Society of Dead Poets

The memory of Lola of Lyvovo, whose premature death interrupted the path of the poet

Lola Lynov, she was Alexander Chernyshov, was, in my opinion, a good poet. I would like to consider this issue regardless of the assessment published by Margarita Simonyan, who compared it to the "pre -official Akhmatova." Premature death is not a basis for such overstations. It would be nice to do not affect the attitude to Lole Lole and her poems, say, the image of the Litprom association, with the participants of which she was friends. In general, I do not want to act according to the word Boratynsky - "But the singer canon will turn out to be a imminent Zoil, already cherishing a dead man, in order to hurt the alive." I would like to honestly say, if only after her death, - and during my life I did not know her, unfortunately, that she was a real poet, and the assessments of some colleagues who called her poems ordinary girls are groundless.

I do not think that she committed suicide, because the mother of a seven -month -old child is hardly able to jump out of the window after a drunken quarrel, and in her poems there is no crisis - judging by the last texts, she wrote better than before, and the poets rarely seek death on the rise. As for the gloomy and some tear that is felt in these verses, this is not depression, but rather an excess of strength and temperament, while depression usually indicates their lack. She was all right with self-irony, and she has more in later verses, but actually a person who can divert the soul in verses is insured from the hopelessness that usually leads to self-destruction.

The life of Alexandra Chernyshova - unlike the fate of Lola of the ice - formed outwardly safely and even boring. Nevertheless, Lola had an ice tragedy, and to love, which she wrote a lot about, or to sociopathy, which she wrote no less, this tragedy did not come down in any way.

I can not be part of the whole, but it seemed
To break into rhymes, lines, turns, paragraphs -
You think, baby, what degeneration-
To be so close to someone, in fact-not to be with anyone.

So you would listen to me and would be silent,
Come, if you want, I will be your moor.
There are words, there is love. I always distinguished it.
Because we have no common topics.

Because my hands are really cold and
Even my loved ones do not become relatives,
The imprint lies on the lips of someone else's name -
This is all a trouble. This is all trouble. This is all war,

On which no one will see Austerlitz.
Do you want the truth? I don't want to shoot myself at all
Do not cry really, do not get angry -
Because for a long time I do not feel horseradish.

I could quote a lot, but those who want to find her poems on the network, especially now, when they will involuntarily appear fashion (and those who wrote about her in the early days - it doesn’t matter, overstating or underestimating the assessment - thanks for the fact that they will read it now).

She is remarkably, accurately and soberly expresses precisely this emotion - when everything was deceased, because all the wars became hybrid, and a daily lie.

I absolutely do not want to say that the conditional Putin is to blame for this tragedy, although it was in conditionally Putin's times that all meanings have depreciated, words have become deceased and the prospect disappeared. But this was expressed by few, and Lynova - more fully and better than others. Her poems are not at all the girl's lyrics, precisely because there are no hysteria in them - there is a complete absence of hysteria; There is a feeling that there could be a feeling in the place of all these surrogates, there could be life, work, future in the place of emptiness - but there was nothing to do and there is nothing to live.

She was subject to many influences, although, fortunately, on her verses there is no imprint of Brodsky’s poetics, which became a curse of many younger contemporaries. Zemfira, not so much by her technique as intonation; Bashlachev influenced - although now, after her death, the temptation is too great to see biographical similarities. But behind all these influences, an independent, sober, keen, very gifted person is visible, and this person experiences live longing, he does not allow himself to fall into the Delirium, he knows his strength and hopes them.

These are smart verses, merciless to others, to yourself and time. Who scolds them today, seeing a modern album in them - he has forgotten how to read and listen, forgive a thousand times.

The trouble was probably that in the frozen time where nothing evolves nothing, she also had nowhere to develop, and there simply wasn’t normal literary communication today - even in friendly circles: any dispute immediately goes into persons, develops into clarification of relations and ends with a wish to the opponent “die” that we will all do it later or later. Our time is generously on poets who began remarkably, but very quickly turning on what. I will not call them, because my task is not this - but tell me a poet who would really have developed, have been developing, mature and improved markedly. In the best case, it is possible to maintain stability, but in poetry stability, alas, is the decline - this bicycle falls if it does not go. Some chased for a frank evil, wanting to experience the delight of the fall, but the devil is a great deceiver, instead of the promised ecstasy and insights, he slipping a hangover and nausea.

Judging by her Facebook records, Lodova understood everything perfectly about the time in which she lived, and to herself - and this “nostalgia for the present”, from which they went crazy in the seventies, and today they simply prefer to run into anything, she overtook her regularly. She became one of the main spokesmen for this longing, and therefore her poetry will survive her for a long time.

It's almost like sex - for two games,
Personnel - back. The bets are made in a new one.
Instead of a heart under the ribs, a whistle, a hole.
Here you have puzzles. Come on, collect, try.

A new life where we do not smoke either you or me.
Where they changed the wallpaper in the old kitchen.
We got married, we have a multi -tabs, a family.
(The general fuse at the start managed to go out.)

You see, it will not come out on a cops-pax-fight,
God will not give us neither mind nor time.
It's just that your love is safe sex.
How to get pregnant from such a future ...

What should be done now? First of all, in addition to the obligatory help of her relatives and condolences to those who loved her, it is necessary to collect the book of her poems, which was not in life (and she hardly needed her). And if possible, it is somehow necessary, or, more carefully, peering into generations of 20-30-year-olds, because there are remarkably gifted people among them-they just have nowhere to live and have nowhere to take place.

Poets die not when they are bad, but when they are tired of it; And the worst time is exactly when everything is tired of everything.

Then there are not suicides-at least some manifestation of will-but terrible accidents.

It is unfortunate that I could not say a single good word to her during my life, because I did not know about its existence. I say to everyone who I personally do not know: March is a filthy time, the beginning of spring, when it does not smell in the spring. The most offensive is not to live until spring. You just need to survive, endure, go over. However, she just understood this:

Cool green tea can be applied.
Can be proved in disputes with yourself -
All preventive measures from "do not miss"
With a bang failed. In the tube, the chip is beeing.

Fucked in the cold. Overheated.
I rethought, then I survived.
This scenario has already burned two hundred times.
Apparently, the manuscript, since it is still intact.

I will hold on as usual, a mile away.
Smart people do not hide the sediment.
This will help. If only to wait out
Anger and dumbness of which I am.