the poet [Theme]

It will all be a lie!

During the day, when the sun is shining, I come alive. I go to watch jellyfish swim. I see off the ships leaving for Constantinople and think about the Bosphorus. No hobbies. One. One. Although there are women chasing me here. How? A poet, after all. Yes, what else, famous. All this is funny and stupid.

“Disintegration into fragments” is the most honest photograph of our god. The only one we can do. Be it with telescopes, like physicists, or with your soul, like the ancient poet Nietzsche. Even the most sacred of divine names consists of four fragments - apparently, the ancient Jews observed the creator through their spiritual optics a few picoseconds after his collapse and were unable to get closer to the starting point of creation...

While she was wondering what to answer, Andrea took her palm and placed a flower in it. It reminded her of how the poet Mario Vazzo placed a fragile flower in the palm of her mother Pina Vella. As a child, she did not understand the meaning of this gesture. Now I understand.

Perhaps we can name three stable components of Russian self-awareness. We have already talked about this in part, but we need to repeat it again. The first component of national self-awareness is Orthodox ideas about good and evil, about the world and man. They go with us through the centuries, despite heresies and schisms, revolutions and reactions, atheism and new outbreaks of religiosity. They have firmly entered into the ideological matrix of the Russians, and no reformers can knock them out of it. The second is the collective memory of the historical choices that Russia had to make, being, in the words of Mendeleev, “between the hammer of the West and the anvil of the East.” The third is the Russian type of thinking, combining peasant common sense with cosmic feeling. As the poet said about the Russian mind, “it soberly judges the earth, bathing in a mystical darkness.”

There is nothing more pathetic than a person who measures everything up and down, trying, as the poet says, “to measure the expanses of the earth, going underground,” to unravel the secret of the souls of the people around him, but not realizing that for him communication only with his inner genius and honest service to him. The last thing is to protect him from passions, recklessness and dissatisfaction with the affairs of gods and people. The deeds of the gods are venerable for their perfection, the deeds of people are dear to us due to our kinship with them. But sometimes the latter arouse a certain kind of pity: when ignorance of good and evil is manifested in them - an ugliness no less than the inability to distinguish between white and black.

Dawn gives birth to colors that will never be repeated...

- Your poet was wrong, I assure you.

Beauty is not a nose, mouth, or back. The poet Nikolai Zabolotsky said very precisely: A

To death, the damage from my blows is like mosquito bites, but, as the ancient Greek poet Haril said: Drop

Why is it that closer to old age - more often, alas, a hopeless prose writer?

If a poet refuses his poems, he is a graphomaniac.

The poet must correct the word as responsibly as the bones of the chiropractor.

No doubt, a woman is a light, a look, a call to happiness, sometimes a word; but above all, it is a general harmony, and not only in posture and movements, but also in silks, in an airy, sparkling cloud of fabrics enveloping her, constituting, as it were, the attributes and pedestal of this deity, in metal and stones that snake around her hands and neck, intensifying the fire of her gaze with their sparks, or tinkling softly at her ears. What poet, describing the pleasure he experienced at the appearance of a beauty, would dare to separate the woman from her dress?