Medial man

Olga Shumyatskaya would be glad that her thoughts, smile, breath were preserved in the memory of people who will read the book of her poems

In Ole Shumyatskaya, two qualities, especially valued by me in the writer: talent and modesty, intertwined, intertwined and glued to each other. Separately, they are often found. Together - very rarely. So rarely that they gain the status of jewel. If not for this, I would say, aggressive modesty, Olya would have been waiting for a serious literary success. But she did nothing for the so -called "PR." It was too intelligent.
In general, Olga Shumyatskaya took place as a human masterpiece. With his irresistible intelligence, wit, with his courage, immense resistance, with his shy (incredulous) talent.
In my opinion, she was not very serious about her inherent writing gift. For many comrades in the workshop and acquaintances, the black and white plumage of film critic was kept. Like a caliph-anist. When I first (for the first time) rolled with laughter over her stories, it opened to me that Sumon was a writer, a real, established master. Then there were books, excellent ironic prose. And I still have not known about poetry.

Alas, late ( *Olga died on February 14, 2013 - *ed. ). Alas, I can’t tell her: a noise, what good texts, how simple it is, for sure, beautiful. How varied in form. How worthy and truthful. Seek, I would tell her - you are a poet. In essence, from this substance - poetry - you are and you.

She was very happy when she was understood. Gratitude growing from self -doubt is another precious quality of the intellectual.

xxx

I just got good roles
And the best - Olya girls,
Which does not even suspect
That the best role in his life plays.

xxx

I would like to come up with other people's poems
Write words composed by someone
But for this you need other people's sins
Commit and assign other people's rights.

I would have remade the old romance,
The one that is treated with my hand,
But for this you need to go to deceive
And find the strength to break the law.

Everything once and someone has already been done,
The smoke of other people's foci cuts the eyes, covers the gaze,
And so I have one thing left:
From what remains, to light your fire.

xxx

Where does something come from?
Where does the word flow from?
And spilled with a line,
And spreads stanza.
Where does something come from?

Where does the wind blow from?
Does the fallen sheet turn?
And it breaks up to run
To shake the branch.
Where does the wind blow from?

How do people know how
What happened, is and will be?
And life is not so bitter,
And death becomes easy.
How do people know?

This is probably the highest gift
Which is only a little given:
Know how the line is born
How the wind drives clouds
How to live, where to go
How to plan the way to the goal,
And what the path, and what a goal,
And how much losses there are,
At the end of the tunnel, see the light
Give an answer to all questions,
Do not argue with your own fate
And just to be yourself.

xxx

No need to suffer above the word
After all, all verses are already ready
And they wait for their hour to come.

On the farthest dusty shelves
They are without benefit and without a lot
While stored in reserve.

From a precious vessel
Nobody drank yet
The seal has not yet been disrupted.

How hard it is to free yourself
Fussed from stupid passion
And the impossible to search!

Take the seal, pour a drink,
Take a feather, ink, scroll,
Salute of sweet spray!

Write what you want and how can you
And if you don't shoot rhymes,
So there will be a chance to get drunk!

A.K.

Well, what are you, dear, what are you!
The moles hid in the holes.
Tired of work,
Now we will move the curtains.

Light fire in the living room,
Lick the candles of the ogarik.
I am a handful of tangerines
I will buy you as a gift.

In their smallest slope
The sweetness flows quietly.
We will drink it so much
That the joy will be famously

That the snow will smell in the spring
With resin, firewood will be paid.
And the eagle owl quietly gasping
Anticipating good luck.

Moles hid in holes,
They fell asleep in the nests of the bird.
We will forget the quarrel.
We will change faces.

A hundred from the forehead of the wrinkle,
Plady's pole densely shadow.
Ah, only on tangerines
I would have enough money!

xxx

The cold was whitened
Do not unclench the frozen lips,
Our meetings are like birds
In the oven in the sprouted pipes.

On a sloping roof of ice
You yes, yes you and I -
Two chumazy chimney sweeps
With a long brush behind your back.

Twes the weather vapor hard wind,
The pigeons are clinging to the heat.
We will clean everything in the world
Mean soot and ash.

They will be clogged under the mouse stove,
The side of the stove will turn red.
We will live now on the roof -
You and I, me and you.

xxx

The light burns in my window
On the window a cup with a spoon
A saucer, in a vase sweets,
Two forgotten newspapers
Bank with honey, a teapot with tea.
I don't notice you.
You don't look at me
For four days now.
At the window, a chair with a pillow
A star sleeps above the window.
I will tell you: "Listen!"
You will answer dryly: "Yes?"
I will say: "In such a cold ..."
I will say: “In such a frost
The cat is sick, the dog is cold
The parrot hung his nose.
Why do you need freedom?
Behind the window of the weather,
All roads brought.
Let's drink tea with honey together,
After all, at such a time of year
It is terrible to lose heat. "
The light burns in my window.
A dog is sleeping, a cat is asleep,
The parrot is silent all day.
Kettle. VAZ. Candies.
Two forgotten newspapers.
And on cloves, the keys.

xxx
If you cry on a parade
At passers -by in sight
Is there aunt or uncle
Can they make trouble?

If you cry on a bench,
Grind right in the park,
Are idle families
Will tears drain the tears?

If the train is underground
Smear the mascara with your hand
Are police officers
Will you provide you with peace?

If you face a pillow
Sniff and sniff
Is it the best girlfriend
Will it endure you for a long time?

If you have a custom
Pour tears alone,
Then a habit will appear
Eat vodka and drink whiskey.

If you don't cry at all
If you feel sorry for beauty
It is necessary to choose a dog
Or give a shelter to the cat.

xxx

In a red leather coat,
In red leather casket
I'm driving in the subway
On the orange on the branch.

Sitting on a leather sofa,
Not losing a minute
I immediately fall into the novel,
As in a jump without a parachute.

And flying down down
Without a steering wheel and without windbreaker -
Read vague
The elderly fool.

A delightful catch!
It hung in my head
A lot of different words
Without the slightest without meaning.

xxx

Slowly open the doors
And open the windows slowly,
And fermented dawn
I pour it in the palm of your palm like cherries.

The evening will slow, the old rogue,
On the line of the night front,
Silk flap through the sun
Turning through the horizon thread.

Now they will open a star shooter
Twelve zodiac signs.
And lunar nodded cheese
A black dog will eat the clouds.

I will light a candle in the darkness.
I drip wax on the water.
I want it so, I want it so
At night to take her freedom!

xxx

Just quietly, just snowy
Just a janitor in a red -haired jacket
Waving a broom casually,
He went closer to the stall.

Just beer, just with foam
Just a seller with a beard
So diligently, so sedately
Dilutes beer with vodka.

Just drying, just with salt,
Just the taste of crazy beer -
This is the taste of Kabatsky will
Moscow Region.

Just in a chromenic shop
Under the name "Beer -Woods"
Will sell you by installments
Two sips of hoped freedom.

xxx

There will be a new day tomorrow
No offense and without sin.
Light thoughts rubbish
Cute jokes of nonsense.

There will be a clean house tomorrow,
House without litter in the corners.
Destroy the old scrap
Let's remove an unnecessary trash.

There will be a hundred roads tomorrow
Going to the new age -
Into an unknown flight,
In an indifferent escape.

The hopelessness of the new wounds.
The carelessness of new faces.
Unwritten novel -
The whiteness of empty pages.

There will be a new day tomorrow
Becoming yesterday,
And confidence that next
There will be a new day again.

xxx

This, of course, is complete nonsense
Stupidity and nonsense.
But, looking into the yard that night,
A star smiled at me.

This, of course, is just a laughter.
Do not believe Beliberda!
But, looking upstairs,
I smiled at the star.

This silent night conversation
It lasted two thousand years.
She illuminated the sleeping courtyard.
I looked at the light.

Nobody will be able to find out, ever
No way, nowhere, nowhere.
What the star was talking about with me.
What am I silent about the star.

xxx

I want a little:
Crumb of bread, soup spoon,
Fish cartilage, a slice of meat,
A handful of rice, Kvass mug,
A couple of new shoes,
Pile of handkerchiefs,
Dress, blouse, sweater, skirt,
Hat, scarf, gloves, fur coat,
A couple of emeralds,
Silver utensil cabinet,
Fox fur, chinchilla fur,
Two sports cars,
The house is small in the suburbs.

xxx

Give her a little yarn
And she will bind you winter.

Will bind the shawl from snowfall,
Will tie a hat from a snowdrift
And it will tame, if necessary,
Warm blanket from chills.

There, under a blanket, on the Perink
So easily and sweetly sleep!
Only rustling a ball in a basket
Yes, knitting needles quietly.

Give her a little light
And she will see you summer.

There will be a rainbow from silk,
The sun will sit right in the heels.
A needle sniffs up and down
In flexible and agile fingers.

There, on the meadow mattress,
There, in the green cradle
We will indulge in passion
Inspired idleness.

Give her ink and feathers
And she will entrust your life.

And she will take a notebook
Pouring all pages
And describe in order
All events and faces.

Views, voices, manners,
Intonations and gestures.
There is a measure for everything,
There is a place for everything.

Give her road dust
And she blinds you wings.

And she blinds your soul
And she blinds you.
You can listen to this soul
And you can warm up in the heart.

You can stretch out the road
To go hugging together.
Just give her a little
Soft yarn, warm wool.

xxx

Tagansko-Krasnopresnenskaya branch.
Underground tracks and crossings net
Stuck a little bit.

Places for the elderly and disabled
Are so only in appearance -
They are occupied by everyone who is not lazy.

The carriage is stuffy. Passengers are rare.
And my only neighbor has
Today was a dull long day.

On the forehead wrinkles, and in the eyes of resentment,
A suit of the pre -personnel tweed,
Lipsticks half -smashed shadow.

It costs me to come up with my life.
Of course, something bothers her
And of course, her husband is cheating on her.

She, of course, is a fool and a hen
The diapers strokes and turns cutlets,
In short, from kitchen boring clubs.

Here's a topic for conversations: Diamonds.
She will tell loudly and inappropriately
About the color of children's extreme puddles.

Everyone will become ashamed and a little disgusting
And the husband, looking at her furtively,
It will drain the compote from the boring pears.

Her driving movements and nonsense
And, approaching the door at the stop,
She will touch me by chance.

I'm not a seer or a fortuneteller
But for some reason I feel terribly sorry
The one that wanders into his smoked paradise.

xxx

I know that everything is useless
I know - no one will help
I can handle this disease
And with this chills, and with trembling.

I know that I am alone
Have to go on the rope
Where desperate is the point
Pulses scarlet staccato.

xxx

I'll ask God today
Just a little bit, very little-
A trifle, a trinket, nonsense.
To get your way
With itself both in time and in the leg,
Looking for a help in myself,
Like a point of melting in ice.

I'll ask for the sky today
Not shelter, not fire, not bread,
And not love, and not a child.
I will ask just one word.
Let not loudly and not new
It sounds. I need an argument
To justify being.

xxx

I will live for a very long time
Much longer than she wanted
Holding the pulse of the thread
Through the exhausted body.

I will wait a very long time
So long that I will get tired of believe
As in the inevitability of the accuracy of dates
In the column "Care and loss."

And in Poluvavi-half
I will swim for a very long time
Like a fish sleeping at the bottom
Lifeless, but alive.

xxx

The bustle fusses. Bustle.
There is no trait in life more.
The bustle fusses. Hassword.
Even there is no time to die.
Even once to get bored
Sit down in a chair, shake with your foot,
Watch the dumb movie
What was collected for a long time
Stick lazy a romance,
Lay out in the living room sofa
And through a half-patch
Listen to how the phone calls.
I'm alone at home today
I will drink this evening to the bottom
I will drink like hoping wine
What is given to me today.
Witchcraft drink, dope
This evening, this deception
This quiet paradise, quiet hell.
I want to go back!
Give a pass, give a ticket,
To get into the fuss herself!
In vanity fusses, in a whirlwind,
Where I have no time to die.

The collection of funds for the publication of the book of Olga Shumyatskaya is on the website Planeta.ru. We will be grateful to everyone who responds and help to publish a book.