THE HOUSE AND ITS FORTRESS

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Live in the house, and the house will not collapse. Arseniy Tarkovsky The fifth issue of the almanac "Ilya" has been released. Date of the first result. And it mysteriously contains a decade, because the real appearance of Elijah happened with his calendar threshold ...

Live in the house, and the house will not collapse.

Arseny Tarkovsky

The fifth issue of the almanac "Ilya" has been released. Date of the first result. And it mysteriously contains a decade, because the real appearance of Elijah happened with the calendar threshold of his coming of age - in 1996. At 16! We are still children at this time - with or without makings. And poets are already poets in full responsibility before the word. Will we remember Pushkin, Lermontov, Blok, Yesenin, Brodsky, Tyurin? .. It is in this series that we will remember, without fearing the protective shouts of accountants of greatness, who protect the classics with a golden chain with a warning “do not enter!”, “do not touch with your hands!” . Only poets enter without asking.

And Ilya once understood the law of the birth of a poet, the law of inheritance, in which Pushkin is not a name, but a right.

Vologda critic and scientist Sergei Faustov was stopped by Ilya's line about our vain run "to the gathering place where there is nothing." What a terrible destination indeed! And we foresee that it is so, that “there is nothing,” but we drown out the question with the clatter of running, the beating of the heart and the noise of blood. Just don't stop, don't ask. Therefore, we hear our poets badly.

But Ilya's insight is not in this, not in a warning about the emptiness of the goal, but in what definition he finds for the chaos of our being and running - "gentle chaos." As if to say about the scree of the Tower of Babel: "affectionate scree." But listen. This current, like that - the first Babylonian - confusion of languages ​​​​and the general non-hearing of each other, this "there is nothing", to which we are running, this confusion and chaos are sent to us so that we can finally see them. Not with their minds, but with their hearts, they saw a stern warning, and it was precisely in its severity that it was an affectionate warning. And as we will see, everything will line up at once, and we will understand that for a sighted soul, conscious chaos is already the building material of the House and the path to return to meaning. I'm still afraid to say: to God (so we weathered this word), although He is the only true counterweight to chaos and is Cosmos, Love and Home. “Tender Chaos” by Ilya is just a premonition of a tamed eternity, a premonition of Home. It was as if the poet had already been there, at the end, where "there is nothing", and now he returned with the news that there is salvation and it is in the transformation of this chaos with poetry.

And when Ilya's parents, after his death, created a whole movement and built his House in the almanac and the Internet, they only as a parent sensitively fulfilled the will of their boy, they were the first to hear his testament and stood in the way of chaos so that the House would grow over the abyss. And now it is for young Russian poetry!

Young poets, as befits poets, are children of their time and do not deceive themselves by asking anxiously, “What kind of life awaits us?” (Marina Akimova), the very word "lurks" revealing the predatory nature of the day. They know the bitterness, difficulty and often loneliness of the poetic path:

From the loneliness of two

to loneliness together...

(Maria Kondratova)

But by ourselves this air is stone

Move our lips.

We are used to loneliness.

We die alone.

(Andrey Nitchenko)

"To be", Hamlet, is not a question,

but "how" and "by whom".

(Ivan Klinovoy)

Already something, but they know chaos. And even if they do not formulate it, do not realize it, like Ilya, then they can rebel against chaos. The very community of the house and the gift, the fellowship of the lyceum, the feeling of the family that gathers them in this house.

This is only for the Internet and the almanac in their house and a hall, and a staircase, and a living room, and an office, but for the heart - a happy hostel. Or - closer - the kitchen, where it's always so fun to push around, to suddenly shut up with a feeling of terrible closeness, and then speak even louder.

And the thought of Dmitry Dubnov from Moscow will flash up that philosophy, tired, like everything else today, losing sight of religion, will meet with it precisely in poetry.

And they have already grown here into poets! Anna Pavlovskaya, Pavel Chechetkin, Ivan Klinovoy, Anton Cherny, Dmitry Litasov, Andrey Nitchenko. And they are not crowded here with their Syktyvkar, Perm, St. Petersburg, Irkutsk, Rostov. Having come out with the Ilya Prize, they are already laureates of other Russian awards, and, therefore, they are today's living day of poetry. And they echo through the immensity of our spaces, taming and domesticating them with their roll call. And in their poetic greetings and messages one can hear the gentle Pushkin's "Yes, my voice will give your soul the same consolation ...". Give, give! And to me, in Pskov, when I unfold the next issue of the almanac or look at the website of the House of Elijah. That's why I drop in to stay at home, to strengthen myself, to hear the happy exclamation of Andryusha Nitchenko, “How God made us!” and believe him. And to be with those who are not yet twenty. And with his middle-aged comrades who share the path of "Ilya" all these years - Marina Kudimova, Yuri Kublanovskiy, Anatoly Kobenkov ...

Home, it is home. No one is crowded here, people come back here. Here the voice of experience brightens from the neighborhood of youth, and the voice of youth hardens.

Here the window is always on fire and the kettle is boiling, because someone is just coming to the door. And he is waiting...