Research work Vyacheslav Bogdanov is an original Tambov poet. N. Nasedkin. The Return of the Poet - Vyacheslav Bogdanov The last two verses finally convince us not even of the friendship of the lyrical hero with the natural world, whoever and whatever it is - cor

Now, in the first quarter of the 21st century, picking up books published in the seventies and eighties of the last century is a pleasure; oddly enough, these books emanate not only almost forgotten goodness and quality, but also... high morality, partly idealism, in a word, time-tested, despite the fact that the country at that time was dominated by dry pedantry, moralization and narrow-mindedness communist ideology, etc., nevertheless it is so. Moreover, this does not depend on the sometimes modest appearance books, apparently the fact is that the censorship that existed at that time (with all its excesses and misunderstandings) strictly stood for the protection of artistic taste, moral values and truly talented literature.

Here we have two collections of poetry by Vyacheslav Bogdanov: “Svetunets” (1974) and “Selected Lyrics” (1975). We knew nothing about Vyacheslav Alekseevich Bogdanov himself until the poet Alexey Selichkin told us about him, getting him interested in his work and fate, cut short in the prime of his life - mysteriously, incomprehensibly and strangely in 1975.

The literary world, as we know, is full of rumors, and as a rule, they are not groundless. These rumors in this case indicate that the death of Vyacheslav Bogdanov was associated with malicious intent. We don’t know this and will probably never know all the details, although perhaps this is not so, and in order not to be unfounded, let us recall the facts of his biography.

Vyacheslav Bogdanov was a Tambov-Ural author who was considered a talented and promising poet. The complex vicissitudes and difficult circumstances of his life developed in such a way that poetry became his destiny.

Being a rural resident by birth, he lived most of his life in the city, exchanging peasant labor for the work of a working man - a metallurgist, steelmaker. But this was not what determined the main vector of his fate; poetry became his true calling.

He came to Moscow, graduated from the Higher Literary Courses and here, against the capital’s literary background, did not go unnoticed. In Russian, simple-minded, open-minded, in love with life, talented, perhaps he caused rejection among some, but others valued him precisely for these qualities. However, some strange and absurd story happened: the poet died unexpectedly; according to contemporaries, he was treated to poisoned wine by someone, after which he died suddenly. This situation today seems unnatural, brought from the wild European Middle Ages, but nevertheless, the fact remains that the poet died.

The poet Gennady Suzdalev was friends with Vyacheslav Bogdanov at that time. He has a poem “In Memory of Vyacheslav Bogdanov”, where he writes: “You said: / - Let us be good! / And drank to the bottom / For a good start. / And somewhere, / In the depths of your soul, / The Russian tragedy / Screamed.”

After so many years to understand and explain, What happened on that tragic day, it is difficult, if not impossible. And most importantly - Why this happened? And if someone really brought an ominously fateful glass to Vyacheslav Bogdanov, then this only shows that the literary world is still harsh. Apparently, the Dantes family is indestructible; they are alive and tirelessly looking for more and more new victims. Perhaps it is not at all by chance that in one of his poems Vyacheslav Bogdanov once remarked: “Napoleon is not terrible for you, Rus', / They are more terrible - the visiting Dantes!..”. And it’s not even about the scale of the talent of the one at whom their poisonous sting is aimed - it’s about the destructive mission of these strangers, aimed at destroying everything living, creative, bright, original and patriotic in Russia.

Be that as it may, the poet’s earthly destiny was over, and his creative heritage remained at the disposal of his compatriots.

Perhaps this study about the Ural soil poets of the XX - beginning of the XXI centuries after Boris Ruchyev, Lyudmila Tatyanicheva, Mikhail Lvov and other Soviet luminaries of verse, we should have started with a consideration of the work of Vyacheslav Bogdanov, but it so happened that our acquaintance with them began with the poems of Gennady Suzdalev, Alexey Selichkin, Valentin Chistyakov and only then with the poems Vyacheslav Bogdanov. However, in our attitude towards the poets we will discuss, there is neither bias nor a desire to stick someone out and push someone into the shadows.

In addition, another important event for understanding the work of Ural poets occurred. After the chapter “The Honey-bearing Fate of the Poet” was written, we met V. A. Bogdanov’s cousin, Viktor Mikhailovich Soshin, an amazing, purposeful, talented man and very interested in popularizing his brother’s work. He has already done and is doing a lot for this - speaking, organizing memorial evenings, writing and publishing books. He is a poet, a member of the Russian Writers' Union, a creative and extraordinary person.

In the summer of 2015, we sat with him in the Central House of Writers, talked about life, creativity, Vyacheslav Bogdanov, other poets, the literary situation, and it felt like we had known each other for a long time. We were united by spiritual kinship, a similar attitude towards Russian literature and, probably, the same spiritual plane. He presented Vyacheslav Bogdanov’s book “Here is My Rus'...”, published in 2012, which gave impetus to new thoughts about the creative fate of the poet.

About the principle of detachment

The principle that we follow when analyzing the poems of any poet is the principle of detachment from the personality of the poet himself, this is a very important point. We pick up a book and read - poem after poem, stanza after stanza, and a kind of living canvas appears before our eyes, a whole world - of colorful pictures and sounds unique to it; This is how the mosaic of the life and fate of their author is formed. This helps a lot when analyzing creativity, because the researcher remains a disinterested person who do not belong to any literary or semi-literary clan. He is neither a supporter nor an opponent of the poet and therefore is objective, focusing not on personal preferences, likes or dislikes, ideological attitudes or political engagement, but on the truth and degree of talent.

He does not depend on these conventions and peculiar chains, he is free, and in his view of creativity he takes into account exclusively the measure of talent, artistic expressiveness and systematic thinking of the analyzed author.

Before my eyes there are only poems, this is the main thing. Poetry - complex and multifaceted world, where the most varied and unexpected discoveries can be expected. This individual personal world, acquaintance with which is always exciting, because it is a look into the soul, into that secret, transcendental inner world where events of a truly cosmic scale take place, because before us is a microcosm with its own laws, norms, rules, individual images, vocabulary, visual and expressive techniques , in a word, a unified and holistic artistic system.

Do no harm, or rather, try to understand, is the main commandment that should be followed when touching this world, and therefore the principle of detachment from the poet’s personality is necessary here. In this case, we always remember the words from the Mahabharata - to be like God above the battle.

“I will definitely come to the village...”

The theme of home and rural childhood

Today we begin our acquaintance with the poems of Vyacheslav Bogdanov, and already the first poem (“Carts”) of the collection with amazing beautiful name“Svetunets” denotes one of the main themes of his poetry - rural childhood, which fully corresponds to the nature of the Pochvennik lyricism. The fact that V. A. Bogdanov is a poet of the soil movement is clear literally from the first lines. And already these first lines seem to burn - with skill, and pain, and some kind of aching melancholy that appeared from God knows what. Here is the poem “Native Home,” which describes a traditional, even ordinary, seemingly ordinary situation - the hero comes to the village, to his home, where no one has lived for a long time. It's winter, and he opens the door with great difficulty. with pincers(not the key) : “In winter I’ll come to the doors that are clogged, / I’ll clutch the key until it hurts in my fist, / And I’ll smile / To my good neighbor, / And I’ll ask them to bring me some pliers.” This detail alone contains drama as a reflection of the forgetfulness and abandonment of one’s home:

And at hand

The nails will groan long

And they will fall like tears on the threshold... [Ibid].

Please note: neighbor - good, this detail is also not accidental, firstly, this is how the Russian village, and all Slavic peoples, lived from time immemorial; secondly, definition good V in this case can perform the function of psychological protection of the lyrical hero. Apparently, he is ashamed of this situation - and because in his home he is an “unexpected guest”; and because there is such dead silence in it that the pigeons, apparently, even huddle under the eaves out of fear, since the silence that is familiar here turns out to be alarmed by the appearance of a person.

Further, the picture will acquire even greater drama, because not only is there an uninhabited silence in the house, but the sight of a cold stove that has not been lit for a long time seems to aggravate it. “I’ll open the pipe / In the frozen Russian stove - / And, like a memory, I’ll kindle the flame...” [Ibid]. More traditionally it would sound like this: “And like a flame, I will kindle the memory,” but the poet thinks and feels differently, he said as he said. Thus, the poet begins to sound memory motif. Memory becomes that soul-warming flame that returns to the hero the memories of the life lived here. Every line here is not just filled meaning, she fulfilled high melancholy and that anguish that is so often found in real Russian lyrics. Here is an example: “Where God was sitting, a blizzard filled the snowball...” [Ibid]. What does this verse mean? It means that the picture of loneliness and abandonment of one’s home is terrible, almost unbearable and, perhaps, unforgivable. The following lines convince us of this even more:

Me instead of God

I'll sit in the right corner

Mistaking the fire in the stove for a deity... .

It seems that this is the culmination of the poem, the highest point in the development of the lyrical plot. But there is another side to this fire-deity, because this is precisely its traditional Slavic perception. Our ancestors were sun worshipers, and they perceived fire as its symbol and earthly embodiment. Therefore, another semantic plan appears in the poem: no matter how abandoned the house is, if there is a fire in it, the house will live and life will continue. Perhaps that is why the tragedy of the picture softens, becomes less acute, and hope appears that everything will be fine, and life, sooner or later, will definitely return to this house: “Breathe the high flame, straw!” [Ibid].

It should be noted that the poet passed away in 1975, when the Russian village was still living an almost full-blooded life, farms were working, farms were producing good and high-quality products (they didn’t say environmentally friendly then), fields were sown with wheat, rye, oats, and huge fields of beets , cabbage, peas and other very diverse crops were so large that they went somewhere beyond the horizon. The villages themselves had their own well-established order - chickens, geese and ducks roamed around each yard, cheerful dogs ran around, boys rode bicycles, ponds were cleaned, and in the evenings, along the dusty country roads of Russia, herds of cows returned home, although not so numerous, like, say, the fifties or sixties.

And yet, we repeat, this was a full-fledged village life with its own age-old way of life, habits, moral guidelines and value priorities. Or rather, the life that was restored, established after the horrors of collectivization, when the backbone of the Russian village was broken. But the natural, genetically healthy basis of the Russian character allowed him, by some miracle, to survive and live like a human being again.

Nevertheless, even then the poet was visited by disturbing thoughts, as a premonition of what was to come - the next devastation of the Russian village. Thus, in the poem “Apple Tree,” his lyrical hero, looking at the lushly blooming apple tree, abandoned by its owner and, apparently, gone to the city, experiences bitterness, seeing the “overgrown path” and this white-pink apple blossom, which is “overflowing with sun and spring.” . The last line in the poem is a disappointing conclusion about what the future of the Russian village might be: “And it falls at your feet like an answer / Only the bitter May barren flower.”

The theme of an abandoned village is also raised in the poem “Birth”, full of autobiographical motifs: using the example of two elderly village women who, by the will of fate, became city dwellers, the poet shows how dramatic this turn in their destinies is. In an ordinary everyday conversation, one of them says to the other: “And in old age she suddenly became a city girl: / My son called - / She rushed off lightly / From the places of her relatives / To her grandchildren / And to peace. / Arrived unexpectedly - to melancholy."

Vyacheslav Bogdanov has a poem “Home”, which describes exactly the picture of a mother’s departure from the house where she lived for many years, and now she is leaving to join her son in the city, although “it’s hard to leave the house in old age,” because “even people sold chickens / And they came to see him off on the road.” It would seem that the drama of the situation is inevitable, the picture of parting with one’s native nest is always acute and painful. The poet seems to find the only necessary words to describe the situation, which, apparently, nothing can change, leaving is a decided matter, this is how life has turned out. But he knows what will follow: “And in winter holiday Dear guests / Dashing horses will not be held here. / And the men drive nails into the doors, / As if they were hammering them into the heart.”

Yes, this is how life turned out, but the cases were different: in some cases, parents lived out their lives in the village, and children, in search of a better life, whiled it out in the cities. In others, the parents moved to the city to be with their children, and it is not known which situation was less painful, because in both cases it turned out that the memories of leaving their home resonated with pain in the heart. But it was sometimes impossible to live in the village - no roads, no normal school (after all, it often happened that children went to school several kilometers away in a neighboring village), no cultural leisure, no choice of profession, except for classes in agriculture. What if a person’s soul sang? If he wanted to draw, write pictures, poetry, music, fly airplanes, be a scientist? A person, especially a young person, always wants to live beautifully, brightly, meaningfully; he dreams of doing something unusual, new, noticeable, becoming famous person etc. Don’t knead the dirt from morning to evening, don’t sit on the rubble, gnawing seeds, and don’t twist the tails of the bulls, but live with dignity, achieve some kind of success, become one of the people, so that both your parents and people are proud of your kind words they remembered him, and he himself was happy - from the consciousness of his own relevance, need and usefulness.

For this reason, the city has always attracted, however, who - with what; some - the opportunity to learn, some - the structure of their personal life, some - the abundance of places of recreation and entertainment, and all - their incomprehensible energy, the focus of life itself, its seething, fast pace, rapid rhythm. True, even at the first approach to him it turned out that many of his alluring sides were bluff, emptiness and deception. And it turned out that you can live a beautiful and meaningful life in your native village, if you put your hands to it and think with your head.

Be that as it may, the fate of the Russian village already in the seventies was seen by many as deplorable. Vyacheslav Bogdanov felt this with all his heart, which is why he wrote: “But I ask my comrades, / acquaintances, / Although the path is overgrown here, / do not block up the windows in our house, / Let him be sighted, as always!” .

In the poem with the telling title “I’ll come to the village...” the same theme is addressed, and already the first stanza sounds like a piercing spiritual revelation, although its first two verses are outwardly artless and natural, like breathing: “I’ll come to the village without fail, / My name is mother and relatives..." But the next two verses amaze you with the acuteness of the pain hidden in them: “The walls of the house are cracked / From the thirst to see me” [Ibid.]. And so the hero, wandering thoughtfully through the streets of Moscow, asks himself a difficult question: “Did I come to learn business, / Or to lose something forever?!” [Ibid].

When we think about what real poetry is, it is precisely this natural flow of speech, similar to the splashing of a stream, the rustling of leaves, bird voices. Not experimentation, not forcedness, not violence against the word, but naturalness and simplicity - the signs of true poetry. All sophisticated experiments with words are a thing of the past; time itself has shown and proven their strain and worthlessness. These authors remained in literature as experimenters, not poets. The Russian poet is always lyricist of the heart, singer of the soul, a master of conveying subtle halftone experiences. But from his personal, seemingly intimate and private experiences, he always rises to unprecedented heights, being able to convey and generalize what tens, hundreds, thousands, millions of other people feel.

Vyacheslav Bogdanov through this connection with a small point on Globe- with my stepfather’s house I realized the enormity and greatness of my native country, and the whole world. Russia was perceived by him intuitively, at the genetic level, or even at the level of sounds, smells, and sensations. In the poem “Russia” he says this: “I stand in thought and remain silent. / And your smells, / Russia, / I distinguish them from everyone else in the world...” His Russia is “rolls of thunder” and “birch infusion”; modern spaceports and haystacks in the meadow; “the swaying of ripening bread” and “the joyful chimes of birds”; blooming linden trees and “cranes flying in April.” These are “sharp shocks” and “songs of my native side”; a river running steeply into the distance and a steppe lake; “yellow ears” that are “filled with the immortality of the sun” and fresh grass meadows at dawn. But the main thing for him in Russia is people who are hard-working, honest, open, generous, hospitable... This is his father, who died in the war, and his mother, an eternal worker; his colleagues at the work shop; fellow writers; a gardener working in a collective farm garden and a plowman going out into the field at dawn.

He was devoted to Russia with all his being, and this devotion of his looked not like a declaration - loud, pretentious and pathetic, but like a quiet revelation of the heart and an almost constant desire to return home, to his father's house, to his small homeland. Why did we call this revelation silent? The fact is that the poet himself once suggested the answer to this question: “I’m tired of looming around the capital, / And, probably, again before going to bed / In solitude I’ll cry quietly, / But I miss my native land...”. So he wrote in the poem “The Circle of Maturity...”, carefully making it clear what pain he carried within himself, although he did not openly show it to anyone.

“Alone with the fields” or, “All living things are related by blood”

Natural world of Vyacheslav Bogdanov

The natural world of Vyacheslav Bogdanov does not always look calm; his landscape cannot be called full of peace and serene laziness (but it is not sentimentalism that reigns in literature today). Even in such a poem as “A Day Bygone,” where, it would seem, only quiet gratitude to the past day lives in the soul of the lyrical hero, full of labor, sun and even some kind of secret, the landscape is alarming: the epithets born by the poet, the entire lexical composition, do not lend themselves to beauty: “The steppe was burning crimson color, / And the evening floated darkness, / The grass flowed into gully, / Quail cried somewhere..." The crimson color against the background of the advancing darkness, the sobbing of quails and the nearby ravine - this is the background of the passing day, perhaps reflecting the poet’s state of mind at this lyrical moment.

In the poem “Drought,” the picture of nature is full of even greater anxiety, because drought is terrible not only because the grass wilts and the foliage withers (“There is nothing more painful / In this world, / Than watching the July leaves fall...”), but it also means “ severe shortage of crops,” and “the potato tops fell quietly on their faces,” which does not bode well for a villager.

Apparently, in the year that the poet was talking about, the month of July was indeed so dry that the same theme was reflected in the poem “Alone with the Fields...”: “It was July, crucified by the heat...”. However, there is no acute anxiety here, there is an awareness of personal involvement in the fate of the country: “For everyone it is necessary / to breathe with the winds of the homeland”; understanding of one’s place and role in life, where the fate of the grain grower and the factory worker are combined. Exactly this the combination of rural and urban aesthetics in the poet’s worldview becomes a characteristic feature that is clearly reflected in all of his work, including landscape lyrics. The organic feeling of being both a rural person and a city resident, by the way, is very characteristic of the lyrics of the Ural residents of the seventies and eighties of the last century. And maybe not only the Urals, but in this case we are talking about the authors whose work is discussed in this book. We see something similar with Gennady Suzdalev, Alexey Selichkin, Valentin Chistyakov and others.

A careful eye will notice the poet Vyacheslav Bogdanov’s passion for the image steppes and “grassy meadows”, which is reflected in the poems: “Ancient steppe"("Here in this steppe/ My fair-haired ancestor came..."), "Pogost" ("In the village, among steppes and cornflowers..."), "The Gone Day" ("Burned steppe crimson..."), "Dear steppe" ("Will steppe looks like a desert / In the yellow light of the month and stars..."), "The beginning of a biography" ("I left the Tambov steppes/ Under the iron flame of the Urals..."), "Road" ("Happy Birds" steppe voices / Hanging above your head like inspiration..."), "Hack" ("I'm sneaking into steppes, / As if from captivity..."), "I came to this steppe…" and etc.

For the poet, the steppe is the beginning of his biography, since the “Tambov steppes" - his small homeland. And this topic small homeland is also often revealed through the landscape. What is the “beginning of biography” for the poet V. A. Bogdanov? This is life among wide open spaces, bright expanses and golden fields. In the poem “Uniqueness,” which refers the reader to his youth, this time itself is perceived by him as carefree, generous, fleeting and, of course, unique. “He madly burned high fires, / Carelessly fell into the meadow grass...”. But it is precisely this carelessness, not burdened by the burden of years and thoughts, that is characteristic youth, and perhaps the key to the eternal cycle of human lives.

For Vyacheslav Bogdanov, the steppe is vastness, space, scope: “I came to this steppe- learn breadth..." . Here the poet escaped the lines: “Oh, darling steppe, herbal inheritance / And my good luck is an invariable remedy! [Ibid].

In the image of the steppe, the poet sees natural power, the triumph of the elements; in the poem “With a Yellow Moan...” he wrote: “The morning will emerge from the thick fogs, / And in the revelry of the sun / And the winds / There will be steppe seem / like an ocean...". So, it turns out, what’s the matter, the steppe is a symbol, the hero sees it as an ocean, where human life passes, seasons change, time flies, and one thought replaces another. In the poem “Native Steppe” the poet openly, epically, in Russian addresses it, his native steppe:

Oh you steppe

The spaces are not easy,

A grain wind with the chime of rye! .

This is not just a confession love for homeland(“You are my breath and singing...”), this is coexistence with her on the same physical and spiritual plane (“You are mine from birth, / You are in the blood - from the sky to the roots!”).

Of the calendar months, the poet’s favorite is September, both because it is “the good month of my birth,” and because it is “a cheerful, through, clear time,” a time of results, results, harvest - in every sense. This is the time with the “hot loaf” and “elegant red rowan" It seems that no rain, even the most “persistent” ones, can darken his joyful mood, although the poet understands perfectly well that September will not be like this for long - light and warm, and its warmth is still a farewell one. “Dear September! / To joy, / to singing / Warm with your farewell ray!” .

September is also mentioned in the poem “The distances float, silver ...”, and the image of autumn appears, what the poet calls “golden reality”. Autumn is his favorite time of year.

And autumn is becoming more and more noticeable outside.

I love her thoughtful arrival.

She's with the rains

The past brings

And the heart-aching one takes... .

In the poem “Birth,” he paints a wonderful image of her, partly even devoid of the usual autumn melancholy and sadness: “It’s time for her to shy away from the blossoms, / The buzzing of bees / And the swaying of the rye. / They are akin to / the Holy cleansing / of the Earth, / of the trees, / of the sky / and of the soul” [Ibid]. Autumn is dear to the poet not only for its captivating and wise beauty, but also because it reminds him, oddly enough, of the transience of life, which does not frighten him at all: “With her windy gait / She will remind us / That we are not eternal, / We are only grains of earthly eternity...” But this transience is not a sentence, not the end of the road, not a metaphorical stop, it is the guarantee of a new, future life, and therefore immortality:

And like this particle - selfless,

We know only one thing in advance:

Like spring

Leaves from warm buds,

Of us it's the same

Eternity will sprout [Ibid].

And yet, despite the fact that the natural world of Vyacheslav Bogdanov is far from peaceful, we can say that he is friendly with nature, its elements are close and understandable to him. So the element of wind was perceived by him as “a thousand winds”; in the poem “Winds” these winds become visible and in each case concrete: fair wind, wind of ascent, wind of evil, wind of vanity, wind at the back... It seems that most of all the poet was close to the “wind of ascension,” although “It blows into the chest / And slows down the run, / And carves early gray hairs...”. And sometimes it blows "dry wind", as, for example, in the poem “Duma”.

Yes, the poet Vyacheslav Bogdanov is friends with nature, he does not contradict its laws, does not oppose himself to it, does not discord with its age-old rules; on the contrary, he lives in unison with her. This is clearly reflected in the poem “Cow,” where, according to the lyrical plot, a village boy goes to look for a cow that has not returned from the herd. And now “darkness has fallen into the burdock lowlands,” and night has descended to the earth, but it is still not there. It was already completely dark, and the stars were pouring out in the sky, but the cow was still not found. And then the boy, like an epic or fairy-tale hero, turns to the stars: “Stars, stars, show mercy, / Where is our Buryonka hiding?” . Then what happens in fairy tales is called magic or a miracle:

Suddenly a star in the sky began to blink

And she fell into the ravine behind the willows.

Buryonka climbed out of the ravine,

Covered in burrs, the poor horned fellow [Ibid].

The last two verses finally convince us not even of the friendship of the lyrical hero with the natural world, whoever and whatever it is - a cow, wind, stars, etc., but of some kind of naturally harmonious coexistence with it:

I drove the cow home late

And he bowed to the stars for help [Ibid].

The painting is in the spirit of folk poetic tradition.

The landscape of V. A. Bogdanov can be not just welcoming, but even attractively joyful; its nature is lively, talkative, making contact with people (“Every bush in the wind is talkative...”); there is so much goodness, light, joyful presentiment in it that even “a bee is guessing on a daisy / About its honey-bearing fate» .

The poet’s friendship with nature is not our invention and not a random remark about his lyrical revelations, this is his perception of the world, because he sees in the forest not only an “unknown secret”, but “everything earthly - a blood relationship.” He realizes that peace and harmony reign in nature: “Insects and birches live in kinship” [Ibid.].

This feeling of unity with nature helps the poet rise... to cosmic heights; in the poem “Speed,” realizing the speed with which the “Earth is rushing,” he suddenly remarks: “You, the Universe, are a garden behind a fence, / We are the neighbor’s children for now!..”. This is how - no more and no less - the poet sees the Universe, how ordinary garden behind the fence. This is the scale of the Russian poet’s thinking.

The scale of thinking is also reflected in the poem “Rus”, where the nature of Russia is perceived by the poet as a monumental canvas on which he, a person, is not only not lost, being a tiny and insignificant creature compared to it, but also looks natural: “And I go towards those centuries / Blue-eyed, fair-haired, stocky. / The ears touch the hands, / The lakes sway with open eyes.”

Thus, the landscape of V. A. Bogdanov, as we have seen, can be different - depending on the mood of the hero, his inner experiences and feelings - restless and anxious, joyful and friendly, and even honey-bearing. This is a very important definition that clearly characterizes the creative fate of the poet himself.

“Oh my Ural! Let the place be holy!”

The theme of the Urals in the poetry of V. A. Bogdanov

The natural world in the poet’s artistic embodiment is impossible without addressing the theme of the Urals. This region made a huge impression on him with all its grandeur, beauty, mystery and fabulousness; his poetic soul responded to the beauty that seemed to be dissolved in his air.

The Urals appear in poems: “Winter is on its way Ural"("Winter is taking a break from Ural/ On my white-footed horse..."); "On the lake Ural..." (“I live / On the lake Ural, / You live / On a great river..."); “The rain stopped making noise...” (“The smell of pine needles and mushrooms / Ural August through the forests...); “Snow” (“Sneaks like a fox in November / K Ural northern frost..."), etc., as well as in the poem "Birth".

The Ural region and especially its people had a strong influence on the poet’s worldview; here he seemed to look at Russia with different eyes, because the Ural is not only “the land of beauty and iron,” but also “the silent pride of Rus'.” He saw here a real treasury, where the untold riches of the country were collected; in his opinion, this is a region where “everything has been stored up for people for centuries - / From the slopes of the mountains / To the pine trees, / To the dawn, / Circles of lakes, / Where stones secretly sleep / With green veins inside.”

And although the Urals for the poet was not his small homeland, we can say that it became his second small homeland, since it is closely connected with his creative biography. He even has a poem “The Beginning of a Biography”:

I bow to the village hut,

Where many needs have been experienced,

I left the Tambov steppes

Under the iron flames of the Urals... .

It was here, at the Ural plant, that his work biography and creative destiny continued.

If we talk about the periodization of the poet’s life and work, then three periods are clearly outlined here: Tambov childhood, Ural youth And Moscow maturity. Of course, this division is quite arbitrary and does not claim to be absolutely right. However, we wanted to emphasize the importance and value of each period of the poet’s life, including the Ural period. It is no coincidence that the lines escaped him as a declaration of love for this region: “Oh my Ural! Let the place be holy!”

Plowman and metallurgist.

Reflection of the theme of labor from the perspective of... a rural town dweller

Let’s make a reservation right away that the phrase “rural city dweller” does not seem to have existed in our country until now, because it is inherently contradictory and even to a certain extent absurd. And we are probably using it for the first time.

From the point of view of literary criticism, it looks like artistic device, called an oxymoron, that is, a convergence of contradictory concepts, a combination of the incompatible. But in artistic and especially poetic speech, an oxymoron at the junction of these contradictions reveals and reveals a certain secret, hidden or additional meaning, and speech begins to shine with new and unexpected colors.

In this case, this phrase very accurately defines the fate of many, many people who were born in the village, but who, by fateful will, lived their entire lives in the city. Apparently, we should have recognized the emergence of a new type in our society long ago modern man, born in a rural area, but changed his place of residence and moved to the city, but retained the habits, morals, character, in a word, the mentality of a villager. And this type of person very confidently took his place in the sun.

It happens that, having been torn away from their native roots, having moved far and long, they were unable to become “their own” in the city, and lived their lives in this duality. We remember well the lines of Anatoly Peredreev, which have already become classic:

Dear outskirts, what happened?

The outskirts where we were taken,

And we didn’t make a city,

And the village was lost forever.

And this life of a former village man in “dwellings” that are “neither a hut nor a house” becomes for him not life, but survival, where he not only does not feel happy, but, on the contrary, is burdened by the “great radiance of lights” and amuses himself with memories about silence and “freshness of the fields.”

But it happens that a person does not have this duality, but there is a harmonious coexistence of two worldviews, and he lives safely and joyfully in the world, combining two elements in himself - the natural rural and the civilized urban. In our opinion, this is typical of V. A. Bogdanov.

His theme of rural labor literally echoes the theme of the labor of a working man, which is reflected in many poems, including such as “Alone with the Fields,” “Learn to Understand...”, etc. The poet is confident:

Fate entrusted me to the grave,

By the right of the heart and the villagers,

The earthly glory of the grain growers,

To be related to the glory of the factory workers! .

And even when Vyacheslav Bogdanov writes about his poetic craft, he approaches it from the same position, that is, from the position rural townsman. For example, the poet is looking for that one, necessary, “unspeakable” word, “where the heavens close with the earth” and addresses this question to both the peasant and the worker, that is, connecting these two elements: “Tell me / This word, plowman, / Tell me, famous metallurgist!” . And when he turns to the past, remembering “the old days lived in labor,” memory at the same time helpfully reminds him not only “of the field,” but also “of the factory, of the ore.”

Reflections that the work of a working person, in particular a steelworker, is close to the work of a peasant are clearly reflected in the poem “The Beginning of a Biography.” And if at first the unfamiliar, unknown work of a steelmaker frightened our hero, since it was new to him, then over time the closeness and high moral meaning of the work of a peasant and a worker became clear to him: “But one day, / on a July night, / I saw / trembling with joy: / steelworker’s hands / exactly / like a plowman’s, / in the cracks too...”

It should be said that these lines are not “trains” that were written by poets in the Soviet years in order to publish and “smuggle” their other works into print. These are sincere lines coming from the heart - from the depth of understanding, importance and even sacredness of the meaning of creative work for a person in general.

And yet, the source of the poet’s hard work lies in his village childhood and early youth, when he was nearby honey-bearing meadows and spring paths: “And I work, / In a tan up to my waist, / As an apprentice / On a spring day...”. And when rural nature itself not only taught a person intelligence, but also hard work, without which his life on earth loses color and color, and perhaps even meaning.

“She herself is the supreme court of everything...”

Images of mother and father

The theme of labor finds a visible figurative embodiment in the poem “Birth”, closely connecting with mother's image. The poem seems to give a picture of the life of Russia itself - through the biography of its people, ordinary workers, who suffered the Great Patriotic War(“War, war, you can’t kill life...), the loss of loved ones and working up a sweat - both before, and during, and after the war. The mother is shown as a great worker who never showed her weakness or fatigue, even when her husband was killed at the front:

But the mother was able to get used to this pain.

And every day, rising before dawn,

She worked on the collective farm like a peasant,

A woman rules things at home.

And no one will dishonor her work,

She herself is the supreme court of everything!

They erect monuments to husbands for their heroic deeds,

And wives bear the burden of deeds.

I think that these are some of the best lines about Russian women. The poet's mother becomes a kind of generalizing image, combining the features of hundreds, thousands, millions of other mothers in Russia.

There is a very precise detail in the poem that should be paid attention to: here the poet refers to a later time (perhaps the sixties), when post-war life slowly calmed down, improved and, as they say, entered its shores. The son, having moved to the city, arranges his life and everyday life there and decides to take his mother from the village to him. And here is this subtlety, noticed by the poet: the mother agrees and, it would seem, lives calmly and carefree for some time in the city with her son, but as soon as spring comes, “the nostrils are tickled by the black soil,” she, like a native villager, has no idea life without peasant labor, he begins to worry, get nervous and takes off. She even asks her son to let her go (“at least until the fall”) in order to “tinker” with the potatoes in the garden and “protect himself from thoughts with a furrow.”

An ineradicable habit of work and a sharpened conscience call her to her native village; the poet puts seemingly simple words into the mouth of this eternal worker: “I will not put a great cross on my heart / What will people say? / Their reproach is heavy, / When the wormwood, / Thistle, / And the dodder / Crawling out, / like a shame.” But she is driven not so much by the fear of shame because the land will be overgrown with weeds, but by the habit and desire to work, and most importantly - the unrepresentability and the impossibility of living in a state of idleness. This impossibility of living in a state of idleness is a primordial and ancient feature of the Russian person, for he is by nature a creator, a creator, a passionary.

In the same way, in this poem the theme of labor merges with father figure, who in the pre-war years “went to the meadows confident and strong.” And the poet also sees himself as hard-working, as, for example, as one of the twelve workers on the installation team: “We are all visible at work, / Like twelve months of the year.”

“The word, the word is a distant firebird!”

Theme of poetic skill

The work of a poet and his poetic skill are always associated with the search for the sought-after “unspeakable” word, full light, mysterious power and what is called “music of the spheres”. In the poem “The Word”, Vyacheslav Bogdanov seems to ask himself a rhetorical question: “The word, the word - / A distant firebird!.. / On what path should we look for it?” . And... answers it without answering, but only reflecting: “And one cannot descend from heaven to it, / And one cannot approach it on earth” [Ibid.]. It seems that the poet was looking for just such a word, like “an apple in the palm of his hand,” throughout his short creative life. However, we most likely have no right to talk about whether the life of the poet (as well as any other person) was long or short, because, firstly, we do not know all the facts of the biography, the details of life, the vicissitudes of fate, the train of thoughts and etc., and secondly, who are the judges?

But most importantly, the fullness of a person’s life, and even more so, creative life A writer’s life is determined not by the years lived, but by the quantity and quality of what he has done. Geniuses, as you know, are endowed with colossal diligence, sometimes seeming incredible, impossible, unprecedented, but they cannot do otherwise, since they are led by heaven, no matter how pathetic it may sound. Talented people Unfortunately, they do not always have such hard work and perseverance. It even happens that they are endowed with laziness, and this is the worst thing for them, since the abilities inherent in them fade and remain in vain. At the same time, they are also led by heaven, but this connection is less strong, they are more down-to-earth, gravitating towards earthly joys and bodily pleasures.

They can object to us, they say, everyone is led by heaven, even the most ordinary ones, who do not stand out in any way. crowd people. Yes, this is true, but they have very weak, almost undeveloped spiritual hearing and spiritual vision, and therefore they do not feel the call of heaven, and the abilities deeply hidden in them never make themselves felt (and the fact that they have them is this is certain).

Genius constantly feels his calling, and that's why he always lives in a state of inspiration, that is, at any moment he can pick up a pen, pencil, brush, stack, drawing instrument, scalpel, look through a microscope, go to a telescope and start working. In fact, he never stops working, not even for a single minute, even when he sleeps; analysis and synthesis of what was previously done takes place in his brain.

We can say that he is on a par with heaven and at the same time present on earth. He soars in the heights of the mountains and knows how to rejoice in simple earthly joys - a spikelet in the field, a cornflower in the rye, a roadside chamomile, a clover meadow, silvery clouds, a loaf of bread.

He does not need to wait for the spiritualized hour - he lives in a state of spirituality. And therefore, during his earthly life, he can do an incredible amount - as much as is inaccessible to many others. And therefore, the degree of talent of any poet, in our opinion, should be judged, in particular, by what kind of legacy he left behind and how much he managed to do during his life.

It should be said that we did not set ourselves the goal of writing a biography of V. A. Bogdanov, but whether his life was long or short, his work eloquently speaks about this. The main thing is that we have poems that can best tell about the poet and the person. It is important for the poet to manage to do what is possible and necessary during the allotted earthly time, but heaven and even descendants judge everyone. And when the poems of deceased poets fall into the hands of descendants, what they did becomes obvious, visual, visible, and their mark on life turns out to be bright and unforgettable.

In the creative life of V. A. Bogdanov there were also such poets who became for him not just significant figures, but, probably, some kind of moral beacons - these are Boris Ruchyev, Vasily Fedorov, poets from the Ural “clip”. In the poem “To Vasily Fedorov,” Vyacheslav Bogdanov seems to confess to him: “I was like grass under a scythe, / Naive...” or: “I laid my soul before everyone, / Like a tablecloth...”. In the poem “In Memory of Boris Ruchev,” he addresses the deceased poet as the highest authority who lived a very difficult life and at the same time knew the “value of words” and retained, in spite of everything, a “vulnerable heart.” Here he addresses him:

...How could I carry it through the torment?

Are you your blue gaze?! .

Not blue, namely - blue, the pure, unclouded and heartfelt look of a man who has known not only laurels, but also the horror of the camps.

The poem “In Memory of the Poet” is dedicated to the death of Sergei Yesenin, which Vyacheslav Bogdanov perceived as a personal tragedy: “The month fell from its blue heights. / And the birches / In the smoky whirlwind, / Like a noose, / They tore the horizon / And they moaned with the voice of immortality.” We agree that birch trees moaning “with the voice of immortality” are a new word in Russian poetry.

V. A. Bogdanov has a poem “Desire,” dedicated to the poet Valentin Sorokin; it is with this poem that the collection of “Selected Lyrics” ends, in which he unexpectedly reflects on his last earthly day and what it will be like. This could lead to sad reflections about his own life and work, if the poet had not firmly and confidently expressed his credo here: “I came into the world - to create, / And not to cry...”. This is how the poet Vyacheslav Bogdanov was remembered by his friends and colleagues as creative and joyful, open and generous. And this is how he came to his reader again today.

“I'm killed. And the nightingales fell silent..."

About the poet's mystical premonitions

It has become commonplace to say that poets have the ability to foresee the future. This mainly concerns premonitions of one's own death. Whether this is true or not is difficult to answer unequivocally, but many similar coincidences are known. We once wrote about this in the works “The Azure Book”, “Homo scribens”, formulating laws of creativity, including regarding the ability of poets to speak in prophetic language. There are eloquent examples when poetic lines became very specific life events. It is no coincidence that Marina Tsvetaeva said: “Poems come true. That’s why I don’t write everything.”

Nikolai Gumilyov once remarked:

And I won't die on a bed,

With a notary and a doctor,

And in some wild crevice,

Drowned in thick ivy… .

The whole life of N.S. Gumilyov was mysterious with his strange trips to Africa, his incomprehensible role in the revolution and the fate of the country, most likely he served in intelligence. His death also became mysterious - unexpected, mysterious, like the very accusation of organizing a conspiracy, for which he was shot. So Nikolai Stepanovich, as he himself correctly noted, did not die “in the presence of a notary and a doctor,” and it is still unknown where his grave is.

Vladimir Mayakovsky also once tragically dropped: “... shouldn’t I put a bullet point at my end...” and either shot himself or was shot. The latter hypothesis is being expressed more and more often these days. But be that as it may, the “bullet point” was set.

Let us recall the poem “The Wood Grouse” by Dmitry Kedrin, where the poet compares himself to that wood grouse who, out of happiness, does not see or hear the hunter who has sneaked up.

Maybe also

In happiness, the desired day,

At the hour when I will sing, burning,

And into me

Death will strike unexpectedly,

Like his pellet -

In the wood grouse.

Dmitry Borisovich Kedrin died under unclear circumstances; perhaps he was thrown out of the train, so death overtook him “unexpectedly,” as he foresaw.

And how accurately Nikolai Rubtsov predicted his fate, noting in the poem “I love my destiny...”:

Is it really your turn?

Death hangs over me,

The head is like a ripe fruit,

It will fly away from the branches of life.

And adding in another poem (“Reckoning”): “I will anxiously leave through the snowstorm.” In a snowstorm - January 19, 1971 - and left.

One of the latest examples is the fate of Joseph Brodsky, he has the following lines:

I won’t die in the fall or summer,

But the winter sheet will flutter,

look, love, like in a pink corner

A cobweb is burning between me and life.

This was written in 1961. And in January 1996, the “winter sheet” shook up.

From the point of view of rationality and logic, it is difficult to explain all these coincidences, but it is probably possible, since the poet sometimes (and even most often this happens) subconsciously prepares himself for a certain departure. And therefore the circumstances of his life develop exactly this way and not otherwise. Or does he seem to suggest some very definite death to his enemies (the case of S. A. Yesenin, V. V. Mayakovsky?). Nevertheless, there is a certain mysticism in this, if only for the reason that everything connected with death and the other world is seen by a person in an aura of mystery.

Did V. A. Bogdanov feel misfortune and his imminent, as they say, untimely death from life? In the poem “Uniqueness” there are lines that are now read especially carefully: “I am youth, like a wild horse, / I drove everything, / I drove everything along the steeps / And valleys, / And I didn’t look closely at not a long way, / In the darkness of the night, / Into the green expanse of the day...” Why does the poet call the path short? What scared him darkness of the night?

In the poem “By the Summer Water,” his lyrical hero is full of “intoxicating joy” - from the very consciousness that he lives, looks at the water, breathes the smell of quinoa, admires the flowers that “bloom and call to life.” In the poem “Duma,” the poet, sitting by the cliff, “on the edge of his memory” and looking at the river running away among the meadows, reflects that it is still “too early for him to sum up the results” and that he has “both the sun and the storm” ahead of him. .

It would seem that no dark forebodings visited the poet, everything in his life was successful, okay, sensible, in accordance with his conscience. But it is in this poem that he expresses the alarming thought that the bends of this river are “steep as life” and that he is waiting for some “great moment” in his destiny. But what kind of moment did the poet have in mind? – Fame, recognition, honor, prosperity, success among the reading public? Or some climactic event, but what? Of course, the poet left us mysteries that remain to be solved.

In the poem “Poems about the Motherland,” which echoes Blok’s motifs, the words of A. A. Blok are even used here as an epigraph: “...The hours pass with the gait of centuries, / And dreams arise in the earthly distance,” the poet exclaimed: “What kind of dreams do I have?” dreaming, / What kind of dreams!..” The author's fiction takes the reader back to the distant Middle Ages: either the poet identifies himself with the warrior who returns victoriously with Nevsky from the war; then we have the 14th century in front of us, and the poet sees himself as a warrior killed on the Kulikovo field: “I am killed! / And the nightingales fell silent. / My horse rubbed off the blue of the horseshoe...” A parallel with the tragic events in the poet’s life involuntarily suggests itself, because the idea that he was killed (poisoned) is expressed more and more often and sounds louder.

Vyacheslav Bogdanov has a poem “On the Borodino Field”, in which he confidently expresses the idea that open and obvious enemies are not as terrible and dangerous as hidden and disguised enemies: “Napoleon is not terrible for you, Rus', / They are more terrible - visiting Dantes!..” . Apparently, the poet was right, because the open enemy, as they say, in an open field, is clearly identified, and you treat him as an enemy, you expect nothing from him but trouble. But a disguised enemy, even outwardly benevolent or under the guise of a “visiting Dantes,” is much more dangerous. He's scary because he kills one person, but targets the whole nation.

The last poem that ends the collection of “Selected Lyrics” is “Desire,” dedicated to Valentin Sorokin, and already its first lines force us to take a closer look at the state of our hero: “What business will / The last hour on the road take me over? / I would like to die at sunset / In the arms of the spent day.” The sad lines suggest sad reflections, but despite the gloomy nature of the theme, there is neither decadence nor corrosive despondency in them, since the poet realized and accepted his future as inevitable: “There will be a quiet eternity ahead, / Behind is a blue day...” [ Ibid.]. He remained in this “blue day”...

Please note that the epithet “blue” is used again, not “blue”. In this word there is a certain incompleteness of action, or, rather, both action and Vital energy. We can say that if “blue” is static, then “blue” is dynamic and, therefore, a reflection of the dynamics and tension of the poet’s inner life. It was as if he gave hope to both himself and his readers that this day had a future, because the blue day had yet to become blue.

“In the voice of dawn and herbs...”

The individual artistic world of the poet

Why are we talking about honey-bearing fate poet? It is very easy to answer this question, since the work of Vyacheslav Bogdanov harmoniously fits into the mainstream of Russian poetry, continuing and developing traditions. He doesn't seem to have had a period when he entered into poetry or burst in into it, he somehow naturally and simply got used to it, taking his place and arranging his own lyrical space. It seems like all he did was collected the nectar of words, meanings and their shades and processed them into living poetic lines - this was his earthly essence and heavenly craft.

The themes he raises also fit within the traditions of Russian lyric poetry: rural childhood(“Carts”, “Haystack”, “Cow”); home (“Native home”, “Home”, “I’ll come to the village...”); Russia(“Poems about Russia”, “Rus”, “On the Borodino Field...”); nature(“Ancient Steppe”, “Drought”, “September”, “Nature”); work(“Iron”, “Youth”, “Learn to understand...”); village and city: “I’m used to the speeds of an airplane...”, where he wrote: “I’m getting used to the creaking of carts...”. Developing and enriching traditional themes, at the same time, the poet created his own unique world, colored by the author’s epithets and images, where they sound midday pipes under midday skies where they rise cheekbones mountains and rustle fleeting leaves, where it stands wormwood silence and curls spring trail, but there are lowlands burdock, That chamomile. And peace - oat, flooded with sun and light, where it blazes "strawberry glow of the meadows" and hardworking people live - big guys.

Each poet has images with which he is remembered by the reader and attracts the attention of researchers. In the poem “Winter is walking around the Urals...”, where the poet talks about the Ural region, there are lines literally sprinkled with metaphors, for example, the verse: “Where are our / Cheeky mountains / Lightning sharpens / His saber...”. The magnificence, the artistic luxury of this metaphor is obvious.

In the poem “They float out, they gave silver...” a unique picture is drawn, where the moon “looks senilely into the river, / Leaning on a yellow stick.” Agree, the month resting on a stick is also a unique and in some ways even touching image.

At times it seems that he seemed to be talking to readers “in the voice of dawn and grass,” and that is how he remained for us - in his poems.

Is it true what they say that there is destiny in the name? In the surname Bogdanov clearly readable God-given. Of course, a skeptic may object: each of us is given by God, that’s how it is, but not everyone is given a “mellow destiny.”

Literature

1. Bogdanov V. A. Selected lyrics. – Chelyabinsk: South Ural book. publishing house, 1975. – 112 p.

2. Brodsky I. A. Poems. – Tallinn: “Eesti raamat”, “Alexandra”, 1991. – 256 p.

3. Gumilyov N. S. Poems; Letters about Russian poetry / Intro. article by Vyach. Ivanova; Comp., scientific. prepared text, afterword N. Bogomolova. – M.: Khudozh. lit., 1989. – 447 p.

4. Kedrin D. B. Pure Flame: Book of Poems / Artist N. Bisti. – M.: Sovremennik, 1986. – 333 p.

5. Vyacheslav Alekseevich Bogdanov

   Bogdanov Vyacheslav Alekseevich (09/24/1937, Vasilyevka village, Mordovian district - 07/11/1975, Moscow)

   Biographical information

   Poet. He wrote his first poems in the Tambov region. He worked in the Urals in Chelyabinsk. There he also led the literary association. Having moved to Moscow, he collaborated in the press. Author of collections of poems “Perezvon” (1972), “Link” (1973), “Svetunets” (1974) and others. He wrote many works about the Tambov land. In 1997, the books “Meeting” and “Return” were published, in 2004 - “She is always unique - Rus'!” Bogdanov readings have been held in the Tambov region since 1997. The administration of the Mordovian region established the Svetunets Prize named after V.A. in 1998. Bogdanov. A museum of the poet was created in Mordovo, his bust was erected, and the local library bears his name. Tambov composers O. Egorova and L. Kazankov wrote music based on the poems of their fellow countryman.

   Memorable places

   D. Vasilyevka, Mordovian region (1937-1950s).

   Source: “Literary map of the Tambov region.” The project was prepared by TOGUK TOUNB im. A.S. Pushkin.

   

   Vyacheslav Bogdanov in the Moscow region

   Bogdanov Vyacheslav Alekseevich (09/24/1937, Vasilievka village, Tambov region - 07/11/1975, Chelyabinsk), poet, member. SP USSR (1969). In 1953 he came to Chelny, together with V.V. Sorokin he studied at the factory school. For more than 15 years he worked as a fitter for a metallurgist. factory He served in the army in a tank. troops. He began writing poetry in his youth. First verse. B. published in 1956 in gas. “Komsomolets” (see “Team”). Studied in Lit. Association “Metallurg”, over 10 years, until the last day of his life, he led it. Lit. B.'s mentor was V.D. Fedorov, who had a great influence on the poet. In 1964, the first book of B.’s poems “The Ringing of Ears” was published in YUKI, then in the current. 10 years, 6 more books. In 1969 he graduated from the Higher Literary Courses at the Literary Institute. A. M. Gorky. B.'s creativity was highly appreciated by B. A. Ruchev and V. F. Bokov. The poet's poems and poems were published in the journal. “Siberian Lights”, “Ural”, “Ural Pathfinder”, “Young Guard”, “Moscow”, “Our Contemporary”, in various collections and almanacs. An unexpected cardiac arrest cut short the poet's life, but his books continue to be published. On the 60th anniversary of B.’s birth in Chel. came out Sat. memories of him “Loyalty”. In memory of B. in the 1980s. was named a poet. club “Svetunets” (named after the poet’s last lifetime book) under Chel. branch of the Writers' Union of Russia.

   A. K. Belozertsev

   Source: Encyclopedia "Chelyabinsk". (Chelyabinsk: Encycl. / Comp.: V. S. Bozhe, V. A. Chernozemtsev. - Edited and supplemented. - Chelyabinsk: Stone Belt, 2001. - 1112 pp.; ill. ISBN 5-88771-026 -8)

   

   Bogdanov Vyacheslav Alekseevich - poet.

   Born into a family of hereditary peasants. The father died at the front near Kursk in 1942. The mother raised three children alone.

   In 1953, Bogdanov went to Chelyabinsk to study at the FZO school. Here I met V. Sorokin. Together with him he came to the literary association “Metallurg” in 1957, where he met with the poets M. Lvov, L. Tatyanicheva, B. Ruchev. Bogdanov worked for 15 years at the Chelyabinsk Metallurgical Plant.

   He began writing poetry while still in school, his first publications were in the newspaper “Pionerskaya Pravda”, then in 1957 in the newspaper “Komsomolets” and “Chelyabinsky Rabochiy”.

   From 1965 until the end of his life he led the literary association "Metallurg".

   In 1966 he was a participant in the Kemerovo Writers' Seminar, organized by the Central Committee of the Komsomol and the Russian Writers' Union. The seminar was led by the poet Vas. Fedorov, who recommended him as a member of the joint venture (adopted in 1969).

   In 1970-72 he studied at the Higher Literary Courses, in the seminar of A. Mezhirov.

   From 1972 he continued to lead the literary association and was elected to the editorial board of the Ural magazine.

   

   Bogdanov made a name for himself with his first book, “The Ringing of Ears,” published in Chelyabinsk in 1964. “Bogdanov sharply and vividly expressed the motif of the indivisible kinship between village and city, indivisibility based on labor origins, which gives his poems a scale of worldview and excludes thematic local limitations . From here mature and precise lines are born” (Kuzin N. - P. 158).

   “I am scalded by the open-hearth heat / And blown away by the steppe winds” (“On Vacation”). The book “The Ringing of Ears” revealed many facets of Bogdanov’s talent, his core themes. The names of his teachers are heard here: “Once again Koltsov, Yesenin and Nikitin / Started a conversation with me” (“Favorite Poets”); “The muscles tensed up, / Flowers fell to the ground... / That’s where, Russian darling, / You rested in peace...”, “Well, this happens, / This is how our light works... / His life does not end, / If he died poet" ("At the Vagankovsky Cemetery").

   Poems about love sound natural and touchingly tenderly: “Letter to my beloved”, “In the evening”, etc. “Do not let vexation into your heart, / Even though the roads to you are far away, / You are always, like my shadow nearby, / Just don’t give a damn you can handle it” (“Letter to my Beloved”). In the short autobiographical poem “The Path of Childhood,” included in the first book, Bogdanov reveals the tragedy of the war, the weight that fell on women’s and children’s shoulders. He touches on the theme of post-war orphanhood, the theme of the forced excommunication of rural youth from the land, from the maternal threshold: “City, city! / What have you done? / He stole the village’s youth” (“Vasilievsky Evenings”).

   

   In 1968, Bogdanov’s second collection of poems, “The Blue Fire,” was published in Chelyabinsk. The book is permeated with love for the big and small Motherland, for people, for workers, in inextricable connection with the voice of Russian nature. Here is sadness and joy, love and longing, patriotism and duty, pride and glory. Bogdanov the poet is kind, gentle, open and very patriotic. “I came into the world to create, and not to cry / Centuries have already sailed to us on tears” (“Rus”). This book owes its success primarily to Bogdanov’s poem “The Link.”

   This book contains a dedication to N. Rubtsov, whom Bogdanov met in the early 1960s. The friendship of the two poets was sincere and trusting. In the poem “Thinking,” Bogdanova, addressing N. Rubtsov, says: “I only know that at my last hour / I want to go to the village, friend...” Many poems with touching tenderness glorify the expanses of their native places, the spiritual wealth of fellow villagers, whom he first learned about goodness, justice and nobility. “By blood of a farmer he is the heir, / By his labor he is a metallurgist /<...>/ I would sing a song about the city, / But I’m afraid to offend the village. / You, village, forgive me, / My dear, / The city has become a good father to me. / I’m standing between you / And I don’t know - / Well, who should I turn my face to?!” ("Meditation"). “Patriotic reflections in Bogdanov’s poetry are completely devoid of rhetoric and didactics - they are organic in all poems, just as his poetic world is organic and holistic, containing the emotional richness of feelings, and the intense impetuosity of reflection, and the dense metaphorical nature of associative vision” (Kuzin N. - P. 159).

   

   The third collection of Bogdanov’s poems, “Guest of the Fields,” was published in Moscow in 1970. Despite the fact that Bogdanov at that time was widely published in magazines and newspapers: “Rural Youth”, “Volga”, “Ural”, “Siberian Lights”, in the newspaper “ Literary Russia" and in regional and district newspapers, in this book for the first time he comes out to the country's readers with his best works.

   In the collection “Chime” (1972), the poet stated: “It’s too early for me to sum up. / And ahead is the sun, / And the thunderstorm /<...>/ River, / River is a steppe revelation. / Steep as life, / Your bends. / I am waiting in fate / for a great moment, / Place in my chest / the eternal aspiration / And water me with the expanse of the meadow...” (“Duma”). The book talks about our history, about memory, about the fate of the Russian people, about the chime of centuries and generations. “Among the meadows the river goes crookedly. / The wind blows through the waves. / I’ll come to the river / And sit by the cliff, / On the edge of my memory” (“Duma”). “The birch tree is there like a white rumor / Oh those people, / That they were guests on earth. / And along the crosses / Blue flows down / And boils with thick herbs” (“Peace”). “He tried to understand what Russia is, what a Russian person is. And the most important thing is what to do next” (P. Proskurin).

   Bogdanov wrote many beautiful poems of great lyrical intensity: “The Road”, “The Haystack”, “By the Summer Water”, “The Day Rises and is High and Sweeping”, “Alone with the Fields”, “Blue Fire”.

   

   “I dare to say that Bogdanov’s best poems about the land, about the village, can be placed in the vanguard of Russian poetry of our days - next to the poetry of N. Rubtsov, A. Zhigulin, V. Sokolov. Bogdanov’s deep thoughts, vivid imagery, spirituality, precise sense of the multicolored and multidimensional nature of the Russian word were manifested with all their originality precisely in poems about the mother’s homeland - native land, native nature, native village” (Kuzin N. - P. 159). In the book “Svetunets” (1973), B. first published the poem “Birth”. In it, he talks about the difficult fate of Russian women-mothers, about the unsettled childhood of their children, about their experiences. “They erect monuments to husbands for heroic deeds, /And wives bear the burden of heroic deeds.”

   The seventh book, “Selected Lyrics” (Chelyabinsk, 1975), was published 2 months before Bogdanov’s death. The last poem in this collection, “Desire,” dedicated to V. Sorokin, speaks of the anticipation of his imminent death: “What activities will / The last hour on the road take me over? / I would like to die at sunset / In the arms of the spent day.”

   Pain and thoughts for Russia, Rus' fill the entire collection “On the burning waves of wind and dawn / The echo of the past returned with pain. / And in the sky the moon soars like a falcon, / And I go to the righteous field” (“On the Borodino Field”). “The lived-in world under the sun, under the moon / And under the slanting rays of stars, / Where the spirit of centuries circles above me / And opened up to the distances of Russia” (“Rus”).

   In the poet’s homeland, his museum was opened, the Svetunets literary prize was approved, Bogdanov readings are held annually, and a monument was erected in 2003. Ural composers E. Eremenko and L. Kazankov wrote several songs based on Bogdanov’s poems.

   “Vyach. Bogdanov belonged to that generation of peasant children who, with incredible efforts, overcoming poverty, deprivation, fatherlessness, without support from noble parents or family traditions, emerged from the common people and in the 1960s became real creators of great culture: N "Rubtsov, A. Vampilov, V. Shukshin, V. Belov, V. Rasputin, V. Sorokin, A. Peredreev, composer V. Gavrilik - this is not a complete series of famous names, among which the name of Bogdanov occupies a worthy place" ( Kunyaev S. - p.9-10).

   V.M. Soshin

   Materials used from the book: Russian literature of the 20th century. Prose writers, poets, playwrights. Biobibliographical dictionary. Volume 1. p. 245-247.

   

   Read further:

   Vyacheslav BOGDANOV. “I live in the lake Urals...” 08.10.2012

   Link M., 1973;

   Svetunets. M., 1974;

   Selected lyrics. Chelyabinsk, 1975;

   Age. M., 1977;

   The most expensive. Chelyabinsk, 1982;

   Clean snow. Chelyabinsk, 1986;

   Return: SS: in 1 volume. M., 1997,

   Loyalty. Chelyabinsk, 1997,

   Meeting. Tambov, 1998.

   The sound of ears of corn. Ch., 1964;

   Literature:

   Fidelity: About the life and work of the famous Russian poet V. Bogdanov: [collection of articles]. Chelyabinsk, 1977. - 192 pp., ill.;

   Kuzin N. An integral part // Ural. 1977. No. 3.

   Kuzin N. In the blue workshop of fire and goodness // Kuzin, N. In the blue workshop of fire and goodness / N. Kuzin. - M., 1978. - P. 195–202.

   Kuzin N. An integral part // Ural. 1977. No. 4. pp.158-160;

   Kunyaev S. Poets born before the war // Materials of the scientific and practical conference dedicated to the 65th anniversary of Vyach. Bogdanov, “Son of the Russian land by law...”. Tambov, 2002 P.9-10;

   Marshalov B. The feeling of poetry // Chelyabinsk worker. 1982. No. 158;

   Marshalov B. [Afterword] // Bogdanov V. Return. M., 1997. P.324-330;

   Polyakova L.V. Guest of the fields / L.V. Polyakova // October. - 1971. - No. 12. - P. 218–219.

   Sorokin V. About a friend // Bogdanov V. The most precious thing. Chelyabinsk, 1982;

   Soshin V. Return of the poet / Vladimir Soshin // Poetic Olympus. - M., 2003. - P. 337–343.

   Soshin B. Vyacheslav Bogdanov // Roman-magazine. XXI Century. 2004 No. 3. P.78.

   “Son of the Russian land according to the law...”: scientific and practical materials. conf., dedicated 65th anniversary of the birth of the poet Vyacheslav Bogdanov / Comp. E.V. Komyagin and L.I. Puchnina. - Tambov: TOIPKRO, 2002. - 66 p.

   Fedorov V. Comments in the margins // Sel. the youth. 1966. No. 11;

   Marshalov B. Link of unity // Stone belt: Literary art. and social-political Sat. Ch., 1975;

   Chalmaev V. Morning shift // Poetry. 1971. No. 5. P.51;

   BOGDANOV Vyacheslav Alekseevich (1937-1975)

   Poet, member of the USSR Writers' Union (1969). Born on September 24, 1937 in the village of Vasilievka, Tambov region. In 1953 he came to Chelyabinsk, together with V.V. Sorokin he studied at the factory school. For more than 15 years he worked as a fitter at a metallurgical plant. He served in the army in tank forces. He began writing poetry in his youth. Bogdanov published his first poem in 1956 in the newspaper Komsomolets. He was involved in the literary association "Metallurg" for over 10 years, until the last day of his life, he led it. Bogdanov’s literary mentor was V.D. Fedorov, who had a great influence on the poet. In 1964, the first book of Bogdanov’s poems, “The Ringing of Ears,” was published in YUKI, followed by 6 more books within 10 years. In 1969 he graduated from the Higher Literary Courses at the Literary Institute. A.M. Gorky. Bogdanov’s creativity was highly appreciated by B.A.Ruchev and V.F.Bokov. The poet’s poems and poems were published in the magazines: “Siberian Lights”, “Ural”, “Ural Pathfinder”, “Young Guard”, “Moscow”, “Our Contemporary”, in various collections and almanacs. An unexpected cardiac arrest cut short the poet's life, but his books continue to be published. On the occasion of the 60th anniversary of Bogdanov’s birth, a collection of memoirs about him, “Loyalty,” was published in Chelyabinsk. In memory of Bogdanov in the 1980s. The poetry club "Svetunets" was named (after the name of the poet's last lifetime book) at the Chelyabinsk branch of the Russian Writers' Union. Died on July 11, 1975 in Moscow. He was buried at the Assumption Cemetery in Chelyabinsk (quarter 1).

   Autobiography of a poet.

   Born on September 24, 1937 in the village of Vasilievka, Tambov region, in the family of a collective farmer.
   Father, Bogdanov Alexey Egorovich, born in 1909, died at the front in 1942. Mother, Bogdanova Pelageya Mikhailovna, born 1909,She worked on a collective farm until retirement age and now lives with me.
   Besides me, the family has a sister, Nadezhda, born in 1930, and a brother, Vladimir, born in 1932.
   In 1947 I went to school.
   In 1951, after finishing 4th grade, he temporarily stopped studying due to financial insecurity.
   The nearest seven-year school was 10 km from our village.
   In 1953, upon enrollment in the FZO school, he left to study in Chelyabinsk. After graduating from the FZO, having received the specialty of a mechanic in equipment repair, he worked for fifteen years in this specialty at the Chelyabinsk Metallurgical Plant, in the refractory and coke-chemical shops.
   He started writing poetry early.
   The first poem was published in 1957 in the Komsomolets newspaper. Since 1957, I have been a member of the literary association of the metallurgical plant. I am currently its director. He published poems in general collections.
   In 1963 he graduated from the evening school for working youth.
   In 1964, my first poetry collection, “The Ringing of Ears,” was published by the South Ural Book Publishing House.
   In 1966, he was a participant in the Kemerovo meeting, where he was recommended for membership in the Writers' Union and the VLK. The seminar was led by V.D. Fedorov.
   In 1968, my second poetry book, The Blue Fire, was published.
   In 1969, my third poetry book, “Guest of the Fields,” was published by the Young Guard publishing house.
   Since 1969, I have been working in the editorial office of the newspaper "Evening Chelyabinsk" as a literary employee in the "Literature and Arts" department.

   20.V.69 BOGDANOV

   Death of poet.

   In the early morning of July 11, 1975, the poet’s heart suddenly stopped. A ticket for the evening train "Moscow - Tambov" was found in his pocket. The poet went to Tambov to meet with his family and fellow countrymen, and also to perform with the poetess Maya Rumyantseva. The coffin with the body was brought to Chelyabinsk and buried here. In 1985, his brother Vladimir was buried with him.

   Poetry:

   Bogdanov was a close friend of Rubtsov; in 1965 he dedicated the poem “Thought” to him.

   Meditation

   I love this life
   Just like at the beginning.
   Lead me, my heart,
   Lead.
   Thirty years are behind me,
   How much more will there be?
   On roads not far away,
   Not to loved ones
   I didn't waste it
   Not a day.
   You can see how with a restless spark
   Russia rewarded me.
   Only one thing is difficult for me to bear,
   Even though I won’t return to my native land,
   I would sing a song about the city,
   Yes, I’m afraid to offend the village.
   You, village, forgive me,
   Expensive,
   The city has become a good father to me.
   I'm standing between you
   And I don’t know -
   Well, who should I turn my face to?!
   So that I can live without knowing grief,
   So as not to tear your heart in half,
   I would like my city to be Ural
   Move to Tambov fields.
   Heir by blood of grain growers,
   By profession he is a metallurgist.
   I only know that at my last hour
   I want to go to the village, friend...

   Hello life

   I don't know how to live slowly
   No poetry to write,
   Neither work.
   The soul is always in a hurry somewhere,
   It's like I'm falling behind someone.
   I hate powerlessness and fear,
   I do not tolerate indifference in conversation,
   I'm not afraid of mistakes in business,
   I believe that work leads us to victory.
   With this faith it’s easy for me on my way -
   Hello, life with endless care!
   May the day be equal to five
   And in verses
   And in love
   And at work.

   (1967)

   P in memory of the poet

   And let me be on the loose bleach
   I'll fall and bury myself in the snow...
   Still a song of vengeance for death
   They will sing to me on the other side.
   Sergey Yesenin

   The revelry settled down in the hotel,
   Yellow darkness swayed in the corridor.
   How could you
   Sneaky pipe
   Can we contain our grief like this?!
   It was not the wine that suddenly squeezed the whiskey,
   Not a blizzard
   What howled like a bitch -
   These are the fingers of human meanness
   They went straight to the throat, tight.
   The scoundrel was sleeping
   Getting drunk in a pub,
   Playing evil on the poet...
   Mortal moment...
   The ice has cracked on the Oka...
   Only mother in all of Rus' woke up...
   What did she imagine then?
   May be,
   I really saw it
   Like from heaven
   burning star
   She fell onto the frosty porch.
   And the star lit the dawn in the village.
   Mother was fussing at the Russian stove.
   Through the deep snows,
   What a disaster
   The news rolled up to the house on a sled.
   The month has fallen from its blue heights.
   And birch trees
   In a smoky whirlwind,
   Like a noose
   They tore up the horizon
   And they moaned with the voice of immortality.

   (1969)

   Rus

   The lived-in world under the sun, under the moon
   And under the starry rays,
   Where the spirit of centuries circles above me
   And it opened up to the expanses of Russia.
   And I go towards those centuries,
   Blue-eyed, fair-haired, stocky.
   The ears touch your hands,
   The lakes sway with their eyes.
   The earth is spinning and screaming
   Hill, ash,
   What in the world happened to her...
   The sun casts its quiet rays
   To the obelisk,
   To a mass grave.
   And I bow to the past again,
   They were cool for everyone in their native land.
   I came into the world to create,
   And don't cry
   Centuries have already come to us in tears...
   We have the past today,
   Like armor
   And his earthly pains live in us.
   Isn’t that why we stood by the fire,
   Isn’t that why we plowed the field?!
   And, peering into the faces of our days,
   In the face of fire and arable land,
   sky,
   Pushcha...
   Every time it becomes clearer to me
   A direct connection between the past and the future.

   (1973)

   Kinship

   
   It would be harder for me to live
   And it sang...
   If I
   I still couldn't
   To become related
   Tambov fields maturity
   And depths
   Gemstone mountains...
   At least I live
   Under the Ural sky,
   By the fire
   Craftsmen people
   But when I
   I touch the bread
   I remember my fellow countrymen.
   I'm far from my homeland,
   But still
   I'm strong with her
   The connecting thread!
   Well tell me people
   Is it possible to
   In two
   Divide Russia?!
   

   (1970)

   Peace

   And I got tired.
   From all the chambers
   I love the churchyard
   What's behind the village
   Hidden in the trees.
   The birches there are like rumors
   About those people
   That they were visiting the earth.
   And on the crosses
   The blue flows down
   And it boils with thick herbs.
   And since childhood I have honored
   Like a celebration
   The eternal merging of heaven and earth.
   And I feel a blood relationship
   With graves
   Where my villagers sleep.
   ...There was a war.
   And the edge of trouble
   Frosts came through the walls,
   Like nails...
   The roofs were burning in the ovens
   And gardens
   But still the ax did not ring in the churchyard.
   In my village of steppes and cornflowers,
   When the war was swept away by fire, -
   Not only hard-working men,
   And there was no tree left in the area.
   Spring was rushing into the village.
   But I tripped over stumps near the house...
   And only the churchyard -
   3green island
   Flew on the eternal wings of black soil.

   (1971)

   You can learn more about the outstanding Russian poet Bogdanov:

   Vyacheslav Bogdanov

   Vyacheslav Bogdanov is one of the talented Ural poets who died at the height of his creativity. The Small Motherland - the Tambov region - gave him beauty and soulfulness, and the second small Motherland - the Urals - gave him poetic wings. During the poet's lifetime, seven poetry collections were published.

   “Vyacheslav Bogdanov belonged to that generation of peasant children who, with incredible efforts, overcoming poverty, deprivation, and fatherlessness,” Stanislav Kunyaev writes about him, “without support from noble parents or family traditions, emerged from the common people and became a years by real creators of great culture: N. Rubtsov, A. Vampilov, V. Shukshin, V. Belov, V. Rasputin, V. Sorokin, A. Peredreev, composer V. Gavrilin - this is not a complete series of glorious names, including the name of Vyacheslav Bogdanov occupies a worthy place"

   IN last years the poet returned to his reader again, his wonderful song was heard and accepted by the Russian people, the soul was drawn to his poems, and in recent years new editions of his poems have been published. “They were silent for twenty years,” notes Pyotr Proskurin, “and suddenly it sprouted. Why? But because he was from the heart of the people. He was sick with his pain, read his poems. This is all pain for Russia, its future.”

   Annual Bogdanov readings are held in the Tambov region, where a museum of the poet has been opened, a regional library is named after him, the Svetunets literary prize is awarded annually, two scholarships have been approved for gifted schoolchildren, and a monument to the poet by People's Artist N.A. has been erected. Selivanova. In Chelyabinsk, the regional poetry club “Svetunets” named after Vyach resumed its work. Bogdanov, his poems are included in the school anthology, in the Ural anthology and encyclopedia.

   Svetunets

   The evening winds move gently.

   The grass is bent by dew rings...

   The new month is framed clearly,

   Fill yourself with fire, lighthead!

   Rising from the dewy lowlands,

   From the expanse of meadows and fields,

   Scoop up the silver-blue light

   And spill it back to the ground!

   And shadows will appear in alarm,

   Blinded by the sharp fire,

   And no one will go astray

   In your incorruptible glow.

   It rains severely every day.

   My thoughts and eyes began to water.

   The unspoken word lies

   Where the heavens close with the earth.

   The word is a distant firebird!..

   Which way to look for it?

   And you can’t descend from heaven to him,

   You can't approach it on the ground...

   I will look in all directions without fear

   And I'll ask

   Like my oldest friend:

   Tell me,

   Do you hear, glorious plowman,

   Tell me, famous metallurgist?!

   Before the truth, we won’t let things go!

   Getting the word

   Like an honor...

   So that he

   Like an apple in the palm of your hand

   At a tired hour, give it to people.

   V. Sorokin

   What business will he take over?

   Is it my last hour on the road?

   I would like to die at sunset

   In the hands of a day that has burned out.

   Since birth I have not believed in carelessness.

   And for this, to the noise of the villages

   There will be a quiet eternity ahead,

   Behind is a blue day...

   I’ll leave your worries as a souvenir,

   I didn't shy away from worries.

   And peace on earth earned -

   The last day is left to me!

   And behind me are the faded grasses

   And in me this eternal glory

   Sheltered the soul and eyes.

   Sheltered, nurtured, warmed

   Everything that makes us proud and strong...

   And woven into the midnight trills

   Nightingale's through silence.

   On unbeaten roads,

   From under my hands song and labor

   They went far

   Like fairy tales

   And, like fairy tales, they will go with me!..

   Home

   N. Tryapkin

   I will come to the doors that are clogged in winter,

   The key is clutched painfully in a fistful.

   And I will smile at a good neighbor,

   And I’ll ask you to bring me some pliers.

   I will not return to my home as a prodigal guest!

   And like love,

   I saved the key to it.

   And at hand

   The nails will groan long

   And they will fall like tears on the threshold...

   And silence will fall on my shoulders,

   And the pigeons will hide under the eaves.

   I’ll open the pipe in a cold Russian stove

   And, like a memory, I will kindle the flame!

   Where God was sitting, a blizzard filled the snowball.

   And, having examined the kinship on the cards, -

   Me instead of God

   I'll sit in the right corner

   Mistaking the fire in the furnace for a deity!

   Breathe high flames, straw!

   Let the village see in reality

   As my bow -

   Smoke over my father's house -

   Everything I suffer and live with!

   I came to this steppe...

   The steppe has opened up the dawn road,

   The young grass bent a little.

   The grass has bent

   It's like he's still dozing

   And she took up the safe ground with her roots.

   The wide steppe goes somewhere,

   Where the clouds wander

   Just like sheep, kudlats.

   I came to this steppe to learn breadth,

   I came to this steppe to heal in the dewy distance.

   I came to be treated for yesterday’s mistake,

   The soul has turned black

   Like spring arable land...

   And my mistake - I did not overpower the enemy,

   My failure is Russia's failure!..

   And my victory is her deepest business.

   The slave's blood was still burned in his grandfather's heart...

   Oh, dear steppe, herbal heritage,

   And good luck is my constant remedy!

   After meeting you, victory is victory.

   My enemy has never had a steppe like this!

   Vyacheslav Bogdanov in his poems appears to us as a collected, integral and spiritually meaningful person, and as a poet - with unconditional talent and rare morality, which, in general, decides the fate of the artist: talent and will to honesty, to justice, to conscientiousness , to the labor placed on the threshold of the father’s hut, the Russian land.

   Bogdanov was a very Russian man and a merciless Russian poet. Without any doubt, he should be placed in that golden circle of Russian authors who said goodbye to life early and tragically, in the circle of Dmitry Blynsky and Nikolai Antsiferov, Anatoly Peredreev and Nikolai Rubtsov.

   A rural boy from the Tambov region, he came to the Chelyabinsk Metallurgical Plant in 1953, where his views on his vocation were formed. Vyacheslav became a famous poet in the Urals, and died in Moscow in 1975.

   The red bank is shrouded in grass,

   There are no traces of anyone left here.

   I don't know where it came from

   This stone is near black water.

   We cannot and will never be able to point with a finger over which black stone the short path of the poet “stumbled” and did not step, there are many black stones on the path not only of the Russian poet, but also of the Russian people, therefore let us thank Vyacheslav Bogdanov for what he has created: it is beautiful, sincerely, it is a living being, it will bloom like a flower in our soul, or it will refresh our eyes with the tears of a Russian mother...

   Vyacheslav Bogdanov, my first friend, if he had lived a little, he would have lived a little more - after all, he had only prepared himself, only in full height the poet straightened up!..

   But he returns to us bright, Russian, kind and unique, like his father’s land, like his Russia, our homeland, calling and swan-like.

   Vyacheslav Bogdanov is a real poet. But a real poet is angry but kind, sudden but wise, difficult but beautiful!

   Lord, protect his word on dangerous paths! Save and give him space.

   Valentin SOROKIN

   In the blue workshop

   Only the morning will break into blue,

   I'll hurry out of the yard.

   I work in the Russia workshop,

   There is beauty and goodness in the blue workshop.

   Let the roads be as steep as years.

   I will learn depth from the plow.

   To me, a factory worker,

   We desperately need poetry.

   Sing like that! To get the weak out of bed

   He stood up and propped his head up against the sky,

   So that people can become kinder from the song,

   The eyes filled with blue.

   But so far it’s only miles and miles,

   Let my road bonfire burn,

   May the midnight stars fly

   In the blue palms of the lakes.

   And the young aspen trembles,

   Why did you come to warm yourself by the fire...

   I work in the Russia workshop,

   There is beauty and goodness in the blue workshop.

   Home

   N. Tryapkin

   I will come to the doors that are clogged in winter,

   The key is clutched painfully in a fistful.

   And I will smile at a good neighbor,

   And I’ll ask you to bring me some pliers.

   I will return to my homenot a prodigal guest!

   And like love,

   I saved the key to it.

   And at hand

   The nails will groan long

   And they will fall like tears on the threshold...

   And silence will fall on my shoulders,

   And the pigeons will hide under the eaves.

   I’ll open the pipe in a cold Russian stove

   And, like a memory, I will kindle the flame!

   Where God was sitting, a blizzard filled the snowball.

   And, having examined the kinship on the cards, -

   Me instead of God

   I'll sit in the right corner

   Mistaking the fire in the furnace for a deity!

   Breathe high flames, straw!

   Let the village see in reality

   As my bow -

   Smoke over my father's house -

   Everything I suffer and live with!

   Meditation

   N. Rubtsov

   I love this life

   Just like at the beginning.

   Lead me, my heart,

   Lead.

   Thirty years are behind me,

   How much more will there be?

   On roads not far away,

   Not to loved ones

   I didn't waste it

   Not a day.

   It can be seen as a restless spark

   Russia rewarded me.

   Only one thing is difficult for me to bear,

   Even though I won’t return to my native land,

   I would sing a song about the city,

   Yes, I’m afraid to offend the village.

   You, village, forgive me,

   Expensive,

   The city has become a good father to me.

   I'm standing between you

   And I don’t know -

   Well, who should I turn my face to?!

   So that I can live without knowing grief,

   So as not to tear your heart in half,

   I would like my city to be Ural

   Move to Tambov fields.

   Heir by blood of grain growers,

   By profession he is a metallurgist...

   I only know that at my last hour

   I want to go to the village, friend.

   In memory of the poet

   And let me be on the loose bleach

   I'll fall and bury myself in the snow...

   Still a song of vengeance for death

   They will sing to me on the other side.

   S.A. ESENIN

   The revelry settled down in the hotel,

   Yellow darkness swayed in the corridor.

   How could you

   Sneaky pipe

   Can we contain our grief like this?!

   It was not the wine that suddenly squeezed the whiskey,

   Not a blizzard

   What howled like a bitch -

   These are the fingers of human meanness

   They went straight to the throat, tight.

   The scoundrel was sleeping

   Getting drunk in a pub,

   Playing evil on the poet...

   Mortal moment...

   The ice has cracked on the Oka...

   Only mother in all of Rus' woke up...

   What did she imagine then?

   May be,

   I really saw it

   Like from heaven

   burning star

   She fell onto the frosty porch.

   And the star lit the dawn in the village.

   Mother was fussing around the Russian stove.

   Through the deep snows,

   What a disaster

   The news rolled up to the house on a sled.

   The month has fallen from its blue heights.

   And birches

   In a smoky whirlwind,

   Like a noose

   They tore up the horizon

   In Vladimir

   S. Nikitin

   Here is my Rus' on all four sides

   In the green blizzard

   Spring fire.

   Jagged forehead cathedrals

   Antiquity looks at me wearily.

   Let the bell towers be empty,

   And the rust lay down from the centuries-old winds.

   But I hear: warriors are going to battle

   To the sound of gray bells.

   The plains lie

   Washed by dew,

   And my Rus' is illuminated with fire.

   The earth trembles under the horse's hooves,

   And there is silence on the crosses.

   I hear thunder

   And a groan behind the copses,

   And at the Kremlin

   Weeping people.

   Oh give it to me

   Armor of Prince Nevsky

   And the right key

   From the Golden Gate...

   Stack

   - How old are you?

   - The sixth has passed.

   ON THE. NEKRASOV

   It's been a tough year. Unheated stove.

   Dead night

   And there’s not a log in the house.

   The moon rises above the haystack,

   Like a sword.

   I'm sneaking around in the steppe,

   As if from captivity.

   The fire in the inspector’s hut went out...

   And neither the graveyard is scary to me,

   Neither wolves...

   Only the creaking of the sled strains the ears,

   Stubble sticks out

   Sharper than needles...

   I drove an iron hook into the side of the haystack,

   Learned this craft early...

   But only the haystack is stubborn,

   Like a greedy friend

   He gave me straw bit by bit.

   And I pulled the straw as much as I could,

   I was looking for places where it was easier to approach.

   I drove the hook.

   And, settling, the stack

   Moaned in the night

   Like a wounded bird.

   And I, a boy of ten years old,

   In an adult way

   Not at all without fear,

   Between other people's tangled tracks

   I pulled the sled home with straw.

   Such a distance sparkled ahead!

   Such large stars shone!

   I wanted to wake up the whole village,

   But he walked secretly,

   So that people don't see...

   I sat down to rest on a hillock, -

   Savior from all frosty disasters

   The collective farm stack was visible in the distance,

   Torn around

   Like our childhood.

   I remembered all this and saved it.

   And that’s why the heart doesn’t turn to stone...

   And my soul

   Like that collective farm haystack,

   No one will ever be able to pull it apart!..

   I live

   I live in the lake Urals,

   You live on a great river.

   From my midnight sorrow

   The ring on my hand turned black.

   I'll fall like a blind bird

   A guide without seeing the stars.

   From which carved hoof?

   Drink the wisdom of magic water?

   I will live without love and without affection

   And I will never wait for you.

   Just like the prince from a fairy tale,

   I'll be useful to you one day.

   You will wake up, but it will be too late,

   People's lives are too short.

   Rocks the fallen stars

   Blue river melancholy.

   Faith

   Son of the Russian land by law,

   Accustomed to work from youth,

   I, seasoned by my military childhood,

   I walk through the village singing.

   To those who like my singing,

   Stand next to me!

   Let the words fall

   Like stones

   Whiners who don't believe in life.

   I will never give up that song.

   And I will go, confident, into business,

   Like an angry horse walking

   Having bitten the steel bit.

   Speed

   The earth rushes like a horse, stunned,

   The reins of the century have been pulled.

   And from the speed - white foam -

   Clouds fly off from the sides.

   How to keep up with the speed of light

   Following traces hitherto invisible?

   We're tired of spring color

   And we yearn for ripe fruits...

   The stars are ripening like apples, quickly.

   The hands of the century stretched out to them...

   You, Universe, are a garden behind a fence,

   We are the neighbor's children for now!..

   Brother. Poet. Friend…

   Once, in a sincere conversation, I asked Slava (that’s what we, relatives, called the poet Vyacheslav Bogdanov):

   “Which of us do you love most?” And there were a lot of us...

   To be honest, I expected him to say - me. But no, he named his cousin Alexei. At first I felt a little sad, because I knew that he did not have such a trusting relationship, such mutual understanding with other brothers and sisters. He knew that none of my relatives loved poetry more than me, did not value it! He felt me ​​reaching out to his word. I knew that such an answer would hurt me. But he told the truth. Of course I asked why. He replied that he and Leshka were the same age and went through their childhood barefoot and lived through the most difficult years. Then they lived and worked together in the Urals. After such an honest answer, I felt better: Slava did not bend his heart in front of me...

   Our age difference was nine years, in those years it was noticeable. But, despite this, Slava and I were drawn to each other. We corresponded constantly and met often. I remember well how I studied at the Zvenigorod Technical School, I was 15 years old, and Slava lived in Chelyabinsk, and from then on I began corresponding with him, followed his every verse, and became interested in poetry. He instilled in me a feeling of love for poetry, or more precisely, he expanded and deepened it, since the feeling of poetry is given by my mother.

   Everything he wrote was presented to me with beautiful inscriptions. Here is the last collection during his lifetime, published a month before his death, “Favorites.” He writes how he says goodbye, how he leaves a covenant: “Live, Victor, openly, honestly, as you live, on the beautiful Russian land.”

   It was very interesting to communicate with Slava, he was simple, was not arrogant, did not boast that he was a poet. I always read a lot of poetry at meetings, often my own. There was no need to ask him, he did it as a matter of course and enjoyed it. And he had so much humor, puns poured out one after another. Every occasion is a joke! He was not harmful, kind, not malicious, not vindictive. Yes, in my opinion, he couldn’t really be offended. He always had a smile and a joke. He had a kind soul. Otherwise, the poems wouldn’t have become so heartbreaking.

   Our roots are poetic, some of our relatives wrote poems and ditties, some were published, but most of us had souls that sang. Yes, the Tambov land is rich in talent, fertile ground for this is here. Here we go last days literature in Shulginskaya high school We heard so many interesting poems written by schoolchildren, what intelligent eyes, how they are drawn to poetry, to art. We saw and heard the same thing at the Mordovian regional house of culture. And how do schoolchildren read Bogdanov’s poems, what songs do they sing based on his poems! It makes me happy that his creativity is sprouting and being perceived by a new generation. This means that a good link is embedded in it, since the shoots are good.

   The work of Vyacheslav Bogdanov is multifaceted, you constantly find something for yourself in it, discover new shining facets of talent. I seem to know his poems well, but recently, having received a selection in the magazine “Rise,” I discovered a new reflection for myself: about the fate of a person, about happiness and misfortune, about memory, about the light of life and love. It seems like a small selection, but it, skillfully compiled, illuminates the named aspects of creativity. And in the September issue of the magazine “Our Contemporary” with an introductory word about Valentin Sorokin’s friend, Bogdanov’s work is reflected in other facets: love for the homeland, love for a woman.

   In total, Slava wrote more than two hundred poems and four poems, the fifth he just started, about steelworkers. Of course, a little. But fate decreed this, Valentin Sorokin told me that a poet will become a poet when his work contains love for the Motherland, love for man, for a friend, for work, for memory, love for nature, for the mother, for the mysteries of the Universe. It is important that the poet has his own core theme. Of course, Valentin Vasilyevich is right. I think that Bogdanov’s work contains all these components and, characteristically, they somehow resonate with one another. The poet tries to connect them together: man and nature, city and countryside, today with the past and future, our Earth with the Universe...

   I once analyzed what Vyacheslav wrote about more, although I understand that it is impossible to approach the assessment of creativity so arithmetically, because in one poem there is both nature, and man, and his fate, and the city, and the village. But still, I separated obvious themes, and what happened?

   The greatest number of poems have been written about a person, about his fate, about friends, about poets. Poems such as “Youth”, “Man”, “One year old”, “Newlyweds”, “Student”, “Hello, life”, “Young poet”, “Stardom”, “To Vasily Fedorov”, “To Boris Ruchev”, poems , dedicated to friend Valentin Sorokin, dedication poems to Sergei Yesenin and many other powerful works speak of a deep rethinking of time, responsibility to friendship, the search for the main thing in life, in the understanding of the earthly and heavenly.

   A large section in the poet’s work is occupied by the theme of his small homeland, the Tambov region - poems about his native home, about childhood, about his mother: “Home”, “Native Home”, “Father’s House”, “About Mother”, “Steppe”, “Native” steppe”, “I came to this steppe”, “My village”, “Vasilievka”, “Vasilievsky evenings”, “Tambov lands” and many others.

   Not every poet is given the gift of glorifying both the village and the city at the same time. Slava did it. Nature, its secrets and beauty occupy a large place in Bogdanov’s work, especially in the poems “Earth”, “Noon”, “Nightingale”, “Horse”, “Forest”, “Apple Tree”, “On the River”, “By the Sea”, “Frolic in the distance”, “In July”.

   All the poet’s work is permeated with love for the Motherland, for Russia, for the Russian people. Everyone who knew Bogdanov remembers how proud he was of his Fatherland, how he sang it in poetry: “Rus”, “Poems about the Motherland”, “In Vladimir”, “On the Borodino Field”, “I was born in Russia”, “Blue bonfire”... I remember he always had a “Rus” badge on his chest, so we buried him with him, and on the grave we put a thin large glass of vodka, on which a temple was depicted and the word “Rus” was written. Rus' - for him the word was sacred and most precious:

   “I was born in Russia, I am a Russian myself.”

   “Here is my Rus' on all four sides...”

   “I can distinguish your smells, Russia, from everyone else in the world.”

   “Well, tell me, people, is it possible to divide Russia in two?”

   “Hello, land of beauty and iron, silent pride of Rus'!”

   “I work in the Russia workshop.”

   “She is always unique, Rus'.”

   These words were spoken with pain in the heart and with a great sense of responsibility and filial duty.

   The theme of love for a woman takes up little space in the work of Vyacheslav Bogdanov. Apparently, this is how it happened. The first is short and tragic, but beautiful love, and then a late one, also short-lived. But what pure verses:

   I live in the lake Urals,

   You live on a great river,

   From my midnight sorrow

   The ring on my hand turned black.

   Or:

   Star, star,

   Why are you looking so sad?

   Leave us your good secrets!

   Love for me, dear primordial

   Again she came through my darkness.

   The poet’s theme of love is complemented by a vivid love for friends and work. The theme of the work, in the broad sense of the word, the theme of the working man, in inextricable connection with the plant, with the Urals, occupies a very important place in the works of Bogdanov. He was very conscientious and honest, so as not to glorify the plant, the worker, his friends in the brigade, his native Urals, which gave him bread, shelter, friends, and most importantly, poetic wings. The poet was never ungrateful. He understood who gave birth to him, who taught him to walk and who raised him, who gave him a start in a great life. The main trait of his character is conscientiousness.

   If you happen to die,

   Please note that I have

   The plant is the father

   The village is the mother

   And menial labor is a teacher!

   In his main poem “The Link,” Bogdanov deeply and poetically reveals the core theme of city and countryside, worker and peasant, concluding the work with these words:

   I take the villagers' hands,

   I'll take it

   And we rush to meet our comrades,

   Above your head the heights turn blue,

   And everything seems blue...

   And we are in a hurry, And we have already agreed.

   And I -

   A link of unity between them!

   Although one could often hear from Slava that “I am a great Russian poet,” he understood perfectly well who was who and at what poetic pinnacle he was. The main thing is that he did not stop, always looked forward, knew his potential, his capabilities. He knew that the main thing had not yet been said to them.

   Once, in a conversation in Moscow in the late 1960s, I told him, having previously read Nikolai Rubtsov’s just published book “The Noise of Pines”: “Slav, Rubtsov is stronger than you!” The immediate question is: “Why?” Since I’m not a professional, I replied that I couldn’t explain it correctly, but I felt it. Slava frowned and said: “Victor, don’t ever tell me about this again. If I agree with you, then I need to throw down my pen and stop writing.” We never talked about this topic again.

   Now, when I have lived most of my life, when I have learned something and come to know something, I can say that Nikolai Rubtsov is indeed a great poet, but Vyacheslav Bogdanov is not far behind him, and on certain topics and poems more is needed think about who to give the palm to. Slava felt this and persistently walked towards his peak. His poems are gentle, kind, patriotic, accessible, earthly, and highly moral.

   And I think it is no coincidence that his work has sprouted to us in the 21st century. His spring voice is in demand by us. As the outstanding writer Pyotr Proskurin said: “He tried to understand what Russia is, what a Russian person is. And the most important thing is what to do next. He was from the heart of the people. He was in pain."

   Victor SOSHIN