand.
Who are we on the lasso?
Devilish laughter behind.
Are we in a glass
Drowned with the country?
†††
How foreign countries rejoice
And from happiness howls howls,
We're on our knees.
And we got on our knees
Pray before the fight...
IN KINDERGARTEN
Butterflies flutter over the flower bed
And the sky turns blue.
In the shadow of the sandbox they play
Soldiers of the Third World.
Nikolay ZINOVEV, Krasnodar
†††
I believe Russia will wake up
To do a good deed
But before it starts
What I'm afraid to talk about.
Nikolay ZINOVEV, Krasnodar
†††
That changed the era of the era,
What is the saddest thing about this?
We used to secretly believe in God
Today we secretly do not believe in Him.
Nikolay ZINOVEV, Krasnodar
FAMILY LEGEND
For the sake of salvation for the souls of loved ones,
Praying mantis having passed around,
Once a year, great-grandfather went to church ...
On my knees... To the neighboring county.
Nikolay ZINOVEV, Krasnodar
†††
Not a beard, but a shovel,
You look and you say: bandit.
What does he want from me?
What is he following me?
Dirty, thin, like all homeless people,
Here he went to the wall.
Here he returned. Oh my God,
Here he comes to me.
†††
Friends have a sick daughter.
Disabled, you know, since childhood.
And no one can help her.
There is no such tool in the world.
I understand that I'm nothing
I understand, I understand...
But numb under the left shoulder,
When I look up at her...
Nikolay ZINOVEV, Krasnodar
FROM CHILDHOOD
Water and sun here without measure,
And how many songs under the button accordion
Here it is sung by us, the pioneers, -
Children of workers and peasants.
Sing about the mighty Motherland,
About good, valiant deeds.
And develops over the steep
Native from birth red flag.
In the heat we lie prone under the awning,
Throwing pebbles into the ravine
And we know for sure: the president
Perhaps an enemy, and only an enemy.
Nikolay ZINOVEV, Krasnodar
MEMORY
It was summer heat.
And my mother fried meatballs.
And I did my "things" -
Launched a boat from the newspaper.
And the Russian song poured
From the loudspeaker in the hallway.
I don't know whose power it was
But life was like life.
I remember how happy my uncle was
When the wife gave birth to twins.
Neighbor to neighbor was like a brother.
That's what I live, that I remember it.
Nikolay ZINOVEV, Krasnodar
†††
In my sleep I prayed and cried
And he clenched the candle in his fist,
And the wax dripped from her hand
And blood trickled down my arm.
And become dripping blood
The river valleys are narrow
And the boy floating on the roof
He said to me with furrowed brows:
"Don't you dare interpret dreams!"
Nikolay ZINOVEV, Krasnodar
CHUDAK
The old man collects bottles
And - an eccentric - does not give up anywhere.
He just scratches his head thoughtfully.
I thought the old man was an idiot.
But he asked: "For what?" - with quiet flattery.
And he answered with a toothless mouth:
“Fill with an incendiary mixture -
We'll need a lot of them later."
Nikolay ZINOVEV, Krasnodar
†††
One day after drinking
Wake up gray and gloomy
You look out the window: the Yankees
Chickens are caught for breakfast.
Someone else's guttural laughter
Silence is drilled
And drag for fun
To your wife's barn.
Scream and feathers fly
Dawn is bleeding
And you have a hangover
There is no power to rise.
Nikolay ZINOVEV, Krasnodar
VISION
The soldier comes down the hill
Family meeting ahead.
Medal "For the Capture of New York"
I see it on his chest.
I see: his daughter Tanya
He drives two geese to the river,
Where from the tower of a NATO tank
Fedka's son catches carp.
Nikolay ZINOVEV, Krasnodar
ignorance
The superliner flew along the course,
And in the cabin who quietly snored,
Who solved a stupid crossword puzzle,
Someone drank medicine in vain ...
After all, people did not know that the board
Two hours from the Kingdom of Heaven.
Nikolay ZINOVEV, Krasnodar
Reviews
Alexander, good afternoon! Thanks for the selection of poems by Nikolai Zinoviev. From the first meeting I became a fan of his work. If possible, could you give his phone number or e-mail, I would like to do an interview in one newspaper.
Sincerely!
The rain will wake us up at dawn
Thunderstorm thundering in the sky
The Lord will not condemn those explosions
They are not the ones in the war
And the fact that lightning flashes
Among the blazing lightning
They only scare with sparks
And the taste of tears from under the eyelashes
And a rainbow colored morning
Filled with bright lights
And the smell of sunny summer
Intoxicates with its freshness
"... Butterflies flutter over the flower bed
And the sky turns blue
In the shadow of the sandbox they play
Soldiers of the Third World
Reviews
It seems that the last four lines were written by another (FROM EVERYTHING ELSE) person - they are completely self-sufficient! Although not - upon thoughtful reading: a mysterious poem, calling for deep reflection. Maybe, "The Lord will not condemn those explosions"? ... "In the shadows of the sandbox are played by the Soldiers of the Third World" - sounds like a call to universal Peace: as fragile as a child "in the shadow of the sandbox"... This poem is a kind of poet's contribution to the CAUSE OF PEACE on planet Earth, and in the Universe too.
Thank you.
Just found information that the last quatrain - Nikolai Zinoviev.? This is true? So my first impression was correct and someone else's aphorism must be quoted.
I have already explained this story of writing a poem many times.
Representatives of the journalism department sometimes gave topics, and sometimes some lines and asked to write a poem. They gave these last four lines. To my shame, I never read Nikolai Zinoviev and didn’t even think that this could be a repetition. These are really the last four lines of Nikolai Zinoviev.
From the first reading, the difference for me is striking! I immediately thought that two people wrote. It was enough for you to quote the quatrain of another author. You have an excellent idea: a pre-dawn thunderstorm; thunders, like explosions; frightening lightning, tears (I wonder whose ?; the triumph of the freshness of the morning and, as a result, this is a powerful quatrain by Nikolai Zinoviev! Of course, your three quatrains lose to one Zinoviev. Only his "And the sky is pouring blue" excites the senses !!! And your first quatrain - very realistic, like listing the facts: thunder rumbles - this is known not only to poets ... You can still feel and edit.
I also heard "They play in the shadow of the sandbox" from a familiar writer for a long time, without knowing the author. and just yesterday I began to search on the Internet and immediately came across your "thunderstorm". I was immediately surprised by the discrepancy, which I wrote about. I also have a task for today (literary study) on the topic of the war. I'll write a story...
Thank you. I re-read your poem many times and learned by heart ... "And the morning of the rainbow color" - beautiful and very individual; a worthy prelude for "And the sky is pouring blue"!!!
Inspiration to you and creative success!
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