Loved you for no particular reason. Valentin Berestov - Loved you for no particular reason.

loved you without special reasons
For being a grandson
Because you are a son
For being a baby
For growing up
Because he looks like mom and dad.
And this love until the end of your days
It will remain your secret support.

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More poems:

How you were loved in life! It seemed - You can't love anymore. And they swore on your grave Friends will always remember you. Why? There are no questions here, The one who knew you - He will understand ... And ...
Many, my friend, loved you, You gave yourself to many too... But you gave yourself to them without loving... It was only a prank, Or the dictates of a hungry need, Or explosions of despair... But your pure beauty...
They loved each other so long and tenderly, With deep longing and insanely rebellious passion! But, like enemies, they avoided recognition and meeting, And they were empty and cold short speeches. They are...
No, it's not you that I love so passionately, It's not for me that your beauty shines: I love in you the past suffering And my lost youth. Sometimes when I look at you...
Having fallen in love with you, I am embarrassed And I do not know how to say, That I am seduced by you And I am afraid to become wine. When I am in front of you, I sit all in confusion, I don’t know what to say then, Only ...
There were many hard days, There will be many difficult days. So it's too early to draw conclusions. So we met with her, So we met with her Somewhere on country road. Only a few...
Don't you remember? As long as I breathe, I will never forget you and the deceased. Dearer are you in sorrow and the dusk of storms, Than the rest of the world in the radiance of the sun. Be free, great and...
Well, is it you, distant one, I don’t love you, if here again And it pulls in a handful to grab a handful, To see your face next to me. And such a heavy languor, What do you ...
With a secret, heavy longing, I look at you, my heart! What lies ahead for you? - A doll that will Amuse you first, and then this doll will get bored ... Then, when you grow up, you ...
My love, Russia, I love you while I live, Your slanting rains, Your meadows of grass, Your wandering roads, Your dashing guys. And there is no excuse for those who do not love you. My love, Russia, You are with everyone ...
The world is stuffed with the severity of the old, but the birds chirp from the roofs, but tremblingly, with every eyelash, you talk about youth. And maple green flame pours into the heart, sparkling. I don't know when between us...
I want to call you wife For the fact that others did not call you that, old house mine, broken by the war, You will hardly be a guest again. For what I wanted...
I don't remember you, Why should I remember? This is only what I know, Only what can be known. End of the earth. A strip of smoke Pulls into the sky, slowly. Lonely, unsociable Winds ...
The little man learned to walk from the sofa to the edge of the table. He already has eyes and shoulders, and his young affairs. It is necessary to touch everything hastily, to try out a milk tooth: oh, like a grandmother ...
Grand Duchess Elisaveta Feodorovna I look at you, admiring every hour: You are so inexpressibly good! Oh, right under such a beautiful exterior. Such a beautiful soul! Some kind of meekness and innermost sadness...

You are now reading the verse We loved you without special reasons, the poet Berestov Valentin Dmitrievich

Antipyretics for children are prescribed by a pediatrician. But there are situations emergency care in fever, when the child needs to be given medicine immediately. Then the parents take responsibility and use antipyretic drugs. What is allowed to give to infants? How can you bring down the temperature in older children? What medicines are the safest?

Loved you for no particular reason
Because you are a grandson.
Because you are a son.
For being a kid.
For what you are growing.
Because he looks like mom and dad.
And this love until the end of your days

At ten years old at home with his
You carry your own name.
But a little on the street got,
You have lost that name.
There are no names here. Nicknames are here.
And at school? Here are your habits.
You are considered big here.
And they are called by their last names.
Like this. Three titles, three roles -
In the family, on the street and at school.

You do not need marks in the journal and in the diary.

O adults! O grandmothers and aunts!
When, when will you finally understand
What am I twelve years old! Not two! Not five!
You can't kiss me when you meet!

The older brother had a sonorous father:
Idol of the town, teacher and singer.
Imitating him in this, and in this,
His son became a historian and a poet.
The middle brother had a quiet father:
A fisherman and a fugitive from boredom.
He spread a flower garden, a vegetable garden behind the house.
And the son, in imitation, became an agronomist.
At younger brother was an old father
Sage, dweller of the transcendent world.
He searched for books, collected and read.
And the son, in imitation, became a scribe.
So age and time changed him,
Twisted the era of my father.
And only one thing did not change the father:
For every son, he was a model.

It's strange to remember what he incited me to do!
As usual, he made me laugh and teased.
And "Murzilka" "Zumrilka" he called,
And the magazine "Crocodile" called "Dragonil".
“That bourgeois who buys a ticket to the cinema!”
He faked two tickets with ink brilliantly.
I was banished. And he didn't even look at me.
Taking out a real ticket instead of a fake.
He lured me to the greenhouses outside the village,
To dazzling red large tomatoes.
Tempt me, break the glass on the greenhouse,
Here he would have enjoyed my shame.
If we were adults, I would not forgive him,
I would break with such a scoundrel forever.
In childhood, everything is different. Caught. Banged.
And again, as if nothing had happened, we play.

At school parties
Ask the kids: - Do you have any questions?
And - the little hands raised can not be counted.
If you ask high school students, they will be embarrassed.
They are afraid of the stupid
Show up?
But there are no stupid questions.
The answer might be stupid.

"MAMA, DAD" - the baby takes it out slowly,
And the pencil lead breaks.
"PETYA" - the boy writes, we are tormented by pride.
He will mark everything with his proud name.
"NINA" - the teenager writes.
again for him
Someone in the world is more important than himself.
And those letters are not erased all my life.
Either one or the other floats up from the bottom.

One day he made a mistake,
Scared, didn't know where to go,
And, cherishing the peace of mind,
I vowed never to make a mistake.
In order not to stumble, he slowed down,
In order not to forget, I did not dare to argue,
BUT own opinion hid so
Which, in fact, was left without an opinion.
He didn't bother anyone in the world.
He was greeted with a polite smile.
He didn't make any more mistakes.
His whole life was now a mistake.

FAVORITE NAME

Your name wrote in the snow
I stand and admire them.
And before, I decorated everything I could
With a proud name.
Wrote for someone to read
That I used to be here.
like some news
About what I am
I loved my name.

Sat embarrassed in the company of liars.
Silent. Didn't try to put in a word.
And did not notice myself in the end,
How, without saying a word, he lied.

FIRST GRADE GIRL

Daughter, tell me, have you eaten?
- Mommy, the whole bowl is empty.
- Daughter, did you drink tea?
- Mom, I poured two cups.
- Is everything all right with the homework?
- Mommy, check my notebooks!
- And how is your daughter doing with the lesson?
- I memorized the whole verse to the line.
How is your doll doing?
- Mommy, don't ask about her.
I don't even know what to do with her.
Doesn't want to eat, doesn't want to drink.
Ask about the task, cry
And hide the notebook under the bed.
And ask me to tell you a poem
Goggle eyes - and silence.

The novel "The Life of Arseniev" - absolutely new type Bunin's prose. It is perceived unusually easily, organically, because it constantly awakens associations with our experiences. At the same time, the artist leads us along such a path, to such manifestations of personality that a person often does not think about: they seem to remain in the subconscious. Moreover, as he works on the text of the novel, Bunin removes the “key” to unravel his main search, about which he speaks openly at first. Therefore, it is instructive to turn to early editions, preparations for the novel.

In 1903, in the magazine " New way” appeared the first review written by Alexander Blok. It was no coincidence that he met with the publication headed by Z. N. Gippius and D. S. Merezhkovsky. Prior to his personal acquaintance with them (in March 1902), Blok studied the works of Merezhkovsky a lot and carefully, and, as Vl. Orlov: “Almost all of Blok’s thoughts in his youthful diary are about the antinomy of pagan and Christian worldviews (“flesh” and “spirit”).

First " short essay life and creativity" by Pribludny was published by A. Skripov in 1963. close friend poet, who corresponded with him during 1929-1936, Skripov published big number previously unknown materials. His work, which has the undoubted merits of reliable evidence, obviously has not lost its value at the present time, however, it fully reflected the views and assessments characteristic of Russian literary criticism of the 60s, such as the following ...

Valentin Berestov

Poems about children

Loved you for no particular reason

Grandma Katya

Third try

From the cycle "School lyrics"

He pulls his hand over the desk and pulls

Where is the right, where is the left

reader

We were friends with you, like boys are friends

Loved you for no particular reason

Because you are a grandson.

Because you are a son.

For being a kid.

For what you are growing.

For being on dad and mom

And this love until the end of your

It will remain your secret support.

Grandma Katya

I see Grandma Katya

Standing by the bed.

Came from the village

Grandma Katya.

Mom knot with a hotel

She submits.

I'm quiet

Dried pear vanities.

I told my father

As a child:

"You, baby, yourself

Unharness your horse!"

And respectfully asked

Leaning over me

"Would you like a fairy tale,

My father?"

Again, like many years ago,

The yard is empty. And no one in the garden.

How can I find comrades?

No one... And yet there is someone.

One, two, three, four, five,

I'm going looking!

I'll take my hands off my eyes.

Hey guys! Who fell into the grass?

Who is there behind the birch trunk?

I don't believe in an empty yard.

I still play with you.

Taught lessons. I repeated the lessons.

Having done the lessons, he rushed to the lessons.

How I listened to the lessons in the lesson!

How did the lessons answer at the blackboard!

And having deserved reproaches or reproaches,

Nothing distracted me.

Drawing theorems in the sand.

Third try

You don't immediately leave the arena

And you don't draw the line right away.

Three attempts are given to the athlete

To take the height.

Failure, but you are not at a loss:

The decisive moment is near again.

Watching others try.

Heralding a new struggle

The bar is set higher, and again

Three attempts are given to you.

Grit your teeth, get ready and wait.

And it turns out that the third attempt

It always stays ahead.

From the cycle "School lyrics"

He pulls his hand over the desk and pulls.

Will no one even look at him?

He's all impatient: "Ask me!"

It is enough that he penetrated the secret,

That a miracle happened, the task was solved ...

Please ask! Do mercy!

Where is the right, where is the left

"Victory!" came a jubilant cry.

You don't have to go to your mom

No need to go to grandma

Please read! Read!

You don't have to beg your sister.

Well, read another page!

You don't have to call.

No need to wait.

And right away we start fighting.

We are not tired of these battles,

Still would! She's hardened in battle!

Grandma Katya

I see Grandma Katya

Standing by the bed.

Came from the village

Grandma Katya.

Mom knot with a hotel

She submits.

I'm quiet

Dried pear vanities.

I told my father

As a child:

"You, baby, yourself

Unharness your horse!"

And respectfully asked

Leaning over me

"Would you like a fairy tale,

My father?"

Giant

I was friends with a giant as a child.

We had fun alone.

He wandered through the forests and glades.

I ran after him.

And he was a real man

With awareness of one's own strength,

And the penknife twirled,

And he wore long pants.

We went together all summer.

Nobody dared to touch me.

And I'm a giant for it

He sang all his father's songs.

Oh my noble and proud

Protector, giant and hero!

At that time you finished fourth

And I moved on to the second one.

Guys equal in height

And they will become friends.

I grew up. I finished ninth

When you died in the war

Wreath

Sometimes I happened to be the subject

Silent adoration and worries.

Infancy. Lawn in early summer.

And the girl is sitting, weaving wreaths.

And putting on a golden crown

On my shorn head

Everything glows. And I don't protest.

I consider myself an idol.

And, rejoicing in the radiant look,

I look at the girl, at the clouds,

Obediently I play the role of a king

And I feel heaviness, and coolness,

And the freshness and solemnity of the wreath.

Evening. In wet colors window sill...

Evening. In wet colors window sill.

Grace. Purity. Silence.

At this hour, head on the palms,

The mother usually sits by the window.

Won't respond, won't turn back

Do not raise your face from the palms.

And wakes up as soon as it waits

Behind the window of the father's smile.

And pull weights from the walkers,

And rushes towards him.

What is love in this world

I know, but I will not soon understand.

Return from the East

And there in the steppe - a fire of cooled ashes ...

We're home. The steppe is not visible from here.

And yet, even though we left the steppe,

She doesn't want to leave us.

We are also the steppe. We are like her

Sunburn and weathered skin,

And the fact that we carry silence in our hearts,

And the fact that we see the moon in the city.

Still wakes us up in the middle of the night somewhere,

Invisible ray touching the eyes,

Three hours before dawn here

The steppe sun that rose without us.

Away, in the crowd among the whirlpool,

Again, albeit weaker than yesterday,

A sudden drowsiness will overtake us, -

The steppe night will whisper: "It's time to sleep."

But little by little everything will fall into place:

Rise, hang up, and look, and complexion.

And the steppe? She will leave, melt, sink

And yet it won't fade to the end.

An old friend will show up, remind

And again the steppe will fill you all.

Where is the right, where is the left

The student stood at a fork in the road.

Where is the right, where is the left, he could not understand.

But suddenly the student scratched his head

With the same hand that he wrote with.

And he threw the ball, and flipped through the pages.

And he held a spoon, and swept the floors.

"Victory!" came a jubilant cry.

Where is the right, where is the left, the student learned.

A game

We used to sit down at chess.

One board was not enough for the strategists.

And a proud honed army

play the fate of humanity

Went down to the floor, into the world simple toys -

Ships, boxes and reels.

And now the kings sit on the throne,

And pawns in tanks and ships.

Parades. Reviews. Conspiracies. Trouble.

Someone will not forgive someone for something.

And kings throw fleet upon fleet

An army against an army, against a people a people.

From under perfume one gallant bottle,

Although he was fragile, he fought with glory.

Where there is a heroic spirit, there is a heroic look.

He was with everything with the army transferred

Crimson order thread.

A people weary of bloodshed

Overthrows kings and governors.

Last Stand. Last uprising.

Great worldwide brotherhood.

Chess on the table, a bottle on the chest of drawers.

And two people are running around the yard,

Ended with the World War.

Who is twelve years old

Who is twelve years old, he is in kindergarten

Went thousands of years ago.

About this very childhood in gold

He remembers almost with shame.

Forget it soon! After all, it

There is a spot in the heroic biography.

Horse

me for my daughter

The best of horses.

I can neigh loudly and clatter loudly.

And riding, riding, riding

On his dashing horse

This is how a girl rider wears.

And in the morning there is no horse.

He leaves for half a day

Pretending to be angry

businesslike,

But he dreams of one thing:

Become a horse again

And, trembling with impatience, beats with a hoof.

cat puppy

The cat had an adopted son -

Not a kitten but a puppy

Very cute, very humble

Very affectionate son.

No water and no wash

The son's cat was washing;

Instead of a sponge, instead of soap

With the tongue of the son of soap.

tongue licking fast

Neck, back and side.

Mother cat - animal

Very clean.

But the adopted son has grown up,

And now he's a big dog.

Poor mom can't do it

Wash the shaggy big man.

On huge sides

The language is missing.

To wash my son's neck

You have to get on his back.

Oh, - the mother cat sighed, -

It's hard to wash your son!

Swim yourself, bathe yourself,

Wash yourself without your mother.

The son bathes in the river.

Mom naps on the sand.

ski trail

And again the ski path

Like railroad tracks cut into the snow.

Pushing and sliding

I run, I do not lag behind everyone.

May my last ski trail

Melted so many years ago

But the memory of childhood whispers: - No,

He is here. Things are going well!

My childhood was suddenly returned to me.

It gleefully moves me,

Like it's not at all

Left somewhere behind the war.

Loved you for no reason...

Loved you for no particular reason

Because you are a grandson

Because you are a son

For being a baby

For what you grow

Because he looks like mom and dad.

And this love until the end of your days

It will remain your secret support.

Love began with deceit...

Love began with deceit.

I ran from school through the passage yard

And again appeared on the corner, blushing,

To meet her by chance.

And, understanding everything, a little embarrassed,

She listened to my explanations:

Like, I need to meet with someone from here.

O white beret in the haze of snowfall!

And again I raced through the yards through the darkness,

And she came across on every corner,

And, having met, again ran towards ...

This is how I saw her off for the first time.

Patron of the 41st year

One of them lived in Tashkent,

Another came from Kaluga.

Everything was different for them.

And only one grandmother.

From my grandmother's letters

They got to know each other

And in the forty-first she brought them together

Patriotic War.

The younger brother says

About blackouts and anxiety,

As with the Junkers, so big,

The nimble "hawk" fought,

As the herds went through the city...

And the elder brother, serious, strict,

He repeats: - You write it down!

After all, you have a beautiful syllable!

And the younger brother weeps bitterly,

Hearing the sad news.

He remembers the "Messerschmitt" rumble

And the sharpness of military commands.

And the elder looks at him,

Looks like at his find,

And he rejoices that he discovered

(What did you think!) talent.

The male

Father was called to the front

And for this reason

I must live from now on

As a man should.

Mother is always at work.

The apartment is empty.

But in a house for a man

There will always be a job.

Buckets full of water.

Swept apartment.

Washing dishes is easy

There is not a drop of fat on it.

With three cards coupons

They cut my hair at the grocery store.

Breadwinner and earner.

The male. Senior in the house.

I'm sincerely sure

What became the father's replacement.

But in that distant life

Blessed, pre-war,

Father didn't work

Similar deeds.

Mother replaced father.

I help my mother.

Only once, and then at the beginning of childhood ...

Only once, and then at the beginning of childhood,

My uncle, the one who died in the war,

He visited us. But still look

I can in his eyes. They are in me.

Everything else - appearance and words -

Forgotten. But also, I remember

There was grass. Alien grass.

Tall and thin. Lesnaya.

Must be in the forest (it's on the edge of the earth

Was for me) my uncle brought me,

And there we lay down in the meadow,

Happy, looking into each other's eyes.

And I noticed the threads on the squirrels

And the folds of the eyelids, and rare eyelashes,

And two pupils, two pupils,

In two gray and radiant pupils.

And the way I myself reflected in them,

And the way the veil covered them.

And the eyelids moved... Only a moment

I remember. One blink of an eye.

He pulls his hand over the desk and pulls ...

He pulls his hand over the desk and pulls.

Will no one even look at him?

He is all impatient: "Ask me!"

As if, having driven a horse along the road,

Here he rushed with an urgent package,

With urgent package and accurate reply.

Do not need marks in the journal and in the diary,

It is enough that he penetrated the secret,

That a miracle happened, the task was solved ...

Please ask! Do mercy!

Chukovsky's paradox

“You began to write small,

Hastily, deftly, sluggishly.

for the craft,

bauble

For a trifle.

Why spin like a squirrel?

You seem to be underpaid?

I don't see the point in it,

Chukovsky sighed. - Enough,

Write selflessly -

They pay more for it!”

First friend

Once the primitive children went to the primeval forest,

And the primeval sun looked down on them from heaven.

And the children met in the thicket of an unknown animal,

Which has never been seen before.

Said the primitive pope, “Well, play with him.

When it gets bigger, we'll eat it together."

Night. Primitive people sleep in a primitive dream,

And primitive wolves sneak in the darkness of the night.

Trouble primitive people, in a dream so defenseless.

How often the belly of an animal became a grave!

But sensing the evil cannibals, the brave animal barked,

And he saved the primitive people from death.

He started hunting with his dad when he grew up.

So a cheerful and faithful dog became a friend to a person.

song of the frogs

We have eyes like diamonds

And emerald skin.

And we are born three times

And this, brothers, is a miracle.

Small caviar in a lump,

And a tadpole in a frisky flock,

And here is a frog on a hummock

Sitting or jumping on the lawn.

Frozen in the ice - and alive again.

Here is a frog!

We breathe with gills like fish.

We breathe with lungs, like humans.

Like birds we could fly.

But it's better to sing like birds, we will!

Of course, good trills

Sometimes these birds take out!

But we were the first to sing

When they weren't around.

A million years, maybe two

Heard the world one "qua-qua!"

We are record holders on land

And in each puddle of the champion.

We have jumpy knees

We have webbed feet.

Of course we are cold

But our songs are so melodious.

We are stupid in your fables,

But in your fairy tales we are princesses!

Become a queen - kva-kva!

Reign with the power of magic!

subtext

You will not find a dirty trick in my poems.

Implicitly smart and implicitly brave

I can't be. Hiding lies under the truth

Under the lies the truth is an impossible task

I think. I write what I want.

What I want, I will not say anything about.

Well, the subtext, unlike the catch,

Walks with Chukovsky

I am fourteen years old and he is sixty.

He is huge, and gray, and ruddy, and nosy.

He mourns for his son. I am sad without my father.

May is blooming. And there is no end in sight to the war.

Be careful of mine, he decides my fate

And anxiously looks at my thinness.

Tomorrow morning he will rush to save me.

In the meantime, he will show you how to write.

And read me poems that the great poet

Composed about the love of twenty-seven years,

Reminds me of what lies ahead of me.

O poetry! Take care of people's souls

To find strength and a common language in you

This frail boy and strong old man.

hide and seek

Again, like many years ago,

I go into the familiar courtyard and garden.

The yard is empty. And no one in the garden.

How can I find comrades?

No one... And yet there is someone.

Empty... But they should be here.

One, two, three, four, five,

I'm going looking!

I'll take my hands off my eyes.

Hey guys! Who fell into the grass?

Who's in the shed? Who's around that corner?

Who is there behind the birch trunk?

I don't believe in an empty yard.

I still play with you.

Early glory

"Poet! Poet!" - shouted after.

The poet was young.

He didn't dream of fame.

He dreamed of reprisal

With everyone who follows the poet

He shouted: “Poet! Poet! Poet!"

Dawn. Sokolniki. Glade...

Dawn. Sokolniki. Glade.

We are exactly forty-five together.

When you leave, it's kind of strange

Remember such things.

To our first embrace

Looks the last star.

May belated curses

They will never be touched.

We were friends with you, like boys are friends ...

We were friends with you, like boys are friends,

They fought and argued without respite.

It used to be as soon as we get together with you,

And right away we start fighting.

Again in hand-to-hand or chess combat

We hurry to put each other on the shoulder blades.

Where the sword flashed, there the ball will roll.

Rejoice, winner! Defeated, cry!

We are not tired of these battles,

Though every hundred times died in a duel.

But we kept our friendship.

Still would! She's hardened in battle!

Glowworm

I have a furry worm in my hands.

He carries a greenish light.

And the guys call him - a firefly.

It is a pity that in childhood I did not have to find you!

I'd say, "That's my firefly!"

I would take you home, firefly.

I would put you in a box

And I couldn't sleep for joy.

Is it because I did not find you, that mother

Did you go to bed too early?

Is it because he was a coward in childhood

And didn’t you wander through the forest in the evenings?

No, I wandered, to spite the evil wizards.

Obviously I was unlucky then.

And then came flaming July.

The roar of explosions. The glitter of tracer bullets.

Leaving the darkened town

The trains moved to the east.

I lost my childhood somewhere along the way...

So shine brighter, little one! Shine!

Third try

You don't immediately leave the arena

And you don't draw the line right away.

Three attempts are given to the athlete

To take the height.

Failure, but you are not at a loss:

The decisive moment is near again.

You're getting ready for your third try

Watching others try.

Run up. Take off. And - done!

Heralding a new struggle

The bar is set higher, and again

Three attempts are given to you.

But it didn’t work out (an attempt is not torture),

Grit your teeth, get ready and wait.

And it turns out that the third attempt

It always stays ahead.

So there is no need to go back to class.

The bell will ring, get dressed quickly

And wait for me at the school doors!”

And in pairs, in pairs after her,

For my dear teacher

Solemnly we leave the village.

And in the puddles from the lawns there was a lot of foliage!

“Look! On dark Christmas trees in the undergrowth

Maple stars burn like pendants

Bend over for the prettiest leaf

Veins of crimson on gold.

Remember everything, how the earth falls asleep,

And the wind covers it with leaves.

And in the maple grove lighter and lighter.

All new leaves fly off the branches.

We play and rush under the leaf fall

With a sad, thoughtful woman nearby.

Lessons

Taught lessons. I repeated the lessons.

Having done the lessons, he rushed to the lessons.

How I listened to the lessons in the lesson!

How did the lessons answer at the blackboard!

And having deserved reproaches or reproaches,

I immediately learned from them.

I followed the teacher with my eyes.

Nothing distracted me.

And who then sat at the desk next to,

Let him forgive, I did not hear him.

Teaching ... Man is ruled by passions,

And I have this passion was in power.

In any of us sits a schoolboy-slave,

Afraid that they will be called to the board.

In each of us lives a cheerful schoolboy,

Drawing theorems in the sand.

For the school spirit without the admixture of schoolchildren,

As for a horse, ready to give half the kingdom.

Oh, you are the locomotive kingdom!

How much boiling water do you want.

Wait a minute, merchants!

Drink, brigade, boiling water.

Skip the sanitary

Echelons to the east.

Wait, passengers!

Sit down, children, on the grass.

Fight Siberian regiments

They rush by courier to Moscow.

Commanders are careful

They put on a disguise.

Ah, taiga birches,

You have been taken far away.

The locomotive will take off and move,

And the wagons will fly.

And the birches are like a trinity,

How they rustle in the huts.

Berestov Valentin Dmitrievich (1928-1998) - Russian children's poet,
writer, translator.

Valentin Berestov was born on April 1, 1928 in the city of Meshchovsk,
Kaluga region in the teacher's family. Read future poet learned at four
of the year. Poetry began to write since childhood. During World War II, the family
Berestova was evacuated in Tashkent. And there he was happy
meet Nadezhda Mandelstam, who introduced him to Anna
Akhmatova.

Then there was a meeting with Korney Chukovsky, who played a big role
in the fate of Valentin Berestov. Both Akhmatova and Chukovsky reacted to the beginning
his work with great interest and care. While
K. I. Chukovsky wrote: “This fourteen-year-old frail teenager has
talent of a huge range, surprising all connoisseurs. His poems
classic in best sense of this word, he is endowed with a subtle sense of style
and works with equal success in all genres, and this work
combined with high culture, with hard work. His
moral character inspires respect for all who come into contact with it.

The first collection of poems by Valentin Berestov "Departure" was published in 1957.
and received recognition from readers, poets and critics. Comes out the same year
the first book for children "About the car". This was followed by collections of poems:
« Happy summer”, “How to find a path”, “Smile”, “Lark”, “First
falling leaves”, “Definition of happiness”, “Fifth leg” and many others. "Berestov,
- wrote the poet Korzhavin, - this is, first of all, talented, intelligent and, if
so to speak, a cheerful lyric poet. Anna Akhmatova about short
humorous poems by Valentin Dmitrievich Berestov told him:
“Take this as seriously as you can. Nobody can do that."

“If you asked me who is the man of the century, I would say: Valentine
Berestov. Because it was precisely such people that the twentieth century lacked more
Total". Novella Matveeva could join this statement
many. Valentin Berestov is grateful to many wonderful children
writers whom he helped take their first steps in literature. . .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Loved you for no particular reason
Because you are a grandson
Because you are a son
For being a baby
For what you grow
Because he looks like mom and dad.
And this love until the end of your days
It will remain your secret support.

V. Berestov

A wonderful writer (including children) Valentin Berestov has such a short but brilliant poem.

"Loved you

For no particular reason:

Because you are a grandson

Because you are a son

For being a baby

For what you grow

For the fact that - he looks like mom and dad ...

And this love until the end of your days

It will remain your secret support.

This poem is easy to remember, like a counting rhyme, and it seems that it is not worth the trouble to understand it. However - it is worth, and exactly what - labor. Intellectual.

It seems that most "normal" families already do what the poem says, and even do it - with a vengeance. But let's separate two concepts: "sentimental lisping" and ... love.

What many families with small children do is more often sentimental lisping.

Let's rewrite the poem...

Let's put in place the words "loved" and "love" more exact word"delighted" and "delighted", albeit with a violation of the verse.

"Admired you for no particular reason..."

Let's read the poem again. Only the ending then needs to be redone too. From sentimental delights "secret support" ... it turns out not strong ...

And this delight until the end of your days

It will remain your secret disease,

Blimey. Well, how do you like the poem after the alteration? This is a typical clinical picture.

Why "gush" experienced about someone - is it bad? Because it goes away quickly like a vinegar and soda reaction, and... it doesn't stand up to problems...

You can continue to love a person, even when he has done something bad or inappropriate. Even when he develops into an independent Personality and does everything in defiance.

Even when he got sick. Even when I broke up with you and stopped feeling you as "one of my own". As they say, "Love is long-suffering, merciful, does not seek its own"...

But sentimental delights can be experienced only for strictly defined sentimental reasons. (Approximately, as with the New Year theme package, you can not disgrace yourself only in December-January). And these reasons are very few. A person hooked on the needle of sentimental delights deliberately narrows the repertoire of his actions in order to find himself in a field of constant sentiment. You go beyond the edges of the field - it's cold there, no one is enthusiastic there ... so a person becomes a jester, a cutie, a room dog.

A person who is accustomed to the taste of sugary sentimental delights, then, all his life, wants to receive exactly that sentimental delight - "mothers", "women" ... This is how an adult likes the taste of semolina porridge with lumps normal person. You understand that this is an imprinting of kindergarten rubbish, but sweet childhood memories are not chosen and remade ...

Or maybe worse...

As an adult, such a person can take and reject true love and friendship. Because they are "not so sweet" - like his usual oversweetened - sentimental delight is sweet.

Growing up, such people become greedy for flattery. And if we compare the life and deeds of a person with a ship, then the conclusion is disappointing: a ship in which a person greedy for flattery “for the captain” will certainly sink.

So is it necessary to “love a child because he is a baby”? Necessary! But how to distinguish the "expression of love" from the "sentimental antics"?

Well, God bless you, I don't know how to explain such obvious things...

And how to distinguish sour cream from mayonnaise?

Elena Nazarenko

Marina Korotkova

Head of the Library of the Center for the Development of Creativity of Children and Youth named after A. V. Kosareva, Moscow

2008 has been declared the Year of the Family in Russia. And now, on a holiday, during the holidays, one of the readers, a teacher by profession, asked me to pick up "poems about the family." The first of the authors who came to mind is Valentin Berestov. A poem from the cycle "Crossroads of Childhood":

Loved you for no particular reason
For being a grandson
Because you are a son
For being a baby
For what you grow
Because he looks like mom and dad.
And this love, until the end of your days
It will remain your secret support.

In the book of memoirs "Childhood in small town V.D. Berestov wrote: “How many gentle eyes shone over me! I'm used to the fact that everyone loves me ... The kindness of my relatives and countrymen spoiled me at the beginning of my life. As an adult, I could not get used to the fact that someone is not happy with me and generally does not expect anything good from me.

In Berestov's poetry, the words "mother", "father", "grandmother", "brother" are especially common. If you put all these verses together, you get a kind of " family chronicle". One of the poet's collections is called "Family Photography" (M., 1973), based on the poem of the same name:

Pulling on a new sailor suit
And grandma straightens her hair,
On dad's new striped trousers,
Mom is wearing an unworn jacket,
Brother is in a good mood
Blush and smells like strawberry soap
And waiting for the obedience of sweets.
We solemnly carry chairs into the garden.
The photographer guides the camera.
Laughter on the lips. Anxiety in the chest.
Molchok. Click. And the holiday is over.

2008 marks the 80th anniversary of the birth of Valentin Dmitrievich, he was born in 1928, on the most frivolous day of the year - April 1:

And I was born on the first of April.
My father, returning from a trip,
Heard the news along the way
And he did not believe: “So, he was not born,
And if he was born, then not a son.
No, the jokers have gone overboard.
Joke, joke, but know the measure in jokes!

One of the first childhood memories (Valya was then no more three years) and favorite poem his mother:

Evening. In wet colors window sill.
Grace. Purity. Silence.
At this hour, head on the palms,
The mother usually sits by the window.
Won't respond, won't turn back
Do not raise your face from the palms.
And wakes up as soon as it waits
Behind the window of the father's smile,
And pull weights from the walkers,
And rushes towards him.
What is love in this world
I know, but I will not soon understand.

Valya's mother played in amateur performances, and when she prepared the role, only prison was in the house from food:

Mom walks, frowning eyebrows,
Whispers loudly, teaches the role.
So, today there will be a prison:
Onions and butter, bread and salt.
The floor is not washed, the flower is not watered,
The fire went out under the stove.
And no one is schooling children,
Doesn't educate us.
Artistic nature
No business on the day of the premiere
To the worries of life. Tyurya -
Here is our celebratory dinner.
Glasses are breaking
Get out of hand.
Pour water from the tap into a bowl,
We crumble the bread and cut the onion.
And in the eyes of my mother a storm,
And in the movements of triumph.
That's the prison!
What a prison!
Nothing tastes better!

And here's the son auditorium looking at her mother-artist:

Mom played a machine gunner,
And my son's heart sank.
How cheerful and bold
This was a gunner.
Mommy, Mommy, there you are!
Do not hide your triumph
Shaking and pushing all the neighbors,
The son whispered: - This is my mother!
And then his mom played
Daughter of a white general.
How cowardly and evil
The general's daughter was.
The son wanted to fall through the ground.
After all, the family is covered in disgrace.
And around the admiring faces:
"Did not recognize? Is that your mom?"
(« amateur performance»)

In his memoirs, Berestov wrote about himself - a "social half-breed": one grandmother is a peasant woman, the other is a noblewoman. Valentina Berestov's mother, Zinaida Fedorovna, was the daughter of the well-known landowner Fyodor Telegin and Alexandra, a noblewoman of old kind Trunov. Fyodor Telegin, however, was himself a peasant, but he became rich and became the owner of the Serebreno estate, not far from Meshchovsk. Father Valentin Berestov, Dmitry Matveyevich Berestov, was from peasants, but from economic peasants, those that belonged to the treasury and did not know serfdom. From childhood, he fell in love with reading, studied in Poltava at the Teacher's Seminary, then, when the First World War and officers from the upper classes began to be missed, was admitted to officer school from where he was sent to the front. Subsequently worked school teacher taught history. Possessing a beautiful voice, he sang as a child in the church choir, and later sang lullabies by Mozart, Tchaikovsky and songs by Vertinsky to his sons.

My father did not whistle at all,
Didn't sing at all.
Not what I am, not what I am
When I was with him.
Not in full voice, just like that,
He didn't sing anything.
Everyone says the voice was
My dad's.
I didn’t become a singer, I taught children,
AT three wars fought...
He sang for mom, for guests.
No, he didn't sing.
And what do we just sing like that -
Ta-ra yes ti-ri-ri, -
It probably sounded in him
But somewhere inside.
No wonder he had
The walk is so easy
As if the music was calling
Him from afar.

The Great Patriotic War began, and my father was called to the front, about this the verses “The First Evening of the War”:

It was the first evening
perhaps the last war.
As at a wake, we eat pancakes with tears.
We sit for a long time, and eat, and look at our father.
Quiet, so quiet that you can hear the beating of the heart.
Sweet is the gull, but there is a seal on the faces of sadness.
Why doesn't the messenger come to deliver the summons?
Maybe with this one, as with the First World War
Or with the Civil, the father will return alive.
Threads. Needle. Straight razor. Notebook.
Fees are really short-lived on a long trip.
The infantry will come out to save the planet and the country.
As for work, my father was going to war.

The Berestov family had three sons (the third son was born after the war). About himself and his brothers, Valentin Dmitrievich wrote:

* * *
House
Walker.
The mother is terrified
- They're fighting again!
Brother goes to brother.
And drives us into the yard
To the crowd of guys.
Walking yard:
Brother stands up for his brother!

* * *
So, I take scissors,
Comb and bathrobe.
Sits like in a barbershop
My five year old brother.
And he asks for all the curls
Cut to one
So that women are at peace
They left him.

YOUNGER BROTHER

After all, you must! Brother still believes seriously
The one that has been in question for me for a long time.
When he puffs, he's still a locomotive.
And I can no longer be a locomotive.

Valentine was the eldest of the brothers, and when his father went to the front, he is the eldest man in the family:

Father was called to the front.
And for this reason
I must live from now on
As a man should.
Mother is always at work.
The apartment is empty.
But in a house for a man
There will always be a job.
I follow my brother
Are the clothes okay?
Cooking dinner: in uniform
Hot potato.
Buckets full of water.
Swept apartment.
Easy to wash dishes
there is not a drop of fat on it.
With an impassive look
solid and worthy
In the yard, to the garbage pit,
I'm walking with a slop bucket,
With three coupon cards
they cut my hair at the grocery store.
Breadwinner and earner. The male.
Senior in the house.
I'm sincerely sure
What became the father's replacement.
But in that distant life
blessed, pre-war
Father didn't work
Similar deeds.
Mother replaced father.
I help my mother.

Meanwhile, there was no news from his father for a long time, and in 1942, a fourteen-year-old teenager wrote a poem “To the Father”:

My father! You don't send messages
For a whole year, my dear family,
But the days we were together
In a dream they stand in front of me.
And living life comes to life:
Reeds and the distance of the native river,
And you, bending over the water,
You look wearily into the floats.
Again, baby, I'm next to you
I stand in silence
And you with such a welcoming look
Sometimes you look at me...
And again a passing cart
Knocking, swirling dust in smoke.
And the old horse, tired of running,
It flies at a slow pace.
The silence does not break the sound.
Only a stupid quail in the morning
Repeats incessantly
Everything is “time to sleep” and “time to sleep”.
And life flows again
Full of the same joy
As if we were not separated
Relentless War.
As if they were a nightmare
All the turmoil and need
And the morning with radiant light
They dispersed without difficulty.

Father returned alive and from this, for him the third in a row, war. He raised three sons and for each of them was an example in life:

The older brother had a sonorous father,
Idol of the town, local historian and singer.
Imitating him in this, and in this,
His son became a historian and a poet.
The middle brother had a sad father
A fisherman and a state fugitive from boredom.
He spread a flower garden, a vegetable garden behind the house.
Imitating him, the son became an agronomist.
The younger brother had an old father,
Sage, dweller of the transcendent world.
He searched for books, collected and read.
And the son, in imitation, became a scribe.
So age and time changed him,
Twisted the era of my father.
And only one thing did not change the father:
For every son, he was a model.

“The era of my father twisted,” writes Berestov. In 1936, Dmitry Matveyevich was expelled from the party, summoned at night for interrogations at the NKVD. Saving his family, he left Meshchovsk. In 1988, Valentin Dmitrievich wrote a poem about this, "Evidence (1936)".

“Berestov,” they said to their father, “
Admit it: you are a Socialist-Revolutionary.
Looking for evidence
They raised dust in the archives,
In Ukrainian, for example.
And now we present them.
You didn't hide your eserstvo in vain.
What's in Yekaterinoslav
Did you speak at the convention?
With what did you go to these Socialist-Revolutionaries?
What did he tell them about terror
In nineteen hundred and three?"
- What did you say? Probably nonsense.
What else to say at the time
Maybe an eight year old kid?
"How eight? Oh, the enemy seed!
Get out, damn it!"

During the war, Berestov's father was in captivity and, upon returning to his homeland, was forced to work in rural school, he could not find work in Kaluga.
Two grandmothers lived in their family: Baba Sasha, mother of Zinaida Feodorovna, and great-grandmother Alexandra Gerasimovna, mother of Baba Sasha. Valentin Dmitrievich also talks about them in his poems.

BABA SASHA

Our sweet fairy!
Arches of proud eyebrows.
I called "Baba Sasha"
My mother's mom.
There were talks in the town
About your past sins
And with the zeal of a praying man
You begged them.
In a black shawl, in a strict dress,
Asking for yourself, for us,
On your knees before god
Went down many times.
freezing spokes,
Blue look from under the scarf ...
Well I drove on the floorboard
Blown-button troops.
I beat the cadets with Budyonny,
Interventions, junkers.
The cry "Hurrah!", "For the power of the Soviets!"
Your quiet shelter shook.

In the book of memoirs, Berestov wrote about her: “My blue-eyed black-haired grandmother, the mother of five children, fell in love with a monk-defiant, left her grandfather. I heard rumors about this in Meshchovsk half a century after the death of my grandfather.
And about my great-grandmother:

Great-grandmother-disfranchised, great-grandmother-noblewoman
I always hurried to visit early in the morning.
Why do I give honor to the landowner?
Great-grandmother! Not everyone has it.
"Great-grandmother, hello!" -
“Come, naughty?
For gingerbread, eat. Take an earpiece.
Again Kovalev. Sing, honey, sing!
Ah, the radio! A treasure for a blind old woman!
Well, that's enough. The newspaper is a hotbed of culture.
Let's talk cartoons.
Circle on the eye? Ah, the monocle! Well well!
In a cylinder and with a bomb? Give, they say, war!
Oh, how she made fun of Brian,
Over Churchill, Hoover, Zhang Xue-liang,
How she snorted, her lips clamped with her palm,
Above the petty arrogance of the great powers.
She joked, reveled, rolled in a carriage.
Laughing and joking, she lingered in the world.
The tenth dozen! .. Old women crowd
Yes, the yellow riza of the butt is a cone.
Here it was not heard "You fell a victim."
According to the ancient rite, she was buried.

Great-grandmother loved to listen to folk songs performed by the singer Kovaleva, was fond of politics and, despite the fact that at that time she was already blind, she subscribed to the Izvestia newspaper. Thanks to Izvestia and great-grandmother, little Valya Berestov learned the first letters and read the first word. He talks about this in his memoirs: “And yet she (great-grandmother) taught me the first two letters. On other caricatures that I told her, among stormy sea a proud cliff with four letters rose along a steep cliff. “Three identical letters side by side? asked the great-grandmother. - Not otherwise the USSR! The first word I ever read! Grandmothers called Valya and his brother Dima Dragotsunchik and Strekotunchik. Grandmothers were "disenfranchised" - that is, deprived of voting rights for noble origin.
Father's mother, grandmother Katya, lived in the village of Torkhovo. She was the second wife of Matvey Berestov and bore him 18 children, of whom nine survived. From the village she came to visit in a cart and drove the horse herself.

GRANDMA KATYA

I see Grandma Katya
Standing by the bed.
Came from the village
Grandma Katya.
Mom knot with a hotel
She submits.
I'm quiet
Dried pear vanities.
I told my father
As a child:
"You, baby, yourself
Unharness your horse!"
And respectfully asked
Leaning over me
"Would you like a fairy tale,
My father?"

Many relatives of the Berestovs died in the war. Two sons of Baba Sasha did not return from the war. Valentin Berestov's cousins Vasily and Konstantin, the grandchildren of Baba Katya, also did not return from the war. In the poem "Shirt" Valentin Dmitrievich spoke about cousin Basil:

The parents are different, but the grandmother is the same.
And she brought her brother from the village to us.
And I was six years old, he was the most glad of all.
My cousin was studying to be a teacher.
What fun he was! How kind he was!
What beautiful shirts he wore!
Came in a white shirt. And on our porch
We looked at the cathedral clock for a full hour.
And before mom said "Come to bed!"
We have learned to recognize the time by the arrows.
Then in a blue shirt he came for me,
Brought to other students and seated at the table.
And the announcer, like a teacher, told a story for everyone.
So I listened to the loudspeaker for the first time.
But in a black shirt, my brother came into the house,
And my mother let us go to the village together.
Ah, the new shirt has one big secret:
In the paint trough in the kitchen, it changed color.
And again - look! - looks like new.
And the loudspeaker keeps getting louder...
Dear brother, he did not return from the battlefield.
The gramophone shines like a silver trumpet.
Favorite record, hissing, went in a circle:
"The faceted cups fell off the table."
The windows are open in the hut. Under the windows - friends.
"Fell and shatter like my youth."

Vasily fought near Kyiv, was a political instructor, was surrounded. Then he was in a partisan detachment. In 1944, Vasily Grigorievich went missing. Shortly before this, his parents received two letters from him, in one of them he asked not to worry if there was no news from him for a long time.
The father of the hero of the poem "Kostik" Nikolai Matveyevich Berestov was the chairman of the collective farm. When the Germans arrived, he was appointed headman, but he managed to save the collective farm herd without giving the invaders a single head of cattle. Despite this, after the liberation of the village by the Red Army (in early 1942), he was arrested and sent to Uzbek camps. The villagers stood up for him, and in 1945 he was released and rehabilitated, but his health was undermined, and he soon died. And his son Konstantin, who was not yet 18 years old, was drafted into the army and, as the son of an "enemy of the people", was sent to a penal battalion. He died a few months later, in 1942, when he hit a mine (penalties were thrown into the minefield ahead of the equipment):

Who remembers Kostya,
Our cousin
About a brother soldier
About our long-term loss.
He graduated from school
And immediately died in the war.
He remembered you
He dreamed me in a dream.
in family albums
He lives on an old card
(He did not play,
But for some reason filmed with a guitar).
And something more important
Than just sadness and kinship
Connected us all
Who hasn't forgotten about him yet.

Poems about destitute grandmothers and brother Kostya were published only in the 1970s. And here it would be appropriate to recall another poem by Berestov.

SUBTEXT

You will not find a dirty trick in my poems.
Implicitly smart and implicitly brave
I can't be. Hiding lies under the truth
Under a lie, the truth is an impossible task
I think. I write what I want
What I want, I will not say anything about.
Well, the subtext, unlike the catch
Poems are given not by the author, but by the era.

Years passed, and Valentin Berestov turned from a grandson and son into a father, and then into a grandfather. When his daughter Marina was born, poems for children appeared. “My daughter Marina inspired me to write poems and fairy tales for kids,” V.D. Berestov wrote in his autobiographical note “About Me”. For example, famous poem“About the girl Marina and her car” or the poem “Horse”:

me for my daughter
The best of horses.
I can cry out loud
And click loudly.
And riding, riding, riding
On his dashing horse
That's how it wears
Girl rider.
And in the morning there is no horse.
He leaves for half a day
Pretending to be angry
businesslike,
But he dreams of one thing:
Become a horse again.
And, trembling with impatience,
Beats with a hoof.

And then there were poems about the grandson.

FOR THE BIRTH OF A GRANDSON

As in childhood, grandmother
Friendly with me.
But this grandmother
My wife!

WALK WITH THE GRANDSON

Grandpa likes birches
And aspens.
Grandson loves kiosks
The shops.
He took the mask of the cannibal,
Got stickers.
Didn't stay with grandfather
Not a penny.

At one of the meetings with readers, Valentin Dmitrievich said: “I took all the plots from my own life. Everything that was written in my verses was with me ... "The verses given here, combined common theme, the theme of the family, is a kind of history of the Telegin-Berestov family, inextricably linked with the history of our country.
And a few more poems that were not included in the article, also on a “family” theme: “Letter from Grandma”, “French”, “Waking up, I go to the window ...”, “Bathing”, “Door”, “Behind desk Father…”, “Father Fishing”, “Father’s Gift”, “Grandmother’s”, “Parents’ Day (1940)”, “Night Conversations with Father”, “Bad Dream”, “Mom Left”, “Parents Gone to the Theater ”, “Paper crosses”, “Only once, and then at the beginning of childhood ...”.