Текст песни Радио ВЕРА - Рифмы жизни - Мария Ватутина

At the very beginning of the 2000s, unexpectedly for myself, I began to work in the magazine "New World". For a journalist and museum worker, the service in this oldest literary edition has become, indeed, a "new world", remains so today. Memory preserves unexpected, seemingly impressions. In short, from those times I had a bright, almost obsessive memory. I remember how the then head of the department of poetry, Yuri Kublanovsky, whom I helped to prepare publications, was muttering bitterly for several days, reading aloud the lines he loved from the poem of the poetess Maria Vatutina, entitled "To the classmate", repeated and repeated them from day to day:

... And in every city that hunches
Over every hryvnia,
Our turtledoves are already babbling,
And our room is brighter,

And our voices are in a hurry
To know parental speech.
And barbarian furnaces are heated,
Where our books will burn.

... The time has come, and I well recognized this talented poet of our generation, a poet with a hot heart and, as was once said about the heroes of Dostoevsky, a man without skin. From the side of everyday life - Masha Vatutina, the author of the bright books "Change of Time", "Our Girl", "Draw", "Chain of Events" and others - a charming young woman, raising her son alone, professional and trouble-free lawyer, editor, friend of her friends ...
And at the same time - lyrical poet-narrator, like a sponge, absorbed pain, love, drama of many-voiced, many-sided, exhausted, native fatherland. She lives and experiences them as her own destiny (and, of course, vice versa). Confirming their blood flow with the Eternal Time, where prayer, sometimes goes into dispute, despair melts into hope, and war becomes a victory, - Maria Vatutina happily finds her unbearable spiritual vision.

I was fasting day, and the light was extinguished,
And I lay down to sleep, turning to the wall.
Some otherworldly power,
Parque creaking, approaching me.

And the tulle was puffed up, and the walls melted,
And a drop dripped when on the porch
All my ancestors from the borders of the Oecumene
They entered and silently took in the ring.

Community headmen, grooms, women,
Tsar's peasants, archers, bell-ringers, -
The corpses of the dead were stuck at a distance,
What did not happen to me before dawn.

Oh, what I touched today in the light,
Which opened the tombs in a dream,
That these ancient lands were pouring in,
As if there is a gate in me?

Oh, the book of my coincidences with the space
And in time, did you open up for a moment,
And the blood connection with the overcrowded kingdom
Heavenly was installed by butt

At the cellular level, or something. Well, what are you
Be silent, my Slavs, publish?
I'm scared, but I'm not free from the Word,
Which is God and native land.

I carry you all on the spine of the vertebral column
Century, but from that and the scruff of the neck is strong.
And the guests are silent in accordance with the exact
With the silence still of the Proto-Slavic tribes.

Oh, what you left me for a living
Broken troughs and knees okromya,
At least some bar, scroll
About that, through which God pardons me,

At least some of a handful of polba,
Some fairy-tale in dreams to come!
Oh, who are you, what are you, dark crowds,
My Balalikins and Zimins?

Let go, Ivan, Ivanov children,
Heavenly powers, Lord's relatives! -
I whispered to them, and they are at dawn
One by one went into me:

Kurchane, Tverchan, Cherkizovsky, below-
Gorodets, Voronezhs, Tul'tsy, and there
Drevlyane, glade, krivchane and izhe
Michael, Irad, Enoch, Cain, Adam.

Maria Vatutina, 2006, from the book "Our Girl"