Stepan Shchipachev is an almost forgotten poet.

Few people today remember the name of the poet Stepan Petrovich Shchipachev. However, for the generation of Soviet citizens of the 40-50s, he was as famous as A. Tvardovsky or K. Simonov. His poems were read, learned by heart, and copied into notebooks. This story will be about the life and work of an almost forgotten poet.

Biography

Stepan Shchipachev was born in 1899 in the family of a poor peasant from the village of Shchipachi, Yekaterinburg province. He was the youngest child in the family. When his father died, Stepan was barely four years old. Together with his grandmother, he went to neighbors' yards to collect alms. As he grew older, he went to work: he was hired as a farm laborer and served in the mines and in a hardware store.

In 1917, Shchipachev joined the Red Army. In 1921 he graduated from military school, after which he taught social studies to the military for some time. At the same time, he became interested in literary work, served as editor of the magazine “Red Army Man,” and wrote poetry, which he had a great inclination for from a young age.

In the early 1930s, Stepan Shchipachev received a literary education. And from then on he was exclusively engaged in literary activities.

The path to literature

Stepan Shchipachev, whose biography was atypical for poets and writers of the early 20th century, later admitted that he fell in love with poetry in his childhood, when he attended a parish school. He told how one day the teacher read M. Yu. Lermontov’s poem “Borodino” during class. This work so excited the soul of the child that he was impressed for several days. Then Stepan decided that he would write poetry.

In subsequent years, he worked a lot on versification, honed his style, and looked for his own rhymes. In 1923, Stepan Shchipachev published his debut collection of poems, which was called “Across the Mounds of Centuries.” A small book of only 15 pages with early, still inept poems became the first step for the author on the path to great literature.

Books

After graduating from the institute, Stepan Shchipachev began to gravitate towards lyrical themes in his work. During this period, the books “Lyrics” and “Under the Sky of My Motherland” were written.

During the Second World War, Shchipachev again put on a military uniform. He took part in the operation to liberate the western regions of Ukraine, and later was involved in the creation of front-line newspapers and leaflets. During this period, his poems acquired bright patriotic intonations and at the same time intimate and lyrical. The two main collections of this time are “Front-line Poems” (1942) and “Lines of Love” (1945).

"Lines of Love"

Stepan Shchipachev, whose poems are usually classified as civil poetry, was nevertheless a master in the field of love poetry. His collection with the modest title “Lines of Love” went on sale in May 1945. 45 poems about feelings that are understandable and familiar to everyone, instantly glorified the author. In his lines, boys and girls of the 50s confessed their love, they were so simple and sincere.

Stepan Petrovich Shchipachev continued working on this collection throughout his life, as a result of which the book almost quadrupled in size. In the latest edition, the collection already included 175 poems.

In Soviet literature, a special type of hero was cultivated, hardworking, skillful, and patriotic. Thanks to Shchipachev's poems, this hero became more alive and humane. It became clear that a Soviet citizen also knows how to feel, can fall in love, rejoice and be sad, hope and seek his own happiness.

SHIPACHEV, Stepan Petrovich [b. 26.XII.1898 (7.I.1899), village of Shchipachi, now Kamyshlovsky district, Sverdlovsk region] - Russian Soviet poet. Member of the Communist Party since 1919. The son of a peasant, orphaned early, from the age of 9 he learned the work of a farm laborer, a worker in the mines.

In the spring of 1917 he was drafted into the army. From the beginning of 1919 to 1931 - in the Red Army; Shchipachev's poems were published in local newspapers and leaflets. In 1934 Shchipachev graduated from the literary department of the Institute of the Red Professorship. The first collection of his poems, “Across the Mounds of Ages” (1923), is filled with cosmic pathos (“cosmororetics,” according to his own definition). The collections “One Sixth” (1931) and “Against Borders” (1932) are also declarative. During these years, Shchipachev’s poems were published most often in the magazine “LOKAF” (later “Znamya”).

In the mid-30s, lyrical intonation was heard for the first time in Shchipachev’s poetry. The best collections of these years are “Under the Sky of My Motherland” (1937) and “Lyrics” (1939). Having inherited the songlike verse from Russian classical poetry, Shchipachev gave a new, modern sound to the themes of nature and love (poems “Confession”, “Elena”, “July”, etc.). In 1939 Shchipachev took part in the liberation of Western Ukraine; with the beginning of the Great Patriotic War - an employee of the front-line press. In the poems and poems of this time, the lyrical principle merges with the heroic (collection “Front-line Poems”, 1942); the poet recreates the image of the Motherland, the image of V.I. Lenin (poem "House in Shushenskoye", 1944). In the post-war years, such famous works by Shchipachev appeared as the collection “Poems” (1948; USSR State Prize, 1949), the poem "Pavlik Morozov"(1950; USSR State Prize, 1951), prose story about childhood “Birch Sap” (1956). In the poems “The Heir” (1965), “Stargazer”, “The stage is a globe”(both - 1967), "Song of Moscow" (1968), "12 Months Around the Sun"(1969) a poetic story about the past develops into a hymn to today's achievements. Shchipachev’s new poems, full of civic motives, philosophical reflections, imbued with a keen interest in the inner world of man and the environment, were included in his book “To Life Companions” (1972). Shchipachev's works, which are very popular among Soviet readers, have been translated into foreign languages and the languages of the peoples of the USSR. In 1959-63, Shchipachev was chairman of the Presidium of the Moscow branch of the RSFSR SP.

Works: Selected proizv., vol. 1-2, M., 1970; Lines of Love, M., 1967; Difficult joy. Proza, M., 1972; Russian wind, M., 1972.

Lit.: Dementyev Valery, Stepan Shchipachev. Essay on life and creativity, M., 1956; his, Garden in the Rain. Lyrics of Stepan Shchipachev, M., 1970; Babenysheva S., Stepan Shchipachev. Critical-biographical. essay, M., 1957.

L. P. Pechko

Brief Literary Encyclopedia: In 9 volumes - Vol. 8. - M.: Soviet Encyclopedia, 1975

From autobiography

I was born in 1899 in the Trans-Urals, in the village of Shchipachi, in the family of a poor peasant. My father died when I was four years old. The mother was left with a bunch of children. I was the youngest. Life has become difficult. My grandmother had to walk with me around the courtyards to beg. As a teenager, he was a laborer and worked in asbestos mines.

I fell in love with poetry back in parish school. I remember the teacher, before asking me to learn a poem "Borodino", read it out loud. It stunned me. For several days I walked around in a daze, repeating it by heart. Perhaps it was then that the first spark of poetic excitement sank into my soul.

In May 1917 I was drafted into the army. He served as a private in the city of Glazov, where he soon became close to the Bolsheviks: warrant officer M.V. Dragunov and student I.V. Popov. During the Civil War he took part in battles with the Ural White Cossacks. In the spring of 1921, he graduated from a cavalry school in the city of Orenburg, followed by pedagogical courses in Moscow, after which he taught social studies in military schools for several years: in the Crimea, in Ukraine, and finally in Moscow. He never stopped working hard on poetry.

In 1930, the literary association of the Red Army and Navy (LOKAF) was created, in the organization and work of which I took an active part.

In the fall of 1931, I entered the Institute of Red Professorship in the literary and creative department. For the first time in many years, I changed from my military uniform to a civilian suit. But a feeling of gratitude forever connected me with our army.

For many years, my poems were ruined by rhetoric, but by the mid-30s, lyrical poems began to appear more and more often. The poem "Elanin" was written. In general, it did not work out and was not published, but many of its lyrical passages turned out to be viable and subsequently began to exist as separate independent works. This finally defined me as a lyricist.

The year 1938 brought me the greatest success. Then I wrote more than twenty lyric poems. In 1939, these poems were published as a separate book. New things of this kind began to appear in magazines. Criticism started talking about me. Some writers also responded. I was especially pleased with A. N. Tolstoy’s letter. Having spoken flatteringly about my work, he added: “Live and think in your own way. Poetry is a rare blessing."

In the fall of 1939, I took part in the liberation campaign of our army in Western Ukraine. During the Great Patriotic War, he was always associated with the military press. In the summer of 1944 I wrote a poem about Lenin "House in Shushenskoye", a little later - a poem "Pavlik Morozov".

The 60s were especially fruitful in my work. During this time, the collections “Dumas”, “Palm”, “Red Leaves”, poems “Heir”, “Stargazer”, "Song of Moscow" etc. That's probably all. I would also like to remind you of the story “Birch Sap”, in which I talked about my childhood.

[Russian poets. Anthology in four volumes. Moscow, “Children's Literature”, 1968]

STEPAN SHIPACHEV

SELECTED LYRICS

"Library of Selected Lyrics"

Publishing house of the Komsomol Central Committee "Young Guard", 1966

Scan, OCR. Spellcheck A. Bakharev

From the compiler. Lev Ozerov

At the party committee

On the trolleybus

"It was raining..."

“The blue expanses do not see themselves...”

“Ural! It was like the beginning of a song..."

Uncut grass

"The autumn rain was pouring..."

“You probably would have noticed right away...”

“Oh, blizzard, oh, what a blizzard...”

Farewell to winter

“I don’t want to blame my life...”

Descendants

“A joyful initiative is already noticeable...”

Mother's grave

First steps

"When the dome of the stars tilts..."

“Isn’t that why she’s getting prettier...”

Again about the moon

Unfamiliar

Husband and wife

“Your body is young, rye...”

“She’s wearing a simple checkered blouse...”

"Let me die, let the years fly..."

“Sorting through the dates of my love...”

"Let the men stare..."

“Whatever you want to call it...”

“I’m worried again, my heart hurts...”

“You are with me, and every moment is dear to me...”

“Know how to cherish love...”

“Sometimes you kiss this one, sometimes you kiss that one...”

“Boys and girls take it in their hands...”

Bibliographic information

FROM THE COMPILER

When you hear the name Stepan Shchipachev, an image immediately appears before your eyes

a slender, gray-haired, attentive man. He speaks little, quietly, rarely smiles. But if he says it - seriously, he will raise his voice- fair, will smile- from the heart. He is kind with that kindness “from which lies, scoundrels, retreat

making you shiver." Does not tolerate verbosity. Everything he wrote, or rather what he

wants to be seen by readers, fits into two small volumes. What

same- haven't you written enough? No, tough selection.

A peasant's son, a farm laborer, chairman of the soldiers' committee, he had

everyone has the right to exclaim: “Revolution... and you’re eighteen years old!” How cool

this is how wonderful it is!” A person with the face, character, biography of Shchipachev

could have met Blok among his twelve Red Guards. Sovereign step

twelve- This is Shchipachev’s state confidence in the present and future.

Modest and shy in everyday life, he always moves through life boldly and openly.

Daydreaming does not prevent him from being a fighter.

Now it seems so simple: poems about nature and love. But in

mid-thirties, when rhetoric dominated in newspapers and magazines, when concrete, and not people, were often praised, Shchipachev spoke with a small

book "Lyrics". She spoke about the deep life of the heart. After a long

searching for his own path, after six books Shchipachev finally finds himself. He

takes nature and his beloved as interlocutors. And talks to them about what is closest to them

and expensive. Love! They wrote about her head-on, declamatory, straining their vocal

ligaments Shchipachev wrote about a birch tree that is broken by rain, oppressed by a snowstorm, but it

doesn’t give up - “apparently, she’s straightforward in character, loyal to someone else.” This lyrics

easily opens the hearts of readers and makes them think about

eternal themes. Shchipachev defends the poetry of reflection and spiritual

concentration. He fights for the whole, whole in every way

of a person, verifies the purity of his social thoughts with the frequency of the life of his heart, personal, or, as they used to say, private life. Shchipachev owns the words:

“...who said that our love should be smaller than our deeds?”

I see him against the background of birches. Their images are often in poetry - “white from

lightning, white from birches,” and in prose - the autobiographical story “Birch

juice". And always from Shchipachev’s poems there is a feeling of the gentle ligature of birch branches in

bottomless blue. I see a poet - a Uralian by birth - in the background

birch groves and the Moscow and Volga regions...

We read: two or three stanzas, aphoristic, clear. But is it really that simple?

Shchipachev? No, only at first sight. We need to delve deeper into this simplicity. U

the text has subtext, like a river has deep currents. When we first met in

Shchipachev's youth does not look the same as when he reads it again in his mature years. Not

only the poet grows, his long-familiar lines grow with us...

These are lyrics with a soft sign. It softens the bark of human callousness.

Shchipachev does not make theatrical gestures and does not climb onto the podium. He sits down

nearby, looks carefully into the eyes and speaks in a quiet voice. Quiet - because

that “there is no need to shout, even if you are talking to the whole world.” And no matter what it's about

speech - about a snowflake or a star, about an apple or a globe - a quiet voice

Shchipacheva convinces you, you believe him.

Lev Ozerov

Vision

It is known not only to the Yakuts,

where does winter come from?

In a blizzard, wrapped in blizzards

Pamir at the star gates.

On some distant planet,

where they hardly wonder about us,

and there is an earthly wind

snow blows on the present day.

It was once unthinkable

see the invisible face.

More insignificant than an insignificant atom

and, like the universe, great.

The vision becomes more and more sharp.

Someday there will be traces

from a drop on a lilac branch

to the most nebulous star.

At the party committee

It’s also like that at the party committee

sitting happens, friends:

you will notice at home, taking off your jacket,

that you're smoky down to your underwear.

It's been spring outside for a long time,

the grass is sprinkled with rain,

and here winter is still in its rights.

But the secretary tore open the window -

and the branches rushed to the hands,

to his hot face.

The rumble of airplanes, the noise of children;

the earth smelled like a forest.

The earth is white from the apple tree,

and the years ahead are clear.

Resolve party affairs

You can’t do it without feeling spring.

Nightingale

M. Petrovykh

Where the birch forest is pockmarked and sparse,

where the willow haze melts,

he, little gray, sits on a branch

and holds a worm in its beak.

But this is him, simple, nondescript,

chilled at night from the dew,

will enchant the dacha village

near the suburban strip.

Oats

From the night dew,

from the cold stars

in a cold sweat

oats woke up.

Transparent

morning skies

touched

rough eyebrows

He should be friends with corn

and to wheat

blond forelock

tend.

Let him grow

not level

he is filled with strength,

he breathes health.

He walks in the wind

disheveled, whitish -

with childish eyes

Hercules.

No wonder to him,

so that the enthusiasm does not go out,

my horse is stretching

On the trolleybus

There is a trolleybus near the maples.

It's raining, water is roaring everywhere.

A green leaf stuck to the glass.

Trees trample in water.

Direct, not sparing passers-by,

the rain came down even harder.

Everything is in drops of light rain,

The glass of the trolleybus turns blue.

And is it possible not to take part?

and the earth does not wish for a downpour!

On the city, as if through tears of happiness

I look through the drops on the glass.

It was pouring rain -

and the asphalt river sparkles,

wide, deep.

And cars seem like boats;

lights like seaweed in the depths,

where, scared, they entered

red fish on the bottom.

The blue expanses do not see themselves,

And, in the eternal cold, the snowy mountains are bright, pure, and cannot see themselves,

I fell in love with poetry back in parochial school. I remember the teacher, before asking me to learn the poem “Borodino,” read it out loud. It stunned me. For several days I walked around in a daze, repeating it by heart. Perhaps it was then that the first spark of poetic excitement sank into my soul.

In 1930, the literary association of the Red Army and Navy (LOKAF) was created, in the organization and work of which I took an active part.

In the fall of 1939, I took part in the liberation campaign of our army in Western Ukraine. During the Great Patriotic War, he was always associated with the military press. In the summer of 1944, he wrote a poem about Lenin, “The House in Shushenskoye,” and a little later, the poem “Pavlik Morozov.”

The 60s were especially fruitful in my work. During this time, the collections “Dumas”, “Palm”, “Red Leaves”, poems “Heir”, “Stargazer”, “Song of Moscow”, etc. appeared. That’s probably all. I would also like to remind you of the story “Birch Sap”, in which I talked about my childhood.

In February, Kamyshlov poets and prose writers - members of the literary community "Literary Thursday" - gathered in the museum by the fireplace to read poetry and talk about the work of the poet-compatriot S.P. Shchipacheva.

How do you tie a tie...

Children's library workers L.N. Yuzhakova and A.A. Okladnikov introduced those gathered to facts from the life of the poet, accompanying the story with a demonstration of photographs, manuscripts, and collections of his works. They recited poetry with insight and expressiveness. O.V. Nifontova spoke about M.Yu. Lermontov. He was the idol of Stepan Petrovich.

The poet heard Lermontov's poems at school. The program of parochial schools included his poem “Borodino”, and the boy was fascinated by its style and content. “I really fell in love with poetry in the second grade, or rather, from the day when the teacher read Borodino to us.” I listened to him, craning my neck and holding my breath,” he writes in his autobiographical story “Birch Sap.” So we can say that Lermontov’s poetry played a certain role in the formation of the poet Shchipachev.

You should have seen with what pleasure those gathered read the poet’s favorite poems, and everyone found them. S.E. Sadovskaya, a regular reader and author of “LC,” brought a collection of the poet’s poems, which has accompanied her for half a century. He was with her in her student years, he was in her more mature years, and one could always find in him a poem that corresponded to her state of mind. On the day of our meeting, Svetlana Evgenievna read the familiar, textbook poem “Pioneer Tie” to everyone.

How do you tie a tie?
Take care of him.
He's with our banner
Same colors.
And under this banner
The soldiers go into battle
They are fighting for the Fatherland
Brothers and fathers...
How do you tie a tie?
Your face is brighter.
On how many guys
It's pierced with lead!..

She brought a pioneer tie with her, solemnly tied it around the neck of the young participant of the meeting, Natasha Minkashova from the Barannikovskaya school, and advised her to preserve it as a symbol of the history of our Motherland. Tatyana Borisovna Novikova reminded the audience of the poignant lines of the poem “June 22, 1941.” Probably only he, our Stepan Petrovich, was able to draw so briefly, so succinctly, so visibly the last peaceful dawn.
Everything breathed such silence,
It seemed that the whole earth was still sleeping.
Who knew that between the world
and war
Just about five minutes
left!

V.T. spoke interestingly and excitedly about the poetry of Shchipachev. Sysyuk. He met with the poet more than once when he came to Kamyshlov and took a number of unique photographs. Several of them are in the poet's museum in Bogdanovich. Z.I. Sysyuk, also a participant in our meeting, wrote reports about meetings with the poet and interviews with him. He came to the city in the 50s, 60s and 70s of the 20th century. Somewhere in recent years this amazing meeting took place in Kamyshlov, which I will talk about below.

And a secret lived in our city

Poets' poems often contain some kind of secret. Either we see the initials of someone’s name at the beginning of the work, or the mysterious “You,” and sometimes the poet dispenses with headings, simply addressing in the poem someone unknown and mysterious to us. Shchipachev also has such poems.
Brown wind, what are you like?
happy!
Oh, you flighty head!
For you, for the birch tree, for the willow tree
The words are equally tender.
Brown wind, how happy you are!
But here I am, as if someone had chained me,
About one, about a distant, beautiful one,
I've been sad for so many years!

The poem is dated 1926 (and his first collection was published in Crimea in 1923. The poet was not even 25 years old at that time. And at 27 he writes “about a distant, beautiful woman”).

The secret was revealed in 1963. Well, let's start with this. Hall of the club “40 years of October”. The meeting with the fellow countryman poet ended. Everyone buys Shchipachev’s books and stands in line for his autograph. He is friendly and attentive. He doesn’t just write wishes, he asks who should sign the book. An elderly woman came up to him, a simple, open face, a kind look, a bright smile.
“Write to Irina Nikolaevna, or just Lina Savelkova,” she says.
Stepan Petrovich raises his eyes.
-Lina?!
She smiles.
Of course, Lina, now she’s grandmother Lina. It’s her, distant, beautiful, the one I’ve been yearning for... I’ve been yearning for so many years! He loved her, and things were going towards matchmaking, but it didn’t come to fruition. Lina’s father, a wealthy peasant, having learned about his daughter’s sympathy, said: “They don’t have enough ropes to hang all your skirts...” The will of the parent is the law. Irina and Stepan broke up. And the time was turbulent. War, revolution. Like most young people, Stepan was mobilized into the army. He served with the Whites, then defected to the Chapaev division. New places, people, faces flash by. Now he is already studying in Orenburg, then in Moscow at the Higher Military Pedagogical School, and upon graduation he teaches history at military schools in Crimea. And all this time he remembers her.

All text is in file

Elena Flyagina.