Translated material
"And the ray of the sun will light up"
The Atanas Mishkinis poetry festival has been held every two years since 2004. It is organized by the administration of Utensky district, the city hall of the city of Uta, the Utenskaya Public Library. Poets from Russia, Lithuania, Scotland, the USA, Poland, Georgia, Croatia, Latvia, Australia and other countries come to the festival. The Lermontov, St. Petersburg Library Network also participates in the preparation of the festival. Says the curator of the festival programs, an employee of the Lermontov library Rimma Kornyakov :
- The Utensky Public Library named after the Mikinyai brothers is a longtime partner of our Lermontov library, or rather, a library system. We provide participation in the festival of St. Petersburg poets who represent poetic Russia. The festival takes place in the most beautiful and poetic corners of Lithuania. When I visited there, I realized that it is simply impossible not to write poetry in such decorations. The festival opens with readings in Uta and the towns of Utensky district, in the estate of the Mishkini brothers. Of the two brothers, Atanas is better known - the poet, publicist and Lithuanian public figure. Poets from different countries come here, but the main language of communication is Russian. During communication, all political squabbles and conflicts are erased, everyone is united by the poetry of the word and poetry of these places. It is simply amazing how much the organizers of the festival, its owners, Lithuanian poets are sincere people, how easy it is to find a common language with them, how close to us in their attitude! On the last day of the festival, June 15,-a marvelous final chord, a farewell evening in the Mishkini estate, warm communication, songs, it is impossible to stop, all this lasts until the morning. It is interesting that Under, probably, the only place where all the authorities are poets: the head of the administration is a poet, the mayor of the city is a poet, the mayor’s sister is also a poet. Apparently, that's why they hold this festival and therefore it passes so interestingly and so sincerely.
Tatyana Voltskaya. From the cycle "Park of Culture"
DANCING
Park, almost Jurassic, with monsters, for screening
Doomed - rusted swings,
Bright red flower beds, martyr with an oar,
Whose empty features are not born Botticelli,
Poisonous tina ponded ponds,
The ghost of the boat end of the catamaran,
Blue booth, overgrown bushes,
An old -fashioned couple, as if getting off the screen,
The tray with ice cream, children, dogs, laughter,
Wheel of review, and in a large meadow
With a skeleton of a concrete scene - both laughter and sin -
Red -fruited old man dug in the button accordion,
And the old women are stomping - supposedly this is a waltz -
How used to it, without men, and over each
A muddy ghost in creaky belts - allow you -
And the button accordion, panting, is more likely.
Girl with an oar
Still, ancient forms in underpants and T -shirt
Require comprehension - not excitement,
Not lusty, not laughter-go catch
Gypsum gaze wandering. This is Sparta:
The smell of the gym, sweat, dense armpits,
Not familiar with the razor, whistling a military flute,
A boy with a fox in the forest of parachute towers,
"Homeland hears, the homeland knows"-someone
A voice, almost sobbing. Doesn't sit down
The sun in the empire, covered with raw tarpaulin,
In rough linen with a satin buttock
And Casanov will make impotent.
Only the oar in the field stood in the field - here
Everything crumbled - the casket was just opened,
Full bones and banners and something else ...
What do you need there, on the rostrum, older?
Wheel of review
Wheel of the review, filled with a third,
On which, except for the pond and the gate, do not think
To see anything worthy, -
Until now, it seems to me the wheel of Fortune.
You never know whether it is worth
Either he floats quietly, and the lucky ones sitting in him,
Interlocutors of swallows, languidly eat the view
Grinded, suddenly losing voice and face.
Stadium, industrial zone, gray claw - avenue,
The clumsy cloud floods everything with a shadow
As if they suddenly knocked over a cup, where is the run,
And a sudden take -off, and a swift fall,
For which, in fact, the whole cheese-brow
Has started? Lubricate the axis, but you will not find oil.
Then the carriage of Cinderella raced at full speed,
The wheel flew off - and got bogged down in the swan.
Laughter room
Oh, hold, hold me, funny!
What legs - barrels, and cheeks are pancakes, and neck
There is no at all, but the heroic shoulders, but
Step left - and long, like a trench,
The body stretched out - at all without a stomach,
But with a giant neck, albeit a skinny,
On which the head at the end of the pole
The sparrow sat down, and the arms and legs - relics.
Step to the right - the body went in waves, look,
Like on a TV where interference is.
Hands with a pretzel, howling legs, and what is inside -
Who will ask? Accountants, sellers, marines -
Everyone laughs, looking in the troll mirror, where
The image of God is crooked, writhes and smokes,
Like an asphalt heated in a day in the rain.
In the shower of the glasses, our faces are pouring with a roar.
Horror room
Oh, I'm afraid, I'm afraid of a bony hand
And uterine laughter: here, in the darkness,
The cart rumbles - hit, turn, jump
Bloodied ghosts, savannah, like flags,
They touch the face, the passenger squeals heartily,
As if on a scaffold of communal cuisine
Never moved and, like a bullet in the back of the head, "Jew!" -
I never heard, climbing into the tram. Rotten
This skull, a healing assortment
Doesn't it rest when you are aiming
Playing with a striped stick, the cop is suitable, -
And it’s not that time or money is sorry - -
And the vile nature trembles under the skin,
It will swim in the subcortex of the shepherd, Balanda, bunks,
And in the swamps are soldiers for the Neva ... -
What are there plywood ghosts and nightmares!
ICE CREAM
Who deserves paradise, he will hear a magical crunch
Waffles, folded into a tube, slightly wet on the bottom.
The white cone will melt, and the shocked Proust
So in the chest will remain - in the throat, more faithful. The result is
A string of children, enlightened, unhurried couples,
From the cold happiness of the people who bite out,
Praise solemnly, as if an unequal gift,
Ice cones and ovals.
Strange, in a world where the ghosts of cheese and sausages,
Despising the reality, they haunted sleeping
Where the cow's udder swelled on the scales
With ferocity-this is still real
It remained - as if angels in the wild land
They rolled a trolley with a aunt, proudly.
Singing trifles. Waves of music. This paradise
I never opened the gate: my throat hurt.
Boat station
Boat, in liquid glass gliding past flower beds
And wilted fountains, flocks of empty benches,
On which the chess, or something, the club
Or maybe checkers - the boat does not dare to stick
And strives further - now the zikurt
Stadium - only steps do not lead to the sun,
And by all, all the stands - exactly
To the underworld; The lady rushes to the lad,
Past by a miracle of not broken old dachas,
Still storing high -style signs,
Past gray crowds heading for the match
On a wide alley. What else did you miss?
Redeled pier, which to get into is a risk,
Carousel, buzzing, like a spin
And reeds and a boat - everything floods the Styx, -
Both a cafe-glass and the beach. Nothing sorry.
Fragment of the final issue of the Freedom Time program