Now there are so few Greeks in Leningrad that we demolished the Greek Church in order to build a concert hall on the free space. There is something hopeless about such architecture. However, a concert hall with more than a thousand seats is not so hopeless: it is a temple, and a temple of art. Who is to blame for the fact that vocal skill yields a greater harvest than the banners of faith? The only pity is that now from afar we will see not a normal dome, but an ugly flat line. But as for the ugliness of proportions, a person does not depend on them, but more often on the proportions of the ugliness. I remember very well how they broke it. It was spring, and just then I went to a Tatar family that lived nearby. I looked out the window and saw the Greek Church. It all started with Tatar conversations; and then sounds intervened in the conversation, merging with the speech at first, but soon drowning it out. An excavator with a cast-iron weight suspended from the boom drove into the church garden. And the walls began to quietly give in. It’s funny not to give in if you are a wall and in front of you is a destroyer. In addition, the excavator could consider it an inanimate object and, to a certain extent, similar to itself. And in the inanimate world it is not customary to hit each other back. Then dump trucks and bulldozers were driven there... And one day at a late hour I was sitting on the ruins of the apse. Night gaped in the gaps of the altar. And I - through these holes in the altar - looked at the fleeing trams, at the string of dim lanterns. And what you don’t see in the church at all, now I saw through the prism of the church. Someday, when we are gone, or rather, after us, something will also arise in our place that anyone who knew us will be horrified by. But there won’t be too many who knew us. This is how, according to old memory, dogs lift their paws in the same place. The fence was demolished a long time ago, but they must be dreaming of the fence. Their dreams cross out reality. Or maybe the earth retains that smell: the asphalt cannot overcome the smell of a dog. And what do they care about this ugly house! There is a kindergarten for them, they tell you - a kindergarten. And what is obvious to people is completely indifferent to dogs. This is what they call “dog fidelity.” And if I happen to talk seriously about the relay of generations, then I believe only in this relay. Or rather, in those who smell it. There are so few Greeks in Leningrad today, and in general - outside of Greece - there are few of them. At least not enough to preserve the structures of faith. And no one requires them to believe in what we are building. It must be one thing to baptize a nation, but to bear the cross is quite another. They had one duty. They failed to fulfill it. The unplowed field is overgrown. “You, sower, guard your plow, and we will decide when to harvest grain.” They did not save their plow. Tonight I look out the window and think about where we went? And what are we farther from: Orthodoxy or Hellenism? What are we close to? What's ahead? Isn't a different era awaiting us now? And if so, what is our common duty? And what should we sacrifice to her?
Joseph Brodsky
Stop in the Desert
Men must endure
Their going hence, even their coming hither:
Ripeness is all.
King Lear, Act V, Scene 2
Christmas romance
Evgeniy Reina, with love
Floating in inexplicable melancholy
among the brick overhang
night boat inextinguishable
from the Alexander Garden,
unsociable night flashlight,
looks like a yellow rose,
over the heads of your loved ones,
at the feet of passers-by.
Floating in inexplicable melancholy
a bee choir of somnambulists and drunkards.
Photograph in the night capital
the foreigner did sadly,
and leaves for Ordynka
taxis with sick passengers,
and the dead stand in an embrace
with mansions.
Floating in inexplicable melancholy
sad singer in the capital,
standing at the kerosene shop
sad chubby janitor,
hurries down a nondescript street
lover is old and handsome.
Midnight Train Newlywed
floating in inexplicable melancholy.
Floating in the darkness of Zamoskvoretskaya,
an accidental swimmer in misfortune,
wanders Jewish reprimand
on the sad yellow stairs,
and from love to sadness
on New Year's Eve, on Sunday,
the beauty is floating,
without explaining my melancholy.
A cold evening floats in my eyes,
snowflakes tremble on the carriage,
frosty wind, pale wind
will cover red palms,
and the honey of the evening lights flows,
and smells of sweet halva;
night pie brings christmas eve
over your head.
Your New Year in dark blue
wave in the middle of the urban sea
floating in inexplicable melancholy,
as if life would start again,
as if there would be light and glory,
have a good day and plenty of bread,
as if life will swing to the right,
swinging to the left.
Great Elegy to John Donne
John Donne fell asleep, everything around him fell asleep.
The walls, the floor, the bed, the paintings fell asleep,
fell asleep table, carpets, bolts, hook,
the entire wardrobe, buffet, candle, curtains.
Everything fell asleep. Bottle, glass, basins,
bread, bread knife, porcelain, crystal, dishes,
night light, linen, cabinets, glass, clocks,
steps of stairs, doors. Night is everywhere.
Night is everywhere: in the corners, in the eyes, in the underwear,
among the papers, in the table, in the finished speech,
in her words, in firewood, in tongs, in coal
a cold fireplace, in every thing.
In a camisole, shoes, stockings, in shades,
behind the mirror, in the bed, in the back of the chair,
again in the basin, in the crucifixes, in the sheets,
in a broom at the entrance, in shoes. Everything fell asleep.
Everything fell asleep. Window. And snow on the window.
The neighboring roof has a white slope. Like a tablecloth
her strong point. And the whole block is in a dream,
cut to death by a window frame.
The arches, walls, windows, everything fell asleep.
Cobblestones, ends, trellises, flower beds.
The light won't flash, the wheel won't creak...
Fences, decorations, chains, cabinets.
The doors, rings, handles, hook fell asleep,
locks, bolts, their keys, constipations.
There is no whisper, rustling or knocking heard anywhere.
Only the snow creaks. Everyone is asleep. Dawn is not coming soon.
Prisons and castles fell asleep. Libra sleeps
in the middle of a fish shop. Pig carcasses are sleeping.
Homes, backyards. The chain dogs are sleeping.
Cats sleep in basements with their ears sticking out.
Mice and people sleep. London is fast asleep.
A sailboat sleeps in the port. Water with snow
under the body he wheezes in his sleep,
merging in the distance with the sleeping sky.
John Donne fell asleep. And the sea along with it.
And the chalk shore fell asleep over the sea.
The whole island is asleep, enveloped in sleep alone.
And every garden is triple locked.
Maples, pines, hornbeams, firs, spruce are sleeping.
The mountain slopes, streams on the slopes, and trails are sleeping.
Foxes, wolf. The bear climbed into bed.
Snow deposits snowdrifts at the entrances of burrows.
And the birds are sleeping. You can't hear their singing.
The crow's cry is not heard, night, owl
no laughter is heard. The English expanse is quiet.
The star is sparkling. The mouse confesses.
Everything fell asleep. They lie in their coffins
all dead. They sleep peacefully. In beds
the living sleep in the seas of their shirts.
One at a time. Firmly. They sleep in their arms.
Everything fell asleep. Rivers, mountains, forests are sleeping.
Animals, birds, the dead world, the living are sleeping.
Only white snow flies from the night skies.
But they sleep there too, above everyone’s head.
The angels are sleeping. The troubled world is forgotten
in a dream by saints - to their holy shame.
Gehenna sleeps and beautiful Paradise sleeps.
No one will leave the house at this hour.
The Lord fell asleep. The land is alien now.
The eyes do not see, the ears no longer hear.
And the devil sleeps. And with it enmity
fell asleep in the snow in an English field.
The riders are sleeping. The Archangel sleeps with a trumpet.
And the horses sleep, swaying smoothly in their sleep.
And the cherubs are all in one crowd,
having embraced, they sleep under the arch of St. Paul's Church.
John Donne fell asleep. They fell asleep, the poems sleep.
All images, all rhymes. Strong, weak
can't be found. Vice, melancholy, sins,
equally quiet, lying in their syllabs.
And each verse with another, like a close brother,
at least a friend whispers to a friend: move a little.
But everyone is so far from the gates of heaven,
so poor, dense, so pure that there is unity in them.
All lines are asleep. The strict arch of the iambics sleeps.
The choreas sleep like guards, on the left, on the right.
And the vision of Lethean waters sleeps in them.
And another thing lies fast asleep behind him - glory.
All troubles sleep. Suffering sleeps soundly.
The vices are sleeping. Good and evil embraced.
The prophets are sleeping. whitish snowfall
looking for a few black spots in space.
Everything fell asleep. Crowds of books are sleeping soundly.
The rivers of words are sleeping, covered with the ice of oblivion.
All speeches are asleep, with all the truth in them.
Their chains are sleeping; their links ring slightly.
Everyone is fast asleep: the saints, the devil, God.
Their servants are evil. Their friends. Their children.
And only the snow rustles in the darkness of the roads.
And there are no more sounds in the whole world.
But choo! Do you hear - there, in the cold darkness,
there is someone crying, someone whispering in fear.
There is someone there all winter long.
And he cries. There is someone there in the darkness.
The voice is so thin. Thin, really a needle.
But there is no thread... And he is so lonely
floating in the snow. There is cold and darkness everywhere...
Stitching the night with the dawn... So high!
“Who is crying there? Are you my angel?
waiting for a return, waiting under the snow like summer,
my love?.. You go home in the darkness.
Aren’t you the one screaming in the darkness?” - No answer.
“Aren’t you there, cherubs? Sad choir
The sound of these tears reminded me.
Wasn't it you who decided to sleep my cathedral
leave suddenly? Isn't it you? Isn’t it you?” - Silence.
“Isn’t it you, Pavel? True, your voice
too coarse with harsh speech.
Was it not you who drooped your gray head in the darkness?
and cry there? - But silence flies towards you.
“Wasn’t it the hand that covered my gaze in the darkness,
which is looming everywhere here?
Isn't it you, Lord? Let my thoughts be wild
but the voice is crying too high.”
Silence. Silence. - “Aren’t you, Gabriel,
Blow into the pipe and someone barks loudly?
But why only I opened one eye,
and the riders saddle their horses.
Everyone is fast asleep. In the arms of strong darkness.
And the hounds are already rushing from heaven in a crowd.
Isn't it you, Gabriel, in the middle of winter?
are you crying here, alone, in the dark, with a trumpet?”
“No, it is I, your soul, John Donne.
Here I am alone mourning in the heavenly heights
about what she created with her labor
heavy as chains, feelings, thoughts.
You could fly with this cargo
among passions, among sins, and above.
You were a bird and saw your people
everywhere, all over the slope of the roof.
You have seen all the seas, the entire distant land.
And you saw Hell - in yourself, and then - in reality.
You also saw the clearly bright Paradise
in the saddest - of all passions - frame.
You have seen: life is like your island.
And you met this Ocean:
on all sides there is only darkness, only darkness and howl.
You flew around God and rushed back.
But this load won't let you go up,
where does this world come from - only a hundred towers
yes ribbons of rivers, and where, when looking down,
This terrible judgment is not terrible at all.
And the climate there is motionless, in that country.
Where does everything come from, like the sleep of a sick person in languor.
The Lord is from there - only light in the window
on a foggy night in the farthest house.
There are fields. The plow does not plow them.
It hasn't worked for a year. And it doesn’t plow for centuries.
Some forests stand like a wall around,
but only the rain dances in the huge grass.
That first woodcutter whose skinny horse
will run there, wandering in fear through the thicket,
climb a pine tree and suddenly see fire
in its valley, lying there in the distance.
Everything, everything is far away. And here is an unclear edge.
A calm gaze glides over the distant roofs.
It's so bright here. I can't hear the dog barking.
And the bell ringing is not audible at all.
And he will understand that everything is far away. To the forests
he will turn the horse with a sharp movement.
And immediately the reins, the sleigh, the night, he himself
and the poor horse - everything will become a biblical dream.
Well, here I am crying, crying, there is no way.
Now there are so few Greeks in Leningrad,
that we broke the Greek Church,
to build on free space
concert hall. In such an architecture
there is something hopeless. However,
concert hall with more than a thousand seats
not so hopeless: this is a temple,
and a temple of art. Who is to blame?
what vocal skill gives
a collection greater than the banners of faith?
It's just a pity that now from afar
we will see not a normal dome,
but an ugly flat line.
But as for the disgrace of proportions,
then a person does not depend on them,
and more often from the proportions of the ugliness.
I remember very well how they broke it.
It was spring, and just then I
went to a Tatar family,
who lived nearby. Watched
through the window and saw the Greek Church.
It all started with Tatar conversations;
and then sounds intervened in the conversation,
merging with speech at first,
but soon they drowned it out.
An excavator drove into the church garden
with a cast iron weight suspended from the boom.
And the walls began to quietly give in.
It's funny not to give in if you
wall, and before you is the destroyer.
In addition, the excavator could count
its inanimate object
and, to a certain extent, similar
to yourself. And in the inanimate world
It is not customary to give each other back.
Then dump trucks were driven there,
bulldozers... And somehow at a late hour
I sat on the ruins of the apse.
Night gaped in the gaps of the altar.
And I - through these holes in the altar -
looked at the running trams,
to a string of dim lanterns.
And something that you won’t find in church at all,
I now saw through the lens of the church.
Someday, when we are no longer there,
more precisely - after us, in our place
something like this will also arise,
which anyone who knew us would be horrified by.
But there won’t be too many who knew us.
That's how, for old times' sake, dogs
they raise their paw in the same place.
The fence was demolished a long time ago,
but they must be dreaming of a fence.
Their dreams cross out reality.
Or maybe the earth retains that smell:
The asphalt can't handle the smell of dog.
And what do they care about this ugly house!
There is a kindergarten for them, they tell you - a kindergarten.
And what is obvious to people
Dogs don't care at all.
This is what they call “dog fidelity.”
And if I happened to speak
seriously about the relay of generations,
then I only believe in this relay race.
Or rather, in those who smell it.
There are so few Greeks in Leningrad today,
and in general - outside of Greece - there are few of them.
At least not enough for
to preserve the buildings of faith.
And to believe in what we build,
no one demands from them. One,
It must be the case to baptize a nation,
but carrying the cross is something completely different.
They had one duty.
They failed to fulfill it.
The unplowed field is overgrown.
“You, sower, guard your plow,
and we will decide when to start heading.”
They did not save their plow.
Tonight I look out the window
and I think about where we have gone?
And what we are further away from:
from Orthodoxy or Hellenism?
What are we close to? What's ahead?
Isn't a different era awaiting us now?
And if so, what is our common duty?
And what should we sacrifice to her?
Now there are so few Greeks in Leningrad,
that we broke the Greek Church,
to build on free space
concert hall. In such an architecture
there is something hopeless. However,
concert hall with more than a thousand seats
not so hopeless: this is a temple,
and a temple of art. Who is to blame?
what vocal skill gives
a collection greater than the banners of faith?
It's just a pity that now from afar
we will see not a normal dome,
but an ugly flat line.
But as for the disgrace of proportions,
then a person does not depend on them,
and more often from the proportions of the ugliness.
I remember very well how they broke it.
It was spring, and just then I
went to a Tatar family,
who lived nearby. Watched
through the window and saw the Greek Church.
It all started with Tatar conversations;
and then sounds intervened in the conversation,
merging with speech at first,
but soon they drowned it out.
An excavator drove into the church garden
with a cast iron weight suspended from the boom.
And the walls began to quietly give in.
It's funny not to give in if you
wall, and before you is the destroyer.
In addition, the excavator could count
its inanimate object
and, to a certain extent, similar
to yourself. And in the inanimate world
It is not customary to give each other back.
Then dump trucks were driven there,
bulldozers... And somehow at a late hour
I sat on the ruins of the apse.
Night gaped in the gaps of the altar.
And I - through these holes in the altar -
looked at the running trams,
to a string of dim lanterns.
And something that you won’t find in church at all,
I now saw through the lens of the church.
Someday, when we are no longer there,
more precisely - after us, in our place
something like this will also arise,
which anyone who knew us would be horrified by.
But there won’t be too many who knew us.
That's how, for old times' sake, dogs
they raise their paw in the same place.
The fence was demolished a long time ago,
but they must be dreaming of a fence.
Their dreams cross out reality.
Or maybe the earth retains that smell:
The asphalt can't handle the smell of dog.
And what do they care about this ugly house!
There is a kindergarten for them, they tell you - a kindergarten.
And what is obvious to people
Dogs don't care at all.
This is what they call “dog fidelity.”
And if I happened to speak
seriously about the relay of generations,
then I only believe in this relay race.
Or rather, in those who smell it.
There are so few Greeks in Leningrad today,
and in general - outside of Greece - there are few of them.
At least not enough for
to preserve the buildings of faith.
And to believe in what we build,
no one demands from them. One,
It must be the case to baptize a nation,
But bearing the cross is something completely different.
They had one duty.
They failed to fulfill it.
The unplowed field is overgrown.
"You, sower, guard your plow,
and we will decide when to start heading."
They did not save their plow.
Tonight I look out the window
and I think about where we have gone?
And what we are further away from:
from Orthodoxy or Hellenism?
What are we close to? What's ahead?
Isn't a different era awaiting us now?
And if so, what is our common duty?
And what should we sacrifice to her?
