It's great to be a weak woman. Poems by Tatyana Kuzuleva Family and t Kuzuleva

Kuzovleva Tatyana Vitalievna
November 10, 1939

Her poems initially contain the theme of female lyrics. But unlike many other poets, the love in her poems is usually mutual, happy. She is a laureate of the Moscow SP "Venets" award and the editor-in-chief of the literary magazine "Ring A".

Tatyana Vitalievna Kuzovleva was born on November 10, 1939 in Moscow, in the family of an engineer. She spent her childhood in a large communal apartment. Her father had a huge influence on the girl’s development. Although he was a technician, he had an excellent knowledge of history, architecture, music, and painting. With great warmth, Tatyana Vitalievna remembers her neighbor in the communal apartment, Sofya Nikolaevna Manteifel, the daughter of the executed tsarist colonel.
After graduating from school, Kuzovleva worked as an exhibition attendant, a freight forwarder, and a junior editor for a technical publishing house. She studied at the Pedagogical Institute at the Faculty of History. Graduated from the Higher Literary Courses at the Union of Writers of the USSR. The first publications were in Komsomolskaya Pravda and Yunost. The first collection of poems, Volga, was published in 1964.
Since then, Tatyana Vitalievna has published 15 collections of poetry.
Kuzovleva’s poems have been translated into English, German, French, Italian and other languages of the world. She also did a lot of translations, giving preference to women's poetry
In 2012, the Vremya publishing house published a new book of poems by Tatyana Kuzovleva, “One Love.”

Citizenship: Russia

- Tanya, did you graduate from the Literary Institute or another higher educational institution?

The wonderful Faina Ranevskaya once remarked that higher education without the “inferior” there is trouble. I was lucky with the “inferior” thanks to two people - my father, who, despite his technical background, knew history, architecture, music, painting very well (which is typical for the “former” category), and my neighbor in a communal apartment, whom I consider my second mother, also one of the “former” ones, who gave me so much kindness and love in the first ten years of my life that I still live by her light.

As for higher education, I studied at the Moscow State University pedagogical institute(history department). And already being a member of the Writers' Union, she graduated from the Higher Literary Courses. I didn’t have a good relationship with the Literary Institute: in an exam on Soviet literature, I was “failed” by a certain Pukhov because I incorrectly named the color of the cover (!) of a book of poems by the Soviet classic Vasily Fedorov, who later openly admitted that it was because of my dark hair. mistook me for a Jew. I never regretted not going there.

- When and where were your poems first published? Do you remember that day, your feelings?

My first poems were published in Komsomolskaya Pravda in the early sixties, thanks to the participation of Evgenia Samoilovna Laskina, who headed the literature department in Komsomolskaya Pravda in those years. That day, from dawn, I hung around the newsstand and bought an armful of newspapers. Then the editorial office called: it turned out that they were also paying money for this. She was shocked.

The first “living” poet who took part in my fate was Mikhail Arkadyevich Svetlov. One of the poems that was important to me at that time, “The Master,” is dedicated to him. Somewhere there is even a page of the “Literary Gazette” of those years preserved, where in the section “Masters teach...” (it seems so) a photograph taken by the famous photographer Mikhail Trakhman was placed: my silhouette timidly looms next to Svetlov sitting at his desk...

- Did your parents welcome your choice? It seems you have a daughter. What specialty did she choose? If you chose poetry, how would you react?

My father wanted me to get an engineering degree. My parents' attitude towards my choice began to change after several publications and successful performances at major evenings at the Central House of Writers and at the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall.

My daughter Olga Savelyeva writes poetry, in her youth she translated young poets - her peers, published quite a lot, was a participant in one of the last All-Union Meetings of Young Writers (1984), but became interested in newspaper journalism, graduated from the Faculty of Journalism of Moscow State University, worked in Komsomolskaya Pravda, Novaya newspaper", in other publications. Now she is the production editor at Ring A. Thirteen-year-old grandson Artemy is busy with algebra, physics, and programming. Recently, having cooled down somewhat from Harry Potter, I discovered Bulgakov and Ilf and Petrov. Which I'm very happy about.

From my own experience I know that you should not interfere with professional choice younger generations are too categorical. Only at the level of everyday advice. But they should also be in demand and not intrusive. After all, character is formed through trial and error too.

- In Soviet times, it was easier (financially) to be a professional poet, right? Now, in my opinion, even a successful songwriter cannot feed himself...

Not certainly in that way. And then it was impossible for the poet to live on royalties alone. As a rule, poetry books, even by more or less successful authors, were published once every three to five years... But there was the whole system part-time jobs: paid (generally, penniless) speeches, answers to letters in one edition or another, translations. My husband, the poet Vladimir Savelyev, and I, having experienced extreme poverty in the first year of our marriage, initially took on everything: a daughter was born, and we could afford to spend no more than a ruble a day on food and other needs (with this money we usually bought food at Kulinaria » a kilogram of buckwheat porridge and a kilogram of boiled heart or udder). I remember that a notification arrived for a parcel from Volodya’s mother from the Volga region village of Verkhnyaya Gryaznukha. We dreamed that the parcel contained lard. With the last 90 kopecks we bought a dozen eggs, anticipating the royal scrambled eggs. And the parcel contained about a hundred eggs, each of which was lovingly wrapped in a piece of newspaper... The plot is in the spirit of O'Henry.

As a result, our “poetic” family survived thanks to translations. They gave us not only material freedom, but helped us make friends for life. We always worked a lot, but this work is exciting and rewarding. Now, after a fifteen-year “dead season,” mutual (still fragile) interest in translating poems from our foreign neighbors into Russian is beginning to revive. Old connections are destroyed for natural reasons, new ones are being established almost blindly. However, in Ring A we have published selections of contemporary Romanian and Bulgarian poets. There is an agreement on the publication of young Belarusian, Slovak and Polish authors.

New times more firmly place in their places both those poets who fit into the system of commercial demand and those who are outside it. But no one today, as before, expects to live on royalties. As for songwriters, their fees can be $500-$1000 per lyric.

- It seems that Alexander Mezhirov said: “It’s an honor to be a poet before 30, and a total disgrace to be a poet after 30.” How would you comment on these lines?

Crafty lines. What to do with Tyutchev, Goethe, Shakespeare, and in the twentieth century - with Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva, Pasternak, Martynov, Tarkovsky... The list goes on.

- How many collections have you published? Which one do you consider the most successful and why?

Fifteen, including Hudlite's one-volume Selections (1985). The most successful is always the one that is prepared last. I hope to publish it this year. Although, of course, out of superstition I would like to consider it the penultimate one.

- Which poets of the older generation or your contemporaries are close to you?

Leonid Martynov, Boris Slutsky, David Samoilov, Arseny Tarkovsky; early Evgeny Yevtushenko, Andrey Voznesensky, Bella Akhmadulina; last poems by Robert Rozhdestvensky and Vladimir Kornilov; Rimma Kazakova, Alexander Gorodnitsky. And, of course, the songs of Bulat Okudzhava.

- Is there a memory for poetry? Approximately how many of your own and other people’s poems do you know by heart?

Exists. As proof - the phenomenal memory of Vladimir Savelyev - he, to my envy, could recite his favorite poems by heart in large quantities and without distorting the lines. My “anthology” of favorite poems is much more modest. It undergoes rotation from time to time. In memory - “Before the Mirror” by Khodasevich, “Choice” by Gumilyov, “I asked God for an easy life” by Tkhorzhevsky, “Ballad of a Smoky Car” (“Don’t part with your loved ones...”) by Alexander Kochetkov, “Swing” by Sologub, some poems by Pasternak , Akhmatov’s and Tsvetaev’s lines…. But what I once knew has not gone away. I try to read my poems by heart.

- You are the editor-in-chief of the magazine “Ring “A”. Who subsidizes it? Is it popular among readers? Can you trace this?

- “Ring A” was conceived as the organ of the Moscow Writers' Union. The idea of its creation was based on the fact that “thick” magazines have somewhat withdrawn into themselves, and good things continue to remain unclaimed in the desks of even venerable writers. And it’s difficult for young people to get into “thick” magazines. We did not lower the bar of professionalism, and we always tried to maintain the level of what we published. The magazine was first published with the support of the Moskovsky Rabochiy publishing house, but about seven years ago, when the prefect of the Central Administrative District (CAO) of Moscow was Alexander Muzykantsky, a democrat of the first wave, a former deputy of Gorbachev’s Supreme Council, “Ring A” began to be subsidized by the prefecture of the Central District of the capital, and although the prefects have changed twice since then, they have not yet refused us help. The first issue of the magazine was published ten years ago. The authors of the magazine in different years there were Bulat Okudzhava, Yuri Nagibin, Vyacheslav Kondratiev, Boris Chichibabin, Yuri Davydov, Alexander Ivanov, Robert Rozhdestvensky, Vladimir Kornilov, Boris Vasiliev, Rimma Kazakova, Leonid Zhukhovitsky, Boris Krutier, Yuri Chernichenko, Nikolai Shmelev, Grigory Svirsky... Many talented poets and prose writers of young and middle age, once published in “Ring A”, remain to this day our authors, among them are poets Elena Isaeva, Galina Nerpina, Lev Boldov, Dmitry Vedenyapin, Dmitry Kurilov, Evgeny Lesin, prose writers Sergei Burtyak, Alexey Ivanov, Emelyan Markov, Roman Senchin, Nikolai Ustyantsev, Margarita Sharapova, young Natalya Shcherbina... They formed a certain circle that allowed us to create the “Rings A” Club, which monthly gathers a full audience in the Small Hall of the Central House of Writers. This is a presentation of new books by our authors, evenings of prose, poetry, humor, art songs, mandatory performances by creative youth; at the beginning of the year there is traditionally a festive summing up with the presentation of several awards for the best publications. I can judge the popularity of the journal not only by word of mouth or newspaper reviews, but also by the growing influx of manuscripts, and by requests from libraries to purchase new copies.

- Is the newspaper “Moscow Literary” published today? What is your relationship with its editors?

It turns out. Well, what kind of relationship can there be with an obviously chauvinist newspaper, a publication of the Moscow branch of the Union of Writers of Russia, other than disgust and protest if it publishes, for example, the following poems:

RETRIBUTION

With what animalistic Jewish fear

They chattered from the screens!

America, set cancer -

the only joy these days.

And I don’t want to feel sorry for these Yankees.

They have no empathy for others in anyone.

And I myself could, even without being drunk,

fly the plane to the White House...

Rimma Kazakova sent a sharp remark about this to LG, which, however, was never published...

Or the lines about Stalin: “The leader, born of the Cosmos, sent down to us by the Lord, believed in the Orthodox way, in the new Soviet testament...”

For example, what kind of relationship would you, Vladimir, have with such a newspaper?..

- Whom did you support in the last Duma elections? Why, in your opinion, did Yabloko and the Union of Right Forces fail?

I voted for the Union of Right Forces, hoping that it would nevertheless creep beyond the five percent threshold. That did not happen. I think its leaders turned out to be “terribly far” from their voters - the Russian democratic intelligentsia, whose opinions and protection of interests, unfortunately, were neglected, as well as dialogue with them. As a result, according to Zhvanetsky, today it turns out like this: “Having passed the path evolutionary development in a downward spiral, we are back where we came from. True, without money, without the best brains and without muscles... I told you: either I will live well, or my works will become immortal. And life again turned towards works...”

- Please tell us about the movement “Christians of Russia - in support of Israel.” What is the main meaning of his activities?

At first Short story the question of Christian support for the people of Israel in general. The pioneers here were Protestants, who saw in the restoration of Israel the fulfillment of prophecies about the Second Coming of the Savior. 23 years ago they organized the “International Christian Embassy”, and since then they come annually to the Feast of Tabernacles to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and take part in round table and a festive procession and thus express Christian love for the biblical people, who, as the Holy Scriptures say, “will all be saved.”

This year, five thousand Christians from 65 countries of the world came to Jerusalem, among whom were more than thirty Russians. Our pilgrimage to the Holy Land became possible thanks to the initiative of the Mikhail Cherny Charitable Foundation - a foundation formed after the terrorist attack at a discotheque in the Dolphinarium on June 1, 2001, as a result of which several dozen children of Russian Jews were killed and maimed.

It is still too early to talk about the Russian Christian movement, or the society in support of Israel, as a formed and clearly structured organization. Everything is just beginning. However, as far as I know, there is a program developed within the framework of the Foundation for Socio-Economic and Intellectual Programs, headed by Sergei Filatov: “Russia - Israel: a dialogue of two cultures”, in the implementation of which the Moscow Writers Union could join, and expressed this desire Roerich Museum.

Israel promised moral support for this endeavor. What remains is neither more nor less - to find funding, without which, even if there are enthusiasts, the work may go to waste.

I see the meaning of such a movement in the formation of public opinion about the people of Israel as selfless workers who risk their children every day in the name of maintaining peace; in categorically condemning terrorism, which represents the main threat to civilization. I include both Jews and Arabs as the people of Israel, who connect the lives and future of their children with a peaceful, prosperous Israel. I would also like to hope that Christian support for Israel will help in many ways mass media tell people not only about the explosions in this country, but also in a more comprehensive and interesting way - about the achievements of its science, culture, literature, art...

- There also seems to be a movement in support of Israel within the Orthodox Church?

I only know about the personal initiatives of some Orthodox priests. But it seems to me that actions like the one in which I took part can multiply their number.

- Is a surge of anti-Semitism possible in Russia?

Who can guarantee that it won’t? This ugliness manifests itself regardless of education, standard of living, citizenship, religion, or political system. It is often the subject of various kinds of speculation, especially political. And it is always directed by someone. Communicating with his volunteers, I, a Russian, feel uncomfortable and chilly. I consider myself a cosmopolitan, despite the patrimonial mark of Russia in my heart and the fact that this word was grossly compromised in our country in the late forties. For some reason, the definition of “internationalist” does not find such consonance in me.

By the way, in the first three issues of “Ring A” we repeated the questionnaire compiled at the beginning of the First World War by Leonid Andreev, Maxim Gorky and Fyodor Sologub (then this questionnaire ended up in the secret police after a search in the magazine “Fatherland”) - about the reasons for the emergence of anti-Semitism in Russia , about its influence on various aspects of Russian life, about the role of Jews in art, science, social and cultural life of the country, about possible measures to counter this shameful phenomenon. Several dozen famous writers answered our survey questions: Mikhail Roshchin, Valentin Erashov, Grigory Pomerants, Bulat Okudzhava, Leonid Likhodeev, Vladimir Vishnevsky, Vasil Bykov, Valentin Oskotsky, Alexander Ivanov, and many others.

- In general, is current Russian life conducive to poetry? Or - in the most cruel times, poetry lived...

There is no way to contrast life and poetry. Time and poetry. It is not life or time that is or is not conducive to poetry, but poetry fills time and life with its rhythms - starting from antiquity, from the first lullabies and the first fighting songs... Poems often burst into life not thanks to external conditions, but in spite of them. They are dictated by love, without which life has no continuation.

- Have you ever been to America? Your impressions of the country and our emigrants...

No, I haven't. But to say that I can’t imagine American life at all would not be true. Still, some information exists... It’s probably funny, but my former compatriots (first-generation emigrants) seem unprotected to me in America. I'm scared for all of you guys. But I can’t protect you! The most important thing is that you don't need it. I don’t rule out that you feel something similar to people like me. Maybe as long as we are alive, we will always worry about each other...

* * *

And you are from the Silver Age
Such different singers
Whose lines are the silver echo
Through Border Columns

It flew, scattering through our hearts.
And it was so breathtaking
And they exclaimed: “Khodasevich!”
"Ivanov!" - breathed out loud.

What and how did you live?
What pains, troubles, there were
Fits in your mirrors?
And homeland or foreign land -
Who hit more accurately from around the corner?
You are all on the icy path
Now they've gone beyond the horizon -
Impassive Block,
Mad White
And Balmont waving his hat.

And I draw, concentrating,
An invisible bridge over time
Among the great solitudes
To the night shine of your stars.

I
DIARY

* * *

We live without taking our hands off,
Blessing the pain of an embrace:
The protected circle is outlined
Even before the sacrament of conception.

We can feel every sound in it,
Sacred names and dates
And the tighter this circle,
The more unbearable the loss.

And therefore, on the way, in the house,
On hectic days, on night holidays
I won't give you to anyone -
Partners of the earthly circle.

* * *

It all started brightly.
Everything was absorbed quickly.
My heart was beating hotly
Throwing out sparks.

Falling in love and rejoicing,
Hearing rhymes everywhere,
I studied blindly
Walk along the edge of the roof.

Trembling and freezing,
And crying out of fearlessness,
But still understanding
That I can’t do otherwise.

What should I do - recklessly,
Above the abyss - ever higher.

...I'm still blind
I walk along the edge of the roof.

SNOWFLAKE

Burning, melting, dying
A butterfly rushing into the fire
Burning with love and tenderness,
You will fall into my palm.

O eight-pointed, carved,
Fragile, almost unearthly,
Stepdaughter of permafrost, -
You decided how to escape from the pack,
Weightless, as you were spinning,
How was it for you to fall from above?

How long from rain to snowfall
You have wandered, my joy,
A droplet, a crystal, a soul?
How could I in eternal rebirth
Save your heart from decay,
Breathing rarefied air?

Where else between this and this light,
Taking off from the ground in summer
And flying to the ground in winter,
Suddenly they converge at the original point
Two paths dissimilar and random,
Two flying in the opposite direction - yours and mine:

A bright flash, unbearable pain
Parting will pierce my chest.
...I'm afraid to move my palm,
So as not to frighten away this closeness.

THUNDERSTORM IN BRATISLAVA

Listen: under the attic roof
The light of the lamp was shaking,
And the rain danced deliciously,
Hitting the tin with my heel.

In some kind of crazy ecstasy
The wind tore the midnight darkness,
And the souls of the princes of Esterhazy
They murmured, crowding together in the corner.

I got my eyelids mixed up. Alone
I felt like a stranger in the temple,
And the broken umbrella is one-sided
He puffed up next to me.

He could not contain this power,
The gloomy inferiority melts, -
Same as me - one-winged,
And the odd one out is just like me.

* * *

Olga Zabotkina

From the darkness of a neglected apartment
Through mirrors, through walls, through curtains
It appears - a ghost, an image, a spirit
That woman - a beauty, a dancer,
Which both the stalls and the galleries
They applauded without sparing their hands.

In a ballet look, in a slightly sly look,
Whether in Spanish or gypsy attire -
She's a St. Petersburger in every way. And in everything -
Sometimes restrained, sometimes hot-tempered, sometimes absurd.
And secretly the blood of Baron Benckendorff
She wandered in it and burned with her fire.

Heir to exquisite portraits,
Orphanage, blockade survivor, ballet
Deprived of warmth, one like a finger,
She only sought protection in love.
Her men were famous
And everyone was a heavy cross for her.

Or maybe there was a spring in that after all,
That he was cruel to her loving man
Because he didn't understand one thing
And he was angry with the woman in vain:
It happens that beauty is dispassionate,
But waking up is not given to everyone.

* * *

In the morning twilight on the highway near Moscow
Where the snowdrifts froze, turning blue and hunched over,
Waiting, freezing, when in my lane
A slowly sleepy bus will climb up the hill.

Here he appears, his dull eyes staring,
He will sigh noisily and slow down his run out of habit.
His brakes will stop him near me.
Clanking and coughing, he hurries to the train.

I'll warm myself up among sheepskin coats and fur coats,
I'll inhale smoke and garlic until I'm sick.
The ears will be blocked by the noise of a tired engine,
Someone will inevitably argue with the conductor.

The eternal book will be read to the core.
This twilight hardly washed away the main thing in her:
How unreal and illusive the morning world is,
How unreal and ghostly you are in this world.

The ice on which my life again is fragile
In the morning, his gaze easily turns to yours...
I once called love pity.
Tenderness is necessary.

WIND OVER THE HUDSON

Why do you randomly call
A line rushed towards me?
Here the wind blows over the Hudson,
Chasing clouds across the water.
This is how he will chase you,
Suddenly breaking into a whistle,
It will pick you up, spin you around, drop you,
He will be forgotten like a dried leaf.
Come back! Your romance with him will not last forever,
You will never be together.
He is only married to wandering
And it’s rushing to who knows where.
You can't pin it to paper,
The wind has a special reason.
You're just a fragile rhyme
You'll hit the lead Hudson.

* * *

On the eve of summer, in anticipation of lilacs,
In the high twilight, where shadows die silently,
Where the beast is ready to brush away the remnants of laziness
Rhythmic tail beats;

Where the hungry spirit of the hunt sleeps in the thickets,
Where river whirlpools are so dangerous
And fractional cuckoo hiccups
Counts down the years for a reason, -

There the air above the trees is layered,
Faces appear more and more sharply there
All those who are so painfully loved.

They need very little from us:

Mentioning a name when
The first star rises in the sky.

And, touching the living flames of the candles,
To feel that there are no boundaries between us.

* * *

The winds are returning to normal,
And the track flies from east to west
And without pause - to the east, in a circle.
Oh, how the rings curl tightly!

* * *

Between canyons, quarries, loose slopes,
Where, scratching the bottom, the wind drives sand,
Where dwellings hang like nests on steep slopes,
Where the voice of a mysterious bird rings;

Where the sky is strung on a cypress spire,
Where the birch tree drops its leaves by December,
Where the book of flower whims is flipped through,
With a petal babbling lung “I love” -

There is mine, not accustomed to eternal summer,
The soul will come to life, warm up, tremble,
This path, this time and this planet
In a reckless hurry to absorb into the trinity.

It's like I'll forget the cold nights,
The tenderness of snow and blizzard is a witchcraft infusion,
But it will be too short and strong
Leash.
He's always behind me.

That's why I rush between those who are loved,
Where two land masses are brought together by one ocean...

In our life, everything is probably compatible.
But everyone has their own time and place.
Stone Canyon,
Los Angeles

* * *

In memory of Rimma Kazakova

All my life - like on a razor blade.
moving my elbows back,
Breaking the usual rhythms
I caught the movement of the line.

And in a passionate battle with lies,
Guessing her a mile away,
Alone, no insurance, no lounge
I was looking for my height.

And your life is unstoppable
I burned it until I burned it out.
She was loved, she was unloved.
But the main thing was still there.

But the main thing is that it hasn’t changed
No essence, no purpose.
And I forgave everyone who offended.
And she gave everything away.

And there, at the Holy threshold,
Freed from the flesh
“Am I a sinner?” - having heard from God,
He will humbly answer: “I’m a sinner.”

And before it comes back again,
Others will master the paths.
And we just have to
Go through all this one day.

And to us with a word and a glance
Look for her trace on the earth,
And see and feel nearby
Living and unfading light.

NO NEED TO LIGHT THE FIRE...

Tamara Zhirmunskaya

1

...In a coat open on the street
You go, caught up by May,
And only at the neck is a button
The flaps of the lungs are compressed.

The godsons of the short thaw,
We lived with winged lines, -
Lovers, almost the same age,
United by the sixties.

There is spring thaw again,
Around it is sunny, then gloomy,
There you are walking down the street again,
Lightly waving her handbag, -

You carry in the midst of the Moscow dialect
Romantic face drawing,
Like from a Borovikovsky painting
Descended into our cosmic age.

2

Sparing smiles, meetings less often,
But still in the secret hour
Among our peers we are the same
And we have the same voices.

We drink slowly
Because we are not apart again,
For the best that happened to us,
For a secret that did not come true.

And toasts, lines, glances shine,
And laughter explodes, ringing...

Just don't light the fire.
No need to light a fire.

* * *

In memory of Bella Akhmadulina

For others, there is a thunder of applause on the heart.
For others, weaving words in silence...
But how can poems remain without a voice?
Silver voice of heaven?

Without the ice scratching my throat...
Without - the body straightened into a string...
How solemn and bitter he sounded -
I can't compare any voice to his.

There was defenselessness and courage in him,
And I'm probably crying because
What - here are the poems. They are protected by paper.
But the voice, the voice! - don't return it.

* * *

And the full moon
And the thin cry of a coyote,
And breaking off the chain at the turn
The smells make the dog go crazy,

And the darkness that swallowed the bush near the house,
And the light in the window where your shadow froze,
And escaped, as if from quarantine,
Owls suddenly hooted question -

All that has been nobody's business until now,
What didn't seem to matter
Suddenly it acquired a solution, a meaning, a glow:
The world is only our flesh and blood.

And we are his immortality and movement,
Its core, in which the exceptions
Unthinkable.
There is one love for everyone.
Stone Canyon,
Los Angeles

* * *

The energy of love and the power of light -
The world order is initially simple.
Not all questions require an answer.
Sometimes it is more important that the question was asked.

* * *

It turns out that we've been waiting for murder all our lives,
that the consequence is only a form of expectation,
and that the criminal is not a criminal at all,
So what...
Joseph Brodsky. Dedicated to Yalta

...and no one knows whose fault it was.
The air of murder just spent the night in the front door.
The wave just crashed loudly on the breakwater,
The piercing scream simply tore the seagulls’ throats.

However, maybe this is a woman’s cry of despair
For the dead, or passion, the last groan.
Everything came together in one place: Yalta. Scene. Temptation. Dead end.
And the bloody peony trembles with passion in the hands.

Well, where there is temptation and passion, there fate is a target.
There, death accidentally strikes from a random trunk.
And what difference does it make whether it's night or day?
If life remains, but the passion has left it.

Everything there is random: the chess player, the captain, She.
Captain's son with parabellum. Did not want…
For three men - one fault falls,
Everyone is on their own.
But one for three is a sight.
Who among us is not secretly waiting for his death?
Who goes home without avoiding the gateway?
And no one knows whose bullet will hit him
And that there is always a connection between him and the killer.

And behind all the words that so sharply tear at the ear,
Pantomime breaks down and reduces act after act.
And it doesn’t matter - the seagull screams
Or Brodsky's spirit is tossing about.
Death is just random.
And that's a fact.

ZERO

He is just an image... An empty place...
M. Written. Marakis

When Zero is called to the stage,
At first as a figment of the imagination,
He plays the role so skillfully
That thinking is reset.

And now he is no longer a phantom -
It is well cut and well tailored.
He enters the house without hesitation, -
And after him the residents are buried.

You can't recognize him by sight.
Its orbit is variable.
Zero - Ernik, and his lasso
It is insinuatingly entwined around the neck.

And with it the rotation of the Earth
And the heavenly rotation of the stars -
Everything is drawing zeros in the air:
Zero – Death. And the same zero – Movement.

Take a living soul if you please!
(Gogol is responsible for the dead).
While Zero is flying in the cab,
Let it fly by.
Do not touch -

It will knock you down. You will die for nothing.
And if you rush after me,
You'll come across a knife around the corner,
Stuck between this light and that light.

Neither faith will save nor pain
For those who huddle by the side of the road,
And you look in the mirror - there is Zero
Winks and laughs.

* * *

And in the park at night, when the smells of the leaves are pungent,
I'm surrounded in silence right and left
The satyr, who stepped through the gap in the oak bark,
And the immaculate Virgin grown into the willow trunk.

He rushes to her from the oak tree, swaddled, crucified, alone,
Tangled in hair, breaking through wood with shamelessness
Merry Satyr, temptation and vice incarnate,
Frightening the Virgo with his mischievous primacy.

Everything that looks almost unreal is mysterious.
And life is multidimensional, prophesying darkness of transformations for us.
It’s not for nothing that in the morning, with her eyes downcast, the Virgo is silent
And the dark Satyr freezes slyly until night.

No wonder they converge in us so unpredictably
And shame, and vice, and debauchery, and commitment to duty.
Otherwise, why would it not go out when it lit up in the soul -
Fire, without which living is both dark and pointless.

Otherwise why would guilt live in my heart?
For everything that is accidental, for which words are not chosen,
Because she's doomed before her last breath
The soul responds to the night's forbidden call.

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Above forever And never

End of free trial

Tatyana Kuzovleva photography

The wonderful Faina Ranevskaya once remarked that higher education without “inferior” education is a disaster. I was lucky with the “inferior” thanks to two people - my father, who, despite his technical background, knew history, architecture, music, painting very well (which is typical for the “former” category), and my neighbor in a communal apartment, whom I consider my second mother, also one of the “former” ones, who gave me so much kindness and love in the first ten years of my life that I still live by her light.

As for higher education, I studied at the Moscow State Pedagogical Institute (history department). And already being a member of the Writers' Union, she graduated from the Higher Literary Courses. I didn’t have a good relationship with the Literary Institute: in an exam on Soviet literature, I was “failed” by a certain Pukhov because I incorrectly named the color of the cover (!) of a book of poems by the Soviet classic Vasily Fedorov, who later openly admitted that it was because of my dark hair. mistook me for a Jew. I never regretted not going there.

- When and where were your poems first published? Do you remember that day, your feelings?

- Did your parents welcome your choice? It seems you have a daughter. What specialty did she choose? If you chose poetry, how would you react?

Best of the day

From my own experience I know that you should not interfere too categorically in the professional choice of younger generations. Only at the level of everyday advice. But they should also be in demand and not intrusive. After all, character is formed through trial and error too.

- In Soviet times, it was easier (financially) to be a professional poet, right? Now, in my opinion, even a successful songwriter cannot feed himself...

Not certainly in that way. And then it was impossible for the poet to live on royalties alone. Poetry books, as a rule, even for more or less successful authors, were published once every three to five years... But there was a whole system of part-time jobs: paid (in general, penniless) performances, answers to letters from one editor or another, translations. My husband, the poet Vladimir Savelyev, and I, having experienced extreme poverty in the first year of our marriage, initially took on everything: a daughter was born, and we could afford to spend no more than a ruble a day on food and other needs (with this money we usually bought food at Kulinaria » a kilogram of buckwheat porridge and a kilogram of boiled heart or udder). I remember that a notification arrived for a parcel from Volodya’s mother from the Volga region village of Verkhnyaya Gryaznukha. We dreamed that the parcel contained lard. With the last 90 kopecks we bought a dozen eggs, anticipating the royal scrambled eggs. And the parcel contained about a hundred eggs, each of which was lovingly wrapped in a piece of newspaper... The plot is in the spirit of O'Henry.

- It seems that Alexander Mezhirov said: “It’s an honor to be a poet before 30, and a total disgrace to be a poet after 30.” How would you comment on these lines?

Crafty lines. What to do with Tyutchev, Goethe, Shakespeare, and in the twentieth century - with Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva, Pasternak, Martynov, Tarkovsky... The list goes on.

- How many collections have you published? Which one do you consider the most successful and why?

- Which poets of the older generation or your contemporaries are close to you?

- Is there a memory for poetry? Approximately how many of your own and other people’s poems do you know by heart?

- You are the editor-in-chief of the magazine “Ring “A”. Who subsidizes it? Is it popular among readers? Can you trace this?

- “Ring A” was conceived as the organ of the Moscow Writers' Union. The idea of its creation was based on the fact that “thick” magazines have somewhat withdrawn into themselves, and good things continue to remain unclaimed in the desks of even venerable writers. And it’s difficult for young people to get into “thick” magazines. We did not lower the bar of professionalism, and we always tried to maintain the level of what we published. The magazine was first published with the support of the Moskovsky Rabochiy publishing house, but about seven years ago, when the prefect of the Central Administrative District (CAO) of Moscow was Alexander Muzykantsky, a democrat of the first wave, a former deputy of Gorbachev’s Supreme Council, “Ring A” began to be subsidized by the prefecture of the Central District of the capital, and although the prefects have changed twice since then, they have not yet refused us help. The first issue of the magazine was published ten years ago. The authors of the magazine over the years were Bulat Okudzhava, Yuri Nagibin, Vyacheslav Kondratiev, Boris Chichibabin, Yuri Davydov, Alexander Ivanov, Robert Rozhdestvensky, Vladimir Kornilov, Boris Vasiliev, Rimma Kazakova, Leonid Zhukhovitsky, Boris Krutier, Yuri Chernichenko, Nikolai Shmelev, Grigory Svirsky ... Many talented poets and prose writers of young and middle age, once published in “Ring A”, remain our authors to this day, among them poets Elena Isaeva, Galina Nerpina, Lev Boldov, Dmitry Vedenyapin, Dmitry Kurilov, Evgeny Lesin, prose writers Sergei Burtyak, Alexey Ivanov, Emelyan Markov, Roman Senchin, Nikolai Ustyantsev, Margarita Sharapova, young Natalya Shcherbina... They formed a certain circle that allowed us to create the “Rings A” Club, which monthly gathers a full audience in the Small Hall of the Central House of Writers. This is a presentation of new books by our authors, evenings of prose, poetry, humor, art songs, mandatory performances by creative youth; at the beginning of the year there is traditionally a festive summing up with the presentation of several awards for the best publications. I can judge the popularity of the journal not only by word of mouth or newspaper reviews, but also by the growing influx of manuscripts, and by requests from libraries to purchase new copies.

- Is the newspaper “Moscow Literary” published today? What is your relationship with its editors?

RETRIBUTION

With what animalistic Jewish fear

They chattered from the screens!

America, set cancer -

the only joy these days.

And I don’t want to feel sorry for these Yankees.

They have no empathy for others in anyone.

And I myself could, even without being drunk,

fly the plane to the White House...

Rimma Kazakova sent a sharp remark about this to LG, which, however, was never published...

Or the lines about Stalin: “The leader, born of the Cosmos, sent down to us by the Lord, believed in the Orthodox way, in the new Soviet testament...”

For example, what kind of relationship would you, Vladimir, have with such a newspaper?..

- Whom did you support in the last Duma elections? Why, in your opinion, did Yabloko and the Union of Right Forces fail?

I voted for the Union of Right Forces, hoping that it would nevertheless creep beyond the five percent threshold. That did not happen. I think its leaders turned out to be “terribly far” from their voters - the Russian democratic intelligentsia, whose opinions and protection of interests, unfortunately, were neglected, as well as dialogue with them. As a result, according to Zhvanetsky, today it turns out like this: “Having gone through the path of evolutionary development in a downward spiral, we have returned to where we came from. True, without money, without the best brains and without muscles... I told you: either I will live well, or my works will become immortal. And life again turned towards works...”

- Please tell us about the movement “Christians of Russia - in support of Israel.” What is the main meaning of his activities?

First, a brief history of the issue of Christian support for the people of Israel in general. The pioneers here were Protestants, who saw in the restoration of Israel the fulfillment of prophecies about the Second Coming of the Savior. 23 years ago they organized the “International Christian Embassy”, and since then they have come annually to the Feast of Tabernacles to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, take part in a round table and a festive procession and thus express Christian love for the biblical people, who, as it is said in the Holy Scriptures, “all will be saved.”

Israel promised moral support for this endeavor. What remains is neither more nor less - to find funding, without which, even if there are enthusiasts, the work may go to waste.

I see the meaning of such a movement in the formation of public opinion about the people of Israel as selfless workers who risk their children every day in the name of maintaining peace; in categorically condemning terrorism, which represents the main threat to civilization. I include both Jews and Arabs as the people of Israel, who connect the lives and future of their children with a peaceful, prosperous Israel. I would also like to hope that the support of Israel by Christians will help many media outlets tell people not only about the explosions in this country, but also in a more comprehensive and interesting way - about the achievements of its science, culture, literature, art...

- There also seems to be a movement in support of Israel within the Orthodox Church?

I only know about the personal initiatives of some Orthodox priests. But it seems to me that actions like the one in which I took part can multiply their number.

- Is a surge of anti-Semitism possible in Russia?

- In general, is current Russian life conducive to poetry? Or - in the most cruel times, poetry lived...

Life and poetry cannot be opposed. Time and poetry. It is not life or time that is or is not conducive to poetry, but poetry fills time and life with its rhythms - starting from antiquity, from the first lullabies and the first fighting songs... Poems often burst into life not thanks to external conditions, but in spite of them. They are dictated by love, without which life has no continuation.

- Have you ever been to America? Your impressions of the country and our emigrants...

In real time.
MAG 12.09.2006 05:24:17

I live in Israel. The history of my people is described in the Bible, Tanakh and
countless works, articles, etc. And every time a living word warms the heart, the word of a woman poet, mother, wife, grandmother. How many-sided a person is, especially if his heart is filled with love for GOD.

(1939-11-10 ) (79 years old)

Tatyana Vitalievna Kuzovleva(born November 10, Moscow) - Russian poet, translator, publicist. Member of the Writers' Union of the USSR (1966-1991), the Moscow Writers' Union (since 1992), editor-in-chief of the literary magazine Ring "A" (1993-2013), Secretary of the Moscow Writers' Union, member of the Russian PEN Center, editorial board of the magazine "Yunost", Russian-language weekly Panorama (Los Angeles, USA). Honored Worker of Culture of the Russian Federation ().

Biography

Father - Kuzovlev Vitaly Aleksandrovich, (, Adrianovka station of the Transbaikal railway -, Moscow), engineer, teacher, author of a textbook on technical thermodynamics (5 editions), popular in the fifties, republished in the German Democratic Republic and Hungary. Descendant of the noble family of the Kuzovlevs from the Tula province.

Mother - Kuzovleva Valentina Ivanovna (, Vereya -, Moscow) - draftsman, poster artist. Daughter of the artist and restorer I.I. Tarasov, who knew Korovin, Perepletchikov, Grabar closely, in whose restoration workshop I.I. Tarasov worked for several years.

Tatyana Kuzovleva's early childhood was during the Soviet-Finnish and Great Patriotic Wars. Active formation personality fell during the Khrushchev Thaw. After graduating from school, she earned experience to enter college as a student of a junior editor in a technical publishing house.

The first publications - since 1960 - appeared in the newspapers "Komsomolskaya Pravda", "Moskovsky Komsomolets", "Literary Gazette", in the magazines "Yunost", "Young Guard", "October", "Smena". At the beginning of her creative career she was supported by poets Mikhail Svetlov and Boris Slutsky.

Participant of the IV All-Union Meeting of Young Writers (1963).

Studied at the Faculty of History (Faculty of History at English language, 1964-1967), graduated from the Higher Literary Courses at (1971).

Subsequently, the poems were published in “New World”, “Znamya”, “Friendship of Peoples”, in newspapers and magazines of many countries.

Since the late 80s, she has been a consistent supporter of the country's renewal. In 1989, she joined “April” - the All-Union Association of Writers in Support of Perestroika. During these years, she openly expressed her position in the press (“Comrade, believe!” Literary Russia, 1988), at public meetings (“The Courage of a Writer”, plenum of the USSR Writers’ Union, 1989; “Word and Conscience”, “April” meeting, 1989) and at a meeting of Moscow writers with President B.N. Yeltsin in August 1993.

Also in 1993, together with her husband, poet Vladimir Savelyev, she organized the literary magazine Ring “A” as the organ of the Moscow Writers' Union. Since the publication of the first issue, she has been the editor-in-chief of the magazine for 20 years. Its twentieth anniversary was marked by the release in 2013 of the one-volume book “With All Stops,” which included selected works of prose, poetry, journalism, fiction, humor from more than ninety issues, as well as the best lines of the young laureates of the Rimma Kazakova “Beginning” Prize. The one-volume book is preceded by a foreword by T. Kuzovleva “ short biography magazine".

Creation

Over the years they wrote about the work of Tatyana Kuzovleva:

It rarely happens that I am one hundred percent confident in a young poet. But then I read Kuzovleva’s poems, and her unfamiliar name immediately became close to me. Usually, after reading a manuscript, I return it to the young author, citing the fact that there is not enough space on my bookshelves. But today I will ask Kuzovleva to leave me a notebook of her poems so that I can please my comrades with them. Deep thought and real sensations are what attracts me to Tatyana’s poems.

Metaphor is generally one of the most obvious signs of T. Kuzovleva’s poetry, and at the same time it is very capacious for her. This speaks of the skill of the young writer, of her serious work in literature.

“My Tatar Russia!” ... poems - 1962. Written at a time when people thought not so much about the Slavs, Mongols, Tatars and various other Swedes, but about the Man for whose sake all borders would be erased in the future. What was needed was courage - at that time - to turn from the Future to the Past like this. Instead of “Zemshar”, see “Russia” around you and in yourself. And to decide on such a turn at a time when the booming young literature of the sixties was rushing into the neon airports and into the gates of space. This is how, in the shadow of the global stage, - turn into “Rus”... And, moreover, not at all in order to, leaning against the log houses, curse all people for Russophobia - but so simply and naturally to merge love and homeland, walking along the line between wild lands: affirming “lyricism without intimacy, citizenship without rhetoric.” Such an act required a fair amount of courage at that time. Plus subtlety. Plus knowledge of your spiritual task. And your mental strength. And weaknesses.

The consciousness of civic dignity does not in the least prevent Kuzovleva from remaining a “weak woman”... This is the charm of her lyrical heroine. Lyricism without intimacy, citizenship without rhetoric - these are the two hypostases that make up Tatyana Kuzovleva’s poetry.

Tatyana Kuzovleva, in addition to thought, love, pain and other building blocks of poetry, has something else that cannot be analyzed. Well, how to formulate the trembling of the pupils and the chill in the back of the head?

Hard-earned. Hence there is so much wisdom, revealed by the author himself and generously presented to the reader. Hence the charm of a fearless, albeit chastely cautious conversation about the most intimate, the most fragile and dear. The poet understands love so multifacetedly, so highly, so humanely and courageously, that it obliges you to “keep your losses locked up.” Thank fate: “...I lost track of my years, thank you for not losing yourself.” To sympathize with people, to help them, responding to every call of even a small misfortune: “My concern is to listen and feel sorry.” Love for a person, attentive and effective, a conscientious and kind attitude towards him is actually quite rare. This is a special talent, and Tatyana Kuzovleva has it.

Kuzovleva’s “My Precious Days” is her very personal and therefore unique contribution to the annals of Russian literature. A person devoted to literature, a poet and contemporary of many wonderful poets, she wrote about those she knew, with whom she was friends, and with whom her service to Russian literature connected. There is so much personal in these memoirs of hers that they are more like diaries, in which, without relying on the power of memory, the author writes down some seemingly trifles, seemingly not very significant details, small details of life and creativity, but which now, from our distant past, they grow almost to symbols and in any case give us an invaluable opportunity to better and more deeply understand and feel the time that so recently responded to the word “today”, but has already inevitably become our “yesterday”.

Bibliography

Books of poetry

"Volga". M.: Young Guard, 1964
“Russia, birch, dew” (1965)
"Silhouette" (1970)
“The Voice” (1970, Alma-Ata)
"Syllable" (1973)
“Steppe Bird” (1977, Alma-Ata)
"Two Dawns" (1978)
“Shadow of the Apple Tree” (1979, Moscow)
"Spindle" (1982)
“Shadow of the Apple Tree” (1983, Dushanbe, in Tajik)
"Selected" (1985)
"Hour of the Lark" (1986)
"The Age of a Woman" (1989)
"Free Breathing" (1992)
"Snowpiercer" (1997)
"Long Flight" (2004)
"Between Sky and Sky" (2008)
“Coordinates of Kinship” (2010) – in Russian and Slovak languages
"One Love" (2012)

Prose book

“My precious days. Memory awakened by verse" (memoir prose, 2013)

Songs based on poems by Tatyana Kuzovleva

“This city is called Moscow...” (“Truth”), music by Sergei Sterkin
“Blue Sky of Russia”, music by Vladimir Zuev
“It’s not the swallow that cries...”, music and performance by Natalia Priezzheva
“And again the dope of the blooming linden tree...”, music by Roman Mayorov
“Four Names...”, music and performance by Grigory Epstein
“Take care of me...”, music and performance by Evgeny Alper (USA)
“It’s September again...”, music and performance by Evgeny Alper (USA)
“March is shining...”, music and performance by Evgeny Alper (USA)

Awards and prizes

Family

Husband - Savelyev Vladimir Semenovich (1934–1998), poet, translator, prose writer. From 1992 to 1998 - first secretary of the Moscow Writers' Union.

Daughter - Olga Vladimirovna Savelyeva (1965), poet, translator, participant in the All-Union Meeting of Young Writers in 1984

It's great to be a weak woman. Poems by Tatyana Kuzuleva Family and t Kuzuleva

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I DIARY

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SNOWFLAKE

THUNDERSTORM IN BRATISLAVA

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WIND OVER THE HUDSON

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NO NEED TO LIGHT THE FIRE...

1

2

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ZERO

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Best of the day

Biography

Creation

Bibliography

Awards and prizes

Family

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