Today I am pleased to share with you the new verse of Andrew anpilova.
Andrey Anpilov: Poetry is when you feel the eyes from heaven and hear a voice: “love You…” the Photo: From personal archive of Andrey anpilova
Recently in Moscow was his night. Room is small, people – a handful. And only Andrew touched the guitar, I wanted to quietly slip out of the hall on the Smolensk area of the capital (she was very close) and samaha hands, say: “Brothers, here Andrew song singing and poetry reading, and you…”
While Andrew spoke, I glanced in a dark window, feeling sorry for those who now runs in the street and hears of the poet.
Of course, the page in the paper may not sound good, but I hope Andrey’s voice you still hear.
One of my favorite writer said: to prose breathed and is easily readable between words needs to blow a draught.
In the poetry of Andrew anpilova there is no breeze, but something emanates, from which among his poems, and breathe easily and happily, even if he writes about sad things. So in the summer blows from the ajar to the garden window.
Wystan Hugh Auden at the end of life concluded: “the Most that the artist can do for his contemporaries, to give him a little be glad of life…”
He wrote as if they knew about it. Life – more autumn than spring. And soul every day, every moment necessary, that somewhere in the distance loomed a light, a beacon, a candle or even just a light bulb under the iron cap on the platform “124-th kilometer”.
All poems of Andrew, which we published today, written this summer and fall and are printed for the first time.
I liked the birthplace of his father,
As G said – HDE you
the HDE are you,
This warm and dialect as pollen
For a long time remained in the seams of clothing.
G fricative in the North float
To the delight of sparrows and laughter
Ne I want, no need, that nehay,
As the rustle of grass
over the quiet Don.
Wash out summer linen,
Rain has overcast the sky,
And I lost my treasure –
Nehay, that I ne want ne treba.
* * *
To come under the shelter of the poem
As for the poor village temple
Through the overgrown step
To cross myself – and there.
The foliage smells just like home
There is a dry silence
And gossamer winds sleepily
As the beam fall from the window.
The doors of Paradise
In the picture, what the father did,
Every time you change something
On the fence sits a Starling,
The sand will touch the shadow of the aircraft.
Flying grains light
In Indian stepping into a footprint,
The cat passed and the door subsided.
Turn away, forgetting in her sleep,
From the old blind watercolors
In a quiet frame, in the distant window
Life goes on barely.
In the grass summer rain drizzles,
The grasshopper predicts stubbornly,
That underwear hanging on the rope
And talking with a neighbor mom.
If there are doors of Paradise here,
Look at butterflies flock,
And stayed in the sandals to get
Trousers and a baby shirt.
* * *
A warm day as my mother’s shoulder,
On the farm the rustle of invisible,
The wind blows, but not hot,
Above the grass smoke longer summer.
Completed urgent cases
Masts creaking pines
Apples little stars
Smell on the outskirts of the village.
* * *
Came a woman from the village
With a little can of milk
Early in the morning, the children were still asleep,
Under his cheek the hot hand.
Fresh, fresh, with warm foam,
Couldn’t be better for calves,
And in a dream it seemed
What people are saying.
Speak in a low voice, and pours
The rain on the metal bottom,
Tinkles coin, blurred
On the wall of the window spot.
Creaked gate, again
To sleep blissfully, entirely.
The house smells leaves, dew,
Wood and warm milk.
On the slippery roof of the garage
Standing, shivering from the horror.
Buddies all laughing in the snow
Got no time
Long without charges and without trial,
And life has passed like an hour.
And only you, the last thing you
Afraid to jump from height.
To fly only two meters,
Go and make yourself
Find courage in the words
To step Samaras, vyave.
Already frozen, centuries have passed.
The guys yelled bye!
All fled their homes.
And it would be necessary to slide,
Yet no one sees the shame,
Itself in secret to save
To slide back into the abdomen
Almost in complete darkness.
Twinkle window lights
My whole life inside,
Here, where burning up with fever, chills
And, making a step as in a nightmare,
Promaxis whole century,
And fall into the snow.
Other poems by Andrew can be read in the December issue of the magazine “New world”.
The monologue of the poet
The family is the connectedness of the world. I just recently drew attention to the fact that the Bible is a family album of humanity. Always mean all written – from someone who was born. Here, it seemed, saints, prophets, righteous, apostles – they are not of this world, but about the relatives of each something to say, in the Apostle Peter’s mother-in-law even is. In the literature dear to me above all things connected with the memory of childhood, family, “War and peace”, “Childhood Bagrova-grandson”, but in the movie – “the Mirror” Tarkovsky, “Amarcord”, Fellini and art – Chagall, who in each picture – Vitebsk, the city of his childhood. There is nothing more beautiful on earth than the meek force. That was my father. It is a force that can do everything, but will never get you resentment. My dad had lost his voice. He was in the army Zapevalov, even before the war, and lost my voice in the cold. Therefore always spoke very quietly. After the war dad became a painter and worked at “Soyuzmultfilm” forty-something years. “Boniface’s holiday”, “a Grey neck”, “Golden antelope”, “Umka”… If there in the credits you will notice the name of Dmitry anpilova, it’s my dad.
Write Dmitry Shevarov: [email protected]