Радио ВЕРА - Рифмы жизни - Мария Ватутина
текст песни

At the very beginning of the two thousand years, unexpectedly for myself, I began to work in the magazine "New World". For a journalist and a museum worker, the service in this oldest literary publication has become, indeed, the “new world” remains such and courier. Memory retains unexpected seemingly impressions. In a word, I had a bright, almost obsessive memory from those times tightly. I remember how the then Master of Poetry, Yuri Kublanovsky, to whom I helped prepare publications,-for several days in a row, I muttered bitterly, I read aloud the lines from the poem of the Moscow poet of Mary Vatutina called “To the Sabok:”, repeated and repeated them every day: day after day:

... and in every city that is hunching
Above each hryvnia,
Our throats are already babbling,
And our rooms are brighter,

And our voices are in a hurry
Know parental speech.
And the barbaric stoves are heaving,
Where our books will burn.

... The time has come, and I found out this talented poet of our generation, a poet with a hot soul and, as once said about Dostoevsky’s heroes, a man without leather. From the side of the everyday life - Masha Vatutin, the author of the bright books “Change of times”, “Our girl”, “Dear”, “Chain of events” and others - a charming young woman who lifts her son alone, professional and reliable lawyer, editor, friend of her friends ...
And at the same time-a lyrical storyteller, like a sponge that absorbed pain, love, drama of a polyphonic, multi-faced, exhausted, native Fatherland. She lives and experiences them as her own fate (and, of course, on the contrary). When checking his bloodstream with eternal time, where the prayer happens to the dispute, despair is melted into hope, and the war becomes a victory - Maria Vatutina happily acquires her uninterrupted wind vision.

I flew for a day, and I went out the light,
And to sleep lay down, turning away to the wall.
Some kind of otherworldly force
Suspending parquet, approached me.

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

Communal elders, grooms, women,
Tsarevs peasants, archers, rhinar, - -
The deceased crowded at a distance,
What did not happen to me before dawn.

Oh, that I touched now in the light,
What tombs opened in a dream,
That these ancient volosts poured,
As if there are a gate in me?

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

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

I bring you all on the spinal ridge
Centuries, but from that, the scruff of the scruff is strong.
And the guests are silent in accordance with the exact
With silence of the Pre -Slavic tribes.

Oh, what did you leave for me
Broken troughs and knees of the okroma,
At least some kind of ingot, scroll
About what God will pardon me,

At least some kind of half -b
Some fairy tales in future dreams!
Oh, who are you, what are you, dark crowds,
My Balalykins and Zimins?

Let me, Ivanov, Ivanov children,
Heavenly Forces, the Lord relatives! -
I whispered to them, and they are at dawn
One by one went into me:

Kurchan, Tverchan, Cherkizovites, below
Gorodsy, Voronezh, Tuelters, and there
Drevlyans, Polyana, Krivchanes and others
Michael, Irad, Enoch, Cain, Adam.

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