It seemed that the flowers were cold, and they faded slightly from the dew. The dawn that walked through the grass and bushes was searched by German binoculars. The flower, covered in dewdrops, clung to the flower, and the border guard extended his hands to them. And the Germans, having finished drinking coffee, at that moment climbed into the tanks and closed the hatches. Everything breathed such silence that it seemed that the whole earth was still sleeping. Who knew that there were only five minutes left between peace and war! I wouldn’t sing about anything else, but would glorify my journey all my life, if I sounded the alarm for those five minutes as a humble army trumpeter.
Birch
The rain bends her to the ground, Almost naked, and she rushes, looks silently, - And the rain subsides at the window. And on an impenetrable winter evening, Believing in victory in advance, The storm takes her by the shoulders, Takes her white hands. But, thin, breaking her, They will be knocked out of strength... She, Apparently, has a straight character, Is faithful to someone else.
In California
There was an ocean nearby. The sand crunched. Sometimes the stars fell obliquely, flying somewhere towards China over the ocean. And the month in a cloud, where three stars glittered, lay on its back, like a baby in a cradle. America, I have seen your redwood trees. They are straight at heart, like those two guys. Must be the movers. I met them that evening. They stood, white teeth, round shoulders. We crushed the cigarettes out of habit and lit matches from one. And someone’s gloomy steps slowed down nearby. I understood - he wanted to tell me with his gaze: “There are other cigarettes in store for you. Just strike a match and damn half the planet.” Well, such meetings have happened more than once. You never know how many scumbags there are. He didn't ruin the evening. There was an ocean nearby, and these guys laughed nearby and looked back at me with a friendly look. We went. Pebbles and sand crunched. Sometimes the stars fell at an angle. And the month lay on its back in a cloud, where three stars shone, like a baby in a cradle.
* * *
Look into that distant place. There are voices of animals and birds. The forests in the Trans-Urals are full of strawberries and stone fruits. The guys are walking in a friendly flock. The berries are blooming in the tueska. Heel holes are imprinted between pine trees on the sand. Seven and eight year olds don't even care. Not more lively than others, not more noticeable, in this flock the boy walks... Look into that distant place. A winding path, a forest path. He is with a rifle in his hands and with a book - people go looking for happiness. With a kind heart and an open look, he walks and walks through the years. Death passed nearby. And nearby there was a more terrible disaster... He remembers this and his heart freezes. Even though he was not the only one who faced adversity, it was not easy for him to reach the top of his incorruptible gray hairs.
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
Looking at the clock
Future! You are before my eyes. Zulfiya That evening is far away even for a dream. But I see everything and terms through the dates: a boy is bending over a book, not a great-grandson, no, my distant descendant. The young man is studying history, something that has faded away in centuries past. That font may be small for a schoolchild, but it contains fire and lead. In it, the gardens began to rustle, the cries of people’s victories appeared, and the scarlet color of the star that the Great Seventeenth brought into the world seeped through. I see poets. Even if not many are honored, even if, as today, some love the pose, they will not give the words of the immortal muses to the cybernetic brain. Language has acquired an all-human gift: be it in everyday speech, in chorale, into it, like bees from flowers, peoples have collected the best words. In that distant distance, dear to me, as if through a fog, a dream reveals faces... The clock. They are familiar on the wall. How long does the hour on the dial last?
First
March was the first time under Soviet rule. Drops of pollen were crushed in the wind. A car was entering the Kremlin. The sentries did not yet know Lenin by sight. A shadow lay against the jagged walls. In boots and windings, the sentries shifted at the gates. Lenin entered the Kremlin for the first time. It was a beautiful day! The distance beyond the loopholes was clear. He got out of the car and touched his cap. A great spring walked across the earth - and governments and thrones fell.
Stepan Shchipachev. Poems. Russia is my homeland. Library of Russian Soviet poetry in 50 books. Moscow: Fiction, 1967.
Height
What is the opinion of the famous Kazbek about himself? Is Elbrus arrogant? I don't dare to judge. When they drink mists from a starry ladle, suddenly seeing clearly, they read their lives slowly. They stand akin to cold eternity, and the essence is simple: they would not have been like this without the mountain range, if it had not lifted them under the blue dome, spreading the vague horizon, without propping it up... . Is it possible for the ridge itself, no matter how steeped in meaning, to understand the height of the peaks (its own), where the air is rarefied, where the cold sparkles during the day, where a star sleeps at night, that it is judged on earth by this height.
Soviet poetry. In 2 volumes. Library of World Literature. Episode three. Editors A. Krakovskaya, Y. Rosenblum. Moscow: Fiction, 1977.
Voice
Sometimes it seems to me: my poems are quiet in our loud age. But if they were louder - twice, three times - would you be able to shout over the roar of construction? Even though you may not please others, I still have the same confidence: there is no need to shout. Even if you are talking to the whole world.
Soviet poetry. In 2 volumes. Library of World Literature. Episode three. Editors A. Krakovskaya, Y. Rosenblum. Moscow: Fiction, 1977.
Day
Minted by my country, the day is like specie, gold. The face of the sun - on one side, on the other - the hammer and sickle shine. I want my work to be worth a golden day. I have a lot of them: how can I waste them on nothing?
Soviet poetry. In 2 volumes. Library of World Literature. Episode three. Editors A. Krakovskaya, Y. Rosenblum. Moscow: Fiction, 1977.
* * *
It’s not a pity that the day will pass again, That again the sunset has splashed the colors, It’s a pity that so many sweet and good women wither without love, without affection. It is difficult for many to remember a single day, a day that is carried in the heart as a secret date. Soon the first gray hairs will sprinkle, The grooms have disappeared somewhere. Lost in life, lost, Many died a heroic death. Who will touch those women with a caustic word, or silently condemn them, that their married neighbors look jealously at their husbands?
There lived a boy in the village
A boy lived in a village, in a forested area, and knew only the forest and his village, the blue of the Trans-Ural sky, and a mountain a little higher than the aspen trees. The mountain above the thicket of the forest was white with its limestone whiteness. The boy loved to climb the mountain and marvel at the space for a long time. A simple dark-blond boy, it must have been then that you fell in love with a world where there is the height of Elbrus, perseverance of work and the flight of dreams.
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
* * *
Behind the village was a distant forest. The rye swayed, the ear ripened. A young Budennovsky fighter was kissing a girl at the boundary line. The guy had a dashing forelock and a boyish fluff on his lip. The bugler called. But the guy feels good, and the girl loves this guy. He kissed for the first time in his life. In the field there is blue and rye on all sides. He left... And an hour later the squadron galloped across the field to attack. The half shawl was wet from the dew. The girl has a lump in her throat. The guy was cut off by a bullet. The rye swayed, the ear ripened... The years passed. Think about the line, my dear unknown friend. Maybe you are seventeen years old and there is no happier person in the country. The stars are shining, the city is sleeping, you are in love, you have forgotten about everything, and perhaps you are happy in love because you did not love him.
Stepan Shchipachev. Poems. Russia is my homeland. Library of Russian Soviet poetry in 50 books. Moscow: Fiction, 1967.
* * *
Table word
Who spilled wine on the tablecloth? Well, that's what the wine is for, to flow. At the oak round table let the fun s A midnight lasts. I drink to the tree that has grown for hundreds of years in a green oak grove! I drink, carpenter, to your craft! Don’t I have the right to be proud of the one who made this oak table with golden hands? Those who understand wine, let us drink to the work of winemakers; it is no easier than other work. It is not for nothing that the winemaker is concerned that the wine of the year will strengthen in the pitch darkness of heavy barrels. Those who are more sober will not lie - we, of course, are not drunk yet. Glassblowers, how can your exquisite work go unmentioned! Under the glasses the tablecloth is white, it gives a chill under your hands. The weaver wove this tablecloth while operating the looms for magpies. So that white bread and fresh rye lay in a heap on a dish, in the spring mud, in the summer heat, people wiped the sweat from their faces. We ourselves, I can say, are made of the same stuff - and there is no place for a slacker in our circle at the table!
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
Vision
1 Not only the Yakuts know where winter comes from. The Pamirs are shrouded in blizzards and blizzards at the starry gates. On some distant planet, where they hardly wonder about us, and there, like an earthly wind, the snow blows across the crust. 2 It was once unthinkable to see the invisible face. The atom is more insignificant than the insignificant and, like the universe, is great. The vision becomes more and more sharp. Someday there will be traces from a drop on a lilac branch to the most foggy star.
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
Izba
Alexander Yashin A hut is like a hut - there is a chimney above the roof. The blunt-snouted trough looks like a sign of ancient life. Heavy cast iron is black from soot and smoke. And, not getting enough sleep at night, you have to move them with a grip. The shutters and log walls are painted. The antenna cross above the roof is inconspicuous. But in the cramped hut, the oceans rustle from the blue screen, countries worry, banners flash, buglers blow... The hut recognized itself in this way. She dreams of the old, she dreams of the new. There is a TV right under the shrine.
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
* * *
Whatever you want to call it. We have become dearer to each other, More caring, more tender in love, But why am I so anxious? I began to attach importance to dreams, Sometimes I think, growing gloomy... Well, it’s clear that the stronger the love, the more terrible we are for it.
Russian and Soviet poetry for foreign students. A.K. Demidova, I.A. Rudakova. Moscow, publishing house "Higher School", 1969.
Key
Where the shadows huddle against the rocks, like sheep from the heat, he burst out, covered in foam, from the stone mountain. The child of nature, the icy spring, runs into the gardens, fields and orchards, and the sound of water is sweet. Ask a Turkmen: is it true? So that labor knows success, the deep key will be dismantled down to the last drop on collective farms. The barley, ripe on time, sways and has a mustache, and a wide garden casts a shadow across the road. The earth is not happy about the heat, it is dry and hot, but in the bunches of grapes there is a chill of the spring. Nothing will interfere, the road is long: he continues his path in the veins of the stem.
Soviet poetry. In 2 volumes. Library of World Literature. Episode three. Editors A. Krakovskaya, Y. Rosenblum. Moscow: Fiction, 1977.
Palm
The palm is large and masculine. The lines that cross it are clear and rough, the roads of your destiny. She became coarse from the pick and shovel, and shy on a woman's breast. The palm is a cast of life, traces of the years that have flown by. Bend towards the water, and you will scoop water into it along with the sky. It is wide, five-fingered. You swim - it cuts through the river. In the army ranks I was attached to the staff under the red banner. She is there to stroke the child with love, the concern of the father... And to burn the scoundrel with a ringing slap. An apple, round as a planet, rests in it. May this palm never be more honest in the world!
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
I want to breathe in the forest
I want to breathe in the forest, breathe in the blizzards, not live my life in vain, adhere to the truth in everything, cherish the truth alone. The sun is above me, the stars are above me. I'm in their sight too. In life I don’t take sides, I walk the main road. Maybe I’m soft in heart, maybe I’m soft in words, maybe there’s no loud line - only under the red banner I didn’t lose my footing.
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
* * *
It was raining in autumn. The garden was sad about summer. Behind me, the water leveled the trail. The date on my party card told me: I was nineteen years old then. Kolchak was marching towards the city; there was a black trench near the soap factory; there were lilacs in the mud, and I was shining: I became a party guy on that blessed autumn day.
* * *
I carried love through all the separations And I am happy that, far from you, It was not snatched up by the thieves of someone else’s hands, Someone else’s lips were not blown to the wind.
Russian and Soviet poetry for foreign students. A.K. Demidova, I.A. Rudakova. Moscow, publishing house "Higher School", 1969.
* * *
Know how to cherish love, Doubly cherish it over the years. Love is not sighs on a bench or walks in the moonlight. Everything will be: slush and powder. After all, we need to live life together. Love is like a good song, but a song is not easy to put together.
Russian poets. Anthology in four volumes. Moscow: Children's literature, 1968.
Meteorite
Meteorite, meteorite. He doesn't say where he's from. Lying before us is an iron-smooth, unknown guest from the foggy galaxies, a fragment of some lost planet, of which the universe has forgotten its signs. I look at the black piece silently. Is it really from an explosion, is it really from an explosion?.. I look, and the meteorite speaks about many things in its own dark language.
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
* * *
Sometimes it seems to me that this is how I will live and live in the world! How will death touch me when there are friends all around, when the grass, and the clouds, and the wind - every speck of dust - is my life?
Stepan Shchipachev. Poems. Russia is my homeland. Library of Russian Soviet poetry in 50 books. Moscow: Fiction, 1967.
Mother's grave
There is neither a cross nor a stone even on this grave, and no one will show me any sign of it. A hillock, adjacent to others, was on it, but in a long time many spring waters rushed off - and the hillock was leveled. Only the wind bends the blades of grass, only... my chest squeezed with melancholy: as if there had never been a Russian woman like her in the world; as if she had not given birth to six children in agony, did not mow or sting, did not see off her sons, did not grieve at the window. I would have felt completely sad if the land of no relatives had not awakened the memory of her with every path, every hill. On the lakes, on the Elan, behind the logs near the fishing line, who hasn’t seen her dark scarf from the very early days! With the children, like a widow, she toiled in the field - Shchipacheva Paraskovya - on the strip until dark, without knowing laziness, she put out the wort for the suslons... If only she could fall on her knees and bow to that land. Even if the trail to the abandoned grave is lost in the world, I know that my mother was buried in that land that couldn’t be easier, in that land, in my native land, where my humble poem sounds, where the work of the departed and the living is now high and glorious. And when the snowstorms whistle, I again think one thing: they were flying over her, and they were knocking on my window.
Russian poets. Anthology in four volumes. Moscow: Children's literature, 1968.
Young
Bitterly! Bitterly! - they are shouting all around, And there is nowhere to escape from the exclamations: This is the custom - you have to kiss in front of everyone at a noisy wedding table. The newlyweds are still embarrassed, But we, drunk, stand our ground: Solemnly surrounded by relatives, We wish them advice and love. Love, love... If only you could visit, even if old and completely gray-haired, at their silver, distant wedding, so that it would be just as “bitter!” bitterly!" shout to them. And if, over glasses of wine, When we force them to kiss, They become confused just like that, even for a moment, I will believe in their love - it is strong.
Poetry evening. Repertory collection. Moscow: Art, 1964.
* * *
We are building communism. What in the world is more beautiful than this work! Where is the limit of valor? The sky's the limit! And who said that our love should be smaller than our deeds? I may not be worthy of such love myself, but despite the storms and winds, love lives and shines with pure beauty - the sister of lofty thoughts.
Stepan Shchipachev. Poems. Russia is my homeland. Library of Russian Soviet poetry in 50 books. Moscow: Fiction, 1967.
At the party committee
It also happens that you sit at a party committee, friends: at home, when you take off your jacket, you notice that you are smoky down to your underwear. It’s been spring outside for a long time, the grass has been sprinkled with rain, and here winter is still in full swing. But the secretary tore open the window - and the branches rushed to his hands, to his hot face. The rumble of airplanes, the noise of children; it smelled like earth, like a forest. The earth is white from the apple tree, and the years ahead are clear. It is impossible to resolve party affairs without feeling spring.
Stepan Shchipachev. Poems. Russia is my homeland. Library of Russian Soviet poetry in 50 books. Moscow: Fiction, 1967.
* * *
It's past five, but I can't sleep. The blizzard grows cloudy, night flies into dawn. The earth, as if wound up, vert And... Five and ten thousand years will pass, and the distant age (we dreamed of it too) will begin to blow like blizzards. In that, inaccessible even to thoughts, if only I could be a snowflake, so that, flying over the earth with the wind, I could look at the life of that time at least once, flutter over a poplar on a frosty day and melt on a child’s cheek.
Stepan Shchipachev. Poems. Russia is my homeland. Library of Russian Soviet poetry in 50 books. Moscow: Fiction, 1967.
* * *
My verse is not loud, not flashy, but I do not wish otherwise. From my amorous lines my soul becomes younger again. The noise of the trees, the stars, the showers, and the grass are with me. I breathe this air, of course, by right. Let my path get shorter and shorter, but no matter how long you have left to live, you too, wise old age, will not be very rational.
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
Unfamiliar
It’s a Saturday afternoon - it’s already dark and it’s sparkling at work, and you’re sitting in the cinema lobby in a draft of mirrors. With an open book, alone, at least couples around. On the neck, a mole is visible under a slight curl. And the eyebrow is cracked, stern, when you look down. With the usual abrasions, the hand touches the pages. Perhaps the fingers are rougher than others. A little. And I want to find out at least something about you from them. Saturday afternoon - already dark - sparkled at work, and you are sitting in the cinema lobby in the draft of mirrors.
Russian poets. Anthology in four volumes. Moscow: Children's literature, 1968.
* * *
No one escapes decay. Death will trample everyone, like flowers and grass. Long live the generations with whom I live on earth! It is unlikely that history will place on the shoulders of any people of another land what we carried on our shoulders. Yes, even today it’s too early for us to throw aside worries and walk lightly, when tension flows from the construction cranes along every line.
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
Appeal to time
Ah, time, slow down, slow down! I know where I am drawn, and you put loops around the sun and place them in a wreath. You can’t count the sunrises and sunsets on earth that will be on it... Ah, time! Give me wise advice and leisurely days!
Soviet poetry. In 2 volumes. Library of World Literature. Episode three. Editors A. Krakovskaya, Y. Rosenblum. Moscow: Fiction, 1977.
Oats
From the night dew, from the cold stars, the oats woke up in a cold sweat. The transparent morning skies touched the rough eyebrows of the oats. He makes friends with corn and leans towards wheat with his blond forelock. Even if he is not the same height as them, he is filled with strength, he breathes health. He walks in the wind, disheveled, whitish - with the eyes of a child's Hercules. It’s not for nothing that my horse Pegasus reaches out to him, so that the enthusiasm does not go out.
Soviet poetry. In 2 volumes. Library of World Literature. Episode three. Editors A. Krakovskaya, Y. Rosenblum. Moscow: Fiction, 1977.
Autumn
The reckoning with August is over, and the rains are not waiting for signs. Gray water flows in trickles from green helmets. The rain makes my ears ring. And although we don’t notice, autumn is warming up with hot tea in our dugouts. Tanks at the starting line get wet under the branches, and water in a tin can splashes on the dugout.
Russian poets. Anthology in four volumes. Moscow: Children's literature, 1968.
To the fallen
The entire globe is underfoot. I live. I'm breathing. I sing. But in my memory those who died in battle are always with me. Let me not name all the names, there are no blood relatives. Is it not because I live because they died? It would be blasphemous for my melancholy line that I’m getting old, that maybe death is near. I might not have lived for a long time: in battle, amidst whistles and howls, I could have fallen in salty Sivash or somewhere near Ufa. But my peer fell there. If it weren’t for him, who knows if I would have returned home to hug my old mother. A kulak shot, blinding, would have extinguished life at once, but it was not I who was killed in the steppe, where the obelisk is now. The country again called for heroism. The soldier's path is long. Bombs dug the roadsides black. I myself saw death firsthand. There was smoke coming from the craters; I remembered the hot smell of the metal alive. But still, many had a more difficult path in the war, and Chernyakhovsky - not me - was pierced in the chest by a shrapnel. It’s not me - covered in blood, half-dead, torn to pieces and stripped - Kosheva was silent during torture at the age of sixteen. Let me not name all the names, there are no blood relatives. Is it not because I live because they died? I know what I owe them. And let not only verse, but my life be worthy of their soldier’s death.
Russian poets. Anthology in four volumes. Moscow: Children's literature, 1968.
On the way to the state farm
The gardens became silent. The cloud is coming, dark, light. The road took two travelers far. A young teacher walks past apple trees and thick currants with a fellow traveler. Not knowing who she was, he was silent halfway and knocked on the apple trees with a maple cane. Then we started talking. But, approaching like a wall, the rain rustled through the leaves and poured down torrentially. They turned under a maple tree; its foliage is thick, but heavy water falls through the leaves. They covered their heads with one cloak, and the girl pressed her shoulder to his chest... A car is coming into the area. It’s funny for the driver: there are two of them standing, covered, and it’s been raining for a long time.
Russian poets. Anthology in four volumes. Moscow: Children's literature, 1968.
After the duel
I don’t know how I can describe that evening, that terrible July evening?.. A thunderstorm roared near Mount Mashuk, and the downpour was illuminated by lightning. Lermontov's cap lay on the grass, filled with water... Slouching, the mountain has stood for many centuries, darkened by that misfortune.
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
Descendants
You are not yet: you are air, clay, light; We could only guess about you, distant ones, but we have to answer before you. Descendants, you are inseparable from us. It was a difficult battle. They seemed to us more than once unprotected for centuries. When the enemies hit us with a grenade, fragments flew to you.
Stepan Shchipachev. Poems. Russia is my homeland. Library of Russian Soviet poetry in 50 books. Moscow: Fiction, 1967.
Poets
I would like to walk along the roads of times, like our country, from region to region. I would like to walk in rain and snow, as from city to city - from century to century. St. Petersburg stink, St. Petersburg stink. Humpbacked bridges over the frozen Neva. Pushkin in the whitish afternoon on a sled - to where the drifting snow is sweeping and there is not a trace around. The forest moved close to the Black River. I couldn't stand it, I would have rushed across it. I would shout, hanging on the horse’s muzzle: “For God’s sake, Pushkin, listen to me! Turn back, turn back! Open your blue eyes forever! Poet's honor? She is pure before us, like the morning star.” Petersburg. Bridges over the frozen Neva. I would have said goodbye to him on that cold January day. I would have gone there with a knapsack - on foot, where Latin was the spoken language. In Rome I would walk through the dusty squares to meet the carefree Ovid there. I would tell him: “Stay away from the yard! The winds are not playing well with the sails. The Emperor is cruel. In a harsh foreign land, you will end your life under an unkind roof.” I would soon leave history without even having worn out a pair of sandals. I would return again to our twentieth century, where the drops are, where the last loosening snow is. To pay change for snowdrops on the corner somewhere in the blue mist of April. If I could somehow find out in those minutes that Mayakovsky was about to pull the trigger, I would have rushed to him with a phone call, even though I personally did not know the poet. I would also like to look into tomorrow’s century, taking a break from today’s affairs for a while. There I would end every speech like this: “At least you learn to take care of poets!”
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
* * *
Nature! Man is your creation, and this honor will not be taken away from you, but he put him on his feet on all fours and did the work of his ancestor as a man. Work... Is there anything more persistent and winged! The mountains are submissive to people, the fury of the rivers. Anyone in our working age who struggles with discord is still not a person for us.
Stepan Shchipachev. Poems. Russia is my homeland. Library of Russian Soviet poetry in 50 books. Moscow: Fiction, 1967.
Farewell to winter
Trees in the snow, and houses in the snow. Weeks go by weeks. I'm sad to say goodbye to you, winter: with frosts and snowstorms. She stood there, white to the ripples in her eyes, revealing her lush beauty, and in that beauty she covered up more than one trace of life, like a ski trail. Howl maybe, and I’ll say goodbye to this one forever under the white stars. I squeeze your snow with my hand until it crunches, I don’t know why I’m doing this.
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
* * *
Let me die, let the years fly, let me become dust forever. The girl will walk across the fields barefoot. I will rise up, overcoming decay, touching the hot dust of my feet, smelling like chamomile to my knees.
Stepan Shchipachev. Poems. Russia is my homeland. Library of Russian Soviet poetry in 50 books. Moscow: Fiction, 1967.
Peer
The war rumbled, bloodying its mark, crushing nations and races. Revolution... and you are eighteen years old! How great this is, how wonderful it is! Everything moved and sang. Flags all around. There seemed to be no frown on their faces. History was still blowing like a breeze, still a breeze, not a storm. Everything was still in rough drafts. The palaces did not yet tremble from rifle butts. But you figured out which side you should join the ranks on. Afterwards, I didn’t hide from the bullets of the cadets who were backing up the stairs in Zimny in fear. That night, your overcoat and windings smelled like October fire smoke. I guess by your gray hair - you have seen a lot... I know, I know: you remember your distant youth with yourself O th story alone. There is a vastness of the world and a vastness of affairs. And I wish every young man in our country to have something to remember in his old age. It’s the same way - alone with History.
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
Star light
Russian poets. Anthology in four volumes. Moscow: Children's literature, 1968.
* * *
Looking over the dates of my love, I cannot imagine one thing: that you were once a stranger to me and I knew nothing about you. No matter how long the time has passed and no matter how far I go, I must again and again bless the roads that led us to meet.
Stepan Shchipachev. Selected works in 2 volumes. Moscow: Fiction, 1970.
* * *
The blue expanses do not see themselves, And, in the eternal cold, they are bright and pure, The snowy mountains do not see themselves, The flower does not see its beauty. And it is sweet to know whether you are walking through the forests, or descending a mountain path: With your insatiable eyes Nature admires itself.
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk, Moscow: Polifact, 1995.
Gray hair
I straighten my hair with my hand, I walk as young as before, but the girls who like me have long called me “gray-haired.” And I must admit, I’m tired of my younger friends: I can’t shake another hand without talking about gray hair. Well, we were in hot business. Years will pass - they will talk about how we turned gray at thirty and did not grow old at sixty.
Stepan Shchipachev. Poems. Russia is my homeland. Library of Russian Soviet poetry in 50 books. Moscow: Fiction, 1967.
Stepan Petrovich Shchipachev (1899-1980) - Soviet poet, laureate of two Stalin Prizes (1949, 1951).
S.P. Shchipachev was born on December 26, 1898 (January 7), 1899 in the village of Shchipachi (now Kamyshlovsky district, Sverdlovsk region) in a peasant family. In 1913-1917 he worked as a clerk in a hardware store. In 1919-1921 he served in the Red Army. In 1922-1931 he was a teacher in military educational institutions, editor of the magazine “Red Army Man” (1929-1931). One of the founders of LOKAF in 1930. In 1931-1934 he was a student at the Institute of Red Professors, graduated from the literary department of the Institute. In 1937-1941, the poet again worked as an editor.
S.P. Shchipachev has been engaged in literary activities since 1919. He has published over 20 collections of his works. Many poems have been published and periodicals. He wrote poems about love and nature, but is best known for his civil lyrics.
Member of the board of the USSR Writers' Union, chairman of the section of poets. He visited abroad several times as a representative of the Soviet literary community.
In 1960, E. A. Yevtushenko actively protested against the ban on traveling abroad. Signed the “Letter from a group of Soviet writers to the editors of the newspaper Pravda” on August 31, 1973 about Solzhenitsyn and Sakharov.
Stepan Shchipachev died on January 1, 1980. He was buried at the Kuntsevo cemetery in Moscow.
One of his most famous poetic works is “The Pioneer Tie.”
How do you tie a tie?
Keep him safe:
He's with a red banner
Same colors.
And under this banner
The soldiers go into battle
They are fighting for the fatherland
Brothers and fathers.
How do you tie a tie?
You have a brighter face...
On how many guys
It's pierced with lead!..
Pioneer tie -
He has no relatives!
He is of young blood
He became even redder.
How do you tie a tie?
Keep him safe:
He's with a red banner
Same colors.
Stepan Petrovich Shchipachev(1899-1980), Soviet poet, laureate of two Stalin Prizes (1949, 1951). Member of the RCP(b) since 1919.
Biography
S.P. Shchipachev was born in 1898 in the village of Shchipachi (now Bogdanovichi urban district, Sverdlovsk region) into a peasant family. In 1913-1917 he worked as a clerk in a hardware store. In 1919-1921 he served in the Red Army. In 1922-1931 he was a teacher in military educational institutions, editor of the magazine “Red Army Man” (1929-1931). One of the founders of LOKAF in 1930. In 1931-1934 he was a student at the Institute of Red Professors, graduated from the literary department of the Institute. In 1937-1941, the poet again worked as an editor.
He has been engaged in literary activities since 1919. He has published over 20 collections of his works. Many poems have been published in periodicals. He wrote poems about love and nature, but is best known for his civil lyrics.
Member of the board of the USSR Writers' Union, chairman of the section of poets. He visited abroad several times as a representative of the Soviet literary community.
In 1960, E. A. Yevtushenko actively opposed the ban on traveling abroad.
Signed the Letter of a group of Soviet writers to the editors of the newspaper Pravda on August 31, 1973 about Solzhenitsyn and Sakharov. Also known as the author of a pogrom article in Literaturnaya Gazeta against Solzhenitsyn, entitled “The End of the Literary Vlasovite”: Beginning of quotation “... How many black words does he find to belittle, slander our country, which is the light, the hope of humanity, in order to throw mud at its glory, her ideal."
In his youth, he adapted to the poetics of “The Forge” with its cosmic hyperbolism; his later lyrics are distinguished by their departure from loud declamation and empty pathos. And although thematically his poetry does not go beyond the usual glorification of communism, the fatherland and a happy future, this entire program is connected in it with the motives of nature and love, and later also of aging. Especially in late Stalinist times, Shchipachev stood out from the crowd thanks to these original lyrical elements in his poetry. For the most part, his poems are limited to the development of one simple thought; his maxims sound somewhat banal. Shchipachev's short poems have gained more recognition than his poems: thanks to their brevity, the poet's lack of musicality and meager vocabulary are less felt.
Family
- Victor
- his wife is Ehrenburg's adopted granddaughter Fanya
- daughter - Irina
- Livy - (August 4, 1926 - January 21, 2001). After an art school for especially gifted children, he graduated from the Institute. Surikov. Member of the Union of Artists. His works are in art galleries in many Russian cities, including the Tretyakov Gallery, as well as in foreign collections.
As a child, he played the role of Timur in the famous Soviet films Timur and his team and Timur's Oath
Essays
Collections of poems
- “Across the mounds of centuries”, 1923
- "One Sixth", 1931
- "Frontline Poems" (1942)
- "Lines of Love" (1945)
- “Glorious is the work” (1947),
- Collection "Poems" (1948)
- "Palm", 1964
- "Comrades for Life" (1972)
- "Blue of Russia", 1976
- "At the Horizon", 1982
Poems:
- “House in Shushenskoye” (1944) about V.I. Lenin,
- "Pavlik Morozov" (1950),
- "12 Months Around the Sun" (1969)
Story:
- "Birch Sap" (1956)
Awards and prizes
- Stalin Prize, second degree (1949) - for a collection of poems (1948)
- Stalin Prize, first degree (1951) - for the poem “Pavlik Morozov” (1950)
- Order of Lenin (1967)
- Order of the Red Banner of Labor (1959)
- Order of Friendship of Peoples (1979)
- Order of the Red Star (1945)
Poem
One of his most famous poetic works is “The Pioneer Tie.”
How do you tie a tie?
Keep him safe:
He's with a red banner
Same colors.
And under this banner
The soldiers go into battle
They are fighting for the fatherland
Brothers and fathers.
How do you tie a tie?
You have a brighter face...
On how many guys
It's pierced with lead!..
Pioneer tie -
He has no relatives!
He is of young blood
He became even redder.
How do you tie a tie?
Keep him safe:
He's with a red banner
Few people today remember the name of the poet Stepan Petrovich Shchipachev. However, for the generation of Soviet citizens of the 40-50s, he was as famous as A. Tvardovsky or K. Simonov. His poems were read, learned by heart, and copied into notebooks. This story will be about the life and work of an almost forgotten poet.
Biography
Stepan Shchipachev was born in 1899 in the family of a poor peasant from the village of Shchipachi, Yekaterinburg province. He was the youngest child in the family. When his father died, Stepan was barely four years old. Together with his grandmother, he went to neighbors' yards to collect alms. As he grew older, he went to work: he was hired as a farm laborer and served in the mines and in a hardware store.
In 1917, Shchipachev joined the Red Army. In 1921 he graduated from military school, after which he taught social studies to the military for some time. At the same time, he became interested in literary work, served as editor of the magazine “Red Army Man,” and wrote poetry, which he had a great inclination for from a young age.
In the early 1930s, Stepan Shchipachev received a literary education. And from then on he was exclusively engaged in literary activities.
The path to literature
Stepan Shchipachev, whose biography was atypical for poets and writers of the early 20th century, later admitted that he fell in love with poetry in his childhood, when he attended a parish school. He told how one day the teacher read M. Yu. Lermontov’s poem “Borodino” in class. This work so excited the child’s soul that he was under the impression for several days. Then Stepan decided that he would write poetry.
In subsequent years, he worked a lot on versification, honed his style, and looked for his own rhymes. In 1923, Stepan Shchipachev published his debut collection of poems, which was called “Across the Mounds of Centuries.” A small book of only 15 pages with early, still inept poems became the first step for the author on the path to great literature.
Books
After graduating from the institute, Stepan Shchipachev began to gravitate toward lyrical themes in his work. During this period, the books “Lyrics” and “Under the Sky of My Motherland” were written.
During the Second World War, Shchipachev again put on a military uniform. He took part in the operation to liberate the western regions of Ukraine, and later was involved in the creation of front-line newspapers and leaflets. During this period, his poems acquired bright patriotic intonations and at the same time intimate and lyrical. The two main collections of this time are “Front-line Poems” (1942) and “Lines of Love” (1945).
"Lines of Love"
Stepan Shchipachev, whose poems are usually classified as civil poetry, was nevertheless a master in the field of love poetry. His collection with the modest title “Lines of Love” went on sale in May 1945. 45 poems about feelings, understandable and familiar to everyone, instantly glorified the author. In his lines, boys and girls of the 50s confessed their love, they were so simple and sincere.
Stepan Petrovich Shchipachev continued working on this collection throughout his life, as a result of which the book almost quadrupled in size. In the latest edition, the collection already included 175 poems.
In Soviet literature, a special type of hero was cultivated, hardworking, skillful, and patriotic. Thanks to Shchipachev's poems, this hero became more alive and humane. It became clear that a Soviet citizen also knows how to feel, can fall in love, rejoice and be sad, hope and seek his own happiness.