The twentieth century has passed, its results are modest: My neighbour bought “Zhiguli” car, I bought the pair of shoes. We stand on a threshold of new epoch And think of sense of existence.
With money very well, without money very badly, The neighbour has killed his wife, but I still love mine. What an interesting epoch is now! I’ll go to buy some cartridges in addition.
In hospitals and in the underground they dread of terrorists, The comet flies over a head - it’s very bad sign And, in general, I’ll tell you, our world is rather thorny, But it’s as the son-gangster, - dangerous, but own.
Oh, how lovely to be a steed, Cheerfully neigh and drive mares on a lawn, As if you’ve nothing to do with anything, As if the history flow somewhere behind a hill. I’m bothered for a long time To listen to mad speeches, I would like to sleep, But the epoch annoying climbs in a window, Preventing me from lazy dozing.
The twentieth century has passed, it is time to grow wiser, Russia, We’re not the slaves, my friends, and poverty’s not a vice! Vote for prophet Moses For another forty-year term.
And who is he, that hero, a subject of national faith? Who is this Prometeus? Who - who! A fucking faugh! With horns under the hat and smells with sulphur, He’s recommended us, as a saint.
Leave me alone, my pessimism, don’t be such bore, All will be good, soon we’ll be invited. We must wait for the promised miracle. We’re companions of a major planet Hollywood.
In our close circle We’ll frolic, and sing, and dance without pants, As the herdboy on a meadow, We’ll carelessly play our nasty small horn. Somewhere battle is in progress, There the mankind fights, with itself struggling. The civilisation magnificently blossoms, Stinking, rattling and smoking.
The twentieth century has passed, is knocked twenty first, What divide, jerks, aren’t you pester with shooting? Go to bed, keep nerves, One of these days there will come the peace and divine grace.
And the West, at last, will ride with the East, And the malicious worldwide fisticuffs will stop, Jew and Arab, as a lamb and a wolf Will come side-by-side to a peaceful watering place.
We’ll open granaries and we’ll live in style, And it will flow champagne in banks of kissel, And the happiness of all earth, and a lot of beer, And floors of parquet, and chandeliers in latrines. Ah, ah!
Ah, our desired paradise, - Place where we can lie, picking a nose. You herdboy, finish your music, Tomorrow villains will hang you in woods. Ah what an age, happy age! Orchestra plays forte the finale of the piece, And on back seats someone has inserted a fuse, Farewell, good old auditorium. But on back seats someone has inserted a fuse, Farewell, good old auditorium.
На фронт трамвай уходил... Комкала мать платок. Плечо мне ладонью сдавил: - Держись на ногах, сынок!
Крест-накрест бумагой окно, Сирены простуженный хрип... Зимой пришло письмо: У Средней Рогатки погиб.
Голод был, как мороз, Потом весна, лебеда... А я всё не верил всерьёз, - Писем ждал от тебя.
В школе на карте флажки, Самый большой - в Берлин. Годы войны прошли, Нет ни тревог, ни руин.
У матери муж другой - Сказала, мол, жизнь есть жизнь, И в церкви "за упокой" Вписала - ты ей не снись!
Мне уже тридцать пять, Я старше тебя, отец! Вожу твою внучку гулять Туда, где свистел свинец.
Сейчас там дома, дома... Сейчас там сады, сады... И внучка уже сама Тебе собирает цветы.
На фронт трамвай уходил Двадцать пять лет назад, А я ничего не забыл... Цветы на могиле лежат.
1966 ************* V. Vikhorev - Flowers on a grave
Straight to war the tram left... Mother crumpled a handkerchief. He squeezed my shoulder with his palm: - Be steady on legs, my sonny!
Window crisscrossed with a paper, Hoarse wheeze of sirens... In winter the letter has come: Killed in battle at Srednaya Rogatka.
Hunger was [fierce] as a frost, Then spring, we could eat saltbush... And I did not really trust, - And still waited letters from you.
Red flags on a map at school, The biggest on way to Berlin. Years of war have passed, Now there’s neither alarms, nor ruins.
Mother married ones more - Life she told is still a life, And ordered in church a prayer for “rest in peace" - Don’t you come to her dreams!
I’m already thirty five, I’m older then you were, Dad! I’m strolling with your granddaughter Where lead whistled.
Now there new buildings stand... Now there gardens and parks... And the granddaughter already can Gather bunch of flowers for you.
Straight to war the tram left Twenty five years ago, And I still nothing forgot... Flowers lie on a grave. *********** Srednaya Rogatka - Historical area in the south of St.-Petersburg (between metro stations "Moscovskaya" and "Zvezdnaya"). In 1941-1944 there lied the second defensive front of Leningrad. Years of war strongly changed a district, there left no one of prewar constructions. In 1960-70th there was built a big residential community. ********** Vihorev Valentin Ivanovich was born on November, 22nd, 1931 in Leningrad in a working family. His father as soon as war has begun, has been called in army and soon was killed in battle. Lived in Leningrad through part of blockade, was evacuated by on Road of Life on the ice of Lake Ladoga and then to Novosibirsk children's home, escaped, returned to Leningrad to mother. In 1949 has ended a vocational school. Has served in army in East Germany (with 1951 for 1956, two years - it is extra urgent). Lives in St.-Petersburg. Among V.Vihorev's hobbies scuba diving, tourism, mountaineering, mountain skiing. Plays a 7-string guitar. Began write songs from sixtieth years.
Думаю, что готово. На сей раз не пытался выдержать размер. Просто изложение текста. НОЧЬ ЛЕТНЕГО СОЛНЦЕСТОЯНИЯ Двадцать первого числа, При немыслимом свеченье, При негаснущей заре Мы плывем невесть куда, Наблюдая за кормой Летних вод перемещенье, Наблюдая за собой Уходящие года.
Наш случайный коллектив, Расположенный к остротам, Расположен на борту Небольшого катерка. Комментируем слегка Все, что нам за поворотом Открывает сквозь июнь Проходящая река.
Костерок на мокрый луг Стелет дым горизонтальный, Допризывники вдвоем Ловят рыбу у реки. Им бы Родину стеречь, Строго вглядываясь в дали, А они, представь себе, Все глядят на поплавки.
И неважно, милый друг, Все, что было накануне, Все, что с нами совершат Тишина и высота. Только было бы всегда Двадцать первое июня, Только б следующий день Никогда бы не настал.
**************** NIGHT OF THE SUMMER SOLSTICE In the Twenty first of June, under inconceivable glow, under ever-burning dawn we are floating goodness knows where. Astern we are observing the movement of summer waters, behind ourselves we are observing passing years.
Our randomly gathered collective, inclined to sharpnesses, is gathered onboard little pleasure boat. We make flippant comments of everything that river passing through June opens to us behind every turn.
Little fire spreading horizontal smoke onto a wet meadow, two boys below the conscription are fishing on the bank. They’d like better to guard Native land and peering strictly into distances, but they, just imagine, are sitting and watching the floats.
And, dear friend, it is really unimportant - everything that was the day before, everything that silence and height will make with us. If only the Twenty first of June go on forever, if only the next day never comes.
************** In early morning of June 22th 1941 German army began attack along the whole length of West border of the USSR.
VIZBOR Yury Iosifovich (1934-84), the Russian poet and composer, journalist, script and prose writer, film actor. One of the brightest representatives of an author's song, the founder of a genre of a song-reporting.
Маленькая справка об Анчарове Ancharov Mikhail Leonidovich (1923-90) the Russian poet, script and prose writer, painter - one of the founders of the bard's song in the USSR. Veteran of the World War II on the Far East against the Japanese army.
Опять поторопился. В "Ночи летнего солнцестояния" Визбора изменил перу слов, которые были совсем не теми, что нужно. Теперь буду выдерживать каждую по двое суток. Первый вариант не удаляется, а надо бы.
НОЧЬ ЛЕТНЕГО СОЛНЦЕСТОЯНИЯ Двадцать первого числа, При немыслимом свеченье, При негаснущей заре Мы плывем невесть куда, Наблюдая за кормой Летних вод перемещенье, Наблюдая за собой Уходящие года.
Наш случайный коллектив, Расположенный к остротам, Расположен на борту Небольшого катерка. Комментируем слегка Все, что нам за поворотом Открывает сквозь июнь Проходящая река.
Костерок на мокрый луг Стелет дым горизонтальный, Допризывники вдвоем Ловят рыбу у реки. Им бы Родину стеречь, Строго вглядываясь в дали, А они, представь себе, Все глядят на поплавки.
И неважно, милый друг, Все, что было накануне, Все, что с нами совершат Тишина и высота. Только было бы всегда Двадцать первое июня, Только б следующий день Никогда бы не настал. ************ NIGHT OF THE SUMMER SOLSTICE In the Twenty first of June, under inconceivable glow, under ever-burning dawn we are floating goodness knows where. Astern we are observing the movement of summer waters, behind ourselves we are observing passing years.
Our randomly gathered collective, inclined to witty remarks, is gathered onboard little pleasure boat. We make flippant comments of everything that river passing through June opens to us behind every turn.
Little fire spreading horizontal smoke onto a wet meadow, two boys below the conscription are fishing on the bank. They’d like better to guard Native land and peering strictly into distances, but they, just imagine, are sitting and watching the floats.
And, dear friend, it is really unimportant - everything that was the day before, everything that silence and skies will make with us. If only the Twenty first of June go on forever, if only the next day never comes.
************** In early morning of June 22th 1941 German army began attack along the whole length of West border of the USSR.
VIZBOR Yury Iosifovich (1934-84), the Russian poet and composer, journalist, script and prose writer, film actor. One of the brightest representatives of an bard's song, the founder of a genre of a song-reporting.
Twentieth century
Timur Shaov
The twentieth century has passed, its results are modest:
My neighbour bought “Zhiguli” car, I bought the pair of shoes.
We stand on a threshold of new epoch
And think of sense of existence.
With money very well, without money very badly,
The neighbour has killed his wife, but I still love mine.
What an interesting epoch is now!
I’ll go to buy some cartridges in addition.
In hospitals and in the underground they dread of terrorists,
The comet flies over a head - it’s very bad sign
And, in general, I’ll tell you, our world is rather thorny,
But it’s as the son-gangster, - dangerous, but own.
Oh, how lovely to be a steed,
Cheerfully neigh and drive mares on a lawn,
As if you’ve nothing to do with anything,
As if the history flow somewhere behind a hill.
I’m bothered for a long time
To listen to mad speeches, I would like to sleep,
But the epoch annoying climbs in a window,
Preventing me from lazy dozing.
The twentieth century has passed, it is time to grow wiser, Russia,
We’re not the slaves, my friends, and poverty’s not a vice!
Vote for prophet Moses
For another forty-year term.
And who is he, that hero, a subject of national faith?
Who is this Prometeus? Who - who! A fucking faugh!
With horns under the hat and smells with sulphur,
He’s recommended us, as a saint.
Leave me alone, my pessimism, don’t be such bore,
All will be good, soon we’ll be invited.
We must wait for the promised miracle.
We’re companions of a major planet Hollywood.
In our close circle
We’ll frolic, and sing, and dance without pants,
As the herdboy on a meadow,
We’ll carelessly play our nasty small horn.
Somewhere battle is in progress,
There the mankind fights, with itself struggling.
The civilisation magnificently blossoms,
Stinking, rattling and smoking.
The twentieth century has passed, is knocked twenty first,
What divide, jerks, aren’t you pester with shooting?
Go to bed, keep nerves,
One of these days there will come the peace and divine grace.
And the West, at last, will ride with the East,
And the malicious worldwide fisticuffs will stop,
Jew and Arab, as a lamb and a wolf
Will come side-by-side to a peaceful watering place.
We’ll open granaries and we’ll live in style,
And it will flow champagne in banks of kissel,
And the happiness of all earth, and a lot of beer,
And floors of parquet, and chandeliers in latrines. Ah, ah!
Ah, our desired paradise, -
Place where we can lie, picking a nose.
You herdboy, finish your music,
Tomorrow villains will hang you in woods.
Ah what an age, happy age!
Orchestra plays forte the finale of the piece,
And on back seats someone has inserted a fuse,
Farewell, good old auditorium.
But on back seats someone has inserted a fuse,
Farewell, good old auditorium.
Reply
Складываю в отдельную папочку, на той неделе начну перегонять на сайт.
Reply
Михаил Анчаров
Ссылка на авторское исполнение: http://www.moskva.fm/artist/%D0%BC%D0%B8%D1%85%D0%B0%D0%B8%D0%BB_%D0%B0%D0%BD%D1%87%D0%B0%D1%80%D0%BE%D0%B2/song_895850
Песня про низкорослого человека, который остановил ночью девушку возле метро «Электрозаводская»
Девушка, эй, постой!
Я человек холостой.
Прохожая, эй, постой!
Вспомни сорок шестой.
Из госпиталя весной
На перекресток пришел ночной.
Ограбленная войной
Тень за моей спиной.
Влево пойти - сума,
Вправо пойти - тюрьма,
Вдаль убегают дома...
Можно сойти с ума.
Асфальтовая река
Теплая, как щека.
Только приляг слегка -
Будешь лежать века.
О времени том - молчок!
Завод устоять помог.
Мне бы только станок -
Выточить пару ног.
Давно утихли бои.
Память о них затаи.
Ноги, ноги мои!
Мне б одну на троих.
Осенью - стой в грязи,
Зимою - по льду скользи...
Эй, шофер, тормози!
Домой меня отвези.
Дома, как в детстве, мать
Поднимет меня на кровать...
Кто придумал войну,
Ноги б тому оторвать!
**********
Song about the undersized person, who once stopped a girl at night near underground station "Electrozavodskaya"
Hey, girl, stop, wait!
I’m unmarried man.
Girl walking by wait!
Forty sixth year - let’s remind.
There was spring, I hospital left
And came to crossroad at night.
Plundered by war Shade
Laid behind.
If I go to the left - beggar,
If I go to the right - prison,
Afar houses run...
I feel I become insane.
The asphalt river
Warm, as a cheek.
Only lie down a bit -
An eternity will keep.
We’ll keep mum about that time!
The factory has helped to survive.
If I only had a lathe -
I could carve the pair of legs.
Long ago fights came to the end.
Memory of them conceal.
Legs my, legs!
At least one for us three.
In autumn - stand in a dirt,
In winter - slip on ice...
Stop driver your car!
Take me to my home now.
At home, as in my childhood, mother
Will lift me onto a bed...
Who concocted the war -
I should tear off their legs!
Reply
В.Вихорев - Цветы на могиле
На фронт трамвай уходил...
Комкала мать платок.
Плечо мне ладонью сдавил:
- Держись на ногах, сынок!
Крест-накрест бумагой окно,
Сирены простуженный хрип...
Зимой пришло письмо:
У Средней Рогатки погиб.
Голод был, как мороз,
Потом весна, лебеда...
А я всё не верил всерьёз, -
Писем ждал от тебя.
В школе на карте флажки,
Самый большой - в Берлин.
Годы войны прошли,
Нет ни тревог, ни руин.
У матери муж другой -
Сказала, мол, жизнь есть жизнь,
И в церкви "за упокой"
Вписала - ты ей не снись!
Мне уже тридцать пять,
Я старше тебя, отец!
Вожу твою внучку гулять
Туда, где свистел свинец.
Сейчас там дома, дома...
Сейчас там сады, сады...
И внучка уже сама
Тебе собирает цветы.
На фронт трамвай уходил
Двадцать пять лет назад,
А я ничего не забыл...
Цветы на могиле лежат.
1966
*************
V. Vikhorev - Flowers on a grave
Straight to war the tram left...
Mother crumpled a handkerchief.
He squeezed my shoulder with his palm:
- Be steady on legs, my sonny!
Window crisscrossed with a paper,
Hoarse wheeze of sirens...
In winter the letter has come:
Killed in battle at Srednaya Rogatka.
Hunger was [fierce] as a frost,
Then spring, we could eat saltbush...
And I did not really trust, -
And still waited letters from you.
Red flags on a map at school,
The biggest on way to Berlin.
Years of war have passed,
Now there’s neither alarms, nor ruins.
Mother married ones more -
Life she told is still a life,
And ordered in church a prayer for “rest in peace"
- Don’t you come to her dreams!
I’m already thirty five,
I’m older then you were, Dad!
I’m strolling with your granddaughter
Where lead whistled.
Now there new buildings stand...
Now there gardens and parks...
And the granddaughter already can
Gather bunch of flowers for you.
Straight to war the tram left
Twenty five years ago,
And I still nothing forgot...
Flowers lie on a grave.
***********
Srednaya Rogatka - Historical area in the south of St.-Petersburg (between metro stations "Moscovskaya" and "Zvezdnaya"). In 1941-1944 there lied the second defensive front of Leningrad.
Years of war strongly changed a district, there left no one of prewar constructions. In 1960-70th there was built a big residential community.
**********
Vihorev Valentin Ivanovich was born on November, 22nd, 1931 in Leningrad in a working family. His father as soon as war has begun, has been called in army and soon was killed in battle. Lived in Leningrad through part of blockade, was evacuated by on Road of Life on the ice of Lake Ladoga and then to Novosibirsk children's home, escaped, returned to Leningrad to mother. In 1949 has ended a vocational school. Has served in army in East Germany (with 1951 for 1956, two years - it is extra urgent). Lives in St.-Petersburg.
Among V.Vihorev's hobbies scuba diving, tourism, mountaineering, mountain skiing. Plays a 7-string guitar. Began write songs from sixtieth years.
Reply
НОЧЬ ЛЕТНЕГО СОЛНЦЕСТОЯНИЯ
Двадцать первого числа,
При немыслимом свеченье,
При негаснущей заре
Мы плывем невесть куда,
Наблюдая за кормой
Летних вод перемещенье,
Наблюдая за собой
Уходящие года.
Наш случайный коллектив,
Расположенный к остротам,
Расположен на борту
Небольшого катерка.
Комментируем слегка
Все, что нам за поворотом
Открывает сквозь июнь
Проходящая река.
Костерок на мокрый луг
Стелет дым горизонтальный,
Допризывники вдвоем
Ловят рыбу у реки.
Им бы Родину стеречь,
Строго вглядываясь в дали,
А они, представь себе,
Все глядят на поплавки.
И неважно, милый друг,
Все, что было накануне,
Все, что с нами совершат
Тишина и высота.
Только было бы всегда
Двадцать первое июня,
Только б следующий день
Никогда бы не настал.
****************
NIGHT OF THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
In the Twenty first of June, under inconceivable glow, under ever-burning dawn we are floating goodness knows where. Astern we are observing the movement of summer waters, behind ourselves we are observing passing years.
Our randomly gathered collective, inclined to sharpnesses, is gathered onboard little pleasure boat. We make flippant comments of everything that river passing through June opens to us behind every turn.
Little fire spreading horizontal smoke onto a wet meadow, two boys below the conscription are fishing on the bank. They’d like better to guard Native land and peering strictly into distances, but they, just imagine, are sitting and watching the floats.
And, dear friend, it is really unimportant - everything that was the day before, everything that silence and height will make with us.
If only the Twenty first of June go on forever, if only the next day never comes.
**************
In early morning of June 22th 1941 German army began attack along the whole length of West border of the USSR.
VIZBOR Yury Iosifovich (1934-84), the Russian poet and composer, journalist, script and prose writer, film actor. One of the brightest representatives of an author's song, the founder of a genre of a song-reporting.
Reply
Ancharov Mikhail Leonidovich (1923-90) the Russian poet, script and prose writer, painter - one of the founders of the bard's song in the USSR. Veteran of the World War II on the Far East against the Japanese army.
Reply
НОЧЬ ЛЕТНЕГО СОЛНЦЕСТОЯНИЯ
Двадцать первого числа,
При немыслимом свеченье,
При негаснущей заре
Мы плывем невесть куда,
Наблюдая за кормой
Летних вод перемещенье,
Наблюдая за собой
Уходящие года.
Наш случайный коллектив,
Расположенный к остротам,
Расположен на борту
Небольшого катерка.
Комментируем слегка
Все, что нам за поворотом
Открывает сквозь июнь
Проходящая река.
Костерок на мокрый луг
Стелет дым горизонтальный,
Допризывники вдвоем
Ловят рыбу у реки.
Им бы Родину стеречь,
Строго вглядываясь в дали,
А они, представь себе,
Все глядят на поплавки.
И неважно, милый друг,
Все, что было накануне,
Все, что с нами совершат
Тишина и высота.
Только было бы всегда
Двадцать первое июня,
Только б следующий день
Никогда бы не настал.
************
NIGHT OF THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
In the Twenty first of June, under inconceivable glow, under ever-burning dawn we are floating goodness knows where. Astern we are observing the movement of summer waters, behind ourselves we are observing passing years.
Our randomly gathered collective, inclined to witty remarks, is gathered onboard little pleasure boat. We make flippant comments of everything that river passing through June opens to us behind every turn.
Little fire spreading horizontal smoke onto a wet meadow, two boys below the conscription are fishing on the bank. They’d like better to guard Native land and peering strictly into distances, but they, just imagine, are sitting and watching the floats.
And, dear friend, it is really unimportant - everything that was the day before, everything that silence and skies will make with us.
If only the Twenty first of June go on forever, if only the next day never comes.
**************
In early morning of June 22th 1941 German army began attack along the whole length of West border of the USSR.
VIZBOR Yury Iosifovich (1934-84), the Russian poet and composer, journalist, script and prose writer, film actor. One of the brightest representatives of an bard's song, the founder of a genre of a song-reporting.
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