Valentin Berestov - They loved you without special reasons! Valentin Berestov - they loved you without special reasons
The wonderful writer (including children's) Valentin Berestov has such a short but brilliant poem.
"Loved you
Without special reasons:
Because you are a grandson,
Because you are a son,
For being a baby
Because you grow,
Because he looks like mom and dad...
And this love until the end of your days
It will remain your secret support.”
This poem is easy to remember, like a little counting rhyme, and it doesn’t seem worth the effort to understand it. However, it costs, and that’s exactly what, labor. Intellectual.
It seems that most “normal” families already do what the poem says, and even do it with interest. But let's separate two concepts: “sentimental lisp” and... love.
What many families with small children do is often sentimental lisp.
Let's rewrite the poem...
Let's replace the words “loved” and “love” with the more precise words “admired” and “delight,” albeit in violation of the verse.
“We admired you for no particular reason...”
And re-read the resulting poem again. Only then the ending needs to be redone too. From sentimental delights, the “secret support”... does not turn out to be strong...
"And this delight until the end of your days
Your illness will remain a secret."
Wow. Well, how do you like the poem after the rework? This is a typical clinical picture.
Why "gush" Is feeling bad about someone? Because it goes quickly like a vinegar and soda reaction, and... it doesn't stand up to problems...
You can continue to love a person even when he has done something bad or inappropriate. Even when he develops into an independent Personality and does everything in defiance.
Even when he got sick. Even when I broke up with you and stopped feeling you as “mine.” As they say, “love is patient, kind, and does not seek its own”...
But sentimental delight can only be experienced for strictly defined sentimental reasons. (About how you can avoid embarrassment with a New Year's themed package only in December-January). And there are very few reasons for this. A person who is hooked on the needle of sentimental delight deliberately narrows the repertoire of his actions in order to find himself in a field of constant sentimentality. You go beyond the edges of the field - it’s cold there, no one is enthusiastic there... so a person becomes a jester, a cutie, a lap dog.
A person, accustomed to the taste of sugary sentimental delights, then, throughout his life, wants to receive exactly that - sentimental delight - “mothers”, “women”... This is approximately how an adult likes the taste of semolina porridge with lumps to a normal person. You understand that this is the imprinting of kindergarten rubbish, but sweet childhood memories are not selected and remade...
Or it could be worse...
As an adult, such a person can take and reject true love and friendship. Because they are “not as sweet” - as the over-sweetened sentimental delight he is accustomed to is sweet.
Growing up, such people become susceptible to flattery. And if you compare the life and deeds of a person with a ship, the conclusion is disappointing: a ship in which “for the captain” a person greedy for flattery will certainly sink.
So is it necessary to “love a child for being a child”? Necessary! How can one distinguish “an expression of love” from “sentimental antics”?
Well, God bless you, I don’t know how to explain such obvious things...
How to distinguish sour cream from mayonnaise?
Elena NazarenkoLoved you for no special reason
Because you are a grandson,
Because you are a son
Because baby
Because you are growing,
Because he looks like his dad and mom.
And this love until the end of your days
It will remain your secret support.
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Berestov Valentin Dmitrievich (1928-1998) - Russian children's poet,
writer, translator.
Valentin Berestov was born on April 1, 1928 in the city of Meshchovsk,
Kaluga region in the family of a teacher. The future poet learned to read at four
year. He began writing poetry since childhood. During the Second World War the family
Berestova ended up in evacuation in Tashkent. And there he was lucky
meet Nadezhda Mandelstam, who introduced him to Anna
Akhmatova.
Then there was a meeting with Korney Chukovsky, who played a big role
in the fate of Valentin Berestov. Both Akhmatova and Chukovsky reacted to the beginning
his work with great interest and care. At that time
K.I. Chukovsky wrote: “This fourteen-year-old frail teenager has
a talent of enormous range, surprising all experts. His poems
classic in in the best sense this word, he is endowed with a subtle sense of style
and works with equal success in all genres, and this work
combined with high culture and persistent performance. His
moral character inspires respect in all who come into contact with it.”
The first collection of poems by Valentin Berestov, “Sailing,” was published in 1957.
and received recognition from readers, poets and critics. Released the same year
the first book for children “About the car”. This was followed by collections of poems:
“Happy Summer”, “How to Find a Path”, “Smile”, “Lark”, “First
leaf fall”, “Definition of Happiness”, “Fifth Leg” and many others. "Berestov,
- wrote the poet Korzhavin, - this is, first of all, talented, smart and, if
so to speak, a cheerful lyrical poet.” Anna Akhmatova about short
in the humorous poems of Valentin Dmitrievich Berestova told him:
“Take this as seriously as possible. No one can do that."
“If you asked me who is the man of the century, I would say: Valentin
Berestov. Because it was precisely these people that the twentieth century lacked more
everything." Novella Matveeva could join this statement
many. Many wonderful children are grateful to Valentin Berestov
writers whom he helped take their first steps in literature. . .
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Loved you for no special reason
Because you are a grandson,
Because you are a son,
Because baby
Because you are growing,
Because he looks like his dad and mom.
And this love until the end of your days
It will remain your secret support.
V. Berestov
Antipyretics for children are prescribed by a pediatrician. But there are emergency situations with fever when the child needs to be given medicine immediately. Then the parents take responsibility and use antipyretic drugs. What is allowed to be given to infants? How can you lower the temperature in older children? What medications are the safest?
Loved you for no special reason
Because you are a grandson.
Because you are a son.
For being a baby.
For growing.
Because he looks like his dad and mom.
And this love until the end of your days
At ten years old, at home with my
You have your own name.
But I just got on the street,
You have lost this name.
There are no names here. They have nicknames here.
What about at school? It has its own habits.
They consider you big here
And they call me by my last name.
Like this. Three titles, three roles -
In the family, on the street and at school.
There is no need to make notes in the journal or diary.
Oh adults! Oh grandmothers and aunts!
When, when will you finally understand
I'm twelve years old! Not two! Not five!
You can't kiss me when you meet!The older brother had a loud father:
Town idol, teacher and singer.
Imitating him in this and in this,
The son became a historian and a poet.
The middle brother had a quiet father:
A fisherman and a fugitive from boredom.
I planted a flower bed and a vegetable garden behind the house.
And the son, in imitation, became an agronomist.
U younger brother was old father:
Sage, resident of the beyond world.
He looked for books, collected and read.
And the son, in imitation, became a scribe.
So age and time changed him,
The era of my father was spinning.
And only one thing did not change the father:
For every son he was a model.It’s strange to remember what he egged me on to do!
As it happened, he made me laugh and teased me.
And he called “Murzilka” “Zumrilka”,
And the magazine “Crocodile” called it “Dragonil”.
“The bourgeois who buys a ticket to the cinema!”
He forged two tickets brilliantly with ink.
I was expelled. And he didn’t even look after me,
Taking out a real ticket instead of a fake one.
He lured me to the greenhouses outside the village,
To dazzling red large tomatoes.
I'm tempted, break it into greenhouse glass,
He would have enjoyed my shame.
If we were adults, I wouldn't forgive him
I would break with such a scoundrel forever.
Everything is different in childhood. Caught it. Whacked me.
And again we play as if nothing had happened.At school matinees
Ask the kids: - Any questions?
And there are countless hands raised.
If you ask high school students, they will be confused.
They are afraid of stupid people
Show off?
But there are no stupid questions.
The answer may be stupid.“MOM, DAD” - the baby slowly leads out,
And the pencil lead breaks.
“PETYA,” the boy writes, we are tormented by pride.
He will mark everything with his proud name.
“NINA,” writes the teenager.
Again for him
Someone in the world is more important than himself.
And all my life those writings are not erased.
First one thing, then another floats up from the bottom.One day he made a mistake
Scared, didn't know where to go,
And, valuing the peace of mind,
I vowed not to make any mistakes at all.
So as not to stumble, he slowed down,
So as not to forget, I did not dare to argue,
And I hid my own opinion like this,
That, in fact, he was left without an opinion.
He didn't bother anyone in the world.
He was greeted with a polite smile.
He no longer made mistakes.
His whole life was now a mistake.FAVORITE NAME
your name on wrote to the snow,
I stand and admire it.
And before I decorated everything I could
Proud of your name.
I wrote it so that someone could read it,
That I was once here.
Like some news
About what I am
I loved my name.I sat embarrassed in the company of liars.
He was silent. I didn’t try to insert a word.
And I didn’t even notice in the end
How, without saying a word, he lied.FIRST GRADER
Daughter, tell me, have you eaten?
- Mommy, the whole bowl is empty.
- Daughter, have you had some tea?
- Mommy, I poured two cups.
- Is everything okay with the homework?
- Mommy, check my notebooks!
- How is your daughter doing with her lesson?
- I remembered the whole poem down to the line.
- How is your doll doing?
- Mommy, don't ask about her.
I don’t even know what to do with her.
Doesn't want to eat, doesn't want to drink.
You ask about the task, he will cry
And he will hide the notebook under the crib.
And if you ask me to tell you a poem,
He will widen his eyes and remain silent.
The novel “The Life of Arsenyev” is absolutely new type Bunin's prose. It is perceived unusually easily, organically, since it constantly awakens associations with our experiences. At the same time, the artist leads us along this path, to such manifestations of personality that a person often does not think about: they seem to remain in the subconscious. Moreover, as he works on the text of the novel, Bunin removes the “key” to solving his main search, which he initially speaks about openly. Therefore, it is instructive to turn to early editions and preparations for the novel.
In 1903 in the magazine " New way"The first review written by Alexander Blok appeared. It was no coincidence that his meeting with the publication headed by Z. N. Gippius and D. S. Merezhkovsky. Before meeting them personally (in March 1902), Blok studied Merezhkovsky’s works a lot and carefully, and as Vl notes. Orlov: “Almost all of Blok’s thoughts in his youthful diary are about the antinomy of pagan and Christian worldviews (“flesh” and “spirit”).
First " short essay life and creativity" by Pribludny was published by A. Skripov in 1963. A close friend of the poet, who corresponded with him throughout 1929-1936, Skripov published large number previously unknown materials. His work, which has the undoubted merits of reliable evidence, obviously has not lost its value even today, but it is fully reflected in the views and assessments typical of Russian literary criticism of the 60s, such as the following...
Valentin Berestov
Poems about children
Loved you for no special reason
Grandma Katya
Third try
From the series "School Lyrics"
He reaches his hand over the desk and pulls
Where is right, where is left
Reader
We were friends with you, like boys are friends
Loved you for no special reason
Because you are a grandson.
Because you are a son.
For being a baby.
For growing.
For being on dad and mom
And this love is yours until the end
It will remain your secret support.
Grandma Katya
I see grandma Katya
Standing by the bed.
Came from the village
Grandma Katya.
A gift for mom
She serves.
I'm quiet
He puts in a dried pear.
I ordered my father
Like a child:
"You, baby, are on your own
Unharness the horse!"
And asked with respect,
Leaning over me:
"Would you like a fairy tale,
My father?"
Again, like many years ago,
The yard is empty. And no one in the garden.
How will I find comrades?
No one... But still there is someone.
One-two-three-four-five
I'm going to look!
I'll tear my hands away from my eyes.
Hey guys! Who fell into the grass?
Who's there behind the birch trunk?
I don't believe in an empty yard.
I'm still playing with you.
Learned lessons. I repeated my lessons.
Having done my homework, I rushed to class.
How I listened to the lessons in class!
Answered lessons like at the blackboard!
And having earned reproaches or reproaches,
Nothing distracted me.
Drawing theorems in the sand.
Third try
You don't immediately quit the arena
And you don’t immediately draw the line.
The athlete is given three attempts
In order to gain height.
Failure, but you are not at a loss:
The decisive moment is approaching again.
Watching others try.
Announcing a new fight,
The bar is set higher, and again
You are given three attempts.
Gritt your teeth, get ready and wait.
And it turns out that the third attempt
Always remains ahead.
From the series "School Lyrics"
He reaches his hand over the desk and pulls.
Surely no one will even look at him?
He is all impatience: “Ask me!”
It's enough that he penetrated the secret,
That a miracle has happened, the problem has been solved...
Please ask! Do me a favor!
Where is right, where is left
"Victory!" - there was a jubilant cry.
There is no need to pester your mother,
No need to go to grandma:
Read it please! Read it!
No need to beg your sister:
Well, read another page!
No need to call.
No need to wait.
And immediately the battle begins.
We are not tired of these battles,
Of course! She's battle hardened!
Grandma Katya
I see grandma Katya
Standing by the bed.
Came from the village
Grandma Katya.
A gift for mom
She serves.
I'm quiet
He puts in a dried pear.
I ordered my father
Like a child:
“You, baby, are on your own
Unharness the horse!”
And asked with respect,
Leaning over me:
“Would you like a fairy tale,
My father?
Giant
When I was a child, I was friends with a giant.
We were the only ones having fun.
He wandered through forests and clearings.
I skipped after him.
And he was a real man,
With the consciousness of one's own strengths,
And he spun the penknife,
And he wore long trousers.
We went together all summer.
Nobody dared to touch me.
And I thank the giant for this
He sang all his father's songs.
O my noble and proud
Defender, giant and hero!
At that time you finished fourth,
And I moved to the second.
The guys will be equal in height
And they will become equal friends.
I've grown up. I finished ninth
When you died in the war.
Wreath
Sometimes I happened to be an object
Silent adoration and worries.
Infancy. Lawn in early summer.
And the girl sits and weaves wreaths.
And, laying a golden crown
On my shorn head,
Everything glows. And I don't protest.
I consider myself an idol.
And, rejoicing at the shining gaze,
I look at the girl, at the clouds,
I obediently play the role of a king
And I feel heaviness and coolness,
Both the freshness and solemnity of the wreath.
Evening. The window sill is covered in wet flowers...
Evening. Window sill with wet flowers.
Grace. Purity. Silence.
At this hour, head on palms,
Mother usually sits by the window.
He won’t respond, he won’t turn around,
It won't lift your face from your palms.
And he will wake up as soon as he waits
Behind the window there is a father's smile.
And he will pull up the weights from the walkers,
And rushes towards him.
What is love in this world,
I know, but I won’t understand soon.
Return from the East
And there in the steppe - the cooled ashes of a fire...
We're home. The steppe is not visible from here.
And yet, even though we left the steppe,
She doesn't want to leave us.
We are also a steppe. We look like her
Tanning and chapped skin,
And because we carry silence in our hearts,
And because we see the moon in the city.
He also wakes us up in the middle of the night somewhere,
Touching my eyes with an invisible ray,
Three hours before dawn here
The steppe sun that rose without us.
Away, in the crowd among the whirlpool,
Again, albeit weaker than yesterday,
A sudden drowsiness will overtake us, -
The steppe night will whisper: “It’s time to sleep.”
But little by little everything will fall into place:
Getting up, going down, and the look, and the complexion.
And the steppe? She will leave, melt, disappear
And yet it will not be completely erased.
An old friend will show up and remind you,
And again the steppe will fill you with everything.
Where is right, where is left
A student stood at a fork in the road.
Where is right and where is left, he could not understand.
But suddenly the student scratched his head
With the same hand with which I wrote.
And he threw the ball and flipped through the pages.
And he held a spoon and swept the floors.
"Victory!" - there was a jubilant cry.
Where is right and where is left, the student found out.
Game
We used to sit down to play chess.
One board was not enough for the strategists.
And a proud, sharpened army
Play with the fate of humanity
I went down to the floor, into the world of simple toys -
Ships, boxes and reels.
And so the kings sit on the throne,
And pawns into tanks and ships.
Parades. Views. Conspiracies. Troubles.
Someone will not forgive someone for something.
And kings throw fleet against fleet,
For army is army, for people is nation.
From under the perfume one brave bottle,
Although he was fragile, he fought with glory.
Where there is a heroic spirit, there is a heroic appearance.
He was with the army all over the place
Raspberry order thread.
The people, tired of bloodshed,
Overthrows kings and governors.
Last Stand. The last uprising.
Great worldwide fraternization.
Chess on the table, bottle on the chest of drawers.
And two people are skipping across the yard,
Ending the world war.
Who is twelve years old
Whoever is twelve years old goes to kindergarten
Went thousands of years ago.
About this very golden childhood
He remembers almost with shame.
Forget him quickly! After all, it
There is a blemish in the hero's biography.
Horse
Me for my daughter
The best of horses.
I can laugh loudly and click loudly.
And riding, riding, riding
On his dashing horse
This is how the girl rider runs around.
And the next morning there is no horse.
He leaves for half a day
Pretending to be angry
Businesslike,
But he dreams of one thing:
I wish I could become a horse again
And, trembling with impatience, he beats with his hoof.
cat puppy
The cat had an adopted son -
Not a kitten, but a puppy,
Very sweet, very modest,
Very affectionate son.
Without water and without sponge
The cat was washing her son;
Instead of a sponge, instead of soap
I washed my son with my tongue.
Quickly licks tongue
Neck, back and side.
Mother cat - animal
Very clean.
But my adopted son has grown up,
And now he is a huge dog.
Poor mom can't do it
Wash the shaggy big guy.
On huge sides
The language is missing.
To wash my son's neck,
You have to climb on his back.
Oh,” the mother cat sighed, “
It's hard to wash my son!
Splash yourself, swim yourself,
Wash yourself without your mother.
The son is bathing in the river.
Mom is dozing on the sand.
Ski trail
And again the ski path
Like rails embedded in the snow.
Pushing and sliding
I'm running, keeping up with everyone.
Let my last ski trail
Melted so many years ago
But childhood memory whispers: - No,
He's here. Things are looking up!
My childhood was suddenly returned to me.
It moves me, jubilantly,
It's like it's not it at all
Left somewhere behind the war.
Loved you for no special reason...
Loved you for no special reason
Because you are a grandson,
Because you are a son,
Because baby
Because you are growing,
Because he looks like his dad and mom.
And this love until the end of your days
It will remain your secret support.
Love began with complete deception...
Love began with complete deception.
I ran from school through the entrance yard
And again he appeared on the corner, blushing,
To meet her, as if by accident.
And, understanding everything, I’m a little embarrassed,
She listened to my explanations:
Like, I need to meet someone from here.
O white beret in the darkness of the snowfall!
And again through the courtyards I rushed through the darkness,
And she came across it on every corner,
And, having met, he ran towards him again...
This is how I saw her off for the first time.
Patron of the 41st year
One of them lived in Tashkent,
Another came from Kaluga.
Everything was different for them,
And there is only one grandmother.
From letters from my grandmother
They learned about each other
And in '41 I brought them together
The younger brother tells
About blackouts and worries,
Like with the Junkers, so big,
The nimble “hawk” fought,
How herds walked through the city...
And the older brother, serious, strict,
He repeats: - Write this down!
After all, you have a wonderful style!
And the younger brother cries bitterly,
Hearing the sad news.
He remembers the Messerschmitt rumble
And the sharpness of military commands.
And the elder one looks at him,
He looks at his find,
And he’s glad that he opened it
(What did you think!) talent.
Man
My father was called to the front,
And for this reason
I have to live from now on
As a man should.
Mother is always at work.
The apartment was empty.
But in a man's house
There's always something to do.
Buckets full of water.
The apartment has been swept.
Washing dishes is not difficult -
There's not a drop of fat on her.
Coupons from three cards
They give me a haircut at the grocery store.
Breadwinner and breadwinner.
Man. The eldest in the house.
I'm sincerely sure
That he became a substitute for his father.
But in that distant life,
Blessed, pre-war,
Father didn't study
Things like this.
Mother replaced father.
I'm helping my mom.
Only once, and then at the beginning of childhood...
Only once, and then at the beginning of childhood,
My uncle, the one who died in the war,
He came to visit us. But still take a closer look
I can into his eyes. They are in me.
Everything else - appearance and words -
Forgotten. But I also remember
There was grass. Non-local grass.
Tall and thin. Lesnaya.
Must be in the forest (it's at the edge of the earth
Was for me) my uncle brought me,
And there we lay down in the clearing,
Happy, looking into each other's eyes.
And I noticed the threads on the squirrels,
And the folds of the eyelids, and sparse eyelashes,
And two pupils, two dots,
In two gray and radiant pupils.
And the way I myself was reflected in them,
And the way they were covered in drag.
And the eyelids moved... Just a moment
I remember. One blink of an eye.
He reaches his hand over the desk and pulls...
He reaches his hand over the desk and pulls.
Surely no one will even look at him?
He is all impatience: “Ask me!”
As if having driven a horse along the road,
He rushed here with an urgent package,
With an urgent package and a precise answer.
No need to make notes in the journal or diary,
It's enough that he penetrated the secret,
That a miracle has happened, the problem has been solved...
Please ask! Do me a favor!
Chukovsky's paradox
“Your writing has become shallow,
Hastily, deftly, sluggishly.
For a craft,
Trinket
For a trifle.
Why spin around like a squirrel?
Apparently you don't get paid enough?
I don't see the point in this, -
Chukovsky sighed. - Enough,
Write selflessly -
They pay more for it!”
First friend
Once the primitive children went to the primeval forest,
And the primeval sun looked at them from heaven.
And the children met an unknown animal in the thicket,
The likes of which have never been seen before.
The primitive dad said: “Well, play with him.
When he gets bigger, we’ll eat him together.”
Night. Primitive people sleep in a primitive sleep,
And primeval wolves sneak in the darkness of the night.
Trouble primitive people, so defenseless in a dream.
How often did the animal’s belly become a grave for him!
But sensing the evil cannibals, the brave animal barked,
And with this he saved primitive people from death.
He started hunting with his dad when he grew up.
So the cheerful and faithful dog became a friend to man.
Song of the Frogs
We have eyes like diamonds
And the skin is the color of emerald.
And we are born three times,
And this, brothers, is simply a miracle.
Small egg in a lump,
And a tadpole in a frisky flock,
And here is a frog on a hummock
Sits or jumps on the lawn.
Frozen into the ice - and alive again.
What a frog!
We breathe through gills, like fish.
We breathe with our lungs, like humans.
Like birds, we could fly.
But we’d better sing like birds!
Of course, good trills
Sometimes these birds come out!
But we were the first to sing,
When they were not in the world.
A million years, maybe two
The world heard only “kva-kva!”
We are record holders on land too
And in every puddle there is a champion.
We have bouncing knees
We have webbed feet.
Of course we're a bit cold
But our songs are so melodious.
We are stupid in your fables,
But in your fairy tales we are princesses!
Become a queen - qua-qua!
Reign with the power of magic!
Subtext
You won't find a dirty trick in my poems.
Secretly smart and secretly brave
I can't be. Hiding lies under the truth
Under lies the truth is an impossible task
I think. I write what I want.
I’ll keep silent about whatever I want.
Well, the subtext, as opposed to the catch,
Walking with Chukovsky
I am fourteen years old and he is sixty.
He is huge, and gray-haired, and ruddy, and with a nose.
He is grieving for his son. I'm sad without my father.
May is blooming. And the war still has no end in sight.
Carefully, he decides my fate
And he looks anxiously at my thinness.
Tomorrow morning he will rush to save me.
In the meantime, he will show you how to write.
And he will read poetry to me, that great poet
I wrote about the love of twenty-seven years old,
Will remember what still awaits me ahead.
O poetry! Move people's souls,
May they find strength and a common language in you
This frail boy and a strong old man.
Hide and seek
Again, like many years ago,
I walk into a familiar courtyard and garden.
The yard is empty. And no one in the garden.
How will I find comrades?
No one... But still there is someone.
Empty... But they should be here.
One-two-three-four-five
I'm going to look!
I'll tear my hands away from my eyes.
Hey guys! Who fell into the grass?
Who's in the barn? Who's around that corner?
Who's there behind the birch trunk?
I don't believe in an empty yard.
I'm still playing with you.
Early glory
"Poet! Poet!" - they shouted after him.
The poet was young.
He didn't dream of fame.
He dreamed of reprisals
With everyone who follows the poet
He shouted: “Poet! Poet! Poet!"
Dawn. Sokolniki. Glade...
Dawn. Sokolniki. Glade.
Together we are exactly forty-five.
When you leave, it's somehow strange
Remember such things.
To our first hugs
The last star is looking out.
Let belated curses
They will never be touched.
We were friends with you, like boys are friends...
We were friends with you, like boys are friends,
They fought and argued without a break.
It happened, as soon as we got together with you,
And immediately the battle begins.
Again in hand-to-hand or chess combat
We are in a hurry to put each other on our shoulder blades.
Where the sword sparkled, the ball will roll.
Rejoice, winner! Defeated, cry!
We are not tired of these battles,
At least every hundred times he died in a duel.
But we maintained our friendship.
Of course! She's battle hardened!
firefly
I have a furry worm in my hands.
He is carrying a greenish light.
And the guys call him Firefly.
It’s a pity that I didn’t have to find you as a child!
I would say, “That’s my firefly!”
I'd take you home, firefly.
I would put you in a box
And I couldn’t sleep for joy.
Is it because I didn’t find you, mother?
Did you go to bed too early?
Is it because I was cowardly as a child?
And didn’t you wander through the forest in the evenings?
No, I wandered around to spite the evil wizards.
Obviously, I was unlucky then.
And then came the blazing July.
The roar of explosions. The shine of tracer bullets.
Leaving the darkened town
The echelons stretched to the east.
I lost my childhood somewhere along the way...
So shine brighter, little one! Shine!
Third try
You don't immediately quit the arena
And you don’t immediately draw the line.
The athlete is given three attempts
In order to gain height.
Failure, but you are not at a loss:
The decisive moment is approaching again.
Are you getting ready for your third try?
Watching others try.
He ran away. Took off. And - ready!
Announcing a new fight,
The bar is set higher, and again
You are given three attempts.
But it didn’t work out (an attempt is not torture),
Gritt your teeth, get ready and wait.
And it turns out that the third attempt
Always remains ahead.
Therefore, there is no need to return to class.
The bell will ring, get dressed quickly
And wait for me near the school doors!”
And in pairs, in pairs following her,
For my dear teacher
We solemnly leave the village.
And the puddles were covered in leaves from the lawns!
“Look! On dark fir trees in the undergrowth
Maple stars burn like pendants
Bend over for the most beautiful leaf
In veins of crimson on gold.
Remember everything, how the earth falls asleep,
And the wind covers it with leaves.”
And in the maple grove it is brighter and brighter.
More and more leaves are flying off the branches.
We play and run around under the falling leaves
With a sad, thoughtful woman next to him.
Lessons
Learned lessons. I repeated my lessons.
Having done my homework, I rushed to class.
How I listened to the lessons in class!
Answered lessons like at the blackboard!
And having earned reproaches or reproaches,
I immediately learned from them.
I followed the teacher with my gaze.
Nothing distracted me.
And who was sitting at the desk next to you then?
Let him forgive me, I didn’t hear him.
Learning... Man is ruled by passions,
And I was in the power of this passion.
In each of us there is a schoolboy-slave,
Afraid of being called to the board.
There lives a cheerful schoolboy inside each of us,
Drawing theorems in the sand.
For school spirit without any admixture of schoolboyism,
As for a horse, I’m ready to give half my kingdom.
Oh, you locomotive kingdom!
As much boiling water as you want.
Wait a minute, commodity ones!
Drink, crew, boiling water.
Skip the sanitary
Echelons to the east.
Wait, passengers!
Sit down, children, on the grass.
Fight the Siberian regiments
They are rushing by courier to Moscow.
Commanders are cautious
The disguise was put on.
Ah, taiga birch trees,
They took you far.
The locomotive will jerk and move off,
And the carriages will fly.
And the birches are like a trinity,
Like rustling in the huts.
Marina Korotkova
Head of the library of the Center for the Development of Creativity of Children and Youth named after. A. V. Kosareva, Moscow
2008 has been declared the Year of the Family in Russia. And then, on a holiday, during the holidays, one of the readers, a teacher by profession, asked me to select “poems about family.” The first author who comes to mind is Valentin Berestov. Poem from the cycle “Crossroads of Childhood”:
Loved you for no special reason
Because you are a grandson,
Because you are a son,
Because baby
Because you are growing,
Because he looks like his dad and mom.
And this love, until the end of your days
It will remain your secret support.
In the book of memoirs “Childhood in small town“V.D. Berestov wrote: “How many affectionate eyes shone above me! I’m used to everyone loving me... The kindness of my family and fellow countrymen spoiled me at the beginning of my life. As an adult, I couldn’t get used to the fact that someone wasn’t happy with me and didn’t expect anything good from me at all.”
In Berestov’s poetry, the words “mother”, “father”, “grandmother”, “brother” are found especially often. If you put all these verses together, you get a kind of “family chronicle.” One of the poet’s collections is called “ Family photo"(M., 1973), based on the poem of the same name:
I'm putting on a new sailor suit,
And grandma straightens her hair,
Dad is wearing new striped trousers,
Mom is wearing an unworn jacket,
Brother is in a great mood,
Blush and smells like strawberry soap
And expects candy for obedience.
We solemnly take the chairs out into the garden.
The photographer instructs the camera.
Laughter on the lips. Excitement in the chest.
Silence. Click. And the holiday is over.
2008 marks the 80th anniversary of the birth of Valentin Dmitrievich; he was born in 1928, on the most frivolous day of the year - April 1:
And I was born on the first of April.
My father, returning from a trip,
I heard this news on the way
And he didn’t believe it: “That means I wasn’t born,
And if he was born, it was not a son.
No, the jokers have gone overboard.
Jokes, jokes, but joke in moderation!”
One of the first memories of childhood (Valya was no more then three years) And favorite poem his mother:
Evening. Window sill with wet flowers.
Grace. Purity. Silence.
At this hour, head on palms,
Mother usually sits by the window.
He won’t respond, he won’t turn around,
It won't lift your face from your palms.
And he will wake up as soon as he waits
Behind the window of the father's smile,
And he will pull up the weights from the walkers,
And rushes towards him.
What is love in this world,
I know, but I won’t understand soon.
Valya’s mother played in amateur performances, and when she was preparing the role, the only food in the house was prison:
Mom walks around with her eyebrows furrowed,
Whispers loudly, teaches the role.
So, today there will be a prison:
Onions and butter, bread and salt.
The floor is not washed, the flower is not watered,
The fire went out under the stove.
And no one teaches children to school,
Doesn't educate us.
Artistic nature
No business on the day of the premiere
Before the worries of life. Prison –
Here is our holiday lunch.
Glasses break
They get out of hand.
Pour water from the tap into a bowl,
Crumble the bread and cut the onion.
And in my mother's eyes there is a storm,
And there is triumph in the movements.
What a prison!
What a prison!
Nothing tastes better!
And now the son in the auditorium looks at his mother-artist:
Mom played a machine gunner,
And my son’s soul sank.
How cheerful and brave
This was a machine gunner.
Mom, mommy, that's what you are!
Not hiding your triumph,
Shaking and pushing all the neighbors,
The son whispered: “This is my mother!”
And then his mother played
The daughter of a white general.
How cowardly and evil
She was a general's daughter.
The son wanted to fall through the ground.
After all, the family is covered in shame.
And all around there are admiring faces:
“Didn’t recognize it? Is this your mother?
(« Amateur performance»)
In his memoirs, Berestov wrote about himself as a “social half-breed”: one grandmother was a peasant woman, the other was a noblewoman. Valentina Berestova's mother, Zinaida Fedorovna, was the daughter of a well-known landowner Fyodor Telegin and Alexandra, a noblewoman of the old Trunov family. Fyodor Telegin, however, was himself a peasant, but he became rich and became the owner of the Serebreno estate, not far from Meshchovsk. Valentin Berestov's father, Dmitry Matveevich Berestov, was from peasants, but from economic peasants, those who belonged to the treasury and did not know serfdom. From childhood he fell in love with reading, studied in Poltava at the Teachers' Seminary, then, when the First World War began world war and there was a shortage of officers from the upper classes, he was accepted into an officer school, from where he was sent to the front. Subsequently he worked as a school teacher, teaching history. Possessing a beautiful voice, he sang in a church choir as a child, and later sang lullabies by Mozart, Tchaikovsky and Vertinsky’s songs to his sons.
My father didn't whistle at all,
Didn't hum at all.
Not what I am, not what I am
When I was with him.
Not out loud, just like that,
He didn't sing anything.
Everyone says there was a voice
At my dad's.
I didn’t become a singer, I taught children,
IN three wars fought...
He sang for his mother, for the guests.
No, he didn't hum.
Why are we just singing?
Ta-ra da ti-ri-ri, -
Probably sounded in it,
But somewhere there, inside.
No wonder he had
The gait is so easy
As if the music was calling
Him from afar.
The Great Patriotic War began, and my father was called to the front, about this the poem “The First Evening of the War”:
It was the first evening
perhaps the last war.
As at a wake, we eat pancakes with tears.
We sit and eat for a long time and look at our father.
Quiet, so quiet that you can hear hearts beating.
Sweet is the tea, but there is a stamp of sadness on the faces.
Why doesn't the messenger come to hand over the summons?
Maybe with this one, like with the First World War
Or with the Civil, the father will return alive.
Threads. Needle. Straight razor. Notebook.
It really doesn’t take long to pack for a long trip.
The infantry will come out to save the planet and the country.
Like going to work, my father got ready for war.
The Berestov family had three sons (the third son was born after the war). Valentin Dmitrievich wrote about himself and his brothers:
* * *
House
Walker.
The mother is overcome with horror:
- They're fighting again!
Brother goes against brother.
And he drives us into the yard,
Into the crowd of guys.
The yard is shaking:
Brother stands up for brother!
* * *
So, I take the scissors,
Comb and robe.
Sits like in a hairdresser's
My five year old brother.
And he asks for all the curls
Cut it down to one
So that women are at peace
They left him.
YOUNGER BROTHER
After all, it’s necessary! My brother still believes seriously
To something that has long been in question for me.
When he puffs, he is still a locomotive.
And I can no longer be a locomotive.
Valentin was the eldest of the brothers, and when his father went to the front, he was the eldest man in the family:
My father was called to the front.
And for this reason
I have to live from now on
As a man should.
Mother is always at work.
The apartment was empty.
But in a man's house
There's always something to do.
I'm watching my brother
Are your clothes okay?
Cooking dinner: in uniform
Hot potato.
Buckets full of water.
The apartment has been swept.
Washing dishes is easy -
There's not a drop of fat on her.
With a calm look,
solid and worthy,
In the yard, to the garbage pit,
I'm walking with a garbage bucket,
Coupons from three cards
they cut my hair at the grocery store.
Breadwinner and breadwinner. Man.
The eldest in the house.
I'm sincerely sure
That he became a substitute for his father.
But in that distant life,
blessed, pre-war
Father didn't study
Things like this.
Mother replaced father.
I'm helping my mom.
Meanwhile, there was no news from his father for a long time, and in 1942 a fourteen-year-old teenager wrote a poem “To Father”:
My father! You don't send any news
Already whole year dear family,
But the days when we were together
In a dream they stand in front of me.
And what has been lived comes to life:
Reeds and the distance of the native river,
And you, bending over the water,
You look wearily into the floats.
Once again, baby, I’m next to you
I stand, keeping silence,
And you look so welcoming
Sometimes you look at me...
And again a passing cart
Knocking, dust swirling with smoke.
And the old horse, tired of running,
Plodding along with slow steps.
Not a sound breaks the silence.
Just a stupid quail in the morning
Repeats without stopping
“It’s time to sleep” and “it’s time to sleep.”
And life flows again from the beginning,
Still full of the same joy,
As if we weren't separated
Relentless war.
It's like we were a nightmare
All the turmoil and need,
And the morning is a radiant light
They were dispersed without difficulty.
My father returned alive from this, his third, war. He raised three sons and was an example in life for each of them:
The older brother had a loud father,
The idol of the town, local historian and singer.
Imitating him in this and in this,
The son became a historian and a poet.
The middle brother had a sad father,
A fisherman and a fugitive from boredom.
I planted a flower bed and a vegetable garden behind the house.
Imitating him, his son became an agronomist.
The younger brother had an old father,
Sage, resident of the beyond world.
He looked for books, collected and read.
And the son, in imitation, became a scribe.
So age and time changed him,
The era of my father was spinning.
And only one thing did not change the father:
For every son he was a model.
“The era of my father was spinning,” writes Berestov. In 1936, Dmitry Matveyevich was expelled from the party and was summoned at night for interrogation by the NKVD. Saving his family, he left Meshchovsk. In 1988, Valentin Dmitrievich wrote a poem about this, “Evidence (1936).”
“Berestov,” they told their father, “
Admit it: you are a Socialist Revolutionary.
They were looking for evidence
They raised dust in the archives,
In Ukrainian, for example.
And now we will present them.
It’s not for nothing that you hid the Socialist-Revolutionaries.
What's in Ekaterinoslav
Did you speak at the congress?
Why did you go to the Socialist-Revolutionaries with this?
What did he tell them about terrorism?
In nineteen hundred and three?
- What did you say? Probably nonsense.
What else can I say at that time?
Could a child of eight years old?
“How about eight? Ooh, enemy seed!
Got out, damn it!”
During the war, Berestov's father was captured and upon returning home he was forced to work in a rural school; he could not find work in Kaluga.
Two grandmothers lived in their family: Baba Sasha, mother of Zinaida Fedorovna, and great-grandmother Alexandra Gerasimovna, mother of Baba Sasha. Valentin Dmitrievich also talks about them in his poems.
BABA SASHA
Our affectionate fairy!
Arches of proud eyebrows.
I called him “Baba Sasha”
My mother's mother.
There were rumors in the town
About your past sins,
And with the zeal of a praying mantis
You begged them.
In a black shawl, in a strict dress,
Asking for yourself, for us,
On your knees before god
I fell down many times.
Freezing spokes
A blue look from under a scarf...
I drove along the floorboard
Blown buttons troops.
Budyonny and I beat the cadets,
Interventionists, cadets.
The cry “Hurray!”, “For the power of the Soviets!”
It shook your quiet roof.
In his book of memoirs, Berestov wrote about her: “My blue-eyed, black-haired grandmother, mother of five children, fell in love with a defrocked monk and left my grandfather. I heard rumors about this in Meshchovsk half a century after my grandfather’s death.”
And about my great-grandmother:
Great-grandmother-deprived, great-grandmother-noblewoman
I always hurried to visit early in the morning.
Why should the landowner be honored by me?
Great-grandmother! Not everyone has it.
“Great-grandmother, hello!” –
“Have you come, naughty one?
For some gingerbread, eat it. Take an earphone.
Kovaleva again. Sing, darling, sing!
Ah, radio! Treasure for a blind old lady!
Well, that's enough. The newspaper is a breeding ground for culture.
Let's tell the cartoons.
Circle on the eye? Ah, monocle! Well, well!
In a top hat and with a bomb? Bring on the war!”
Oh, how she made fun of Briand,
Over Churchill, Hoover, Zhang Hsue-liang,
How she snorted, holding her lips with her palm,
Above the petty arrogance of the great powers.
She joked, had fun, rode in a carriage.
Laughing and joking, she lingered in the light.
The tenth decade!.. A crowd of old ladies
Yes, a yellow chasuble priest like a cone.
“You have fallen a victim” was not heard here.
According to the ancient rite, she was buried.
Great-grandmother loved listening to folk songs performed by the singer Kovaleva, was interested in politics and, despite the fact that she was already blind at that time, subscribed to the Izvestia newspaper. Thanks to Izvestia and his great-grandmother, little Valya Berestov learned his first letters and read his first word. He talks about this in his memoirs: “And yet she (great-grandmother) taught me the first two letters. In other cartoons that I told her, among stormy sea stood a proud cliff with four letters along a steep cliff. “Three identical letters next to each other? - asked the great-grandmother. “No other way than the USSR!” The first word I read!” Valya and his brother Dima were called by their grandmothers Dragotsuntchik and Strekotunchik. Grandmothers were “disenfranchised” - that is, deprived of voting rights due to their noble origin.
My father’s mother, grandmother Katya, lived in the village of Torhovo. She was the second wife of Matvey Berestov and bore him 18 children, of whom nine survived. She came from the village to visit in a cart and drove the horse herself.
GRANDMOTHER KATYA
I see grandma Katya
Standing by the bed.
Came from the village
Grandma Katya.
A gift for mom
She serves.
I'm quiet
He puts in a dried pear.
I ordered my father
Like a child:
“You, baby, are on your own
Unharness the horse!”
And asked with respect,
Leaning over me:
“Would you like a fairy tale,
My father?
Many of the Berestovs' relatives died in the war. Two sons of Baba Sasha did not return from the war. Valentin Berestov's cousins Vasily and Konstantin - grandsons of Baba Katya - also did not return from the war. In the poem “Shirt,” Valentin Dmitrievich spoke about his cousin Vasily:
The parents are different, but the grandmother is the same.
And she brought her brother from the village to us.
And I, six years old, was the most happy for him.
My cousin was studying to become a teacher.
How funny he was! How kind he was!
What beautiful shirts he wore!
He came in a white shirt. And on our porch
We looked at the cathedral clock for an hour.
And before mom said: “Go to bed!”
We have learned to recognize the time by the arrows.
Then he came for me in a blue shirt,
He brought them to other students and sat them down at the table.
And the announcer, like a teacher, told the story for everyone.
This is how I listened to the loudspeaker for the first time.
But then my brother came into the house in a black shirt,
And my mother let the two of us go to the village.
Ah, the new shirt has one big secret:
In the paint trough in the kitchen it changed color.
And again she - look! - looks like new.
And the loudspeaker speaks more and more sternly...
Dear brother, he did not return from the battlefield.
The gramophone shines like a silver trumpet.
My favorite record, hissing, went in a circle:
“The cut glass fell from the table.”
The windows in the hut are open. There are friends under the windows.
“They fell and broke, like my youth.”
Vasily fought near Kyiv, was a political instructor, and was surrounded. Then he was in a partisan detachment. In 1944, Vasily Grigorievich went missing. Shortly before this, his parents received two letters from him, in one of them he asked not to worry if there was no news from him for a long time.
The father of the hero of the poem “Kostik” Nikolai Matveevich Berestov was the chairman of the collective farm. When the Germans arrived, he was appointed headman, but he managed to preserve the collective farm herd without handing over a single head of cattle to the invaders. Despite this, after the liberation of the village by the Red Army (at the beginning of 1942), he was arrested and sent to Uzbek camps. The village residents stood up for him, and in 1945 he was released and rehabilitated, but his health was undermined, and he soon died. And his son Konstantin, who was not yet 18 years old, was drafted into the army and, as the son of an “enemy of the people,” was sent to a penal battalion. He died a few months later, in 1942, when he was blown up by a mine (penalties were thrown into a minefield in front of the equipment):
Who remembers Kostya,
Our cousin
About brother soldier
About our long-standing loss.
He graduated from school
And he immediately died in the war.
You remembered him
I dreamed about him in a dream.
In family albums
He lives on an old card
(He didn't play,
But for some reason it was filmed with a guitar).
And something is more important
Than just sadness and kinship,
Connected us all
Who hasn't forgotten about him yet?
Poems about deprived grandmothers and brother Kostya were published only in the 1970s. And here it would be appropriate to recall another poem by Berestov.
SUBTEXT
You won't find a dirty trick in my poems.
Secretly smart and secretly brave
I can't be. Hiding lies under the truth
Under lies the truth is an impossible task
I think. I write what I want
I’ll keep silent about whatever I want.
Well, the subtext is different from the catch
Poems are given not by the author, but by the era.
Years passed, and Valentin Berestov turned from a grandson and son into a father, and then into a grandfather. When his daughter Marina was born, poems for children appeared. “My daughter Marina inspired me to write poems and fairy tales for children,” V.D. Berestov wrote in his autobiographical note “About Me.” For example, the famous poem “About the girl Marina and her car” or the poem “Horse”:
Me for my daughter
The best of horses.
I can laugh loudly
And click loudly.
And riding, riding, riding
On his dashing horse
That's how it goes
Cowgirl girl.
And the next morning there is no horse.
He leaves for half a day
Pretending to be angry
Businesslike,
But he dreams of one thing:
I wish I could become a horse again.
And, trembling with impatience,
Hit with his hoof.
And then poems about the grandson appeared.
FOR THE BIRTH OF A GRANDSON
Like in childhood, grandma
She's friendly with me.
But this grandmother -
My wife!
WALKING WITH YOUR GRANDSON
Grandfather likes birch trees
And aspens.
My grandson likes the kiosks
Shops.
He took the cannibal mask,
I took the stickers.
Grandfather didn't have any
Not a penny.
At one of the meetings with readers, Valentin Dmitrievich said: “I took all the stories from my own own life. Everything that is written in my poems was with me...” The verses given here, combined a single theme, the theme of family, is a unique history of the Telegin-Berestov family, inextricably linked with the history of our country.
And a few more poems, not included in the article, also on a “family” theme: “Letter from Grandma”, “French”, “Waking up, I go to the window...”, “Bathing”, “Door”, “At my father’s desk... "", "Father Fishing", "Father's Gift", "At Grandma's", "Parents' Day (1940)", "Night Conversations with Father", " Scary dream”, “Mom left”, “Parents went to the theater”, “Paper crosses”, “Only once, and then at the beginning of childhood...”.