A bitter note

About the poetry of George Borodyansky, which was approved by Yuri Levitan

The Omsk literary association of the late 70s and early 80s, led by Tatyana Chetverikova, left a bright page in the history of Siberian literature. And the name of the poet Georgy Borodyansky is now inscribed in this page, although he himself had long left attempts to break through and become famous.

In one of the first such attempts, we are four - I, Zhorka, Sasha Lizunov and Igor Egorov - went from frosty Siberia to Moscow to “conquer the capital” with their talents. It was January: in Omsk - minus 30, in Moscow - zero degrees. In their sheepskin coats, earflaps with lowered ears and in the fallen moherian scarves, my friends looked among the capital's streets, like lost shaggy dogs.

In a godless lane, we found a house where Yuri Levitansky lived (Zhora somehow miraculously got a recommendatory note to him). But Levitansky reported on the phone that he would accept only two. We sent us and Zhora.

Levitansky was sitting at a desk, on which packs of Java cigarettes were thrown in a huge layer.

He quickly leafed through our poems and said:

- Poetry, my friends, is now in a dead point. You know, if a wheel with a certain center of gravity makes a full revolution, then then it freezes at a dead point. It is almost impossible to move the wheel from a dead point. Everything has already been done in poetry ... Even I can’t write a new book now ...

After this trip, George wrote poetry:

So, we have not found our word yet, we have not said.
So, we are unlikely to be interesting to anyone on Earth -
From the province of two eccentrics at the Kazan station
In the vacation hall, where chairs are blown from the back.

We will play with you, having crossed the collar, until dawn.
We will wait for a return train and - goodbye!
And in the capital of verses at this time no less than snow.
And we, they say, is expected to get colder.

Passengers carry suitcases and bags to the platform.
Here is our compartment - two free upper shelves.
And then there will be long, long, long days.
You can think and sleep because they are tired like wolves.

You can think and sleep to Kazan, then from Kazan,
To the only station in this single world,
Where we have not found the only words yet, we have not said.
And now there are no excellent illusions anymore ...

Nevertheless, it was not easy to get out of romantic illusions. Then the restructuring began, and the illusions continued to disappear and break, and crumble to dust. Having published two small books, Zhora practically abandoned poetry and became a journalist. And that was his second life. And in the first - he remained an incorrigible romantic. And I, forever leaving Omsk, wrote poems dedicated to my friends (Vadim and Valery Mishchuki made them a song that they called “Steps” and which entered their album “The Best Songs of 1977-1990”).

Zhora Borodyansky believed in the last line how the children believe in the wizard. And he always said - yes, we will meet in the constellations of the Muse!

Now, probably, he is already there with his black wire hair and, as often - in absent -mindedness, in one red and one black sock. And here he left us his poems, perhaps, in the hope that someone would come in handy.

Marina Ulyabysheva -

For "new"

Poet Georgy Borodyansky, Omsk
What happened to you, man?
Why are you wandering unnecessarily
Resting his eyes in the snow?
It is uncomfortable for me, uncomfortable.

Maybe someone upset you?
Or did you quarrel with someone?
What are you silent, man, what are you silent?
“I am uncomfortable, uncomfortable.”

You see, it happens so
For no reason on the heart, dull
Not offense, not pain, not fear -
It is uncomfortable for me, uncomfortable.

I would go to a friend to wait
This blizzard, a terrible blizzard.
But not to escape to him,
And you can’t run away from a friend.

I would sacrifice a yellow ruble
I would be forgotten with a hoped minute.
You see, the turn is for wine?
This is a queue for comfort.

Only in the sky are silver again
Stars like tips of copies.
I would substitute myself -
Let them plow with all in a lip.

Only there is no miracle in the world,
But without a miracle in the world is meager
I rest my eyes in the snow,
It is uncomfortable for me, uncomfortable.

*

Again, youth called me.
"What are you?" - I asked. "Nothing…
Nothing". Only the heart ached
From your empty call.
I am tired of your smile.
I am no longer pursuing for happiness.
I'm tired. You yourself wanted
Break our dangerous union.
I seemed crazy for you.
He dreamed of something and was silent about something.
Then the departed rushed under the train,
That aliens met at night.
And when you disappeared suddenly
And she took her smile,
I thought that I would die ... or tomorrow
I bury into earthly affairs.
I cleaned my boots to shine
I got a place at the Research Institute,
Closed. And the girls honestly
They began to confess to my love.
And now I understand,
There is an answer to the question: "How do you live?"
So why do you take him
And in return, do you give a damn thing? ..
Well, you dropped the phone, Dureha,
And disappeared again without a trace?
Martian, dear, I feel bad
I lied. I died then.

*

I will die in this city - the city
Gray roofs and square houses,
Over which the light over which
The distance of my restless dreams.

In the end, I will go through the outskirts,
In his hidden yards.
I am the same stupid, wrong
Yes, and I did not choose it.

Here is the last shelter of my memory
In these walls and windows of night
Those disgraced years settled -
The faces of my loved ones and relatives.

In these arches of empty, barred
The hum of votes missing for a long time:
My time has expired, expired -
I will live here without knowing the watch.

I am a rare bird that
It will not fly anywhere,
There will be enough spaciousness in this city
Behind the fence between the stone slabs.

In the sky my promised
The paths are blocked. Nonsense:
I will be a shadow of tram tracks
To the last to stomp the courts.

May I not suit me for anything,
Let my spirit pretense in the ash:
I will die in this city - the city
The best on this earth.

*

Something was stuck.
And I can't live without him.
I rummaged around the bottom. May be,
Is it rolled under the sofa?
Or dropped somewhere in business,
Push, on the run?
Something was stuck.

I'm looking for. I'm trying.
I get out of strength - nothing.
As if hired by someone
Mugging snow tracks.
This is something like that
What I did not hold in my hands
Never. And in a dream.
Not for real and not Ponaroshka.
Something was stuck.
Since then I live an orphan.
Not a family saves me
No friends, no work.
And there will be no happiness to me
Without this little thing, simple.
This is something like that ...
There is something good.

*

I hope mom, dad, brother
At one table & are now sitting:
What is there - dumplings
herring under the fur coat,
Jellied, salty mushrooms ...
Or are these dishes there rude?
But about what else I will write
Here, in this world ... and on that -
Where did they find their eternal house?
There is & Li there the picture "Three Bears"
Above the bed, & in the hall - still life,
The cabinet is varnished, chest of drawers ...
Or where we will move
Sooner or later, not at home,
And their trace caught a cold, their trace caught a cold,
And we became strangers forever,
But where do I dream from?
And I ask: - God, save
Our failed lives
Somewhere the extension of them: this table,
This football on TV
And the roll on the walls of daisies,
And the long road in the window -
Past the pipes and further, further, further -
To the next world from where someone waves
Someone waves all the way to me.

*

And when I will lie in the coffin,
And all this garbage will pass,
And I will not torture fate anymore
And she will not torture me,

That is, it will not be me at all -
Inanimate such an object.
I will wink from you out of oblivion
I will hint that there is no death at all,

And there is absolutely nothing to grieve about,
And when my corpse is betrayed by the earth
I will forget to forget myself
And I will cry with you