Текст песни Радио ВЕРА - Рифмы жизни - Мария Ватутина

At the very beginning of the 2000s, unexpectedly for myself, I started working in the magazine "New World". For a journalist and museum worker, service in this oldest literary publication has truly become a “new world” and remains so today. Memory retains seemingly unexpected impressions. In a word, a vivid, almost intrusive memory has been firmly preserved in me from those times. I remember how the then head of the poetry department, Yuri Kublanovsky, whom I helped prepare publications, for several days in a row bitterly mumbled and read aloud his favorite lines from a poem by the Moscow poetess Maria Vatutina called "To a classmate", repeated and repeated them day after day:

... And in every city that hunches
Over every dime of its own,
Our turtle doves are already babbling
And our rooms are brighter

And our voices are rushing
Learn parental speech.
And the barbarian ovens are heated,
Where our books will burn.

… The time has come, and I got to know this talented poet of our generation, a poet with an ardent soul and, as it was once said about the heroes of Dostoevsky, a man without skin. From the side of everyday life - Masha Vatutina, author of the bright books "Change of Times", "Our Girl", "Draw", "Chain of Events" and others - a charming young woman raising her son alone, a professional and reliable lawyer, editor, friend of her friends ...
And at the same time - a lyrical poet-storyteller, like a sponge, absorbing pain, love, drama of a many-voiced, many-sided, exhausted, native fatherland. She lives and experiences them as her own destiny (and, of course, vice versa). Checking her blood flow with Eternal Time, where prayer sometimes turns into an argument, despair melts into hope, and war becomes a victory, Maria Vatutina happily acquires her irreplaceable spirit vision.

I passed the day and put out the light,
And she went to bed, turning to the wall.
Some otherworldly force
Squeaking like parquet, she approached me.

And the tulle swelled, and the walls melted,
And a drop dripped when on the porch
All my ancestors from the borders of the Oycumene
They entered and silently took me into the ring.

Community elders, grooms, women,
Tsar's peasants, archers, bell ringers, -
The deceased crowded at a distance, anyhow
What didn't happen to me before dawn.

Oh what I touched today in the light,
Which tombs she opened in a dream,
That these ancient parishes gushed forth,
As if there are some gates in me?

Oh, the book of my coincidences with space
And in time, did you open up for a moment,
And blood tie to a crowded realm
Heavenly was installed end to end

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

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

Oh what you left me for a living
Broken troughs and knees besides,
At least some ingot, scroll
About how God will have mercy on me,

At least a handful of spelled,
Some kind of fairy tale in future dreams!
Oh who are you, what are you dark crowds,
My Balalykins and Zimins?

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

Kurchane, Tverchane, Cherkizovites, below-
townspeople, Voronezh, Tula, and there
Drevlyans, glades, krivchan and others like
Michael, Irad, Enoch, Cain, Adam.

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