I was a pretty nice king. I walk along the sea...

***
I spent my last day well.
His clock is as slender as a colonnade.
Where I had long dreamed of going, I went.
And he didn’t go where he shouldn’t.

When he had already made a third noise,
I caught myself and burst out laughing.
I managed to look at the sky once
And I tried to finish something.

I didn't think how I would die,
After all, we are ready for this anyway.
They asked me to lie about something.
I apologized: On this day? What are you talking about?

The shadow didn't stop me from loving you
No fuss, no jealousy, no gossip.
I had a good last day.
Now I would like another one. Last...

About a couple of years ago I first heard about the poet Alexander Aronov. Unfortunately, all my knowledge about him then came down to one poem, which is posted above. And today I came across another of his poems. And I liked it so much that I decided to get to know the poet’s work better. I looked through several sites with his poems, re-read more than three dozen of his poems and realized that it was impossible to choose my favorite ones - with rare exceptions, I liked them all! And this doesn’t happen to me often.
So with today Another one has been added to the list of my favorite poets - the wonderful and talented poet Alexander Aronov.

***
Stop, look back,
Suddenly, suddenly on a bend,
On that random floor
Where we happen to wake up

Shoe scraping the snow,
Stop, look back,
See the day, houses, yourself,
And smile quietly.

After all, leaving so as not to return,
Was it not I who wanted to replay:
Stop, look back,
And never die...

PROPHET

He lived without bread and mercy.
But, entering our village,
He greeted me like warmth itself,
Kind smiles and looks,
And time passed much easier;
And we were really happy...

But here is the mirror glass:

And we were really happy
And time passed much easier;
Kind smiles and looks
He greeted me like warmth itself,
But, entering our village,
He lived without bread and mercy.

CAUSE

Why doesn't your bus run faster?
If your heart is trembling with impatience?
If there's a date around the corner -
Is it a sin to shorten your wait?

What, the driver can't do it? What, the engine doesn't pull?
What, will the traffic police catch you and scold you?
Everything in the world is available... And you are still
You won’t understand that the reason is different:

Here, on the bus, someone else is riding -
You know, it's such a shame
He has a breakup behind him.
We need to go slower, we need to go slower!

***
When the ghetto was burning, when the ghetto was burning,
Warsaw was amazed for four days in a row.
And there was so much noise, and there was so much light,
And people said: “The bugs are burning”...

...And a quarter of a century later, two wise men
Sat over a bottle of good wine,
And Janusz, a thinker and colleague, told me:
— The Russians have their own guilt before Poland!

Why did you stand in front of the Vistula in 1945?
Warsaw is dying! Who will let her live?!
And I told him: “At first there was little strength,
And it turned out that you can’t rush to get help.”

- The Warsaw Uprising has been crushed and crushed!
The Warsaw Uprising is drowned in blood!
I'd rather die than let my brother die! —
My counterpart said with a perfect tremor in his voice.

And I responded to him: “When the ghetto was burning...
When the ghetto burned for four days in a row,
And there was so much ashes, and there was so much light...
And you all said: “The bugs are on fire.”

(Aronov said: “Eh, my, I, of course, know that Warsaw Uprising it was in '44. But the 44th didn’t fit into the line.”)

WOLF

And there is no freedom. And the Wolf in the steppe
Just on the biggest chain.
And when he looks into his steppe,
And sits down to howl at the moon,
What is he complaining about - the chain?
Or its length?

Malbec's first law

You can't look at anyone from the outside -
The only law of the land is Malbec.
Market, crowd, random person -
He doesn't need you, and you don't need him.
On the local cripples and non-cripples
Look up - there is no worse insult.

Who are you to judge people?
And be subjected to their dark assessment?
Bend your gaze, lazy and immodest,
Don't brag about what you spy, but own it.
There is somewhere for us to disperse between the squares,
The area is deserted and vast.

The hunchback has only been hunchbacked for three years,
The beauty today is only beautiful,
They go, forward or backward,
Stopping them is unfair.
One turkey is happy to see someone else's look,
Yes, he lives happily without you.

And the ragamuffin is a candidate for king,
And the wise man is not adorned by old age.
Now, if you are ready, no matter what happens to him,
Get closer to him, understand at least a little,
How does he see himself from the inside?
Then you won't be offended. Look.

THE SECOND LAW OF MALBECC

Then they become their second law
On the squares they nailed it with dark copper.
Mistake, anger, wrong bow,
What were you impudent about, what did he violate -
Everything was punished equally. Death.

But neither the scaffold nor the sword was brought in,
Neither executing en masse nor alone,
And from the invisible executioner
Any criminal received a reprieve.

“Is the character of this law cruel or weak?” —
At first, the souls of the citizens were confused.
“This will happen to everyone who has been wrong...”
“So it will be with everyone who...” “So it will be with everyone...”

And old debts became cheaper,
And slowly it seemed to become clearer.
It's all nonsense - enmity. What kind of enemies are there?
The fact that we would all die was enough for everyone.

GEOGRAPHY TEACHER

I went to work, to work, to work carefully.
He called, checked, gave bad grades, but you never know.
By four, and five, and six he came back.
I went to the cinema and drank wine. Or so - I was looking at the TV.
And when I, when I, when I got up on Sunday,
In front of the mirror, the mirror, I remembered everything until dark:
Where did I wave my hand that there was an earthquake in Calabria?
Where did I go wrong in my calculations, since there is war in Africa again?

PREDICTION

They wield the magic of the door,
The magic of food, the art of play.
But we still don't really believe
When they are gentle and kind with us.

He's happy when he comes in the evening
And he sees that no one stole me,
And he presses me and whispers,
When I jump on his coat.

But if I jump off the windowsill,
And I’ll run away and they’ll kill me,
He will get himself another kitten,
To create comfort again.

***
Lines don't often help us.
So they are not free to weaken
Rough everyday misfortunes:
Hunger, father's death, wife's departure.

If we have too much of this,
The lines can't do anything.
Art is no longer of any help here.
It’s not even up to him at all.

The word is not a blow, not fear, not lust.
A word is letters or noise.
In the sentence: “I write that it’s bad”
The main member is not “bad”, but “writing”.

If I draw over a cliff
The abyss that approached as news
This means where I take risks,
There is still room for an easel.

There is time. The mood is good.
Canvas and paints. Silence in the family.
That's why every creation
There is praise for order on Earth.

***
I’m almost nowhere left -
It ended there, dropped out there, forgotten there, -
The whole city has overcome my fatigue,
And only this room hurts.

The sofa and the table are still very tired,
Two shelves of books are too much for me to bear.
Good night everyone, good night.
Where is this cord? Turn on the darkness.

Alexander Yakovlevich Aronov (August 30 ( 19340830 ) , Moscow - October 19, Moscow) - Russian poet, journalist.

Biography

His poems were also published in a number of magazines, for example, “Ogonyok” (No. 32, 1988) and “Znamya” (No. 3, 1997).

He is best known for his poems “Stop, Look Back” (the title has become a common phrase, repeatedly used as, for example, newspaper headlines and journal articles) and “If you don’t have an aunt” (set to music by Mikael Tariverdiev and became popular as a song in the film “The Irony of Fate, or Enjoy Your Bath!”). Also famous was the poem “Ghetto. 1943" (“When the Ghetto Burned”), dedicated to the complex relationships between the Russian, Polish and Jewish peoples during and after World War II. Viktor Berkovsky wrote music for these poems, creating the song “Warsaw Ghetto. 1943" .

During the poet’s lifetime, three collections of his poems were published: “Safety Island” (1987), “Texts” (1989), “First Life” (1989).

Family

• Wife - Tatyana Aronova-Sukhanova.
• Adopted son - Maxim Sukhanov.

Attitude of contemporaries

Books of poetry

Memory

A. Ya. Aronov died on October 19, 2001. He was buried on October 22 in Moscow at the cemetery of JSC Gorbrus (site No. 19), located opposite the Mitinskoye cemetery.

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Notes

Literature

• on the website "Unofficial Poetry"

Excerpt characterizing Aronov, Alexander Yakovlevich

The main action of the Battle of Borodino took place in the space of a thousand fathoms between Borodin and Bagration’s flushes. (Outside this space, on the one hand, the Russians made a demonstration by Uvarov's cavalry in mid-day; on the other hand, behind Utitsa, there was a clash between Poniatowski and Tuchkov; but these were two separate and weak actions in comparison with what happened in the middle of the battlefield. ) On the field between Borodin and the flushes, near the forest, in an open area visible from both sides, the main action of the battle took place, in the simplest, most ingenuous way.
The battle began with a cannonade from both sides from several hundred guns.
Then, when the smoke covered the entire field, in this smoke (from the French side) two divisions moved on the right, Desse and Compana, on fléches, and on the left the regiments of the Viceroy to Borodino.
From the Shevardinsky redoubt, on which Napoleon stood, the flashes were at a distance of a mile, and Borodino was more than two miles away in a straight line, and therefore Napoleon could not see what was happening there, especially since the smoke, merging with the fog, hid all terrain. The soldiers of Dessay's division, aimed at the flushes, were visible only until they descended under the ravine that separated them from the flushes. As soon as they descended into the ravine, the smoke of cannon and rifle shots on the flashes became so thick that it covered the entire rise of that side of the ravine. Something black flashed through the smoke - probably people, and sometimes the shine of bayonets. But whether they were moving or standing, whether they were French or Russian, could not be seen from the Shevardinsky redoubt.
The sun rose brightly and slanted its rays straight into the face of Napoleon, who was looking from under his hand at the flushes. Smoke lay in front of the flashes, and sometimes it seemed that the smoke was moving, sometimes it seemed that the troops were moving. People's screams could sometimes be heard behind the shots, but it was impossible to know what they were doing there.
Napoleon, standing on the mound, looked into the chimney, and through the small circle of the chimney he saw smoke and people, sometimes his own, sometimes Russians; but where what he saw was, he did not know when he looked again with his simple eye.
He stepped off the mound and began to walk back and forth in front of him.
From time to time he stopped, listened to the shots and peered into the battlefield.
Not only from the place below where he stood, not only from the mound on which some of his generals now stood, but also from the very flashes on which were now together and alternately the Russians, the French, the dead, the wounded and the living, frightened or distraught soldiers, it was impossible to understand what was happening in this place. For several hours at this place, amid incessant shooting, rifle and cannon fire, first Russians, sometimes French, sometimes infantry, sometimes cavalry soldiers appeared; appeared, fell, shot, collided, not knowing what to do with each other, screamed and ran back.
From the battlefield, his sent adjutants and orderlies of his marshals constantly jumped to Napoleon with reports on the progress of the case; but all these reports were false: both because in the heat of battle it is impossible to say what is happening at a given moment, and because many adjutants did not reach the real place of the battle, but conveyed what they heard from others; and also because while the adjutant was driving through the two or three miles that separated him from Napoleon, circumstances changed and the news he was carrying was already becoming incorrect. So an adjutant galloped up from the Viceroy with the news that Borodino had been occupied and the bridge to Kolocha was in the hands of the French. The adjutant asked Napoleon if he would order the troops to move? Napoleon ordered to line up on the other side and wait; but not only while Napoleon was giving this order, but even when the adjutant had just left Borodino, the bridge had already been recaptured and burned by the Russians, in the very battle in which Pierre took part at the very beginning of the battle.
Jumped up with a flush with a pale one scared face The adjutant reported to Napoleon that the attack had been repulsed and that Compan had been wounded and Davout had been killed, and meanwhile the flushes were occupied by another part of the troops, while the adjutant was told that the French had been repulsed and Davout was alive and only slightly shell-shocked. Taking into account such necessarily false reports, Napoleon made his orders, which either had already been carried out before he made them, or could not and were not carried out.
Marshals and generals who were in more close range from the battlefield, but just like Napoleon, who did not participate in the battle itself and only occasionally drove into the fire of bullets, without asking Napoleon, they made their orders and gave their orders about where and from where to shoot, and where to gallop on horseback, and where to run to foot soldiers. But even their orders, just like Napoleon’s orders, were also carried out to the smallest extent and were rarely carried out. For the most part it turned out to be the opposite of what they ordered. The soldiers, who were ordered to go forward, were hit by grapeshot and ran back; the soldiers, who were ordered to stand still, suddenly, seeing the Russians suddenly appearing opposite them, sometimes ran back, sometimes rushed forward, and the cavalry galloped without orders to catch up with the fleeing Russians. So, two regiments of cavalry galloped through the Semenovsky ravine and just drove up the mountain, turned around and galloped back at full speed. The infantry soldiers moved in the same way, sometimes running completely different from where they were told. All the orders about where and when to move the guns, when to send foot soldiers to shoot, when to send horse soldiers to trample Russian foot soldiers - all these orders were made by the closest unit commanders who were in the ranks, without even asking Ney, Davout and Murat, not only Napoleon. They were not afraid of punishment for failure to comply with orders or for unauthorized orders, because in battle it concerns what is most dear to a person - own life, and sometimes it seems that salvation lies in running back, sometimes in running forward, and these people, who were in the very heat of battle, acted in accordance with the mood of the moment. In essence, all these movements back and forth did not facilitate or change the position of the troops. All their attacks and attacks on each other caused them almost no harm, but harm, death and injury were caused by cannonballs and bullets flying everywhere throughout the space through which these people rushed. As soon as these people left the space through which cannonballs and bullets were flying, their superiors standing behind them immediately formed them, subjected them to discipline and, under the influence of this discipline, brought them back into the area of ​​fire, in which they again (under the influence of the fear of death) lost discipline and rushed about according to the random mood of the crowd.

Graduated and then completed postgraduate studies at the Institute of Art Education at the Academy Pedagogical Sciences RSFSR. Worked school teacher in the Moscow region and in Moscow, studied mathematical linguistics at the Central Economics and Mathematics Institute of the USSR Academy of Sciences. For more than 30 years he was a columnist for the Moskovsky Komsomolets newspaper, wrote a regular column and published in various sections of the newspaper.

He published his poems in the newspaper Moskovsky Komsomolets, as well as in the magazines Ogonyok (No. 32, 1988) and Znamya (No. 3, 1997). He is the author of books of poetry “Safety Island”, “Texts”, “First Life”.

He is best known for his poems “Stop, Look Back” (the title has become a common phrase, repeatedly used as, for example, headlines of newspaper and magazine articles) and “If you don’t have an aunt” (set to music by Mikael Tariverdiev and became popular as a song in the film “ Irony of Fate, or Enjoy Your Bath! The poem “Ghetto. 1943" (“When the Ghetto Was Burning”), dedicated to the complex relationships between the Russian, Polish and Jewish peoples following the Second World War.

Journalist Alexander Yakovlevich Aronov is the author of the poem "VOICES", which is a significant milestone not only in his work... "I AM AKHNATON. And the voice of God

It comes into the world from my lips. But all the gods in Egypt are many..." "I am AKHNATON. Introducing Monotheism into the country ahead of schedule, I knew that this sweet era would not at all spare the leader."

Categories:

• Poets of Russia
• Russian poets
• Journalists of the USSR
• Born on August 30
• Born in 1934
• Born in Moscow
• Died on October 19
• Died in 2001
• Died in Moscow
• Journalists of the newspaper "Moskovsky Komsomolets"

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From the book of destinies. Alexander Yakovlevich Aronov (August 30, 1934, Moscow - October 19, 2001, Moscow) - Russian Soviet poet, journalist.

Born into a Jewish family. A native Muscovite. He studied during evacuation in Kazakhstan, and later in Samarkand, Irkutsk and Moscow. In 1956 he graduated from the Moscow City pedagogical institute them. V.P. Potemkin, and then graduate school at the Institute of Artistic Education at the Academy of Pedagogical Sciences of the RSFSR. He worked as a literature teacher in schools in the Moscow region and Moscow, and in the early 60s he studied mathematical linguistics at the Central Institute of Economics and Mathematics of the USSR Academy of Sciences. In 1966, he moved to Moskovsky Komsomolets and worked here for thirty-five years, writing a regular column and publishing in various sections of the newspaper.

In addition to Moskovsky Komsomolets, he also published his poems in the magazines Ogonyok (No. 32, 1988) and Znamya (No. 3, 1997). During the poet’s lifetime, three collections of his poems were published: “Safety Island” (“ Soviet writer", 1987), "Texts" (Book Chamber, 1989), "First Life" (Ogonyok library, 1989). After the poet’s death, “Tunnel” (Golos-Press, 2003), “Favorites” (Moskovsky Komsomolets, 2014), and “Ordinary Text” (Setizdat, 2014) were published.

Wife - Tatyana Aronova-Sukhanova, adopted son - Maxim Sukhanov.

The poem “Stop, Look Back...” written by him at the turn of the 50s and 60s became a classic, and the song “If you don’t have a dog...” (originally “When you don’t have dogs..." the whole country sang. The poem “Ghetto. 1943”, dedicated to the complex relationships between the Russian, Polish and Jewish peoples following the Second World War.

…When young, inexperienced poets ask for advice on which classics to read in order to gain maximum self-realization by learning from experience, I answer: Alexandra Aronova. And I see surprised faces. They don’t know him, they don’t remember him. They don't honor. Could it happen that they will completely forget? I don’t want to, it’s unbearable to agree and come to terms with this. But, apparently, this may happen when the few who saw and heard him disappear.

... His voice is missing. Him alive. His unexpected paradoxical judgments, his jokes and harshness. I communicate with Sasha’s books. Behind the lines of text I see his snub-nosed, bearded, smiling face... It’s happiness that the paper stores thoughts, rhymes, wisdom, kindness...

Andrei Yakhontov, from the essay “Shoot Me Twice”,

...Sholom Aleichem remarked: “Talent is like money: you either have it or you don’t.” Aronov corrected: “Talent is like money: it is there, it is not.”

And he, Aronov, said: “You cannot be a poet. You can be a poet."

Andrey Chernov, from the essay “Missed Classics” (afterword to the book “Ordinary Text”, 2014).

Stop, look back

Our people called Aron,

What's in the whirlwind of wars and revolutions

Moved forward all the time.

We stopped. We looked around.

We got scared. They recoiled.

And we walked back briskly

With a double-headed eagle on the standard,

With a different border on the map.

And it’s all Aronov’s fault!

But the authorities understood

When the poets were squeezed,

What is a poetic line

Stronger than the slogans of the Central Committee.

It was overlooked. Didn't catch it.

Apparently he thought he was a fool.

Stopped, looked back...

From the anthology “Ten Centuries of Russian Poetry”

He looked like Pushkin’s great-grandson - a sort of Moscow Pushkin boy, an eternal boy, though without the slightest dark complexion, but with slightly turned out lips and a flattened nose, with mischievous curly hair and an inexhaustible curiosity about life and a never-ending love for poetry, mostly other people’s, which just poured out of it. He was in constant readiness to be delighted with something or someone.

Such people have now almost ceased to be found, the guild brotherhood has disappeared - especially in literary environment- after the collapse of the united Union of Writers into separate unions and parties, jealously clicking their teeth at each other. But Sasha Aronov’s snow-white Pushkin-Robsonian teeth, like those of his great namesake, sparkled like the keys of a wedding accordion with joy for other people’s good poems - fortunately, there were a lot of them back then. Where did it go, the wonderful tradition of the sixties to read each other with poetry - again, not only their own! - at any hour on the phone, in any eatery, cafe, kebab shop, canteen?

What united all of us, the sixties, who were so different?

We were the first to overcome fear in ourselves and did not want anything similar to Stalinism to come to us in tanks under any name. We were suspected of falling under the influence of Western propaganda, but it was the other way around - we fell under negative impact their own propaganda, which they could no longer physically bear without disgust and disgust, because it was lying to us all the time. Soviet power itself produced anti-Soviet people. But there were those among us who, like myself in my “Premature Autobiography,” wanted to “erase all traces of dirty hands on the staff of our red banner,” and for such innocent words My soul was worn out. Obviously, we were saving the unsalvageable...

Russian poet Alexander Aronov

God gave him a lot of talent, but fate gave him little glory. He felt his strength so much that he decided - after Pushkin and Lermontov - to write the third “Prophet”; a direct continuation of the first two.

He found a brilliant form. Apparently, it dawned on me. The first six lines are reflected in the central neutral line, like in a mirror. And the meaning of the words is the same! - changes to the opposite! It's magic. And the “mirror line” is the only insensitive line in the entire poem. Cold, a real mirror.

Prophet

He lived without bread and mercy.

But, entering our village,

He greeted me like warmth itself,

Kind smiles and looks,

And time passed much easier;

And we were really happy...

But here is mirror glass:

And we were really happy

And time passed much easier;

Kind smiles and looks

He greeted me like warmth itself,

But, entering our village,

He lived without bread and mercy.

Aronov’s “Prophet” is radically different from Pushkin’s and Lermontov’s not only in form, but also in meaning.

Sasha and I became closer friends in 1965, when we both participated in a subscription campaign as part of a journalistic group that went on a bus to the cities of the Volga region to campaign for the publications of the Young Guard. Sasha was appointed commander of our landing force. I had to advertise the magazine “Funny Pictures”. Sasha, probably, the newspaper “Moskovsky Komsomolets”, where he started working next year. I don’t remember what other publications were presented on this trip.

The shabby bus churned and bounced in the autumn off-road conditions; there was no way to sleep. We were constantly skidding, waiting for hours for another swearing tractor to pull us out of the next squelching hole. On the way from Saransk to Kuibyshev, the bus got stuck in the mud for a day, but while my colleagues were rushing around the nearest village in search of help, a tractor drove past the bus, which was on its back, heading “to my mother-in-law,” and it was he who pulled us out. We spent the night on the bus, meanwhile our places in the Kuibyshev hotel filled up...

Returning to the overnight stay in Kuibyshev, I cannot keep silent about a piquant detail. We, homeless children, were sent to a men's shelter on the landing stage for unoccupied (literally) places. In a huge barn, thirty half-naked men were snoring, scattered about. Sasha’s bed and my bed were adjacent, and Sasha tied a rope to his leg, which I could pull in case of danger...

The fate of Alexander Aronov is tragic. I had to earn a living, which meant writing all sorts of things. Not just anything - there were poems. The poet defeated the newspaperman. In Aronov’s best poems, even humorous ones, even impromptu ones, always elegant and filled with meaning, there is the inevitability of the end, “total death in earnest.”

Here is a citizen riding on a tram.

He'll probably get off at the next one.

And the one walking down the street

Already got off. On the previous one.

Shortly before I left for Israel, after a long break, we met with Sasha, and I was amazed at the changes in his appearance: his wide-nosed childish face was covered in small wrinkles, his thin gray beard seemed glued on. I see him like this when I read poetry:

I was almost nowhere to be found.

It ended there, dropped out there, forgotten there.

The whole city has overcome my fatigue,

And only this room hurts.

The sofa and the table are still very tired,

Two shelves of books are too much for me to bear.

Good night everyone, good night!

Where is this cord? Turn on the darkness.