Here the birch tree is crying

The “Poetry Library” has grown with a book by Vladimir Recepter

Vladimir Recepter has been writing poetry for half a century. The earliest date in his newly published collection “Farewell to the Library” (M., “Time”) is 1960, but I’m almost sure that the author developed the habit of putting line after line earlier. Poems were published in magazines, compiled into a few thin books (and who had it otherwise?), and received sympathetic reviews from worthy writers. Of course, Receptera valued “his circle.” (Here we cannot ignore the damned question about the interdependence of human sympathies and aesthetic assessments. And another - about how painful it is for an artist when he hears praise only from friendly lips, when he is doomed to doubt the weight of approval, to assume that they are not due to the quality of his work , but something else.) In general, everything was almost in order - no worse than that of other poets who shunned Soviet vulgarity and were labeled with the ambiguous label of “bookishness and culture.” It seems that the poet Receptor was not truly heard.

Taking the problem of censorship and editorial tutelage out of the equation (who escaped it?), we have to note: the other incarnations of the author involuntarily, but noticeably interfered with the ability to hear Receptor’s poetic melody. I judge by myself. I knew that Receptor wrote poetry - I knew it in my adolescence, when I made my way to his one-man performances on Shakespeare, Pushkin, Dostoevsky and cut down a record with “Hamlet”, in my youth, when I enthusiastically delved into Pushkin’s studies, in relatively recent years, reading with pleasure the master’s excellent prose, visibly exceeding “memoir” or “essay” standards. He knew, he didn’t miss selections in magazines, and if he spoke about them, it was with affection. But no more. The receptor - artist, director, literary historian, prose writer - hid the poet from me. Until last year, before the slow reading of his “summary” book “Through Prose” (about it, see “Vremya Novostei” of April 26, 2005; about “Notes of a Theater Renegade,” where poetry, prose and science of the Receptor came together, see “ Time for News" dated August 15) . Suddenly it became clear that the life and adventures of the BDT artists, the roles played (and not played), the performances staged (and not staged, taken away, closed), the rearrangement of scenes in Pushkin’s “Rusalka” (which makes you see the play as finished, but its essence is different) than before) and many years of persuasion of opponents (this word is more appropriate here than some kind of “fight against ...”) - but that’s all, just look , memories of conversations with Akhmatova, reconstruction of plots associated with BDT Blok and Bulgakov, confessions and anecdotes - in a word, everything that the artist, scientist, prose writer did - lives in verse. And without poetry it would never have become a reality. If Receptor had not, first of all, initially, been a poet, if he had not felt so keenly and lovingly the tragic harmony of existence, if he had not been subordinated to the categorical imperative of translating his arcane knowledge into poetry, he would have been a completely different actor, prose writer, director, philologist - he would have been a different person .

The volume of the "Poetry Library" series includes poems from different years, compiled into "mini-books" "Through Prose" (1963--1987), "Tour Bus" (1960--2006) and "Open Door" (1986--2002 ), cycle “Globus Theatre”. Speculations about Shakespeare" (1974), the dramatic scenes of "Peter and Alexey" and two completely new (only a few poems were published in magazines) verse unities - which gave the title to the entire book, "Farewell to the Library" (2005-2006) and "Savkina Hill . Mikhailovskaya Tale" (2006). I don’t want to compare poems from past years with those written almost yesterday - despite the “facts,” I can’t believe that they were written in different eras. The past cannot become the past. And I cannot (and I don’t want to) understand exactly when the sobbing stanzas about the vigil over Pushkin’s manuscript were composed - maybe at the time of the first guesses, maybe now. Does it really matter when the torment of the heroes, Pushkin (unraveling their destinies - and his own), a researcher searching for the thought and pain of a poet, a person who recognizes his own history in the “classical text” - always equally “open” - is intertwined into one ball? ” and “closed”, promising at once both a saving miracle and a sentence not subject to appeal.

Both that and that night with “The Mermaid,”/ staring at the manuscript, grieving/ for the eternal pitiful avenger,/ tormenting herself <...> No one understands her,/ no one can give advice;/ an unknown force is melting,/ but there is no will for forgiveness... // About us.../ And we are from rags to riches./ Here our connections are straightforward./ And the joys of any occasions,/ And the secrets of adopted children. // And a chorus of those killed in the womb,/ and a round dance of wet girls,/ that will sing at the fresh coffin,/ and dance, and present the score... // You drink, but it’s as if you didn’t drink,/ And the revelry will not save you./ And the leaves fall like ashes. / And the raven calls like fate.

This plot began before Receptor felt Pushkin’s “Rusalka” as part of his destiny. And there will never be an end to it. Because the poet always recognizes it - in lost and then gone forever lovers, in a sick heron, in sad trees... Because this pain appears in the brightest and most joyful memories. Because the consciousness of this guilt - the princes', Pushkin's, yours - makes you feel differently about all other misfortunes, sorrows and misfortunes. And the happiness that still existed, too.

Much more would need to be quoted here, but in general everything is clear anyway. Here the birch tree is crying, waiting for the murdered poet./ So Savkina Hill stands as the last stronghold./ Because the area is nourished by his glory,/ he would return, hug his friend.../ but there is no one.

Andrey NEMZER