Do you know why I don’t like poetry?
Poetry is an extremely personal, deeply intimate creativity, an expression of one’s emotions, impressions and memories, as a rule, completely devoid of any plot component. And most people - let's be honest - care very little about each other, so reading the revelations of a maturing poetess is, of course, pleasant with aesthetic point vision (for Polozkova’s language is very rich), but not that it’s very exciting.
The main problem of these poems is the very broken rhythm, literally ground into dust. Vera Polozkova is such a shell-shocked Mayakovsky, who has completely lost his understanding of rhythm and symmetry poetic lines, and, remembering only that words must sometimes rhyme, he molds this rhyme somehow, whenever necessary.
What kind of versification exercises does the poetess offer us! Here we have pantorhyme, and hyperdactylic rhyme, and echo-rhyme with a torn line, and flirtations with gaping turning into elision, and who knows what kind of kinhaned - all this is chopped into small pieces and mixed to the point of indistinguishability.
Poems do not “sing”; they cannot be read with the soul, freely gliding over them with perception and vibrating in resonance with their rhythm.
Each poem has to be dissected with a scalpel of icy logic in order to discover what rhymes with what.
Although nominally there is still a rhyme - it’s just that by the time you discover it, you risk losing the entire poetic mood.
In vain I expected that such a free attitude to rhythm in the “early Polozkova” would work in the “late” one: it doesn’t work. In literally every poem, whether in 2003 or 2007, you stumble several times.
But let's not talk about sad things. Let's talk about good things.
Vera Polozkova is undoubtedly very relevant. Her poetry is like perfectly tuned musical instrument, sounds in unison with the thoughts of her generation - relatively speaking, people from fifteen to thirty, living in stuffy silicate boxes, communicating with each other using a dozen pre-prepared “emoticons” and dreaming of the advent of some abstract Tomorrow, in which everything will be different; and we ourselves will be better - kinder, stronger and more honest.
Like, for example, Zemfira or Diana Arbenina, Polozkova could become the “voice and thoughts” of a whole generation of teenage girls who love to quote lines of songs in statuses and Twitter.
It’s a pity that teenage girls can’t read: at least they could somehow dilute all their snotty vulgarity in their statuses.
* * *
In general, Vera does two things well. The first is these short, biting poems on the verge of aphorisms:
“All ladies are like ladies, and you are like a horse in a blanket”
Or
“Either you accustom your conscience to stains,
Or you will walk barefoot.
I really want to be clear
And at the same time not be pop.”
Capacious, concise and deep, and most importantly, almost fits into the notorious “one hundred and forty characters” format.
Candy poems, little monpensiers with a taste of explosion.
The second is "long strings":
“At some point, the soul becomes simply bitterness in the sublingual, there, in the interfluve, in the second pause between stanzas. And her eyes are all wounded, all of a bird, not human, she rides down the water, like wreaths and candles, and from there there are no more lighthouses, no bonfires.”
And so, not poetry at all, but seemingly random phrases, like uninvited guests from the street - and somehow you don’t immediately understand that something rhymes here.
And it is precisely these “long lines” (I apologize if I call them incorrectly and they have some specific name - I am infinitely far from poetry) that Vera Polozkova produces, it seems to me, best. They read like prose, feel very light and fluid, and the rhymes that appear in them every now and then are perceived as pleasant surprises. In a word, I would read Polozkova only for such “semi-poetic” prose.
By the way, it is precisely these kind of verses that would make a very colorful rap - fast and verbose.
What a blessing that rappers can't read either!
* * *
In general, it’s difficult to say whether I liked Polozkova’s work or not.
Some poems hit the mark like an explosive bullet: clear, melodic and very, very about me. I want to learn them by heart and quote them.
But the bulk of poetry is a thick broth of emotions, thoughts and experiences. The broth is undoubtedly very poetic, but damned indigestible due to the poorly scribbled rhyme.
No rating. Difficult to digest. Current and poetic. Remarkable. Brodsko.
Name: Vera Polozkova
Age: 33 years old
Activity: poetess, actress, singer
Marital status: Married
Vera Polozkova: biography
Vera Polozkova is a phenomenon of a new generation. She made young people stuck in blogs and social networks fall in love with poetry, read and write poetry, and exchange “units of meaning” rhymed in vivid images. Polozkova made poetry a trend and became the leader of a new literary wave - the wave of Internet poets.
Her essay, which begins with the words “We must live by the sea, Mom,” is both a personal conclusion and a hint to people rushing about in search of a solution to how to live. According to rumors, this work is already being read on entrance exams applicants to theater universities.
Childhood and youth
The poetess was born in the capital in the spring of 1986. There was faith late child, so she was allowed a lot. The girl was very friendly with her mother; until the age of 13, Vera had no secrets from her mother. At the age of 9, Polozkova began leading personal diary, and the first poems appeared at the age of 5.
The poetess's father did not live with his family. Last time Vera saw him when she was 2 years old. And when the girl turned 7, her dad died. From his second marriage, the father had two daughters. The poetess maintains friendly relations with her youngest, who lives in Finland, believing that she is in many ways similar to herself.
As a child, Vera Polozkova sang in the choir and studied choreography, which she gave up after 6 years of classes. The girl graduated from school as an external student and at the age of 15 she entered the Faculty of Journalism of Moscow State University. However, despite her great love for literature, the girl quickly realized that she was of little interest in reporting and investigative journalism. The world of poetry became much more exciting for Polozkova. At the same time, in her 1st year at the institute, Vera published her first collection of poems.
While studying at the university, Polozkova wrote a column in the magazine "Cosmopolitan" A complicated story", wrote articles for the publications "Book Review" and "Afisha". Later, the girl got a job as an employee of the publishing house "FBI-Press", published her articles in the magazines "Shik-Magazine" and "Iskra-Spark". Also from 2007 to 2008 the poetess was listed as an employee of the ART4.RU Museum of Contemporary Art.
Poetry
In 2003, Vera Polozkova opened her personal blog vero4ka (later mantrabox) on the Livejournal.com service. He quickly became a “thousander”; the LiveJournal audience almost immediately responded to his poetic sketches. At the same time, Vera takes an active part in poetry evenings, competitions and competitions. In 2006, she became a finalist in the youth poetry SLEM. The girl also became a laureate of the LiveJournal Poet of the Year award, sharing it with another online poet Oleg Borichev.
Polozkova was also published on the portal Stihi.ru, intended for free demonstration by everyone of their own literary talents. The site contains “Bernard writes to Esther”, “I should have been careful”, “If you want, I will be your Margarita”. Readers continue to write reviews and criticisms to this day.
For the first time, Vera Polozkova performed with a solo creative evening in 2007. The event took place in the Bulgakov House, a famous Moscow cultural center.
Vera Polozkova - "Bernard writes to Esther"A few months later, Polozkova’s first serious publication was published - the book “Nepoemanie,” published with the support of the writer Alexander Zhitinsky, who became acquainted with her work thanks to the Internet. The presentation of the collection took place on the premises of the ART4.RU museum, where Polozkova worked at that time. “Nepoemanie” quickly won the hearts of readers, and a year later the poetess became a laureate of the “Neformat” prize.
In 2008, the poetess’s first trip to India took place. "Land of Contrasts" produced indelible impression, and subsequently, based on the results of the trip, the “Indian cycle” was formed, consisting of works of that period.
Now Polozkova tries to visit this country regularly and brings new poems from each trip. Then the intimate lyrics of her work in to a certain extent gave way to reflections on one’s own spiritual experience and relationship with the Divine.
In 2008, the poetess published the collection “Photosynthesis”, illustrations for which were made by photographer Olga Pavolga. This work went through 3 reprints with a total circulation of more than 30 thousand books.
The capital's Union of Writers awarded Vera a prize named after her. In 2012, Polozkova travels to New York, where she gives a solo reading as part of a local book fair. Then the poetess participates in the reality show for learning the French language “Polyglot” under the leadership of the “Culture” channel.
In the spring of 2013, Polozkova’s third collection of poems, entitled “Delineation,” was published. The book consists of 13 parts, it also includes works from the “Short Film” and the “Indian Cycle”. In the same year, Vera was nominated for the Parabola Award from the Foundation. A year later, Glamor magazine recognized the columnist’s success with the status of “Woman of the Year” in the “Breakthrough of the Year” category. According to HELLO! magazine, Polozkova became the best among the most stylish people Russia in the Self-made Woman category.
Theater and music
In 2008, Polozkova decides to try her hand at the theater stage. The poetess participated in an interactive production by George Genot called “The Society of Anonymous Artists.”
In 2009, the poetess met Eduard Boyakov, the founder, director and producer of the Praktika theater (then Polytheater). Boyakov invites Polozkova to take part in the poetic performance “Poems about Love,” based on the poetess’s texts. The premiere of the production took place in October of the same year at the Scene-Molot theater in Perm. Two years later, the premiere of the new play “Poems about Moscow” took place.
The premiere of the third performance based on the texts of Vera Polozkova took place in the renewed Polytheater. Actors took part in the production of “The Chosen Ones”, and. This performance, which was a reflection on creative craft and poetry, summed up a kind of conclusion in Polozkova’s work at that time.
In the play "Happy 60s" Vera Polozkova performed exclusively as an actress. Egor Salnikov, Ilya Barabanov, and other artists became partners on stage.
In 2009, the poetess expanded the format of her work and released her first audiobook called “Photosynthesis”, where she herself reads her works to the soundtrack. In addition, “Photosynthesis” includes both the author’s notes from Polozkova herself and some of her phrases spoken during the recording. The audiobook has gone through more than 6 editions.
At the end of the same year, texts were recorded that would later be included in the first music album. “Sign of Inequality” was released in June 2011 and already in the first week of sales became the leader in the number of downloads. Since it was initially announced as experimental, the album was never released on physical media.
Subsequently, Vera Polozkova gathered a group of musicians with whom she continued to work: Nikolai Saginashvili, Anatoly Levitin, Vladimir Litsov and Alexander Bgantsev. In the period 2011-2012, the group gave about six dozen concerts in the CIS countries, the guys took part in the anniversary “Invasion”, became headliners of the “More Amore” festival, opened the “Festival of Festivals” at the famous Poklonnaya Hill in the capital on City Day.
Vera Polozkova - "Not us again"Six months later, the album “Sign of Inequality” was recorded at Music Street Studio and presented in November of the same year. A trip to her beloved India prompted Vera to create a new concert program"Cities and numbers." From the stages of theaters and clubs, Polozkova shared her impressions of Venice and New York, London and Kyiv. The poetess noted that the depth of perception is affected both by the place you visit and by communication with people who are nearby at that moment.
The same program includes the poem “Not Us Again.” And a video has been circulated on the Internet where a nephew, a producer of the Dozhd TV channel, performs a song based on this text.
Personal life
In 2014, Vera Polozkova married the bass guitarist of her own band, Alexander Bgantsev. The wedding celebration in a rustic style took place in Pereslavl-Zalessky, and then the newly-made husband and wife left for Odessa. In December of the same year, the girl gave birth to a son, who was named Fedor.
The personal life of Vera Polozkova is often covered on social networks - photos of family members are published on the page in "Instagram". Now Polozkova divides her attention between two children - her son Savva was born in April 2018.
Vera Polozkova now
In 2017, the publishing house "Makhaon" released a collection of children's poems, "Responsible Child." According to critics, the book is also intended for parents, since the works are presented in a clear, clear language and can become an example of communication with the younger generation without the usual lisp and simplification of meaning.
“These are just words of love. Polozkova again says what everyone would like to, but could not. It is we who would like to compose such fairy tales and such nursery rhymes for our children; we would like to carry them on our shoulders while reciting poems and bounce them rhythmically.”
The biography of the poetess was not without a scandalous page. Faith's Fast
Lips melting in such a grin,
Which is the envy of the king,
It will prick the tip of a fork
My reverent “I love you.”And with slyness in his honeyed gaze
The taste will be called divine.
And to the Count about my shame
He will also be charged.
Lyubol. Medical history
“No, he can - he’s just lazy!”
“Well, don’t you have a headache?”
Report. Make sure -
Yes indeed
You're alive.Kept in a plastic cup
Coffee is cloying as always.
And at night? – Today for Tanya
You'll have to be on duty - right?Tanya - kind, overtime -
Meekness - not even twenty...
I would like to ask for soaked bandages
Bring it to my bedside.I'm sick. I'm a leper.
My diagnosis is already a password:
“Hopeless? Infected?
Don’t touch – Lyubol.”The sun in a cramped room is furious
And Golgotha on the floor -
Window cross. I'm four months old
I'll lay down my death in the morningInstead of a bedside rug, -
The poison of the sun's ray.
Tanya? Quiet, neat...
And a distant thunderstorm sounds like an alarm -
The measured gait of the head physician.Dry in the veins. Not blood - fuel oil
The slurry is spilled into puddles
By bed. Every minute
Dressing the bandageIt is not the crimson fabric that reveals -
Black iridescent shimmer
Oil - millimeter film -
As if the shore was covering me.Drained. Evaporated. Pumped out
Everything inside is just heat and dryness.
Dry and hot. The throat is closed.
The voice is like that of a crazy clique.All the tears have been squeezed out. Ichr
The lacrimal gland drives
On the cheeks - that’s why they turn purple
And my eyes don't see.The day is like a cry. And with bent teeth -
The fever of oblivion.
The day is like a rack: we are crucified on it -
My memory is where I am.Wheezing,
Moan, -
He.
He.The day is like a whirlwind in the desert - salty,
And the sand clogs my mouth.
During the day - pressed, wheeled -
And scattered at the gate.Clang.
Ringing.
He.
He.The light is greasy. The silence is cavernous.
Measured step - emptiness comes.
Early evening courtesy -
And not a night crawl at all.Hypocritical surprise:
“You had a good day today!” -
Report. Make sure -
Yes indeed
You will die.Shining with your salvation,
“The cup has passed” -
We're not all on her conscience -
Conscience
Eat
And with us
Its own....Delightful consolation
Exhale - exit brother exactly, -
Packaging of sedative:
After the evening
It will be night.Harassing,
Dispossessed
The eye of day is a light trap.
God, have mercy! - pain reliever -
A spoonful of darkness
For one glass.Liter of icy sky -
Into the IV
Let me pour through the glass.
On a humid night he starts to cry a little
My damn
Lyubol.Drinks like a well
Life-giving holy water.
It pours out like in a scorching heat
Young mountain river -Talking...
It stings!..
Plastic taste in mouth.
The angel must take pity today
And help cross the line.More than eloquent flattery,
Louder than escape from all captivity -
Glory, glory, incurable
Your hopelessness, Lyubol!Sound louder! - in his white robe
Scared sister -
I sing - Praise, Praise to You,
Be ruthless and sharp!An evil bullet, a greedy needle!
Death Death and Torment Torment!
I sing to you, Merciless
Destruction, my faithful Malady!..One hundred “vivas” for you, O Great One...
God... sent... plague...
Oh, how salty... This wild one
The pain will make you go crazy...How I... hate the late ones
Pre-dawn birth of the day...
Tanya! Tanechka! No air!
Balcony door for meOpen it... Why, why is she
Salt burns my throat...
Hallelujah to you, Holy One
Redeeming Lubol.
Poker
I had to be careful.
It was necessary to foresee the failure.
The Eternal just wanted to have fun
And test me with you.I was expecting a trick from Him -
He decided not to waste a single day.
Well, bingo.I really feel bad.
He beat me again.You make me feel so warm and close...
Your smile is so bitter...
God always plays unfairly.
God is playing for sure.He's bluffing. He doesn't laugh.
He thinks through his moves.
That's why the sun is copper
Covers your tracksThat's why your gaze is greedy
And breathing is like a surf.
You know He is merciless.
He will melt me with you.He will eat me with black soot
Your evil hair, your evil eyelashes.
He will probably even force
Beg Him, fall on your face -And he will crucify you. Not at Calvary.
You will kill me faster.I'll come to your place for coffee.
And I'll die
Yours
Soles
Bankers
They are spoiling the holiday for the dressed-up city.
Instead of the sky - just thick crumbs.
You're at sea, mom, and that's why
Nothing good comes to mind.You know, mom - God's bankers are fat
They give us such strength with loans!
They would be useful! No, we are growing up spenders
Seemingly rich - but angry,We burn in thousands - not in cents
God's flame is reverent and poetic!
But they will demand everything. With interest.
And it would be better for us not to live to see this.It was stupid for them to be afraid of millet -
They will only threaten the sausage with their finger.
But they will leave a list of unfinished items.
And they will execute us, in general, with this list.And they pin them to the tombstone with buttons -
Why should they stand on ceremony with us?
That's why you have a phobia, mom.
Borrow. And also insomnia -You often see creditors.
You can't take them with handouts and little things.
They follow you through the corridors
And they shake usurer's papers.And a terrible amount of money has been invested in me.
And someday they will come to me too.
Now I have to work for the impossible.
Otherwise, mom, there’s no way to cope.
Inadmissibility to the session
- Your name
It doesn't appear anywhere.
- Am I a goddess?
- You are a failure.
Anna Zabolotnaya, on her 19th birthday
He will scalp you with his gaze, but he knows how to cry,
And so priceless.
The front of the struggle is from Tallinn to Odessa.
There’s just slush under our feet,
Below it is a stage:
Every day is the plot of a one-act play.Dashing herds wheeze tiredly
In her engine.
And she senses any falsehood with her skin.
God is watching her on a signal
On the monitor -
This is called the spark of God.
Girls
No, men fight with their foreheads and fists -
And they don’t tear the arteries with a fingernail at the gate.
You'll just touch me with your predatory elbows -
And the abdominal cavity was ripped open to the heart.We could have killed - but no, not the same ones.
Still cynical. And free.
In how fiercely girls love girls -
Something always seems strange
Hopeless.
Baby
I will answer them tomorrow in the exam,
Fingers clenched into a ring -
Before the battle, probably, on the ancient banner
They drew your face.All your autographs - you see, they are stamped
Baked on the chest.
It hurts me so much, baby. Have pity on me.
Don't ruin me. Have mercy.I see that I haven’t lost my mind yet,
I can still feel the firmament with my feet -
Through you capriciously, incomprehensibly
Furrows his brows
Baby
Death.
Pain
They gave pain - exquisite style and quality.
It doesn’t subside, it drives you crazy, it sings.
She shamelessly makes me cry bitterly.
And he drinks too much.It will grow, you see, it will breathe.
The network of blood vessels in the eyes will rupture.There is an incredible amount of writing from you.
It's a pity that he doesn't actually live.
Snake
- Life? Yes, joyless and empty.
There is dirt all around, ugliness and chaos.
– You live in Christ’s bosom!
- So He warmed the snake on His chest.
Peter
I'm leaving tomorrow - already a ticket.
The columns there look like a confectioner's hat.
Yes, that's it - live eighteen years
And never see Peter.Perhaps, in response to my letter,
Appearing suddenly from the crowd of novices,
Happiness is here - it finds me on its own
And then he beats for hours on headphones;There is almost no reason to be sad here -
But the herd of ambition rattles its chairs,
And he sniffles and tears me into pieces,
Clenching shark jaws,So I'll leave - the keys are already there,
CD player, money, everything, wiped away the snot -
And – with a poisoned “Arrow” – Muscovites,
Where are you going, you sick people, perhaps to St. Petersburg?..
Biographers
It's hard to walk the streets with people like that -
Everyone is begging for autographs:
Stand and wait at a distance, like the corner of a building.
What do you think - they’ll slouch
Our future biographers,
Making up excuses for us?They will fit us into the currents,
Critics will call the influential,
Will cut our hair for study
In secondary schools:There is Tsvetaeva’s trace, here is Khlebnikov’s:
Conferences, publications -
You will be in all textbooks.
I am only by specialization.They will read prophecies into us,
They will exalt carefully
Our eternal loneliness
Our valiant lack of money.However, all this is so meaningless -
Who will understand after us what exactly
Peter the Great is unimaginably similar
On the unshaven Kostya Inin?How funny it is for us to give autographs -
And fish strawberries from jars?
Biographers will not leave us
Right to be ordinary.Not a swear word,
Not to muffled sobs.So let them come out with wrinkles,
Making up excuses for us.
Sun
There is a glitch in the circuit. Supreme Electrician, that is,
Constantly sends me big greetings:
Every time you get on the train, -
The light is turned off inside me.Well, breaking contact. Much easier -
Somewhere in a stupid terminal, one of a hundred.
I move almost by touch
And I stop seeing colors.I can forget about you legally
And not to know - but only you are on the fly
You drag the suitcase into the belly of the carriage -
How my house will fall into darkness.Four centuries pass in a day -
And it’s black, like a echoing chimney.
You walk like a blind man, you don’t count your abrasions
And I don't know how to call youAnd to say - you know, such a difficulty:
Engineers, damn wires...
My sun is almost like a job title.
So don't ever leave me.
Behind you
By fireworks, rocket launches,
Through craters and shootouts -
I'm following you on the cards.
I'm following you along the arrows.Between the lines, through other people's grins,
By chords, by first sounds -
I follow you on the links,
I spell you;With its tart dune skin,
In the clink of half-empty bottles -
You can smell my breath,
Burning the back of your head?You turn around cool
Do you turn off your headlights and breathe heavily?
Forgetting that your routes are
All mine: we are in the same harness.Looped, as if in a chain,
And, like the links, they are cast and rigid.
We will collide at the end point.
At a decisive crossroads.
Dreams
I seem to be drowning in some dreary prospects -
But I always rest my forehead against you, like a mole rat.
In my dreams I even rummage through your computer folders,
Frantically trying to figure out who you're sleeping with.It will pass, maybe, I still think, it won’t attack -
But he comes, tearing down the dams, clinking with glass -
I dream of you in a blinding white empty hotel,
Unlike me, long, apparently, before me;I forget myself with funny Saturday gossip,
Hiding in heaps of colorful rags and gizmos -
Your name is chasing me through the gateways,
Flying out of the mouths of passers-by and saleswomen,Smiles, guards with notebooks,
Calls - don't be afraid, girl, I'm your friend,
And the deserts creak with observation towers in their sleep,
You are alone there - and not a single soul around;Doesn’t beg - confession and sacraments,
But everything will start again as soon as I return.We'll probably never be apart again
If I suddenly one day somehow
I won't wake up.
Chloroform
I would like to write to French -
But autumn tends to simplified forms,
Sneaking up from behind with chloroform
On a striped handkerchief.I really want not to be a poet.
After all, the salary will be paid on Monday -
You will buy books and you will live without money.
And just think about where to get them.I didn't understand much.
I met N - he is unusually skinny.
He's talking on the phone with his mother-in-law
And it’s strange: this mother-in-law is not my mother.Friends grew up in business
People who are very far from art.
We parted ways. And a nasty feeling
That there was no one left alive.And autumn begins with whining
And it's generally against the rules.
But the air smelled of chloroform,
Which means long-awaited oblivion.
Further
You can never come back from wars like yours.
However, you know, you shouldn't think about it.
You can’t even blow away the dust from my digital photographs.
And don't; I will do without names and dates.How to eternal flame they will come to look at you -
You will remain from me when I cool down.
But while I'm still walking, I've only walked a third,
While the sun cuts my back with a radiant whip,For now I'm going to the sea, but so what -
I should display your poems on the wallpaper there too.
I love you more than the angels and myself,
And therefore further from you now than from both of them - 1
Joseph Brodsky “Out of nowhere with love, on the eleventh of March...”
Rock
Side - for tea
Twist with a trickle of water -
Move to the sea before the cold weather.
I want to be so free
So as not to leave traces.Watching something catchy
Smears bulging eye dawn,
I want to be a little Brodsky -
Not a single word was wasted.
* * *
“All the coins are in the sea. So as not to drink” -
And they throw handfuls of
Tattered bags of money. And it became -
You have arrived in Simeiz.Two peoples: families of funny philistines,
That at sea they grumble, “Lie down!”
And the madmen rage together,
They run away to the naked beach, -Their eyes rotate like a chassis
High on LSD.
I drink my coffee at Jennet Koshesi,
What my Saide cooked.
* * *
The wind breathes madness -
Honestly, there is a quarantine in the city:
Here, probably, every third -
From Kusturica paintings.Everyone is exhausted and positive.
Jah here looks from every eye -
Fifty kopecks of crumpled hryvnias
It costs the right ganjubas.Smiling; in beach slippers
Climbing a steep slope.
And girls in colorful hats
They moan something about Babylon.
* * *
* * *
Except for us and the chosen ones - those who are with us
Divides the coast and drinks Cahors,
There are all those who are at home - and there is a tsunami,
And we feel their reproach with our backs.Father, brighten up at least some of them a little
Your inscrutable ways.
Here you feed us first-class happiness -
And in our homeland you burn children.
* * *
The sea: in a storm almost like mercury,
In calm weather - like royal turquoise.
Me: honey colored breasts
And sandalwood eyes.
* * *
Live here. Diving from cliffs in the open wind.
Run to the grottoes and wait out the storm.
Into the dense fog from the gray head of Ai-Petri
Wrapping thin shoulders is like organza.Look for a long time until it starts to get dark,
How clouds and stones play Go.
And men are needed to rub shoulders
They are in the clavicular fossa - for nothing else.
* * *
Turkish coffee, lemon slice,
Suluguni and ham.
I don’t love anyone - only those few
To which I am doomed.There are goosebumps along the avenue now
The wind drives my good friends.
And on the first desks they scribble notes
Twelve pairs of tanned hands.I wouldn't go back this summer
Not later - I don’t need my city.
But he’s driven head over heels into me - like a ticket,
In a red suitcase, at the very bottom.Here the poplars pierce the velvet
The frock coat of heaven is like a sieve;
Through it cold universe smells
And flickering nothingness looks out.Nights in Simeiz - take it and crash
From the mountains to the valley - and no one alive.And Side laughs from the smoky kitchen
And he’s ridiculously shy about tips.
Felt
One must live without prompters, but with intermissions -
Let everyone go eat some rolls and chocolate.
I'll listen, wrapped in my robe,
The way he takes his breath between bars
The simplest and most sincere of ballads.The sky is worn out and sagging,
Covering the belly with the wreckage of big powers.
The holes in it are from the Bering or Barents Sea! -
I feel her smiling
At night, in the kitchen, holding the phone with my shoulder.Worn out, serves as a poor man's canopy,
Even the rare pieces of glass are shaking.
Time is dragging me by the collar.And my head is filled with melancholy like felt,
Like old teddy bears.
Three cents
Yes, everything is fine with me, so, conditionally.
I've been sick for probably two weeks now.
We seem to be talking to you, but literally
Everything is known, like an epigraph to an empty chapter.
We don’t see each other at all, but it feels like
I carry you like a hostage in my head.It's time, my sun, there are too many differences
It cracked - and God knows why.
And new time breaks into the house and teases
And it wants to begin, poking its nose into the darkness.
It's like an unexpected holiday comes to you,
And you have forgotten how to enjoy him.It's time, my sun, it's stupid to say goodbye now,
When everything has already been said, and only a groan.
For a hundred years they couldn’t get along with you,
And the voice of someone else hummed like a distant background,
And finally we have nowhere to return,
And you can safely turn off your phone.And something inside stretches so unpleasantly -
Safety rope or placenta
And I would like to cut, tear, come on, okay,
We've had enough of scenes,
Is it expensive? - It's free for me
Three cents for you.It's time, my sun, - the lips are already blowing
Your girlfriend is staring out the window.
Like beggars we show the stumps to everyone
Your relationship: petty and funny.
Let's shout it out already, pull the tubes away
And, swallowing water, we will sink to the bottom like a stone.
Franz Kafka
Frisky and greyhound,
Having bulged the lenses,
Morse code,
Plastic ninja
Extremely close
Blade sharp
So that the odalisque -
Behind the curtain;A bullet through a cartridge case,
No, it's uglier:
Frozen mucus
Crumpled dirtSo that every sensor
Shuddered like bronze:
“Pain - you - my - censor,
Pain – you – my – bonze”;Slow, long,
As if he himself is for,
Chitin in the shell
They'll stop stabbing
(If only I had a backbone
Gnawing for!..)Apple in the back
Gregor Samsa.How really
Just creepy:
They wanted pain -
So rejoice.The sky is like pumice.
Windows without sun.
Pain - you - my - censor.
Pain - you - my - bonze.Like a threat
Not immediately visible
Vigilant ulcer,
What one eye;
The execution caused
Shameful tears:
Sows infection
Evil splinter -
It builds its nests,
The abyss is widening.
And it became too late.
And it's useless.Broke out.
Soared.Taurus, as if kicked -
The shell clanked
A fired bullet.
“Without any thrown by chance...”
Without any casually abandoned
Faded farewell phrases:
Come on, my dear, don't be bored,
Call at least once a week.Forever is just tea
On the upper eyelids.It's simple, the sun will shine
The nest is finally yours.
And I will find one out of a hundred
Handsome or impudent.Fatal - this is where the veil is
And a ring platter.And everyone will cling to their pier
Shvartov with his oblique.
And it will squeal at night
Probably even a son.“Love” is like “shoes,” haven’t you noticed?
And it's better to go barefoot.
To someone
Absorb - and carry everything under the skin.
And wait for execution auf dem Hof.
Slouched listening in an empty hallway
The thick echo of your spirits.Think with infinitives. Slush
Knead and swear - I will not return.
And cough instead of cry,
And listen to the damned pulse in your throat,Which hits the neck in time with the drums,
Trying to break out from within.
From close “hello”, like from a trench,
Wheezing - leave me. Don't look.Taking pictures with a flash of anger
All the countless things that are not for me.
And it’s as if to my heart – there you are, on the left!
Come on, quickly face the wall!And laugh to yourself out of anger,
Sitting in the hallway until dark:I would be incredibly lucky
Someone who smells like you.
Sirens
Paralyzing the sunny “Well, on Thursday?” -
Experienced, careful, down to the bone tissue.
The most irreversible of addictions,
Somewhere inside, floating belly up.And they say: Don't interfere!
And they say: Respect,
What's wrong with you?
What's wrong with you?Where is your hiding place?
Where is the catch in you?You are my first cry.
And the last breath.Looking into the eyes from the other side of the water.
Shaker for a cocktail of genders and nations.
The most imperturbable of intonations,
Turned into a synonym for great trouble.And they say: Not here!
And they say: Don't touch it!
What kind of arrogance do you have?
What's wrong with you?What kind of look is this?
What kind of tone is this?
You are my true poison
And the dying groan.Confused breathing like two
Boys falling asleep in the spoon position.
With shots. Ambulance sirens,
To take your breath away from fear.And they say: Let me!
And they point their finger: Get out!
What pain is in you?
What's that ringing thing about you?If you run, we'll be sideways
Let's pour lead.
If you are my god -
So, until the end.
Priestly
The city is in a blizzard, dashing dope -
Sleepy, frosty and nobody's.
Occasionally echoing in my pocket
A ringing bunch of your keys.To the door to the gardens of Eden. Or to Auschwitz.
Two turns to the right, in about five seconds.Meet me with a clean, faded towel.
And a T-shirt to sleep in.
* * *
Something must have broken in the world.
The gods changed the clocks.
I live in your apartment
And I stand on your scales.Conversations are empty and petty.
The looks are like blows to the groin.
I pray on your plates
And I feed your turtles.Your people are making calls
Silence. Sometimes even at night.
You know how to look right through
I look at you exactly the sameHow the animals looked after Noah,
Not allowed into the Ark.I'll stay sitting by the door.
You're leaving for soundcheck.
* * *
Like a guess
Will shudder involuntarily -
How sweet it is to me.
How it hurts me.Like a fever -
Secretly, underground -
Painful and sweet
Sweet and painfulRazor smooth,
Enough is enough -
Painful and sweet
Sweet and painful.Stranglehold.
To the wall. Double-barreled.
It was so sweet.
It became
So
Hurt…
* * *
Everything is logical: the tighter the rings, the lower the pulse.
I now remember with longing the time when, upon meeting
I could smile to you: “Don’t slouch,”
Straightening your frowning shoulders,When, in order to invite you for tea, you had to
Whistle from the window as you pass by.
The less simple hope we have, the more ardor we have.
The more absurd everything is, the more is necessary.
* * *
Poker bets.
In the presbyter's tone:
In the evening rockers -
Happy babysitters.So that they don't go crazy.
So that they don't give it away.
In the morning, friends -
Idols in the evening.
* * *
I'm not of a slave color - be on your guard.
I meet the requirements and GOSTs.
Just in your presence - with a click -
I'm getting dumber and shorter.Even to flee, as if from enemies,
It’s possible, but I don’t accept compromises.
Time later at the sound of your steps
I will learn to fall through the ground.I don't know how to be equal to you.
Apparently, I have to stand under the stage forever.
This love is solitary, from the outside -
Makes life meaningless.
And priceless.
P.S.
Although it is indecent to mix a cantata with
In ditties - let me give you a moral here:
Over the years I will acquire status,And the cups will come into balance.
Let's warm the noisy kettle and set the table
And we'll put some cognac in the middle.
You'll get tired of being lyrical hero -
So just come in for lunch.
Vera Nikolaevna Polozkova (born March 5, 1986) is a famous Russian poetess. She became one of the few who managed to reach the hearts of the younger generation and make them love, appreciate and understand poetry.
Childhood
Vera was born in the early spring of 1986 in Moscow. She became a late child, so her parents doted on her, but this did not stop her father from leaving the family when the baby was only two years old. They have not seen each other since then, and five years later the man died.
The mother tried to give her daughter love for two. They became real friends, Vera trusted her with all her childhood and then youthful secrets. At the same time, the girl enjoyed complete freedom. Perhaps this is what contributed to the early discovery of her talent.
The girl began writing poetry when she was barely five years old. Of course, this surprised others and aroused admiration, but soon Vera showed everyone that she had remarkable intellectual abilities and talent. At the age of 15 she had already graduated from school. During her studies, she not only managed to outperform all her classmates, but also practice vocals and choreography.
Youth
After school, Vera easily entered one of the most prestigious universities– Moscow State University – Faculty of Journalism. She loved literature with all her heart, but soon realized that journalistic activity had very little in common with it.
She did not give up her studies, but began to devote most of her energy to poetry, revealing its world for herself and creating amazing works. Already in her first year she published a collection of her works.
At the same time, Vera worked in several magazines, in which she maintained columns and published articles.
Poetry
Vera chose poetry as the main work of her life. Despite the fact that this genre has long lost its popularity, she decided that she would be able to breathe into it new life. And I was right. Having relied on promoting her works through social networks, the girl quickly became one of the most popular and beloved authors. Vera's LiveJournal blog has become mega-popular in just a few years. In 2006, she received the title “LJ Poet of the Year.”
After this, the poetess decided that it was time to make a name for herself offline. In 2007, she held her first creative evening, which aroused genuine interest among loyal fans and literary critics. Soon her collection “Unpoeming” was published. It became a real triumph and brought the Neformat award.
A year later, Vera went to India. Getting to know this country brought a lot of new things to the poetess’s worldview. It also resulted in the famous “Indian cycle”. Since then, Vera has visited India regularly; she says that she has some kind of special connection with it.
Polozkova’s next collection was “Photosynthesis”. On at the moment it has already been reprinted three times, which is a kind of record not only for poetic literature, but even for modern prose.
2012 brought Vera Polozkova a trip overseas to the USA and the realization that cultural differences and language barriers are not obstacles for people who have a keen sense of poetry. Her appearance at a local book fair was a huge success.
A year later, the third collection “Delineation” was published.
Theater
Talented people talented in everything. In many ways, anyway. Vera Polozkova confirms this with her whole life. Along with writing poetry and working in printed publications she decided to try her hand at the theater stage. Her first experience was the interactive play “Society of Anonymous Artists.” The experiment turned out to be successful, so the girl began to periodically go on stage in the future.
Great success There was a production of “Poems about Love”, based on the works of the poetess. The third performance, “The Chosen,” also included poems by Vera. This time, close friends appeared on stage with her.
The play “Happy 60s” revealed Polozkova exclusively as a talented actress, without any admixture of her personal poetic creativity.
Against the backdrop of a saturated creative biography personal life Vera Polozkova looks quiet and peaceful. In 2014, she married Alexander Bgantsev, who was one of the musicians in her band and played bass guitar. In the same year, the couple had a son, Fedor.
There is hardly any need to introduce it. Are there many poets today who have come out of the Runet and are gathering halls?
An amazing phenomenon. Her poetry users social networks called "units of meaning". They are touching, stunning, sometimes tough - about life, difficulties, meaning and faith. She writes backhand, looking into the eyes and calling things by their proper names. She gets literary prizes, plays in the theater, travels on tours to different countries.
Born in Moscow on March 5, 1986. He has been writing poetry since he was 5 years old. She published her first book at the age of 15, and by the time she was twenty she had won the status of one of the brightest contemporary poets.
In November, at the Moscow Palace of Youth, Vera presented new program « High resolution", which will include texts from the future collection.
Materials from the network:
“In the end, a creative mind is something like a shepherd at home: you need to work a lot with it so that it doesn’t do anything bad. Keep your mind busy, give it work, otherwise it will start to load itself up and you may not like it what he will do (gnaw the sofa, dig a hole in the parquet floor in the living room, bite the postman, etc.) It took me years to figure it out, but now I know for sure: if I am not actively creating something, then rather. In all, I’m actively destroying something (myself, relationships, my own peace of mind).”
God will pull us apart; isolates by seating.
Relationships are like anamnesis, returns are like a relapse.
Life is a creative problem book: the conditions are written by you.
You'll think you're a loser and then you'll lose the fight...
There are grains of salt in fresh wounds.
At night I dream of ears of rye.
I was never afraid of pain -
Only lies.
The sky is made of holey rags,
A loud downpour rattling in the chimney...
God, why do you love me so much? -
I'm not praying to you at all!
better than yogurt in the morning
only vodka and grenadine.
promise yourself to live without drama -
and live alone.
all the words will be completely twisted,
and you are responsible for them.
try not to multiply lies
and learn to be silent.
God will apply his stethoscope -
but inside it is dark and quiet.
forbid yourself to multiply sorrow -
Yes, and you will sound.
From me to you
Distance equal to the best story
Bunin; equal to speech in search
Formulas; equal to a night on a train
From Pivdenny to Kievsky railway station.
The distance is equal to “I didn’t say the main thing.”
I travel a lot and eat my fill of silence.
I like being out of address and out of reach.
I imagine you, gundos,
In the kingdom of bottles, curtains, iron rods, -
Those sleeping in the compartment, on the contrary.
This, in fact, is all that I have that is alive and real.
No mailbox, so intrusive, no
Luggage; I would move like a lizard
A century, without a point of arrival, ideally.
To knock and glare on the blanket.
This is the essence of loneliness, no matter how desirable, so bottomless.
This is a reason to strip naked,
Summarize the results using a dolnik,
Drive, listen to the wheels, rails, pulse rates.
So that you can read it later from the handheld
And he didn’t smile.
So that you can read it, blinking desperately, as if from something sharp,
From a sudden, eye-scratching apostrophe,
As in je t'aime.
The distance is both from the island and to the island,
Unsuitable for fishing or hunting.
All routes are bypass.
And it’s as if the pulse in my head is clamped, and
Between the ribs there is a piece of metal.
And is there any point in explaining to someone,
I'm so tired.
Anita knows how to lie best:
freeze at the click, smile and not blink,
only praise the sweet, avoid the important,
kiss past the cheeks of fragrant bitches
The hardest thing for Anita is to be alone,
ballerina in a box, clockwork doll,
after all, Anita's knees, dimples, day off,
laughter, facebook
feel uncomfortable where you can’t pretend:
where the old woman buys onions, where the dog sits,
where a child exposes his cheerful mouth to the snow,
as if someone is whispering in your ear,
pulling back the perfect curl:
in those who are smart, Anita, and in those who are stupid
in those who attend and do not attend the fitness club
in the owners of narrow lips and pouting lips
the little god lies wrapped in a tight cocoon
he will open his eyes, Anita, he will come into his own
he will tear off your flounces and lace,
will take out your stilettos, wash you off your makeup,
and you will become alive, my Anita, alive
and loved
PHOTO Instagram
* * *
and we lived easy then: silver and honey
the summer sunset did not go out all night long
and the river stood up to the crossbar of the windows
we went down to where the stars were and bathed our feet in them
and below us the shore seemed to be woven from woolen
and flax fibers
it was a town without a century, with a simple face,
and visitors to tea with oregano and thyme
they added bright jam when they got sick;
bought dishes in shops, braid and calico
and the cars and boats were rotting, splitting into pieces at the seams
sharp rusty lace
you loved to look at the barges from under your hand,
distributed nickels to the neighbor boys:
and they embraced you, who lived poorly.
and you were different, incredibly young,
and your eyes were like twilight over the water,
blue agate.
it was June, strawberries, smoked bream,
you wore, like a prince, any thing
and three houses were deprived of their freedom as soon as they arrived
- Tonya says, are you married? - terrible slander!
and all around lay the enchanted Levitan,
endless chekhov
stairs, floors in my room, canopy, porch, pier -
everywhere your step sounded so cheerful and good,
as if we won’t loosen our fingers, we won’t disappear in smoke,
as if I were still reading to you about ancient Rome
as if we were going to talk again somewhere,
let's not die young
It seems that even now we look like icy darkness
picking up paths, depressions and corners,
the shadow permeates forests and houses like moisture.
black against the background of water, we are sitting together
and above us there is honey, silver and pearls on the edge,
crumpled paper.
leave in August, my light, new school year
let whatever happens happen -
and neither the dress, nor the utensils, nor the chest of drawers will survive,
our embankment will end and the mountain, -
you will be the embodiment of silver,
silver and honey.
PHOTO Instagram
* * *
Deborah Peters has always been a strong-willed woman.
I didn’t live happily ever after, but I lived overcoming it.
The fortitude is incredible, fatigue is zero.
Deborah Peters has wanted a red-haired daughter since her youth.
Deborah raised Jean alone.
Before going to bed, she kissed the button, her bird, on the tender lobe.
Deborah is unhappy: the girl is mentally weak.
this passion - at fifteen - for abstruse books,
broken boys, short haircuts:
Deborah thinks this is too much.
Ginny Peters sunset at sea, red ocher.
Ginny pretends to be crazy and deaf:
because the mother constantly screams for her to die.
when the hell in this house becomes tangible,
Ginny runs away, as they say, to the partisans,
overcomes drugs, outgrows nerdiness,
and a thirty-year-old, a sweater that matches her light trousers,
Deborah is being driven in a stroller to the car with an uneven thud:
That's all, mom, well done, let's go to the grandchildren.
Deborah narrows her eyes: God teaches subtly,
it was worth almost dying to deserve a child again -
bald valkyrie cancer,
one-breasted Amazon
I almost had to die, and here we are again, girlfriends,
How can I come like this, and sweets, and toys,
two grandchildren, boys, do they have freckles?
I'll scare them, baby, I'm scary as the desert.
You are beautiful, mom, make sure you don’t catch a cold.
I had to almost die for my bird to forgive me.
PHOTO Photo by Alexander Mamaev/ URA.RU/TASS
* * *
the blood consisted of summer, rebellion, laughter and fire. life was breaking the leash,
as if it lasts two more days, and after the session, the apocalypse, and they drown
continents. as if only you are distracted - and immediately the old people.
where are you now, fools, troublemakers, knights, talkers. smoke above
driving through the city drunk, as if before the war: no one flinched from
powerless, not driven, stooped and gray - we drink port wine and sasha
We learn Vasilyev from cassettes.
So this impudent one looks at your troops lying down dead. Your
a friend knows how to be rude with a hexameter and solder in two throws. Firefighters
stairs and frenzy to reach the clouds. there are those who
Those who get enough sleep will survive. but this is for weaklings. He hides a ruby cliff in the haze, erases the path in the sand,
where we speak, like ruin to ruin, in an extinct language.
where we observe, for centuries in a row, hermits in the mountains:
empires rush to the top, burn, become gray dust,
and I discern five thousand two hundred reasons for your grin.
You can’t remember everything, you’ll die on the spot, try to forget as soon as possible
after all, this is your house, they say, not a crypt, this is all your simple belongings,
and you are only thirty years old, not twelve kalpas
and you don’t know the people in the neighboring village where the spring flows,
but is your interlocutor in the temple from ancient books made of flesh?
no, I don't know the men and women on that side of the hill.
in the temple the rusty bolt grinds only darkness comes,
the steps are warm, but the coolness touches the shoulders and hair
and we laugh as if we had never experienced hell
as if we haven’t replaced a thousand bodies, we haven’t faced a hundred and forty wars
I'm just sitting and admiring how your profile is set up
as if the marble had come to fill with some otherworldly light
as if I will remember this from death, which does not exist
PHOTO GettyImages
