Tim Sobakin
The dog that was a cat
I have a good friend. Her name is Nika Bosmith. She lives somewhere THERE, either in Scotland, or in Norway. I can’t say for sure: there are almost no borders in that world. But despite the differences in our lives, we are similar to each other. Sometimes it even seems like we are the SAME PERSON. Or people... In general, people.
When Nika and I meet, we talk in some unthinkable, unknown language. Although we understand each other best without words. And what are the words for? You can say one thing and think about something else. You may not do what you would like to do. You may not seem to be who you really are. And such non-coincidences occur quite often in life.
“Sometimes they are funny,” Nick says thoughtfully. “For example, I knew one dog that was actually a cat.”
“And her mistress,” I pick up the thought, “for sure, everything turned out differently than the others.”
“It gave her a lot of trouble,” Nike nods.
“Tell me more,” I ask.
- Fine. Only you will translate my stories from that unknown language…
“…which I hardly know…”
“…but you understand very well.
We look into each other's eyes for a long time.
And Nika slowly starts.
All wrong
In a Scottish town there lived an aunt Solveig. On the face of it, she seemed like the most ordinary aunt. But in life, for some reason, everything turned out differently for her than for others.
She could run for hours on the ice and not fall, but often slipped on dry pavement. She deliberately dropped the vase from the fifth floor - and the vase did not break. But as soon as she accidentally touched the jug with her sleeve, like that - to smithereens! With Aunt Solveig, even the dog was not a dog at all, but a cat. And her name was Shaq. But about this wrong dog - a little later.
Aunt Solveig worked as a consultant on complex issues. But not in Glasgow, where she lived, but in a completely different Scottish city. And she flew to work by plane - twice a week. Aunt Solveig left home early to catch the airport, but for some reason she was always late. And the plane took off without her.
One morning she decided, “Stop being late! You have to get to work today."
Auntie had breakfast an hour earlier than usual and rushed to the airport in a high-speed BMW car. However, halfway through, she ran out of gas.
– Ho-ho! exclaimed Aunt Solveig. “In that case, I have a full pan of gasoline in reserve.
– Hee hee! Aunt Solveig chuckled. - I'm using the detour. There is still plenty of time.
And the detour path lay across the bridge. And it so happened that this bridge suddenly collapsed into the river.
– Ha-ha! said Aunt Solveig. – I have a big inflatable boat. She can handle the car. I'll swim!
Crossing the river, oddly enough, ended safely. It was already a stone's throw from the airport, when a meteorite suddenly fell from the sky and hit the front wheel.
“Heh heh…” Aunt Solveig sighed. - We'll have to put a spare ...
But there was no spare tire in the trunk. But there was an old bicycle.
When Aunt Solveig finally made it to the airport after falling off her bike nine and a half times, her plane was speeding down the runway.
“Wow,” the aunt was surprised, “I didn’t have time! ..” But she was determined to get to work today and therefore immediately went to buy a ticket for the next flight.
“There are no tickets,” the ticket office told her.
- How so? After all, there have always been...
- Not today!
“Okay,” Aunt Solveig reasoned, “I’ll come to the very departure. Someone must be late." In the meantime, she decided to take a taxi back home for lunch.
The car zigzagged through the city for more than an hour.
“The streets are somehow unfamiliar,” Aunt Solveig was worried. “It’s like it’s not Glasgow at all ... And why does everything turn out differently for me than for others?” You try, you try - but it's no use! Even the city seems alien... I wonder if I try to deliberately do everything wrong, what if something good happens then? Let me imagine for a start that I am in another country ... "
After dinner, my aunt pulled out a map of the Norwegian city of Oslo from the closet, where she usually went in the summer to swim in the gentle sea.
What bus takes you to the airport? she muttered, running her finger over the map. - It seems that the two hundred and seventeenth ... However, we should hurry. However, there are still fourteen minutes before departure ...
After feeding canned food to the dog, which was a cat, and abundantly watering the cactus, which was a ficus, Aunt Solveig slowly boarded the bus, which turned out to be tram No. UX. “I’ll get there somehow,” my aunt reassured herself. “The more wrong, the better!”
And indeed, in half an hour she was almost at the goal: only a few kilometers remained to go to the airport. “Oh, well,” thought Aunt Solveig, briskly walking among the trees, “that’s not even interesting. No adventures for you ... Although the plane has already left anyway.
But the plane didn't take off. Because his left wing suddenly fell off. While this wing was being fixed in place, all the passengers returned their tickets and rushed to the station in the hope of catching the train. Aunt Solveig could now choose any seat on the plane. At least near the porthole!
“Well,” she rejoiced, settling herself more comfortably in her chair, “I felt that today I would certainly get to work ...”
The engines roared deafeningly. But they soon quieted down.
- What's happened? asked Aunt Solveig.
“The radio operator and the stewardess are missing,” the crew commander reported. - Apparently, they decided that the wing would not be repaired, and went to the circus for the performance of African hippos.
– And now what?
- Nothing. I absolutely refuse to fly without them. Maybe I also dreamed of looking at the hippos.
"Things are not going my way! thought Aunt Solveig as she got off the empty plane. “We should at least give a telegram to the boss.”
And she went to the post office and sent this telegram:
CAN'T GET TO WORK STOP METEORITE HAPPENED WHEEL STOP WING FELT FROM STITCH IT'S TIME TO DINNER STOP
AUNT SOLVEIG
You probably think that the boss immediately fired the aunt from her job. No matter how! Before she had time to have dinner, the postman delivered the answer:
SINCERELY I sympathize with the misfortune of STK GO GOOD START SENDING MONEY ASSISTANCE IN THE AMOUNT OF ANNUAL SALARY STK
MR HEAD
Can't you guess what happened? And everything is very simple: in the telegraph lines, for no reason at all, individual letters got mixed up, and instead of “WHEEL” it turned out to be “HEAD”, instead of “WING FALLED OFF”, “ROOF CALLED IN”, and the word “ DINNER ” turned into “DIE”. All in all, a lot of trouble!
“It turns out that I deceived the chief,” said Aunt Solveig sadly. “Now I have to change jobs. But what to do with money? she asked the dog, which was a cat.
The dog shrugged.
Aunt Solveig thoughtfully walked around the room, knocking a cactus on the floor, which was actually a ficus. She whispered:
If the dog shrugged,
So she doesn't know anything.
Apparently, the difficult question turned out to be -
She doesn't know anything...
Then the aunt swept up the fragments of the flower pot and, picking up the telephone, dialed a number at random:
“Excuse me, where did I go?” Is this the Norwegian city of Oslo? Aunt Solveig says. Don't you have any work?.. Yes, yes, I'm just a consultant on complex issues ... Oh, tusen takk! .. I really live in Glasgow. So it seems to me... Well, yes, it's not a problem... Of course, the plane is quite convenient... Twice a week... Good! I'm leaving tomorrow...
End of introductory segment.
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Notes
Thank you very much (Nor.)
Real name Andrey Viktorovich Ivanov. Born on January 2, 1958 in Zhovti Vody, Dnepropetrovsk region, USSR. Russian writer. Author of prose and poetry for children.
Andrei Ivanov has a lot pseudonyms. The writer explained their appearance as follows: “When I felt that not today or tomorrow my poems could be published, I thought about pseudonym. But nothing good came to my mind. And on May 1, 1983, I accidentally saw on TV A film for children. According to Gaidar. There, at the end, a boy stands in front of the squadron, so thin ... And the commander solemnly: “For the courage and heroism shown, I express gratitude to Grigory ... what is your last name?” He replies: “Yes, we are Sobakins ...” - “... Grigory Sobakin.” And I immediately realized: this is mine. Especially when my mother reminded me that I was born in the year of the Dog. In addition, I love these faithful creatures who do not betray. In Japan, the dog is a symbol of justice. And then I was Tikhon Khobotov, and Terenty Psov, and Savva Bakin, Nika Bosmit (on the contrary), Andrushka Yvanov, Sidor Tyaff, Stepan Timokhin, Sim Tobakin and others.
It would seem, why does one person need so many pseudonyms? He explains such a number of them by the fact that sometimes several of his works are published in one issue of the journal. Why not sign them all the same? That's what had to Sobakin acquire literary counterparts. For example, Tikhon Khobotov usually "takes over" fiction, Stepan Timokhin and Roman Bulvarny - popular science articles, Savva Bakin - all kinds of games and crossword puzzles, Sidor Tyaff and Terenty Psov - whatever you have to, and Nika Bosmit supposedly "translates" from foreign languages.
Andrey Ivanov graduated from the Moscow Engineering Physics Institute (1981), worked as a programmer. In 1985 he changed his profession, becoming a journalist, in 1987 he graduated from the Faculty of Journalism of Moscow State University. Since 1988 he has been engaged only literary work, writes poems and stories for children, published in magazines " Funny pictures”, “Murzilka”, “Pioneer”, “October”. In 1990-1995 he was the editor-in-chief children's magazine"Tram", then the literary editor of the magazines "Kolobok", "Pile is small", "Filya", "Sinbad". Author of several books published by large publishing houses "Children's Literature", "Drofa" and others.
In childhood Sobakin dreamed of being an electric locomotive driver in order to travel abroad. Therefore, his parents sent him to an English boarding school. The language was difficult for him. But young Sobakin at first he enthusiastically carved linocuts, then he assembled radio receivers, and, finally, he played and sang in the school ensemble. However exact sciences turned out to be stronger than other hobbies, and Andrei graduated from the Moscow Engineering Physics Institute (1981), worked as a programmer. In 1985 he changed his profession, becoming a journalist, in 1987 he graduated from the Faculty of Journalism of Moscow State University.
Bored with a researcher at the Ministry of Public Education, he completely left public service. But fate wanted Sobakin headed the magazine "Tram", which under his leadership becomes the best publication for children in the country. Since 1988, he has been engaged only in literary work, writing poems and stories for children, published in the magazines Vesyolye Kartinki, Murzilka, Pioneer, and Oktyabr. In 1990-1995 he was the literary editor of the magazines Kolobok, A Pile of Mala, Phil, Sinbad. Then his eight books come out, Sobakin accepted into the Writers' Union, his works are published abroad.
Wolf
The wolf left me.
I fed him cabbage
Apparently, this vegetable is delicious,
Apparently he couldn't eat.
The wolf left me.
How many animals do not feed
For him the nature of the thread
Stronger than a thick belt.
He went to a distant forest
Where thousands of trees grow.
And built a dwelling there,
And he, satisfied, climbed into it.
And then he looks around
And the inside of the house is empty...
Where are you, my cabbage?
Where are you my true friend?
At night, the wolf sits on a stump,
Howling sadly at the moon...
Apparently, he has no rest.
Apparently, he remembers me.
No shoe
A passer-by was walking down the street.
He was short in stature.
On one leg - a shoe,
On the other leg is a sock.
"This is apparently a scientist, -
Everyone looked after him,
Who thought so deeply about a scientific problem,
Why didn’t you put on your boots!”
And the passerby walked gloomily,
His sock is wet.
It was Semyon Semenych -
A well-known teacher, by the way.
He is at home today
A heated battle broke out:
Two shoes quarreled
Because of the shoe brush.
And in the end they decided:
To live from now on - only apart!
And the owner's shoes
Failed to reconcile.
So Semyon Semenych went,
Even though he was a teacher...
On one leg - a shoe,
On the other leg
no boots at all.
About cows
On the grass
by the dense forest
meadow cow was grazing.
And in the sea
splashing water,
a sea cow dived.
And somewhere
on the tree deftly
ladybug crawling...
Cows are everywhere
cows -
they be healthy!
How agile hippo chased
behind a cheeky fly in a cramped room,
where there was a lot of glassware
Slightly UNUSUAL NON-poem
AND
LJJJ
ZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZH
ZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZh
ZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZH
BAM!
ZHZhZhZh
F... F...
ZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZH
BAM! BAM!!
ZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZh
BAM! BOOM! JIN!..
ZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZh
TOP.
ZHZhZhZh
TOP - TOP.
ZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZH
TOP - TOP - TOP.
ZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZHZH
SLAP!!!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
SHMYAK.
And it became quiet.
Turtle suit
In the distant desert
the turtle lived.
There was a turtle
big slob:
walked in clothes
crumpled and torn,
not using
no toilet
no bathroom.
Though often changed
outfit Turtle,
but quickly broke
shirt behind the shirt.
When it's business
quite tired
took Turtle
and put on the armor.
Since then
so it crawls
with a sullen look.
And the shell serves her
safe suit:
does not wrinkle
does not tear
all the time on the spot
for a hundred years...
or even two hundred!
mouse settlement
A lunar fragment climbed into the sky -
The Mouse Village woke up in the basement.
In the dark
The whistle of a steam locomotive was heard:
Rolls mice
A daring mouser.
Noise in the square
And mouse mice.
Everywhere hurry
Behind the mouse is the mouse.
Under the mice
The mouse rustles.
Above the mice
The mouse buzzes.
Scientists mice are full of thoughts...
The mouse steals the mouse mentally...
smart mice,
Hiding in the shadows
All night out of the mouse
They shoot at the mouse...
But in the morning a lunar shard will fall -
Will fall asleep at dawn Mouse village.
And my mother whispers to me:
"Timosha, get up! ..".
And I will answer her:
"I'm sleeping... Don't mouse...".
Sunday ratsword
One evening the Rat is underground
Lips covered with bright lipstick
And, having put on sports shoes,
Immediately became a rat!
Here she sat down and ratted,
Watching the rats of the evening
And blushing from ears to tail.
On a visit, he can’t wait for a rat.
Sunday time is long,
And the krysotka thinks thoughtfully:
“If only the Red Army soldier would welcome
With a purely military cross-section.
Crack we could do enough
Hearty food in the home environment,
And then they would indulge in eloquence
About the beautiful art of artists ... ".
Only instead of a rat came
Suddenly a peasant, unexpectedly, unexpectedly,
And his face is red-faced -
Isn't the rat contagious?
How did he manage to sneak up on tiptoe?
We need something to hide goodbye!
And, grabbing a couple of crystal salts,
The Rat quickly darted into the shelter.
There she sat down in a soft chair
And, hiding their furry paws,
This kryssvord began to silently unravel,
What is under the heading "The rat has gone."
bus stranger
In the bus crush, I puffed noisily -
crumpled with people and string bags.
And suddenly behind a wall of compressed bodies
the stranger's face flashed.
The eyes are malachite, and the hair is copper.
Overcoming fatigue
lips whispered to me:
- Let's be patient!
Maybe,
Not long left...
The hand clasped in the door hurt,
a shoe was lying on the threshold.
But it seemed to me:
the road is easy!
And it got free...
A little.
Infection control
The wind howled
how a hundred animals howl.
The rain beat hard on the leaves.
me and friend
stood in the yard
talking to each other in silence.
Friend sneezed!
And a little microbe
flying out of a friendly nose,
made special efforts
so that
hit me on the nostril
without asking.
But,
hitting the hospitable nose,
the microorganism made meanness:
he caused damage to the owner,
infecting the nasal cavity.
I sneezed -
not once, but three times!
And it didn't take more
to inside a friendly nostril
kick off the nasty microbe.
We had a long conversation
between words chihhaya repeatedly.
A microbe
two meters from the ground
moved
there → here → back...
Finally,
he collapsed under the fence.
me and friend
both rejoiced.
we fought back the infection,
nachihhav
on a harmful microbe!
In a burst of tenderness
Through the enchanting fog
I was driving somewhere
With a sweet girl
Grasping her with his left hand,
And he squeezed his pocket with his right hand.
The girl whispered to me:
"Why
Do you feel the threads in your pocket?
It is better to be captured by embraces,
So that I don’t feel trembling ... "
Feeling the tenderness impulse,
Infused with proper strength,
I hugged the figure
Dear virgin,
I deliberately let go of my pocket.
A snake crawled out of my pocket -
Is it an anaconda
Is it a cobra -
And looked at the girl unkindly
My life is poisonous.
Virgo from fright immediately scream!
I hit the snake painfully in the ear
And said:
"Well, what are you, old woman?"
And the snake:
"Well, what are you, old man? .."
Visit
I came to you one morning,
When you were sleeping heavily on the couch.
The ruddy whale floundered in the glass.
And the fly tumbled in the wind.
I looked at you for twenty-six minutes,
Fascinated by the picturesque view, -
It looks like a ring with an amethyst,
And then on an old-fashioned tarantass.
You slept naked to your shoulders.
And the thought sharpened me like poison:
“Do I have the moral right
Lie down next to you on a part of the sofa?
While I was in the grip of bad thoughts,
As well as secret aspirations,
You modestly arched a row of knees
(I was usually attracted to only two.)
Together with the Beetle
One day
creepy fat beetle
crawled into my boot.
He was waiting for a buzzing bug,
and I couldn't whine.
He is a yellow acorn
greedily gnawed
(such is his lot)
then circled:
then up
then down.
And I couldn't do that.
His six legs
(or maybe hands)
shaking him in a row,
I suddenly realized
that this beetle -
My friend
and even a brother.
Although
with comrade Zhuk
we are not alike,
But
walk under the sun
barefoot
we are destined to be together.
And cheerfully we went forward,
like a parade.
And all the animals of the earth
marched along with us.
The sun shone in my eyes
hee hee,
ho ho,
haha!..
military alert
For happiness you need a little:
pie,
jam
and marshmallows.
But here's the war alarm
disturbed the peace of the apartments.
Military men wearing boots
military shoes pants,
I get out of bed
To protect the peace of the country.
Severely I drink military kefir,
I chew a military tomato -
And I go gradually
An enemy worthy to fight back.
And my daughter is in bed
and sees children's sleep About
like a brave dad on a horse
fights with a treacherous enemy
he deftly jumps with a cigarette
towards the fierce enemy
and the wind from my father's nose
breaks fragile glasses
then he takes off his jacket
then military pants
then military boots
(at a price of 42 rubles)
and dad can't see without glasses
but rides on a dashing horse
towards nuclear missiles
submarines, etc.
and enemy
watching through binoculars
undressed daddy's body
suddenly understands
what does Russian heroism mean
he rips secret paper
and runs away
and dad soon for courage
will give the Honorary Hammer!
Not allowed...
And they hardly give
at least part of the Hammer.
After all, even a small medal
not given to me yet.
The alarm was canceled soon -
she was a student.
And the world
(especially at sea)
much better,
than war.
Time for good animals
I have never been to Africa.
In America, I don't either...
Rusk
didn't give the porcupine
for him to roll on his back.
The snake did not bite in the wormwood,
did not feel the octopus in the river
and even, imagine, still
the rhinoceros did not run after me.
Yes, how long will this last?
There is no end in sight...
Let the bird gore
let the sheep peck!
And suddenly the doors open
and I see
(as if in a dream)
like a variety of animals
trotting towards me -
rush, imagine, trot
from the jungle
deserts
and seas...
They made me drink the dew
and gave a bag of crackers.
Me too,
what could
gave them
even though he was half dead.
Covered me with a blanket
put on the bed first.
"As long as you don't forget about us, -
whispered to me a gray-haired porcupine, -
more than once you will be in America.
And in Africa - also more than once ... "
Some powerful force
rushed seconds faster.
And I realized
what happened
TIME
GOOD
BEASTS.
Meeting
Early in the open field in the morning
Shel Ivan Kuzmich.
Suddenly on Ivan's head
The brick slammed.
Vanya said: “All junk
So it strives
Fall on top of the top,
Like a meteorite!
And Brick sighed: “How long
I can endure the attack
Even if in an open field
Nowhere to fall?
In the ocean and in the savannah
In the chair, on the stove -
Vanya will be everywhere,
Everywhere Kuzmichi!..”
naked animals
Animals don't have clothes
Neither feet nor hands.
Animals walk, as before,
No shoes and no pants
No socks and no shirts
And, sorry, no panties -
From tiny insects
To the giant elephants.
Here to dress them in fashion,
Dress up this way and that,
So that, walking in nature,
People would see how
hippos flaunt
In colorful jackets
And cows wear boots
On high heels.
However, these are just hopes.
Causing laughter.
Animals don't have clothes -
Only skin, only fur.
Only fur and only skin
From hooves to hump:
Such is their nature.
Such is their fate.
two fathers
On the lawn
sitting fisherman,
patiently
dug worms.
I saw Rybolov
Starling
and decided:
"Real father!
looking for food
even better,
than me, -
it is seen,
too big
family".
Until next summer
Quietly the summer is leaving
Dressed in leaves.
And stay somewhere
In a dream or in reality:
silver fly
In spider webs
Undrunk mug
Steamed milk.
And a glass stream.
and warm earth.
And above the forest glade
The buzzing of a bumblebee.
Autumn comes quietly
Dressed in mist.
She brings rain
From foreign countries.
And heaps of yellow leaves
And the scent of the forest
And dampness in dark holes.
And somewhere behind the wall
Alarm clock until dawn
Chirp on the table:
“Until bu-du-sche-th-let,
Until the bu-du-sche-go-le- ... "
Wife doesn't sleep
At night
the wind is heard moaning.
The alarm clock ticks loudly.
I dream
nightmare:
I -
heavy fridge!
I am an iron unit
stuffed to the top with food.
I have inside
and products
and drinks...
Carried away by a terrible dream,
I don't look like a sage
mouth open in sleep
and in it
the lamp flickers dimly.
Where is the experienced fitter
refrigeration plant?
My exhausted motor
rumbles non-stop!
So I sleep
the motor whines,
the light is small...
And my wife does not sleep:
noise and light
disturb her sleep.
spare leg
Enjoying the magical autumn
I once walked under the moon
and with one service dog
met on the street at night.
She had two medals
"For capturing a dangerous enemy."
I asked the Dog:
is it necessary
does she happen to have a fifth leg?
And the dog answered loudly,
that I would be ready to starve -
if only
from the very beginning
I would have a fifth leg.
How many enemies she caught
spare wielding a foot,
so that by order of the general
she would have been given
battle order!
I told the dog
giving candy:
- Let the enemies of the Motherland die!
Only I have, to admit, no
spare, as you can see, legs.
The dog was very upset
and left -
sad at all.
well deserved award
It was already getting dark.
Porcupine Locksmith,
finished work,
walked along the pavement.
And a basket full of porcupines
he hurriedly carried to his home.
But a locksmith with animals was not expected
and therefore made a scandal:
they say, porcupines have a place in Senegal -
so let him send them to Senegal!
Porcupines froze all night in the basket
without blankets and food without...
And not that KamAZ trucks rushed past them,
not the car brand "Mercedes".
In the morning the janitor Chistopuzov came out,
waving a willow twig, -
cargo handling specialist
made up of garbage.
Having delivered the cargo to the gates of the fur depot,
he muttered until dawn:
- It, of course, looks like porcupines,
but also animals, whatever you say ...
At the animal depot, the janitor was not expected,
but they promised
what an honest job
though they can't give him a medal,
but still give something.
It was already light.
Janitor Chistopuzov
tired but happy going home
and carried a large aquarium of jellyfish -
as a reward for an act of labor.
animal sonnet
In vain the time of life I shore:
My years in the forest the Cuckoo will check,
Where intelligent animals roam
Eating dumb stew.
Annoyingly stumbling on the run,
The enemy does not intend to surrender.
The Gray Merin will come to my aid
And take it to the Oat Stack,
Where there is no meanness and flattery,
Where Butterfly and Tiger play together
And the Wind, forgetting the howl and groan,
Whispers comfortably, blowing into the Oat Stack,
What they call the Butterfly Susanna,
And the Tiger bears the name Spiridon.
Question mark
I smoke.
From a cigarette
pale smoke comes out.
Forming a question mark
the smoke turns gray.
red moon,
like a perch
careful and prickly -
into a sleepy pool
black windows
emerges from the clouds.
Somewhere smells of pies.
The door is bolted shut.
Waving with long arms
tower clock hands.
Sleeping driver Uncle Fedya -
he was tired all day.
And in a dream he goes somewhere
pushing the pedal...
Thoughts sharp rapier
pierces from top to bottom
unidentified world
perfect organism.
The world is mysterious
like a puzzle...
But,
attracting freedom,
electric trolleybus
wants to be a truck.
Why is fate up for it
trying to punch in the nose?
Can't find an answer
to the question posed.
'Cause on the drum
I teach mice to play.
And wallows in the closet
my leaky parachute.
Making rain
I would go to the designers!
I'm holding back my fingers
and inside a graceful flask
making rain:
volatile gas,
dense forest,
lake pan
and a fat cloud
I put a fragile one in a flask.
Drops will fall from the cloud
on the branches of a dense network -
in the sky
Turkish saber
there will be a rainbow!
But, alas,
rain revelry
mechanism failed:
dimly lightning flashed,
faint thunder
fell down.
The rain stumbled awkwardly
flasks burst glass ...
And brown puddle
on the boot
flowed.
Confession
I love to look at the girl
How she walks alone.
I hear sweet melody
La-la-la
And na-na-na.
Here one foot steps
And then another one:
The girl is so plump!
She is visible through and through.
If I were a poet
I would write this
What would break
All the tops of the eastern rocks.
But I won't be a poet
This is not up to me.
I'm a pot-bellied plane
I'll fly in the white sky
Remembering as a boy
I caught feathered chickens...
Am I getting too old?
Is it too bald?
The plane flies like an arrow -
There's nowhere for him to sit.
Maidens walk under me
The girls are walking
Moo-moo-moo...
History of the Elephant
Somewhere in Central Africa
strong with a thick trunk,
lived extremely natural
and excessively fresh Elephant.
And under the hot rays
he walked like crazy
bare-shouldered
and with the same head.
He touched the manure,
then he sat in a puddle ...
And suddenly appeared
too stale Elephant.
Dust accumulated on paws
back became sweaty.
And some
bad smell
appeared at the Elephant.
But his elephant Dasha
from the elephant
never
would not leave
even if
he'd be completely messed up.
Because it fades
freshness of the body sometimes.
But it doesn't leave
freshness of feeling
never!
On the question of the movement of comets
(Lesson of primary astronomy)
A comet was seen in the sky yesterday.
She flew quietly and wearily,
drawn up
either from metal
or from simple silver.
And I,
wearing a worn lorgnette,
searched in the darkness for edible roots,
trying to write a poem
"On the motion of comets".
Wandered with me
very stray dog
barely standing on its last legs,
however subtly scented,
hovered between the branches of birches,
where the beetles crawled
snakes,
hedgehogs
and fat animal giraffes,
closet-like
(or maybe cabinets).
Although the essence was one -
whatever you say.
Subject to the movement of the earth,
they raced through space
barely.
Where? For what?
Wanted to understand.
Understand, of course, could not.
The comet flew until the morning,
while we were wandering with the dog,
anywhere...
drawn up
either from metal
or from simple silver.
How to fatten a pig
I was walking down a French street
(And in short - along the avenue)
And I saw a brochure with the title
"HOW TO FEED A PIG".
Reading the title,
I sat down for joy
Not myself:
I really liked it at first
Pig care chapter.
And then I trembled
Like a tree
A collection of skinny forms,
Having found the head appetizing,
Called "Fat".
And I dreamed about
To anyone
(Will I live to see this day?)
I would write a pamphlet with the title
"HOW TO FEED ME".
But,
Again rustling the pages,
Almost smoked out
Seven cigarettes:
I was extremely embarrassed by the head,
Called ... "Farrow"!
And noticing at the end of the table of contents
Unpleasant word "Slaughter",
I thought:
No need to feed
I'd rather
Like before,
Thin.
* * *
What vast worlds
Slowly floated above
While downstairs we hid in the basement
According to the stupid rules of the game.
And now only empty mosquitoes
They rush in a crowd into the sky-high distances,
Hard pressing on the pedals -
Their habits are insidious and cunning.
A pot-bellied elephant swims towards them
And timidly waving his long arms,
Trying to block the way with an oar ...
But, no matter how much stupidity is clothed in the mind,
The sky will remain wonderful -
And there is enough space for everyone above the clouds.
Cookie with butter
The whole world is filled with delicious food,
that swims, walks and flies,
each other relentlessly devours
in the air, on land and under water.
Here the cloud curled up like a sausage.
The hungry wind swallows the cloud.
And time, like ice cream, melts;
A Life is going like a barefoot boot.
But there is a special food in the world:
she is always with you
(and you can't buy it in the store).
When the need arises,
fold skillfully appetizing Kukish -
and chew it with butter, back and forth!
moon fairy tale
Again the night came to heaven -
And the moon is hanging again.
Moonlight Hare in a sleepy city
He goes for a walk.
He creeps down the boulevard
Where the noise is silent.
Toward the Lunar Hare
Lunar Wolf hobbles.
Telling the nightly news
On the desert pavement
will feast together
Chocolate star.
And then the morning comes
As it happens in the morning.
Lunar Wolf
And the Moonlight Hare
Run around the corners.
Neat Janitor Wind
Come out with a windy broom.
From the star a shiny candy wrapper
Deftly blow off the pavement.
love message
Your personality is amazing!
But I will tell you without a shadow of embarrassment:
You are a completely objective reality,
even given to me in sensations.
Getting love like a prospector, but...
not a supporter of its manifestation.
Passions ardent hiding diligently,
I explore the essence of the phenomenon:
as in nature actions are different
form needs in the subject
change attitude towards personality
from a feeling of fidelity to a feeling of jealousy?
The fact is that love quickly deteriorates.
Where can I find saved recipes?..
Meanwhile, your proportions
feel foreign receptors.
Life, however, flows remarkably:
then dips, then gentle slopes ...
And I'm completely confused
in boring terminology.
Your heart is divided into parts,
and the soul is like a cold bath.
You are a tangible reality
only me
objectively
not given.
Between heaven and earth
The rain is walking
wet wolf
between heaven and earth -
above the space village
called Earth.
From the rain
in the soul of languor.
But fate cannot be deceived:
Maybe,
we will leave home
in a few minutes -
instead of,
where above the clouds
The eternal sun lives
and does not trample on heels
endless sky.
Let's turn around for a second
following the sun:
Maybe,
we will be back...
after many thousands of years.
* * *
me since childhood
while lying in a wheelchair,
about the institute
told tales.
(I was born in a student
family, and grew up ...
on the student bench).
And I listened, walking around the arena,
What's at the institute mom
cut with dad.
I realized early
there is no worse enemy
than an evil witch
session-yaga!
About sopromat
told me at night
our family friend
student Semyon Ivanovich.
And me since then
many years in a row
seemed to be Barmaley
sopromat...
And as a result,
weighing the arguments
I'm in a terrible university
did not submit documents.
I don't regret it
and now -
I go quietly to school.
To the first class.
At the Patriarch's Ponds
The sun hung on a nail
wrapped in a blanket,
Losing loyalty to ideals
Shine always, shine everywhere;
Water frozen in chunks
Not resin, not fuel oil,
Was undressed and undressed
In it the stars swam in single file;
Big bird or two
I swam among the wet stars,
Your knee was bent
corner latin letter V,
And only a thin needle
What a sensitive heart pricked,
Slightly shy, but pricked ...
What else could she do?
vain dreams
How tempting to be an astronomer
familiar with the universe!
often hear,
as they whisper around:
“There Sobakin went ...
Astronomer!"
That wouldn't be bad at all:
observe the orbit of Saturn,
admire the constellation Lyra,
find black holes...
and compose a treatise by all means -
"EXPLORE THE DEPTH OF THE UNIVERSE".
I would like to become an astronomer
driven to work at night.
But all these dreams are in vain:
I've been since childhood
afraid of the dark.
folk omen
Pigs can't fly
Belly neither forward nor backward.
Maybe they were once able to
But now they don't go anywhere.
The hooves became too weak,
And tails are too short.
They would only swarm in the mud,
Stuffing their bellies with food.
Darkness comes thick
And in a dream they suddenly dream
Like a flock of pigs flying
Heading for the sunny south.
And the people, leaving the bed,
Warms better at home:
Pigs flew south
So winter is coming soon.
Alone...
There is a lot of snow in Antarctica.
Plus a lot of ice.
In addition, in addition
there is nothing more there.
Gloomy penguins roam
blue plains in the middle.
And around only penguins -
just nothing to look at!
Oh, if penguins could
fly through the air,
the penguins would fly
straight to Africa then,
so far from Antarctica
personally, so to speak
see all kinds of animals
and show yourself to them.
There are no giraffes in Antarctica
no camels,
no elephants...
Even the glorious African hippos
for some reason they don't live there at all.*
And so the penguins
all day and night
see pale pictures:
top - snow,
below is ice.
ALONE...
The wind is whistling
treacherously blowing into the chest.
And the penguin is looking hard
at least someone!
From the ice dives blocks
into the endless ocean
but also there
besides fish,
does not meet anyone.
* Here something didn’t quite work out for me (Author)
Dandelions for the Rat
In the science basement of Lumumba Patrice
lived an unusual Yellow Rat.
She would give cookies and cake
for what
to go to the southern resort.
Anyone will agree:
pleasant little
spend your whole life in the basement,
never having heard
how the seagulls cry
never having seen
like fish are silent.
And the basement Rat often dreamed,
that seems to be walking in the shade of a cypress,
and in the evening looks warm from the window,
as the waves of the sea crash against the shore.
But instead of the surf on the edge of the pier
something deep inside her rumbled.
And the blizzard sang cold songs,
creaky shutters tearing off their hinges.
Then a hungry rat crawled out
and modestly ate leftover rice,
and bitter tears choked her.
And there was no sadder in the world!
And I at this time
to the songs of the blizzard
these are the verses
writing in bed
forget about cookies
and even about the cake, -
I also wanted
to the southern resort,
I wanted to pick dandelions from the flower bed,
send their Patrice Lumumba to the basement,
sent to the yellow rat
warm greetings…
What a pity,
that there are no dandelions in winter.
Dangerous profession
One success is almost unknown,
Others are known to all.
I work lunch
In the dining room number 27.
Aunt Glasha is preparing me,
To feed the common people.
In my composition - cabbage soup and porridge
(Or maybe vice versa).
When I get cold
I warm myself by the fire.
Comrade, be always hungry,
To eat me with gusto!
My profession is dangerous -
Almost undressed, completely undressed...
Although I hope not in vain
I am bitten and gnawed.
You can't live without me
Everyone wants to eat delicious food.
Tell me what you chew
And I will tell you who you are.
We are close neighbors
No need to grumble at fate:
Let me be eaten today -
We'll meet again tomorrow.
caterpillar revelation
As soon as the moon
In the frame of windows
Will enter a voluntary prisoner,
I'm under the covers
Like a quilted cocoon
I crawl in like a nasty caterpillar.
And there I think
About something wise
Frozen with a cylindrical stick.
And it seems to me
What's out of the window in the morning
I'll flutter out like a cute Butterfly.
But the morning comes
And the sun in a puddle
Through the cloud
It shines dimly...
From a cocoon
I crawl out
Innocent spoil plants.
Monument to the Blue Cowards
My Panties! I turn to you
although my womb is full of longing:
after all, it has actually spread at the seams
This detail of the men's wardrobe.
Do you remember that first moment
(then I was thin as a twig)
when contact shy arose
my leg and your satin?
You were impregnable - like armor,
though severely sewn with threads.
And served me for many years
a reliable means of personal protection.
You were as tough as steel
and were not afraid of the insatiable moth.
I became a pioneer with you,
and then ended up in the Komsomol.
We were inseparable here and there:
Winter Tuesday, Summer Saturday...
We went to college together
were late for work together.
And even in those intimate hours
when I was basking on a bed with a lady,
my faithful companion - Blue Panties -
did not part with the owner either.
And how many have we visited around
different restrooms!
For how many girlfriends
you served as an object of admiration!
You used to go down to your knees;
used to go up ... and those
every member could be proud of cowards
- correspondent of scientific academies.
Many years have passed since then
and as a result at a known place
left a cruel trail
through holes and other openings.
My Panties, the hour of separation has come:
in the sublunar world, nothing lasts forever.
And I probably have to
to leave, unfortunately, forever.
Let the wind of life blow in the sails!
Let our goal be lost in the dark...
I will not forget you, my Panties,
And I will tell my descendants about you.
Your descendants will cast a monument.
And in honor of the Poet's Underpants (through the years)
in the country will arrange fireworks
and call sea steamers.
The nightingale sang
June.
Slumbered the night.
The Nightingale sang...
Nightingale sang -
then gently
it's annoying.
And flexible sound
trembled among the branches
dumb trees
city garden.
I opened the window
and went out into the night.
magic sound
enveloped me quickly
but at the same moment
already gone away
sliding easily
from register to register.
The Nightingale sang...
And bird organism
like a drop
was pathetic and fragile.
But somewhere in it
organist in hiding
with keyboard
and tubing system.
The Nightingale sang!
The organ of the soul sounded
overlapping with its sound
the grumbling of mechanical machines,
the hum of electric trams.
Big sounds filled the world.
A second crawled
definitely a turtle.
It seemed to me:
I listen to the clavier
never became
Bach's writing.
The Nightingale sang.
And wonderful sound everywhere
trembled and melted
peacefully...
But it was quiet
in a dark nest
where did you cry
unfortunate crow.
migratory flies
Snow falls like fluff
I see flocks in the air
Hungry flies -
Flies fly south.
The flies left suddenly
Rooms, kitchens and bedrooms,
And headed south
Where are the cypresses and palms.
charming south,
Panamas are whitening everywhere,
There are no frosts, no blizzards,
There are grapes and bananas.
Straightening the body and spirit,
Remembering chamomile and clover
Flocks of fat flies
Moved north again.
So that, disturbing leisure,
Gently buzz near the ears,
To wave your hands
We fought off flies.
Under the sound of wheels
The dog was important.
Although scary out of habit
sit in a rattling train
The dog was important.
Master,
that the dog was carrying,
behaved not too important:
he got bored
yawned long -
and dozed off
under the sound of wheels.
The dog did not sleep for a long time,
eyes important blinked,
but still
also dozed off
although it was important.
The window was filled with darkness.
The owner was sleeping
and it didn't matter...
At the bottom,
sighing with a wet nose,
The important dog was asleep.
underwater song
Not very nice
work as a diver
in a striped suit
and wearing a one-eyed helmet.
Look around all the time
under the weight of the load:
will the shark bite
will the jellyfish get it?
But free diving -
occupation you need:
dive under the water
and swim...until you drop!
And let while diving
your belly is tickled
the fins are sharking,
then the tentacles of the jellyfish.
trip abroad
Ivan Kuzmich hurried home.
He was known to be highly
qualified turner.
And now hurry home.
Ivan Kuzmich entered the entrance.
He didn't have long to wait.
when he is with a sense of accomplishment
delicacy for dinner will eat.
Ivan Kuzmich was already shaking,
sunk almost halfway
and, having loaded the elevator cabin,
went to the eighth floor...
The doors opened.
Only
Ivan Kuzmich stepped outside,
as soon as I discovered
which brought him to Paris.
Even if it surprises you
believe me:
in foreign trousers
there were even women walking -
very French looking.
Ivan Kuzmich back
sweaty,
like a battery
speaking French
not better,
than his wife.
Ivan Kuzmich trembled,
seeing an alien way of life,
however collected last strength in organism,
in order to reach the Fatherland.
Ivan Kuzmich was barely breathing,
wanting down
fall down again:
he loved his family so much
and clear words!
Ivan Kuzmich as such
thought
He was high
qualified turner
and often thought with his head.
He thought:
"Next time,
that look
you go to visit
on the Ivory Coast,
and even in sultry Honduras ... "
And at this time,
a little grumbling
cooking a delicacy for dinner,
waiting for her husband in the kitchen
wife of Ivan Kuzmich.
She grumbled through her teeth:
- The delicacy is already cooked...
Where did Kuzmich disappear to?
Went off to Paris!
Sugar's last journey
Sugar set out on a campaign
At the end of the day:
He entered the open mouth -
And fell into the stomach.
But after three minutes
Sugar found out
What conditions inside
Worse than outside.
Studying deep inside
Sugar sadly thought:
“It's cramped, like in the subway ...
True, less noise ... "
In the darkness of raw intestines
He strayed sullenly;
Met a former patty
With a handful of raisins.
"Is there a way out or not?!" -
Sugar howled in fear.
And when I saw the light
It was no longer sugar.
Transformation into an elephant
I dream of becoming an elephant
convex color.
I often think about
how do i do it?
Maybe,
need to eat more
Or eat more?
To thicken the fur
or thicker carcass.
Maybe,
right after sleep
(even on an autumn day)
have to do
for the elephant
set of exercises?
I didn't smoke a cigarette
and did not wash in the shower.
I stuck out my nose
at the same time - and ears ...
In just a couple of years,
dear people,
trunk grew -
oh-hoo!
ears - what!
And now
I bend metal
I score
pile.
I became an elephant
as dreamed.
What for?
Don't know.
About love
Balcony suffered painfully:
He was in love with Balkonikha.
Just think about it -
And she
I was in love with Balcony!
They,
Hearing the voice of love
They did not take their eyes off each other.
But express feelings in full
The wall interfered with everyone.
The lovers dreamed at night,
That there is no wall behind.
And as if in a forest
To a quiet pond
Balcony with Balkonikha go.
A cuckoo is singing in the distance.
They are coming -
Hand in hand...
And next to them they seed
Twelve lovely balconies.
Goodbye kiss
The stars are shining, burning down.
And the moon hangs like a buoy...
Let's do it, dear
Kiss goodbye!
The bus is already in a hurry -
The mechanism is stingy with feelings.
My body swung towards you,
To touch your lips.
You sighed and lips
Marked an oval.
Right there in the mouth to your beloved lady
my shaggy mustache hit.
You whispered softly
- Cute!
Sorry, I'm in a hurry... -
And seized with teeth
My-oh-oh shaggy mustache.
You entered the bus deftly,
Like a mountain sheep.
I stood at the bus stop
With facial asymmetry.
Yours is a little tricky
A silhouette flickered through the window
Taking away my shaggy mustache,
Like a memory
About me.
The path to science
He did not live richly, did not eat well.
Solving a serious scientific question,
Liked to repeat:
"Where is the dog buried?"
trying to find the answer seriously.
Now he is being asked for advice.
The authorities entrusted the whole department!
Everybody knows:
he is in it
scientific question
once a dog
ate buried...
motherland
There was frost.
And pretty creepy too.
Already the water in the pond was covered with ice!
And on ice
Ducks walked in a crowd,
Angry and hungry, too.
I turned to the ducks:
- Sorry,
You have no food
No housing.
Why don't you ducks fly
To distant and warm lands?
That's why -
The ducks answered me, -
Let the pineapple bloom there
In those parts we will die of sadness,
Because Motherland for us
It is this frozen pond that serves,
Quack quack.
Overcame rumbling in the stomach,
I thought softly:
"E-my...
Here they are - our simple ducks!
Here it is - my Fatherland!
And went,
Unsteady foot,
Even forgetting to put it on.
And the moon shone on my way;
And the star showed the way.
fox fish
What is soaring thoughtfully in the sky,
scaring wild sheep?
It flutters
like a meteorite
marvelous fox fish.
I discovered this fish by accident
while looking into the sky,
to appease curiosity
and don't wander around doing nothing.
Benefits more from fox fish,
than, for example, from bream:
you can let her
round trip
to send things.
The fish will bring you
weight on the back
even to the east
even to the south...
I need an award
pay me
in the field of fish sciences.
How can you not remember
having lost my peace
fish amazing class?
Only it wasn't
fish like that!
Did not have.
But started up.
Yes, without a doubt
I'm done -
people need to open up.
Will become with time
fox fish
the pride of our country!
With regards
What a wonderful word
Hello!
It is multifaceted
There is no doubt...
You have not seen a friend for several years,
and when you meet him
smile:
- Hello!
You broke up with a friend, but you hear after
Such familiar word -
Hello.
You wanted to eat
We went to the buffet.
Eat - don't eat
And hello money!
When do you need a ticket to the theater?
you to someone
Say hello".
The object of surprise
Delight object -
hot, hearty
And just hello.
But full, however.
Enough about that...
I wish you success!
Sobakin.
With regards.
Airplane
When I was eight years old
I grew up like a little impudent:
I boldly built an airplane,
who flapped his wings.
And my plane is along the river
and in the heat
and in the downpour
and in a blizzard
contrary to earthly laws,
flapping wings,
flew.
I was not familiar with science
and they told me slowly
that gravity is the law
very dangerous to break.
But I flew - as if in reality!
Everyone was worried, like in a movie.
And only the bull chewed the grass,
the bull didn't care.
Already bald head.
Haven't played games in a long time.
I know Clever words -
malleable material.
My plane from these words
has a modern look.
And even a sail, and an oar ...
That's just in the sky
does not fly.
Do it yourself
(Lesson of labor education)
For the chicken to fly
like a bittern
or snipe
you are flexible metal
make a frame for the chicken.
Tie a propeller on top
ensuring fast flight.
Attach skids from below
if he suddenly sits on the ice.
And after completing the procedures,
don't wake the bird at night
wish chickens in the morning -
-tse happy journey!
And then, of course, immediately
smoking will fly into the sky ...
That's what the mind can do
if you want!!!
Dog life
I walked sedately, skirting the lawn,
And I thought about a slice of lard.
Dog dressed in overalls
Walking towards me was important.
An aspen leaf trembled from the frost,
And the wind whistled every now and then.
The dog's overalls were fluffy,
And she didn't want fat.
My coat was smaller for growth -
Barely covered the knee.
And if I had a tail,
The tail would certainly tremble.
I walked ceremoniously, absorbing ozone.
An icicle hung from his nose.
I would like a jumpsuit too
Of course, with a slice of lard.
The owner suddenly said to the Dog:
- Lie down! .. -
The dog fell under the ash tree.
And the meaning of the expression
"dog life"
became obvious and clear to me.
Dream of the moon
Pick up an elephant
Stroke the muzzle of a rhinoceros,
And the pure moon
will smile at you
Like a magpie
And it will be fun to hang
Flying among sad stars
As if caught in a net
Big golden fish;
However
Chains of extra words
Entangled the planet around
And there are no elephants nearby
And there are no rhinos either;
Tired of bad news
Moon
lay down
To the bottom
wells,
And the time
Full of passion
Looking back at us
And laughs.
Sonnet about a bath
I decided to write a sonnet about the bath.
For this purpose, taking an armful of money,
I bought a tub, a washcloth, soap, a broom -
And he hurried to the bath, putting on a lorgnette.
Ah, bath! And who is not here:
Sailor, Sobakin, cook, academician...
You come here as a neurasthenic.
From here you leave as an athlete.
Honor and glory to bathing!
Now I behave correctly -
And after that bath, I’m not a bully ...
Of course, you can wash in the pond.
But if they tell me: “Go to the bathhouse!”,
I will go to the bath with pleasure.
Union
Love the girl with the paddle!
She is standing,
whitening back,
on the alley,
laden with an oar.
She would master the craft,
beneficial to the people.
But she was appointed by nature
manipulate the paddle.
Even more closely rallied the ranks,
she would row
sitting on a boat...
The only thing missing is a boat.
But enough nonsense.
without thinking about anything,
at a distance a young man made of plaster
kicks a plaster ball with his foot.
Love the boy with the ball!
Love their strong union!
Let them be whiter than chalk
but look to the future boldly,
creating a marital union.
And they have no other worries
and they do not need another life:
he kicks the ball confidently,
she rows confidently.
List of women
I made a list of women -
everyone
whom I loved.
It turned out a lot of women -
those,
whom I loved.
What's happened?
Who are they?
Why are they crowded here?
Those sad faces...
The nuclei are pure emerald.
Whispers of women -
chu! -
cold:
“How, Sobakin, do you live?
What do you eat for dinner?
What do you eat for breakfast?"
I then
according to the list
answered them:
“Peace to the world!
I eat sausage for breakfast
I drink kefir for dinner.
Immediately the women disappeared
painted as one.
My shadow on the cover
became visible again
where he compiled a list of women -
everyone
whom I loved...
Just didn't find it
the one
which I love.
However,
in this long list
she doesn't need to be.
It's better to eat sausages together
and drink kefir for dinner.
And then,
hands clasped,
wait for the spring dawn
to be heard around
our
BOW-WOW,
PURR PURR,
Oink-oink...
Tigra Ivanov
Among the bred camels
and educated elephants
lived in an old circus
behind bars
mustachioed tiger Ivanov.
Looking harsh
tender at heart,
to the sounds of the march slowly
he appeared on the arena -
famous tiger Ivanov!
And arching the camp is elastic,
to the delight of noisy children
risky doing tricks
capable tiger Ivanov.
And glory rare moments
he regularly felt:
loved the applause
happy tiger Ivanov.
But,
backstage
and going to sleep in a cage,
seemed small and bald
tired tiger Ivanov.
In a dream, relatives saw the jungle,
grilles felt metal...
And about the tigress Ivanova
with terrible force
remembered.
Comrade Herring
I was sitting on a bench reading a newspaper
And listened to the buzzing of the flies.
Suddenly I see: a Herring is floating along the road,
Shaggy tail moving.
I quickly took my phone out of my pocket.
And he asked a reasonable question:
- Where are you sailing from, Comrade Herring,
And how many fins do you have?
The herring wagged its tail wearily:
"For the eighteenth day
I swim stubbornly from a can
to an international congress.
I'm giving a scientific report there,
Which meaning is:
It is good to eat only chocolate,
Especially before meals.
I wish you success, comrade Herring! -
I put my phone in my pocket
And reading again continued newspapers,
Listening to the buzz of flies.
And it says on the main page:
"Today at twelve o'clock
Many famous scientists came
to an international congress.
Professor Herring with a scientific report
Had worldwide success -
From now on everyone eats chocolate,
Especially before meals!
I quickly rushed to the collective farm market
Buy chocolate wagon:
But there were tin cans for sale
With a dull inscription "HERRING".
Snail
Wants to garden
hit Snail,
yes it bothers her
gate.
I open
gate glad:
let it crawl
Snail in the garden!
whole hour
held the gate -
By-
That-
rap-
whether-
shaft
snail.
Lace care
In house number 49
the famous lived Lace;
was nine meters long
and very broad in the shoulders.
He's usually nice on the day
going out with a shoe into the garden,
looked like a rope
or even rope.
But once untied
the famous lace
and suddenly lost
on road surfaces.
And now
in a deep puddle
he lies
eyes closed,
no one needs anymore
like a dragonfly fish...
Not to shuffle your heels
back and forth on asphalt
REMEMBER:
needed for laces
mandatory care.
Taking on the lacing
be ready
(always ready!)
show your dexterity
in lacing.
Tea time with a dear friend
1
Joining the palms of your hands,
we walked down the street bored.
She said:
- Dear friend,
Shall we have a cup of tea?
And I thought:
"Tea? OK!
Yes, at least a whole trough ... "
And we hurried
where it wasn't closed.
Pulling up the legs of wrinkled trousers,
I sat at the table cautiously.
She said:
- Dear friend,
Should we order some cakes?
And I thought:
"Pampering!
Moreover, it is too expensive…”
But I ordered this and that
and much more.
The tea was hot as an iron
smoked, exuding a smell.
She said:
- Dear friend,
can you pour me some tea?
And I thought:
“Well, I can;
drinks should be drunk a lot ... "
And poured tea on her leg
(or rather, poured it on her leg).
And her jump was elastic!
And the chair creaked like a barn door.
She said:
- Dear friend,
look, I'm all raw...
And I thought:
"Cavalier
will certainly help in trouble!
And, taking an eclair cake,
I wiped the tea from her knee.
A sudden knock was heard -
crockery shattered.
She said:
- Dear friend,
why don't we get out of here?
And I thought:
"If only
come here as little as possible…”
And a couple of excited souls
went for a walk
fresh air.
2
Joining the palms of your hands,
we slept together on the bed.
She said:
- Dear friend...
And I thought:
"No, no,
enough!.."
Kettle
The numbers have changed over the months
one after the other seed...
you loved
isn't it me?
Probably,
not me.
The clouds turned to stone
like spots on a horse...
Are you in a hurry
not to me?
Probably,
not to me.
The waves of the sea beckoned us.
The boats ran aground...
Those curls
aren't mine?
Probably,
not mine.
Since then
in the shade of magnolias
I hear the rustle of unearthly ...
Kettle rides -
isn't it for me?
Probably,
not behind me.
Wind jokes
Over the roofs of the wind
Playfully spanked.
In the palms of the wind
Flying Hat.
Flying Hat,
Raven frightening,
With a green feather
From a parrot.
Noticing in the sky
felt object,
People laughed
Over the joke of the Wind.
And only daughter
Said to dad:
"I have pity
To the unfortunate hat."
Flying Hat
Straight forward.
After the Hat
Lady flew.
Flying Lady
In sadness...
But the lady in the sky
Didn't notice.
Hippo songs
Here come the hippos
Above the babbling brook.
I am running,
Wrapped in boots
With a purple net.
How do I catch a hippopotamus
I'll put you in a cage right away.
- Sing me a song,
Kind friend! -
I'll tell the hippo.
If there are no songs to sing,
I'll let him go then
Let the hippos fly
Very fat herds!
Let the hippos fly
Here and there
Here and there...
And their simple songs
They sing to us
They sing to us.
The last hippo
(Sonnet)
When is the last steamer from you
Will rush off into the distance under full sail,
Don't be upset! Because with you
The last behemoth will remain.
He will bring raspberry compote
And a fresh grasshopper in panama
Will tell you about life in Suriname
And even sing a ringing song.
The summer wind will immediately pick it up
And carry away to the warm seas,
Dispelling grief and gossip ...
As soon as the wondrous dawn breaks,
A hippopotamus will knock on you. The last one -
Hippopotamus, in short.
The hippos have arrived
Sometime at the end of Saturday
To our rural areas
The hippos have arrived
Like a flock of cranes.
We didn't even expect them.
From distant hot countries.
And they've arrived...
Just a whole caravan!
Nests began to twist everywhere,
They began to sing songs with might and main.
We are in a deep bowl
They were fed oats.
Hippo pecked
And flutter somersault:
Chizhik-Pyzhik,
tralee wali
(Such funny got caught) -
left right
crooked straight,
That there
And then here...
Mom came home from work
Smiling as always.
“Look,” Mom said.
Lead me to the window. -
The hippos have arrived...
So it will be spring soon.
Today we will tell you who Tim Sobakin is. Biography famous writer will be discussed further. Future Writer was born in 1958, January 2, in Zhovti Vody (Ukraine). He is the author of poems and prose for children. Real name - Ivanov Andrey Viktorovich.
Tim Sobakin: biography
Let's briefly talk about life path talented person. The future writer graduated from the Engineering Physics Institute in Moscow in 1981 and worked as a programmer. In 1985 he changed his profession and became a journalist. In 1987 he received another education - he graduated from the Faculty of Journalism of the Moscow state university. Since 1988 he has been exclusively engaged in literary activity. She writes stories and poems for children. Published in various magazines: "October", "Pioneer", "Murzilka", "Funny Pictures". From 1990 to 1995, he served as the editor-in-chief of a children's magazine called "Tram". After that, he worked in publications: "Sinbad", "Filya", "Pile is small" and "Kolobok". The author of a number of books that were published in large publishing houses: Bustard, Children's Literature and others.
Bibliography
Tim Sobakin in 1990 publishes the work "Everything is the opposite." In 1991, "From Correspondence with the Cow" was published. In 1995, the publishing house "Children's Literature" published "The Dog That Was a Cat". In 1998, "Without a shoe" was released. The Drofa publishing house publishes the work "The Game of Birds" in 2000. Then the "Songs of the Behemoth" appear. In 2011, the work “Music. Lioness. River".
"From Correspondence with the Cow"
Tim Sobakin created this work as a humorous correspondence between a city dweller and Nyura the cow. He shares his thoughts with her, tells that he works as a tram driver. She writes about village life. He tells how he gives milk to his native country and grazes. In this friendly, relaxed conversation, the play of the writer's mind and sense of humor were revealed with brightness. Zinaida Surova designed the book in a manner close and well understood by a child. As a result, a wonderful example of complete mutual understanding of the artist and the poet emerged. The book has become a real gift for children and adults.
"Music. Lioness. River"
Tim Sobakin presented in this book, intended for the whole family, poems of various genres and rhythms. There is both free breeze and a classical sonnet. All poems are distinguished by excellent word play, paradoxical meaning and good irony. The reader will find here stories about heaven and love, about the cares of people and animals, about eternity and the universe. Almost a third of the poems have not been published before.
Other stories
Children will like holding "Everything is the other way around" preschool age. It can be called a forest fairy tale. The book is complemented by beautiful color illustrations by N. Knyazkova, which are reminiscent of Z. Miller's style. The story begins in a quiet forest. Two hedgehogs are looking for mushrooms in the grass. The first is called Fufums, and the second is Khlops. One of them is thoughtful. He is interested in what mushrooms are made of, why it is dark at night, where the wind blows from. But Khlops does not like to think. He is a carefree hedgehog. He walks merrily, sings a song about a green cone, watches how a cloud in the sky turns into a fox from a hare. He got carried away, stumbled, flew somersault. But the earth did not fall, because it began to rise to heaven. In order not to fly away completely, he wants to grab onto something. Holding on tightly to a branch. Fufums the hedgehog soon appears under a tree. He sees an overturned basket and starts looking for Khlops. Hears a voice from above. He raises his head and sees a completely unfamiliar little animal. She stands on a branch with her hind legs up. An animal without needles, but it has a tail and long ears. Fufums is trying to figure out who it is.
The tale "The Dog That Was a Cat" combines philosophical view to the world with a virtuoso play with words and subtle irony. The book is complemented by magnificent illustrations by Alexander Grashin. The book "Playing Birds" contains fairy tales dad and his little daughter. They take turns sharing their stories. "Songs of the hippopotamus" is a playful fun book. Its heroes are hippos, telling stories from their lives. In addition, they solve crossword puzzles and sing. "No Shoe" is an ironic and curious poem also written by Tim Sobakin. This work tells of a short, passer-by who walks down the street. However, he only has one shoe. A sock is put on the second leg. Oncoming people suspect that in front of them is a passer-by who thought too deeply about scientific issues and therefore forgot to put on his shoe. The passer-by soon loses his temper as his sock gets wet. The reader learns that before him is Semyon Semenych, who is a local noble teacher. At home, a heated battle broke out that day. It's all about a quarrel between two shoes that quarreled without dividing a shoe brush between them. They decide to live apart. The owner failed to reconcile them. He only had to wear one shoe.
Now you know who Tim Sobakin is. The biography and work of the writer were considered by us in great detail.
His poems are read by both adults and children. The magazine "Tram" created by him in the early 90s did not come out for a long time, but still has not lost its devoted reader. Songs are written on his poems, and cartoons are made based on his fairy tales. He himself is surprised: “Am I famous? Yes, what are you! I have my own reader, I am very happy about this, and I love and adore my reader. That's all".
Tim Sobakin writes a little today, occasionally composes music and considers himself quite happy man: “When someone assures that all his life he did only what he liked, I don’t believe it. No one can only do what he is interested in. And I, perhaps, half live as I want. Therefore, it is a sin to complain about fate.
Tim Sobakin(Andrey Viktorovich Ivanov) graduated from the Moscow Engineering Physics Institute (1981), worked as a programmer. In 1985 he changed his profession, becoming a journalist, in 1987 he graduated from the Faculty of Journalism of Moscow State University. Since 1988, he has been engaged only in literary work, writing poems and stories for children, published in the magazines Vesyolye Kartinki, Murzilka, Pioneer, and Oktyabr. Published several books.
In 1990-1995 he was the editor-in-chief wonderful children's magazine "Tram", which was released until 1995, but still has a lot of fans. Not only Sobakin published in it under pseudonyms, but also Tikhon Khobotov, Savva Bakin, Terenty Psov, Sidor Tyaff and even Nika Bosmit (Tim Sobakin, on the contrary).
He worked as a literary editor of the magazines "Kolobok", "Pile is small", "Filya", "Sinbad". Now he works as an editor-in-chief at the Publishing House "Veselye Kartinki".
Using modern computer technology, creates music for his poems, as well as individual compositions that are sometimes heard in radio and television programs.
From physics to poetry
– By your first specialty you are a mathematician, moreover, you are deeply interested in astrophysics. And "suddenly" became a children's writer. How did this happen?
- It was the time of perestroika. And it so happened that I, too, imperceptibly "rebuilt". Joke! Then I worked at MEPhI as a programmer for a digital electronic computer. Now, in the days of laptops, few people remember such technology. The car occupied the area of several rooms. I adored my job. And it seemed to me that I would do this business all my life.
But one day I was walking by local library and saw an ad for a literary studio. And I must say that even at school I wrote naive poems. That's why I decided to look into this studio. They criticized me there - and rightly so, in general, they did it. However, I still continued to attend classes.
My daughter was then three years old. Being engaged in a literary studio, I could take any books from the library home to read to her at night. For some reason, she did not fall asleep well without my reading. When we re-read everything, I tried to compose something for her myself.
At that time, I often worked at night: I put my daughter to bed and went to the computer center (the journey took only 15 minutes!). Of course, it was not like I left in the evening as a programmer and returned as a writer in the morning. All these changes lasted more than two years. First, I became a correspondent for the large-circulation newspaper MEPhI, for some reason I graduated evening department journalism faculty of Moscow State University, and only then imperceptibly became a children's writer.
By five with a minus
- You said that you were rightfully criticized when you came to the literary studio. You did not immediately manage to make friends with the word?
- When I was at school, I read somewhere a story about a poor she-wolf, how she was looking for her cubs. This story struck me so much that I decided to write a verse - of course, so clumsy, without rhyme, but I really liked it. Wow, I thought, it turns out that with the help of poetry you can create your own world, a completely new one! It fascinated me so much that I became friends with the word, as it seemed to me then, very quickly.
But over time, I began to understand how insidious the word can be. Sometimes the search for the most accurate and necessary can take weeks. And this friendship has become more and more strained over the years. Suppose you pick up a word: here it is, already printed in a magazine or in a book - and then you suddenly realize that you would need something completely different, but it was not among those options that came to mind.
– Do you write a lot now?
- Very little, according to the mood. In addition, friendship with the word is becoming more and more difficult. And then I think that now there is so much being written, so much information garbage that I don’t particularly want to add my own to this pile.
According to my observations, from each artist - painter, composer, poet or prose writer - no more than seven or eight works remain in the centuries. It can be either individual poems or a huge novel or symphony. It is with them that we associate the author. Everything else, with rare exceptions, is forgotten over time.
Someone from the wise said that the world is 90% of all nonsense. Only one tenth deserves attention, and 9/10 is not a pity to leave overboard, like ballast or garbage. It is easy to take the idea further: out of this one-tenth, one can also single out just one part of the best, and discard the rest. The process is repeated until the very minimum of what is really important and worthwhile remains - almost perfection itself!
However, these 9/10s are also necessary. Alas, the last villain is also needed, because without him there will be no righteous man. It is only necessary to clearly distinguish one the best part from all others.
Over the years, I don't like what I wrote before. At first, I easily selected the 200 "best" poems for the book; then there were about a hundred of them; and now it’s barely enough for a thin collection. But I will be happy if in a century at least a dozen “remain” of them.
- My favorite poet Nikolai Zabolotsky compiled a "set of poems" in advance. He bequeathed that only this list be printed. Many years after his death, a three-volume book was published, where poems were published that he did not include in the "code". When I read them, I admired: they were such brilliant! Any poet would envy these verses, but Zabolotsky did not even want to print them. Well, his right… Although I am sure that any work will certainly find its reader.
- That is, you still set yourself a certain poetic peak, which you aspire to?
"I can't stand dilettantes!" If I take on something, then I want the work to turn out 5 plus. But the main thing here is not to overdo it. The best thing is when the work is done on 5 ... with a minus. Let the reader "remove" this minus.
There is no development in perfection. Having known the perfect creation, a person involuntarily feels that he will never be able to reach such a peak. And then he loses the desire to at least try. If in the work there is subtly present "carelessness of the master", then this unconsciously leads to the thought: "maybe I could do something?" That, in my opinion, is the true purpose of art: not to suppress the ideality of a masterpiece, but to evoke a sense of ownership in its creation.
Music of speech
- Was your daughter brought up on your literature?
- I remember that in the list of important things that she needed to take to the country, she always marked "daddy's magazine Tram." But in general, children do not like poetry and do not read them by themselves. Out of a hundred children, there are hardly a dozen who read poetry not under duress.
On the rare occasions when I speak in front of a children's audience, I usually ask: "Do you like poetry?" Friendly chorus of voices: “Yes-ah-ah! ..” “And to be honest?” Only a few hands go up. Obviously, my daughter was simply lulled by the rhythm of speech.
- Isn't that embarrassing? Why then write children's poetry?
“Children need to feel the Russian language so that they don’t express themselves in the way that officials often do. I once heard on TV how one policeman weightily stated: "I made a trip to the scene." He probably believed that such a design would give special significance to him, and his departure, and at the same time the scene. I would hate to see children in the future express themselves in such a florid way.
IN different time I tried to write poetry in English, German, Lithuanian, Norwegian and even in the artificial language Esperanto. And I realized that the Russian language is ideal for poetry - mainly due to the free word order in the sentence, as well as the variety of stresses. That is why children need poetry, so that they feel the music of Russian speech.
Read Dostoevsky, listen to how his characters speak... Now people don't communicate like that anymore. There was a different speech - and the world was different. And then there were all sorts of VOSR (Great October socialist revolution), on the anniversaries of which they congratulated each other, and after the Second World War (Great Patriotic War) - after all, they wrote exactly that on postcards! It is better not to talk about today's mangling of the language at all.
But if children from the cradle absorbed the music of speech, it would certainly be preserved in their minds. And who knows, maybe in three or four generations it would have been embodied in life? But for now, since childhood, they have had to wallow in the modern linguistic mud, in these disgusting slops of inarticulate lowing. Sorry, flared up! It hurts...
"Personal emigration"
- So you want to teach children literate speech? Or something else?
I don't want to teach them anything. Children have not yet formed the cause-and-effect relationships characteristic of an adult world outlook. This is their great strength, but also their main weakness. Even if they do something wrong, it is harmless, not evil. The whims of the most furious child are an innocent prank compared to what other adults consciously do. And then the children grow up and often begin to comply with the laws of this insidious world, where everyone needs to break out somewhere, take some place in life ...
In general, let children be taught by fathers and mothers, family and school. If, after reading my poems, some child (and not only!) becomes more fun, easier, more comfortable to live in the world, I will be sincerely happy! And not for him, and for myself.
- Have you tried to hide behind your own poems, to hide in your work from the outside world?
- Still tried! In the Soviet Union, it was boring to hear every day about the party, about congresses, about unfulfillable promises... And people went into their own world, which was usually arranged in artists' workshops or simply in kitchens. There they gathered in a close flock; and this was called "internal emigration."
And over time, I had a “personal emigration”. I rarely go to writers' meetings and don't like public speaking. I'm not bored of being alone, but the society weighs me down. It is not the people themselves that are burdensome, but their large concentrations, especially the crowd. But it is always interesting for me to communicate with a single (good!) person.
Where do poems come from
– Your poems are equally interesting for both children and adults. Maybe even more for adults. What is your secret?
– The secret is very simple: I write only for myself. I never sit down at the table with the thought: “Let me make something right now for children of six years old; although no, it won’t pull on six - it’s better to get ten at once! .. ”To be honest, I don’t sit down at the table at all. Usually poems are born in the head. Even when I grind them for a long time and painfully, I walk around near the table, usually in the kitchen. In short, I write only about what worries me now, what is hooked at this moment in my life. And then I think: is this suitable for a children's audience?
It often happened that I decided to read poems for adults to the children, and I felt a much more lively reaction from them than from obviously children's poetry. You can't guess here! The main thing is to write about what interests you. After all, if something really interested me, there will certainly be other individuals for whom this will also be significant. They really are.
- And what is interesting to Tim Sobakin? Where do you get themes for poetry?
– In one interview, I was asked if I ever tracked the entire process of creating a poem - from idea to its publication? And one day I decided to try. It fascinated me so much that I even wanted to write an article about the mysterious process. It's a pity that one introduction has already taken five pages. And I left the venture.
In general, it happens that you can’t sleep at night, you get up, you walk, you walk ... you smoke (fu, what a bummer!); and some unconscious lines appear inside - it is still unclear why and for what. Usually two or three, or even a whole stanza. Often there is an ending soon - this is luck.
Or some event will impress. Not necessarily epic. Here you go, for example, for groceries and you will see a sign on the door: "ENTRY TO THE SHOP WITH DOGS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN!" Well, you stand, read, people walk around you and think: some kind of psycho has been staring at the sign for five minutes. And then there are the verses:
... to the rest of the animals,
as seen,
Entrance to the store is allowed:
then the echidna will appear,
then the raccoon will come,
then a sly monkey,
that lofty giraffe...
But as soon as the dog enters,
immediately cry:
Pay the fine!
And the dog
by the way,
guards hand luggage,
although she dreams
walk in the store
so that there
let it be for a moment
looking into the meat department,
say hello to the wieners,
chat with the ham
stay at the carbonate,
take a look at the sausage...
Like for happiness
need little -
if only the smell
was on the nose!
- One gets the impression that there are no boundaries in your work: you write about what you want and how you want, absolutely freely ...
There is no such thing as absolutely free creativity. There are always boundaries. None of my works contain any swear words. Not because I myself never swear - alas, it happens, but I try to fight it. It's just that in my work I don't need such vocabulary. The most “creepy” thing I wrote for children (and which, by the way, was repeatedly published) is the final lines of the poem “Motherland”:
Overcame rumbling in the stomach,
I proudly thought
Here they are - our simple ducks!
Here it is - my Fatherland!
And he went, unsteadily placing his foot,
even forgetting to put it on.
And the moon shone on my way.
And the star showed the way.
Of course, I can't stand bloody themes, murders, horrors. Now they constantly scare us with all sorts of catastrophes that await humanity. And for some reason, it’s tempting me, in defiance of these horror stories, to compose a utopia story that everything will be super-duper-excellent. And people, finally, will become almost perfect.
What to read?
- You have preserved the dreaminess that children have and which adults often lack. What did you read as a child?
- He loved "Dunno in Sunny city» Nosova. His characters built all sorts of machines, outlandish devices. I myself tried to come up with my own inventions. This, apparently, prompted me to enter MEPhI after school.
At the age of 12, my favorite book was Alice in Wonderland. And at 15 I was fascinated by Exupery. I still think that " A little prince"- the most best book in the world! Because it has everything: for both children and adults; about love and life...
I would still recommend these wonderful books to children today. And of course Pushkin. Especially in high school.
– Now they say a lot that modern books are terrible, there are no writers, and everything is going to hell, including children's literature. Do you agree?
There are not so many children's writers, but they do exist. Mikhail Yasnov, Mikhail Yesenovsky, Marina Moskvina, Sergey Sedov, Artur Givargizov... I'm afraid not to mention someone whose books are already known to the reader, but, unfortunately, are published very rarely.
The fact is that now the concepts of “mainstream” and “bestseller” decide a lot. Publishers work within a commercial framework and are afraid to print truly "reasonable, kind, eternal." And today there is a different literature - and everyone can find something in it to their taste.
Now it is easy to find books that a quarter of a century ago it was impossible to dream about. When I first visited Norway, I saw there Bitov, Mandelstam, Gumilyov, the novels of Aksenov and Voinovich, unpublished in our country ... My eyes ran wide! I brought in suitcases not clothes, but books. It is remarkable that in our time this wealth has become available. But along with it, a muddy stream of dubious writings began to seethe. So it turns out that again you need to choose the right one: yes, that one tenth.
Read poetry and prose by Tim Sobakin, listen to songs based on his words, and learn about the reprint edition of Tramway magazine, as well as read it in in electronic format you can on the page http://tramwaj.narod.ru/
see also cartoon creative association"CLUB CLOSED" based on the fairy tale "The Color of the Wind" by Tim Sobakin, published in the magazine "Tram".
