Александр Морев. Лучший поэт. сейчас так мало, кто...

Alexander Morev. Best poet. now there are so few who write. with such sincerity. he is alive. even if not combed in places. but this is what distinguishes the talented, the brilliant. did not take it. the doctor on the Buckle, where he managed to stay for several days, warned one of Sasha's friends that there was only one outcome for such an illness. More precisely two. But they are inevitable. And so it happened. from 7 to 8 July 1979 Morev jumped into a 24-meter adit on Vaska.
Not all of his poems remained. What we managed to collect from friends. He burned folders with his work on October 11, 67 in front of Boris Taigin. All my work for 20 years.
Therefore, I quote those verses that I read first with him. Wonderful. Such is God whispering.

* * *

That - the other - will not come to me
to the room where the ficus gloss
spread the leaves on the window.
There's a red Picasso on the wall
there is a blue Picasso on the wall,
like wine in a full glass.
There is an intricate wallpaper pattern
did not hide old bedbugs nests,
there somehow chance brought both of us together,
there somehow my husband found both of us -
the janitor, the bastard, apparently, he reported everything.
Husband and me. And ours, that, the other,
only screamed from the corner.
His back was tight
and eyes, and a forehead, like a bull's -
all tilted, bullish, head.
Maybe the neighbors heard
he fell on a table, on a saucer,
maybe the neighbors heard
only I was standing, breathing, silent.
And barefoot, our, that, the other,
white as a ghost in a sheet
slowly slid down the wall ...

Janitor, janitor, I'm not scolding you ...
... Ficus, a terrible ficus on the window!

December 1959

I didn't borrow money for love.
In my pocket there is only a small change for a tram.
I did not buy flowers for my beloved,
I didn't buy perfume for my beloved.
Hands intertwined - there was paradise in the hut.
I didn't borrow money for love.

She was faithful to me like tobacco
like a mother, like air, like earth under the sky.
She told me: "You are an eccentric!"
She loved me just like that
for being an eccentric
and that I was not different.
She was faithful to me like tobacco.

Nobody can love like her.
She fell from the roof with a light ringing,
she burst into the windows with a ringing bugle,
and into the streets, and into the house flowed with a mountain stream
to me. But she will not disturb you, -
no one can love like her.

To find out, see and hear everything,
so that people, like dogs, find participation,
I accepted everything: the light in the window and the roof,
and swallows, and clouds, and above ...
I'll be forever young, drunk with happiness
I will be wise, young, gray-haired with happiness.

1959

THREE

It was not the way people think it was.
They left her the key, and we came ...
I see cobblestone gray breasts
And the front walls covered in dust.
An old woman opened the door for us. Shone
Eyes - not eyes - two old coins.
She led the corridor ... the doors were envelopes,
Hiding someone else's, they were silent, blackened,
Hiding underwear, hiding the primordial,
Money, love, swearing, buffets ...

We two entered an unfamiliar door,
At the door, as if into the night, into the unknown
risky ...
A hand groped for the switch.
Dry and empty as a nut, click -
And the left corner exploded with the bed,
And in the left corner above the bed is a god.
Black as night and incomprehensible as rustle
A god lodged by days and flies.
He saw there two - two happy,
Which, crucified, he could not fail to see.
He heard a whisper there, where every word
It was sin and forgiveness for sin.
And I know he wanted there the same way
To bear this cross - lips and hands crossed,
Take her eyes, earlobe,
And solder heart to heart until dawn,
And also the old woman pressed against the doors
The white eye is a tentacle with the glint of a coin.

I cried. Unshaven cheek, like a mat,
I rubbed her cheeks and rubbed her breasts
I was crying ... you know, you saw, god ...
It was not the way people think it was.

End of the 50s.

MEMORIES

A cuckoo over the forest, the hushed fir trees.
How little we need ...
So that in the evening we all sit
like this on the veranda.
The samovar sings, and there is jam in the sockets,
and dad in a cherry robe.
Fresh.
A shawl is thrown over mom's shoulders
and grandmother knits.
And grandfather will tell us something funny now.
The flowers of the night opened in the flowerbed.
The evening is quiet and beautiful.
An old man sits in a rocking chair -
our neighbor from the lilac dacha ...
Ah, dear summer residents, you all came,
to leave so soon.
Only memory remains ...
On the tablecloth candy wrappers and nut shells ...
Ah, mom, I feel like crying.

PLANTAIN

It looks like it was made of green steel.
You cannot understand his endurance.
Neither you nor the flock will crush him,
dusty roads in the fields.
He is on the border of dust and bloom.
Oh, the sacrifice of a leaf trampled into dust!
The desire to be on the edge is not self-denial,
he could have conquered the feather grass in the field!
Fight to win for self-affirmation
with any herb.
But he stands, alas,
raising their decisive peaks,
he guards the edge of the grass from death,
numbered among the saints by grass.
But maybe he runs from the grass
and prepares himself for people as a gift?
When you accidentally cut yourself,
he is right there - he will stop your blood.
He loves the music of steps, wheels, horseshoes,
he likes to listen to women at the village well.
Country road through the fields, the path to the house is torn,
and surrounds every rural shelter.
I don't know how he would have lived without a man!
He is where man once walked
it grows where our life goes.
So he sometimes comes to the cemetery.
h