Dream about this type of sentence at least once again. V

Arseny Tarkovsky (1907-1989)

“I believe that the most important thing in the world is the idea of goodness.”

... Everything in him grew over the years - thought, soul, but not age! Not age! That is why, mostly not peers, but Tarkovsky’s young friends, poets, his students, both in oral and written memoirs, draw our attention to the poet’s childish character...

Child poet. This definition is not applicable to all poets...

Childish features can be found in Mandelstam, but not in Khodasevich, noticeable in Tsvetaeva, but not in Akhmatova. Of course, observations are drawn from everything that is open or even hidden in their poems, from everything that is written about them by memoirists, and even more so from what the poets themselves said about themselves, including the motives for myth-making. But you will not find a more pronounced childish character than the one that Arseny Alexandrovich possessed either in life or in memoirs...

Flickering yellow tongue,
The candle is becoming more and more blurry.
This is how you and I live
The soul burns and the body melts.

The poet Arseny Aleksandrovich Tarkovsky was born on June 25, 1907 in Elisavetgrad (present-day Kirovograd), then a district city in the Kherson province, in Ukraine.

Parents of Arseny Tarkovsky

In 1923Tarkovskycame to Moscow, his half-sister lived there. In 1925, he entered the Higher Literary Courses, created to replace the Literary Institute, which was closed after the death of the poet Valery Bryusov. At the Literary Courses, Arseny met Maria Vishnyakova, who entered the preparatory course in the same 1925. In February 1928 they got married.

MuseWhat is the wormwood-soaked wind to me? What is sand to me that has absorbed the sun during the day? What is in the singing mirror is a blue, double reflected star. There is no more blessed name: Mary, - It sings in the waves of the Archipelago, It rings like a tense sail of the Seven islands born of heaven. You were a dream and became music, Become a name and be a memory And with a dark girlish palm Touch my half-open eyes, So that I see the golden sky, So that in the dilated pupils of my beloved, As in mirrors, the reflection of the Double star leading the ships appears. The Tarkovskys were in love with each other, they lovedtheir friends, their work, literature and lived the big, hectic life of students in the 20s... They notified their relatives about their decision, and Marusya’s mother, Vera Nikolaevna, came to Moscow to meet her daughter’s chosen one. She didn’t like him, and she spent the whole night trying to persuade her daughter not to take such a rash step as marriage. Marriage took place, andVera Nikolaevna had to come to terms with the fact.Young annuallyon vacationcame to Kineshma...Two children were born in this marriage - Andrey (1932) , future kidirector and Marina (1934).

From a letter from Arseny Tarkovsky to Maria Ivanovna about Andrei:I don't know what to do with this. Since this has already begun, then it is necessary to direct his passions along a good path, and delaying the waterfall is an empty matter. Maybe it would be good to explain to him that love is not just something that the guys have in mind, but a feeling that is both noble and leads to selfless actions. Try to instill in him that you should not make people suffer for the sake of your loves - unfortunately, I realized this too late. Explain that the worst thing is the later regret of hurting someone.

In one of the Western interviews, after “Mirror”,Andrei Tarkovskyto the question “What did your parents, your loved ones in general?” give you the following answer:

« It turned out that, essentially, I was raised by my mother. My father broke up with her when I was three years old. It rather affected me in some biological, subconscious sense. Although I am far from a fan of Freud or even Jung... My father had some kind of internal influence on me, but, of course, I owe everything to my mother. She helped me realize myself. From the film (“Mirror”) it is clear that we lived, in general, very hard. Life was very difficult. And it was a difficult time. When my mother was left alone, I was three years old and my sister was one and a half years old. And she raised us herself. She was always with us. She never married the second time; she loved our father all her life. She was an amazing, holy woman and completely unsuited to life. And everything fell on this defenseless woman. Together with her father, she studied at the Bryusov courses, but due to the fact that she already had me and she was pregnant with my sister, she did not receive a diploma. Mother was unable to find herself as a person with an education, although I know that she was engaged in literature (drafts of her prose fell into my hands). She could have realized herself completely differently if not for the misfortune that befell her. Having no means of subsistence, she began working as a proofreader in a printing house. And she worked like that until the very end. I have not yet had the opportunity to retire. And I just don’t understand how she managed to educate my sister and me. Moreover, I graduated from the school of painting and sculpture in Moscow. You had to pay money for this. Where? Where did she get them? I graduated from music school. She paid the teacher from whom I studied before, during, and after the war. I should have become a musician. But he didn’t want to become one. From the outside we can say: well, of course, there were some means, since a person is from an intelligent family, this is natural. But there is nothing natural about this, because we literally walked barefoot. In the summer we didn’t wear shoes at all; we didn’t have any. In winter I wore my mother's felt boots. In general, poverty is not the right word. Poverty! And if it weren’t for my mother... I simply owe everything to my mother. She had a very strong influence on me. “Influence” isn’t even the right word. The whole world for me is connected with my mother. I didn't even understand it very well while she was alive. It was only when my mother died that I suddenly realized this clearly. I made “Mirror” while she was still alive, but only then did I understand what the film was about. Although it seemed to be conceived about my mother, it seemed to me that I was making it about myself... Only later did I realize that “Mirror” was not about me, but about my mother...”

And I dreamed about it, and I dreamed about it,
And I will dream about this again someday,
And everything will repeat itself, and everything will come true,
And you will dream everything that I saw in my dream.
There, away from us, away from the world
The wave follows the wave to beat on the shore,
And on the wave there is a star, and a man, and a bird,
And reality, and dreams, and death - wave after wave.
I don’t need numbers: I was, and I am, and I will be,
Life is a miracle of miracles, and kneel the miracle
Alone, like an orphan, I lay myself down,
Alone, among the mirrors - in the fence of reflections
Seas and cities, radiant in the smoke.
And the mother, in tears, takes the child on her lap.
1974

Prisoners of Happiness

A woman in red and a woman in blue walked along the alley together. - “You see, Alina, we are fading, we are freezing, - Captives in their happiness...” With a half-smile from the darkness, the woman in blue answered bitterly: “What? After all, we are women!” Marina TsvetaevaIn 1936, Arseny Tarkovsky met Antonina Aleksandrovna Bokhonova (1905-1951), the wife of the critic and literary critic, friend of Mayakovsky and Burliuk, Vladimir Vladimirovich Trenin. In the summer of 1937, he left her family, leaving his children in the care of his mother and visiting only on their birthdays. And the new family is raising a daughter, Elena, from Antonina’s first marriage.In 1940, Tarkovsky divorced M.I. Tarkovskaya and officially married Bokhonova. Director of the Andrei Tarkovsky Museum in Zavrazhye Galina Golubeva: Maria Ivanovna was beautiful and smart, she was successful with men, but she never married - all her life she loved the father of her children.

Sometimes you wander down the street -
Suddenly it will come from nowhere
And it will run down your back like a shiver,
A senseless thirst for a miracle.
...
There is no miracle in this world,
There is only the expectation of a miracle.
That's what the poet rests on,
That this thirst comes from nowhere.

Arseny Alexandrovich was then married twice more. First, on the beautiful Antonina Trenina (she also left her family for a new marriage). They didn't live long - about five years. Antonina became very ill due to mental suffering. And then Maria Ivanovna became her close friend and looked after her all her life. And she buried her too.

During the war, Arseny Tarkovsky lost his leg. Then his second wife, Antonina Bokhonova, left him in the hospital. But the war ended, his poems were still not published, and a personal crisis superimposed on the creative crisis - his second marriage was coming to an end. There is a version that emotionally Tarkovsky did not endure physical dependence on his wife after the amputation of his leg.

«… I'm always attracted to unhappy loves, I don't know why. I really loved Tristan and Isolde as a child. Such tragic love, purity and naivety, it’s all very charming! Falling in love feels like you've been pumped full of champagne... And love encourages self-sacrifice.

Unrequited, unhappy love is not as selfish as happy love; this is sacrificial love. Memories of lost love, of what was once dear to us, are so dear to us, because all love has an impact on a person, because in the end it turns out that there was some portion of goodness contained in this too. Should we try to forget unhappy love? No, no... It’s torture to remember, but it makes a person kinder..." “I loved her, but it was difficult with her. She was too harsh, too nervous...

She was terribly unhappy, many were afraid of her. Me too - a little. After all, she was a little bit of a warlock..."

Arseny Tarkovsky. What you didn’t do just to see me secretly, You probably didn’t sit behind the Kama in the low house, You laid the grass under your feet, it rustled so much in the spring that you were afraid: if you take a step, you’ll inadvertently hit you. She hid like a cuckoo in the forest and cuckooed so much that people began to envy: well, your Yaroslavna has arrived! And if I saw a butterfly, when even thinking about a miracle was madness, I knew: you wanted to look at me.

And these peacock eyes - there was a drop of blue on each wing, and they glowed... I, perhaps, will disappear from the light, But you will not leave me, and your miraculous power will clothe me with grass and give flowers to both stone and clay.

And if you touch the ground, the scales are all in rainbows. You have to go blind so that you can’t read your name on the steps and arches of these gentle green choirs. Here is a woman’s ambush of fidelity: You built a city overnight and prepared rest for me. And the willow tree that you planted in a land where you have never been? Before you were born, you could have dreamed of patient branches; She swayed, growing up, and took in the juices of the earth. I happened to hide behind your willow from death. Since then, I have not been surprised that death passes me by: I must find a boat, swim and swim and, having suffered, land. To see you like this, so that you will forever be with me And your wings, your eyes, your lips, your hands - will never sadden you.

In 1945, Arseny Tarkovsky, in the direction of the Writers' Union, went on a business trip to Georgia to work on translations of Georgian poets.Tbilisi is also associated with memories of a certain beautiful Ketevan, who lived in a house at the foot of Mtatsminda. One day in a restaurantwriterspast the table where Tarkovsky was sittingpassedNataVachnadze(in silent films, Nato played in film adaptations of Georgian literature). Arseny Alexandrovich managed to say: “I have an idiot’s dream that you will sit with me for a while!” After some time they decided to get married. This would probably be the most beautiful couple of the 20th century. Nata came to Moscow especially to marry Tarkovsky. But the story turned out to be no less funny than sad. The poet had the only decent trousers, and his wife, whose divorce was decided, she knew about the intentions of Tarkovsky, who was in a hurry to go on a date, volunteered to iron them, put themontrousersa hot iron, and he fell through his trousers. There were also funny short trousers, in which it was impossible to go to Natya... Arseny Alexandrovich put them on and, dejected, trudged to the neighbors, where he met Tatyana Alekseevna, who became his last wife... Many years later, Arseny Alexandrovich was visiting young people Georgian film directors, Andrey's friends,Heby the eyes I guessed in one of them the son of Nata Vachnadze.

I love life and am afraid to die.
If only you could see how I'm electrified
And I bend like an ide in the hands of a fisherman,
When I transform into a word.

But I'm not a fish or a fisherman.
And I am one of the inhabitants of the corners,
Similar in appearance to Raskolnikov.
Like a violin, I hold my grudge.

Torment me - I won’t change my face.
Life is good, especially at the end
Even in the rain and penniless,
Even on Judgment Day - with a needle in the larynx.

A! this dream! Little life, breathe,
Take my last pennies
Don't let me go upside down
Into the world, spherical space!

In Tbilisi, Arseny Alexandrovich met with a young woman - only her name is known - Ketevana, he dedicated poetry. Ketevana's parents objected to the possible union of their daughter with the visiting poet.

I don’t believe in premonitions, and will accept
I'm not afraid. No slander, no poison
I'm not running. There is no death in the world.
Everyone is immortal. Everything is immortal. No need
To be afraid of death at seventeen years old,
Not at seventy.

In Turkmenistan T Arkovsky was at least twice. The first time was with Tatyana Ozerskaya in 1948, and in 1957 - at the celebration of the anniversary of the Turkmen writer Berdy Kerbabaev.

In the last month of autumn, on the slope of Harsh life, Filled with sadness, I entered a leafless and nameless forest.

It was washed to the brim with milky white

Glass of fog.

Along gray branches

Tears flowed down as pure as

Some trees cry the day before

All-bleaching winter.

And then a miracle happened: at sunset

Blue dawned from the clouds,

And a bright ray broke through, like in June,

Like a bird's song a light spear,

From the days to come to my past.

And the trees cried the day before

Good works and festive generosity

III. “Put Nikola’s little icon in my hand...”

Put Nikola's little icon in my hand,
Take me to the sea sand
Show me the southern slanting sail.
My misfortune is more bitter than bitter,
Your sea water is sweeter than honey.
Take me away from here forever.
A sleepy sturgeon stands under the ice.
Mortal shame breaks my fingers.
There is no harsher grievance in the world than the Kama grievances.
I would enter the hut - there is no cricket in the corner,
I would lie down on the bench - there is no icon in my hand,
I would throw myself into the Kama, but there is ice on the river.

IV. Refugee

I didn’t spare salt for the road,
It was so annoying that it drove me crazy.
You're burning, holy Kama winter,
And I live alone, like the wind in a field.
Are you stingy, mother, would you give me some bread, or something?
The bins are full of vigorous snow,
Take it and eat it. My bag is heavy:
Half a mountain of grief and a fraction of it.
I'll freeze my feet in the wind,
I'm a refugee, no one needs me,
You don't care, I'll die.
What should I do among your pearls?
And cold-forged silver
On the wild Kama, at night, without a fire?

V. “I erect wood-burning altars…”

I erect wood-burning altars.
Kama, Kama, my river, open your holes.
Show me everything the Tatars boasted about, beauty,
Sharpened knives and sunken barges.
I curse, I cry out for doom, I boil the gruel,
I roll the convict car, swearing,
I drink your wine with drivers and loaders,
I'll walk down the creaking board to the black bottom.
Kama, Kama, how do I pay for your ice brocade?
I am paying for your brocade with certain death.

VI. "Death puts its paw on everything..."

Death puts its paw on everything.
I'm scared to look at Chistopol.
The prisoners are driven through the stage.
Burning snow covers the path.
You will cover my eyes with bitter smoke,
You feel the wild cold behind you
And in tears you open it wide
The doors of the God-damned pub.
Smokehouses glow on the windows
Muddy, your blessed ones.
What about hospital stretchers?
Doesn't your son lie down in oblivion?
At the hour of death, will you remind me of myself?
The bright valley - and you fly again,
And what do you sing about all night with Kama,
What do you want to tell the guards?

VII. “You punish unbearably in anger, Lord...”

You punish unbearably in anger, Lord,
I'm freezing under your breath,
You are my defenseless human flesh
You cut with an icy sword.
The blizzard angel crushes my fingers with a hammer
At sunset on Judgment Day
And kisses your eyes and blows your ears,
And it covers me with snow.
I can't breathe under your feet
I'm drunk with your torture wine.
Who am I, Lord my God, before you?
Sebastian, your servant Sebastian.

VIII. "I fell and suffocated while running..."

Fell, suffocated while running,
Your golden-domed city is burning with fire,
And you keep crumpling up the bloody handkerchief,
You keep toiling, sick, in the snow.
I'm not jealous of my enemy
I'm not afraid of your bad fame,
Curse me, torture me, but - Good God! -
I can’t love you if I’m offended.
It is not the bird-catcher who spreads his nets,
The air became nets at your hour of death,
There is no living water in the world for you.
When the Lord did not save me from destruction,
How can I save, how can I love someone like this?
Oh no, wake up, I’m dying and sad...

IX. “You don’t consider our land a paradise...”

You don’t consider our land a paradise,
And the land of wheat, someone else's loaf,
With your bayonet you cut off the best third.
We know exactly what we are dying for;
We are taking away your native land,
And you - to die for stolen bread.

X. “I’m calling – she doesn’t respond, Marina is fast asleep...”

When I call, she doesn’t respond, Marina is fast asleep.
Yelabuga, Yelabuga, cemetery clay.
I wish I could name a dead swamp after you,
With such a word, like a bolt to lock a gate,
You, Elabuga, would frighten the unkind children,
Merchants and robbers would lie in your graves.
And on whom did you breathe the fierce cold?
Who was the last earthly refuge?
Whose swan cry did you hear before dawn?
You heard Marina's last word.
I too freeze in your disastrous wind.
Spruce, damned one, give it to Marina!

“When we return home after this unheard of...”*

When we return home after this unheard of
slaughterhouses,
We'll be crushed by the strange sudden peace
We'll have to sit and wonder why we didn't
calmer?
There is no point in singing or crying for dead heroes.
And our beautiful wives are used to
to military treason,
But we will love the slightly swollen eyelids from tears,
And if I see a hairstyle, breathing freshly cut hay,
I will hear an incorrect oath: forever, forever!.. -
No, I will never find a place for myself anywhere in the universe.
I've seen things that I don't need anymore
Neither your peaceful cause (or maybe death
instantaneous?),
Neither your home, nor your garden of Eden...

White Day*

The stone lies near the jasmine.
There is a treasure under this stone.
Father is standing on the path.
White, white day.
Silver poplar in bloom
Centifolia, and behind it -
climbing roses,
Milk grass.
I've never been
Happier than then.
I've never been
Happier than then.

"A German machine gunner will shoot you on the road..."*

A German machine gunner will shoot you on the road,
Will the landmine shrapnel break my legs?
Will an SS boy put a bullet in the stomach,
But I’ll still be screwed on this front.
And I will be barefoot, without name and glory,
Looking at the bloody snow with frozen eyes.

"I knew a lot of good and bad..."*

I've known a lot of good and bad,
He knew how to burn like wax, love and sing,
And finally I got into this tiny little thing.
What am I now? Food for death by starvation.
Fate is right: not for me, taken from clay,
Immortal open existence,
But - good God! - it’s bitter for me, the winged one,
Rely on her blindness.
You, my careless nurturers,
How could you forget me in trouble?
Thank you for the unreliable wings,
For the pain in the shoulders, for the whiteness in the dust,
Because there is neither human nor bird
There is no conspiracy to go sideways or up
Rush to the island and reach it,
And catch your breath where you escaped.

“What didn’t you just do…”*

What didn't you do?
to see me secretly...
You must have been restless
behind the Kama, in a low house,
You were covered with grass under your feet,
it rustled so much in the spring,
What was scary: if you step -
and it will hurt you inadvertently.
Cuckoo lurking in the forest
and crowed so much that people
They began to envy: well,
Your Yaroslavna has arrived!
And if I saw a butterfly,
when to think about a miracle
It was crazy, I knew:
you wanted to look at me.
And those peacock eyes -
there was a drop of lazori there
On each wing - and they glowed...
I might disappear from the world,
And you won't leave me
and your miraculous power
He will dress you with grass and give you flowers
both stone and clay.
And if you look closely at the ground,
the scales are all in rainbows. Necessary
Blind so that your name
cannot be read on steps and arches
A chorus of these tender green ones.
Here is a woman's fidelity ambush:
You built a city overnight
and she prepared rest for me.
And the willow tree that you planted
in a land where you have never been?
Before you were born you could
dream of patient branches,
She swayed as she grew up,
and took the juices of the earth.
I happened to be behind your willow tree,
hide from death behind a willow tree.
Write me at least one line, at least one
A bird's line of vowels here, to war.
What a letter! Okay, let there be no letter,
You drove me crazy even without letters,

Tarkovsky Arseny

Tarkovsky Arseny

Poetry

Arseny Alexandrovich Tarkovsky

In the painter's studio there is a mannequin... - Evening, blue-winged... - So the summer has passed... - I thought I heard someone... - June 25, 1935 - Still, I am not the plaintiff... - Angelo Secchi - Ballet - There was a house with three windows... - On the road - In the last month of autumn, on a slope... - Camel - Wind - Evening, blue-winged... - There was a whiff of damp earth from the window... - Here comes summer passed... - Where the mounds kissed the steppe... - Pigeons - Grigory Skovoroda - Dagestan - Jeanne's tree - Rain in Tbilisi - A soul that flared up in flight... - If only, as before, I was proud... - More there is ringing and thunder in my ears... - And I dreamed of this, and I dream of this... - And I accompanied this shadow on the road... - And I came from nowhere to split... - Ignatievsky forest - To poetry - Like forty years ago... - Cactus - Karlovy Vary - Komitas - A red lantern stands in the snow... - Little life - Mill in the Dargav Gorge - My vision is fading - my strength... - I wish only now... - On a rainy day I’ll dream... - I see other shadows... - Over a black-gray hole... - A German machine gunner will shoot you on the road... - Night rain - The night of the first of June - Time passes slowly at night.. - Oh, if only I could get up... - Taken from me, at night... - Paul Klee - The first thunderstorm - First dates - Before the leaves fell - Song (My early years are long gone...) - Under the heart of the grass, the dewdrops are heavy. .. - Late inheritance... - Late maturity - Portrait - In the middle of the world - Poe 1000 tons - Sea of Azov - The body wakes up... - May Vincent Van Gogh forgive me... - Pushkin epigraphs - Hands - Manuscript - In the morning I I was waiting for you yesterday... - You lilacs, lilacs... - There are so many leaves... - Dictionary - Again I'm in a foreign language... - Dreams - Let's get together little by little... - Become yourself - I made a snowy bed. .. - Steppe pipe - The table is set for six... - It gets dark - Titania - He lived and died, that lived... - You, like a black and white butterfly... - Theophanes the Greek - Tseysky Glacier - What you didn’t do only... - Rosehip - I'm afraid it's too late... - I'll put on a ring of iron... - I was born so long ago... - I am a shadow from those shadows that, once... - I learned to grass , opening the notebook...

* * * That one lived and died, that one lived and died, and these lived and died; The other lay tightly against one grave.

The earth is more transparent than glass, And you can see in it who was killed And who killed: on the dead dust The seal of good and evil burns.

The shadows of generations descended into the earth are darting across the earth; They wouldn’t be able to escape anywhere from our hands from lynching, If only we weren’t expecting the same judgment from God knows where. Arseny Tarkovsky. Poems from different years. Moscow, "Sovremennik" 1983.

* * * There is still ringing and thunder in my ears, Oh, how the carriage driver rang!

A tram went there, and there was a leisurely and shallow river, all covered in reeds and duckweed. Valya and I are sitting astride the cannons at the gate to the State Garden, where there is a two-hundred-year-old oak tree, Ice cream makers, a lemonade stand, and musicians in a blue shell. June shines over the State Garden. The trumpet mumbles, they beat the drum, and the flute whistles, but you can hear it as if from under a pillow In half a drum, half a trumpet, half a flute And in a quarter of a dream, in an eighth of life.

Both of us (in summer hats with an elastic band, in sandals, in sailor suits with anchors) We don’t yet know which of us will remain alive, 1000 of us will be killed. There is no talk of our destinies yet, Fresh milk is waiting for us at home, And butterflies land on our shoulders, And swallows fly high. The air of childhood and home... Moscow, "Young Guard", 1987.

* * * Late inheritance, Ghost, empty sound, False cast of childhood, My poor city.

The burden of so many years weighs heavily on my shoulders. There is no point in this meeting. In fact, there is no point.

Here now there is a different sky outside the window, smoky blue, with a white dove.

Sharply, too sharply, Visible from afar, The curtain is blushing in the window slot,

And, without getting tired, the wax mask of ancient years looks after me. Arseny Tarkovsky. Blessed light. St. Petersburg, "North-West", 1993.

* * * I studied grass, opening my notebook, and the grass began to sound like a flute. I caught the correspondence between sound and color, And when the dragonfly sang its hymn, Passing between the green frets like a comet, I knew that every dewdrop is a tear. I knew that in every facet of a huge eye, in every rainbow of brightly chirping wings, dwells the burning word of a prophet, and I miraculously discovered Adam’s secret.

I loved my painful work, this clutch of Words, held together by their own light, the riddle of Vague feelings and the simple solution of the mind, In the word of truth, I saw the truth itself, My tongue was truthful, like spectral analysis, And the words were under my control. feet were lying around.

And I will also say: my interlocutor is right, I heard at a quarter of the noise, at half the world I saw, But without humiliating either loved ones or herbs, I did not offend my father’s land with indifference, And while I was working on the earth, I accepted the Gift of cold water and fragrant bread , The bottomless sky stood above me, The stars fell on my sleeve. Soviet poetry of the 50-70s. Moscow, "Russian language", 1987.

* * * A German submachine gunner will shoot me on the road, Will shrapnel shrapnel break my legs?

Whether an SS boy puts a bullet in my stomach, But all the same, I’ll be done for on this front.

And I will be barefoot, without name and glory, looking at the bloody snow with frozen eyes. Arseny Tarkovsky. Blessed light. St. Petersburg, "North-West", 1993.

* * * And I came from nowhere to split the One miracle into soul and flesh,

I must cut the power of nature into song and water, into land and speech

And, having tasted the earthly bread, come in the glow of the word to the beginning of the path.

I am your son, your delight, Abraham, and sacrifice is not necessary for my times,

And how much grievance and labor do I have in my cup... And after the sweetest hour - nowhere? Arseny Tarkovsky. Poems from different years. Moscow, "Sovremennik" 1983.

* * * I made a snowy bed, decapitated the meadows and groves, forced the sweetest laurel, the bitterest hops to cling to your feet.

But March was not replaced by April, guarding the paintings and rules. I erected a monument to you On the most tearful of lands.

Under the northern sky I stand Before the white, poor, rebellious Thy mountain height

And I don’t recognize myself, Alone, alone in a black shirt In your future, like in paradise. Arseny Tarkovsky. Poems from different years. Moscow, "Sovremennik" 1983.

* * * What didn’t you do just to see me secretly, You must not have sat behind the Kama in the low house, You laid the grass under your feet, it rustled so much in the spring, That you were afraid: you’d step and inadvertently hit you.

She hid like a cuckoo in the forest and cuckooed so much that people began to envy: well, your Yaroslavna has arrived! And if I saw a butterfly, when even thinking about a miracle was madness, I knew: you wanted to look at me.

And these peacock eyes there were a drop of azure on each wing, and they glowed... I, perhaps, will disappear from the light, But you will not leave me, and your miraculous power will clothe you with grass, give 1000 flowers to both stone and clay.

And if you touch the ground, the scales are all in rainbows. You have to be blind so as not to read your name on the steps and arches of these gentle green mansions. Here is a woman’s ambush of fidelity: You built a city overnight and prepared rest for me.

And the willow tree that you planted in a land where you have never been? Before you were born, you could have dreamed of patient branches; She swayed, growing up, and took in the juices of the earth. I happened to hide behind your willow from death.

Since then, I have not been surprised that death passes me by: I must find a boat, swim and swim and, having suffered, land. To see you like this, so that you will forever be with me And your wings, your eyes, your lips, your hands - will never sadden you.

Dream about me, dream about me, dream about me, dream about me at least one more time. The war treats me with salt, but don’t touch this salt. There is no bitterness more bitter, and my throat is parched with thirst. Give me a drink. Get me drunk. Give me a sip of water, at least a little. Arseny Tarkovsky. Poems from different years. Moscow, "Sovremennik" 1983.

* * * The table is set for six Roses and crystal... And among my guests there is grief and sadness.

And my father is with me, And my brother is with me. An hour passes. Finally there is a knock at the door.

Like twelve years ago, the hand is cold, and the unfashionable blue silks rustle.

And the wine sings from the darkness, And the glass clinks: “How we loved you, How many years have passed.”

My father will smile at me, My brother will pour me wine, He will give me his hand without rings, She will say to me:

“My heels are covered in dust, my braid has faded, and our voices sound from under the ground.” Arseny Tarkovsky. Poems from different years. Moscow, "Sovremennik" 1983.

* * * And I accompanied this shadow on the last road - to the last threshold, And the two wings of the shadow behind its back, like two rays, faded little by little.

And the year passed in circles. Winter trumpets from the forest clearing. The mica wrath answers the horn of the Karelian pines with a discordant ringing.

What if memory outside earthly conditions is powerless to restore day to night? What if the shadow, having left the earth, does not drink immortality in the word? Heart, shut up, Don’t lie, take a little more blood, Bless the dawn rays. Arseny Tarkovsky. Blessed light. St. Petersburg, "North-West", 1993.

* * * I just wish I wouldn’t open up completely now, I wouldn’t give away everything that the bird sang to me, The white day would babble, the star would blink, The water would twinkle, the sour would sour, To keep for my living forever A strong ball in the blood, full of light and wonder, And if there is no way back, then get drawn into it and not get out of there, and into the aorta, who knows whose, at random. Arseny Tarkovsky. Blessed light. St. Petersburg, "North-West", 1993.

* * * A red lantern stands in the snow. For some reason I can’t remember him.

Maybe it's an orphan leaf, Maybe it's a piece of bandage,

Maybe it’s the red-breasted bullfinch that came out into the snowy expanse to circle,

Maybe this is fooling me. The smoky sunset of the damned day. 1973 Arseny Tarkovsky. The poems are different...

What didn't you do?
to see me secretly,
You must have been restless
behind the Kama in a low house,
You laid the grass under your feet,
it rustled so much in the spring,
What was scary: if you step -
and it will hurt you inadvertently.

Cuckoo lurking in the forest
and crowed so much that people
They began to envy: well,
Your Yaroslavna has arrived!
And if I saw a butterfly,
when to think about a miracle
It was crazy, I knew:
you wanted to look at me.

And those peacock eyes -
there was lazori drop by drop
On each wing, and glowed...
I might disappear from the world,
And you won't leave me
and your miraculous power
He will dress you with grass and give you flowers
both stone and clay.

And if you touch the ground,
the scales are all in rainbows. Necessary
Blind so that your name
cannot be read on steps and arches
A chorus of these soft green ones.
Here is a woman's fidelity ambush:
You built a city overnight
and she prepared rest for me.

And the willow tree that you planted
in a land where you have never been?
Before you were born you could
dream of patient branches;
She swayed as she grew up,
and took the juices of the earth.
I happened to be behind your willow tree,
hide from death behind a willow tree.

Since then I have not been surprised that death
bypasses me:
I have to find the boat
swim and swim and, exhausted, land.
To see you like this
so that you will be with me forever
And your wings, your eyes,
your lips, your hands - never grieve.

Dream about me, dream about me, dream about me
dream about me at least one more time.
War treats me with salt,
and don’t touch this salt.
There is no bitterness worse, and my throat
parched with thirst.
Give me a drink. Get me drunk. Give me water
at least a sip, at least a little.

Arseny Tarkovsky

Tarkovsky Arseny
"Poetry"

She prepared a rest for me.