Rejuvenating apples. Rejuvenating apples: Monologues of a woman about village life

Oh, I can’t resist, I’ll tell you how I flew to Moscow! I spent ten years getting ready and couldn’t get around to it. And then, without looking, it curled up, where it all came from. Vacation accrued at the office. I clap my mittens - they only saw me! A man with children, she left all the farming, from under the cows to the Kremlin itself! I went to my brother - he called me a colonel. Younger than me, and long since retired;

He has nothing to do - he’s delighted! I was embarrassed to give a telegram. “Oh, you?!” he says. “If you,” he says, “were smart, I would have told you. I would,” he says, “take you from the station in a car. It would just whistle!” “Well,” I say, “the baron is not great, she got there on foot.”

I got there, but I was tired. They show me the way, but in different ways: one says - to the left, girl, another - to the right, citizen, the third says - aunt, go straight! They look at the knapsack, oh, my God! The back and forth went so far that I could see double in my eyes. Suddenly an old man came up and asked: “Aren’t you going to see Ivan Petrovich? There,” he says, “in this house, second floor, sixth quarter. They’ve been waiting for a long time,” he says! - “Oh, thank you, old citizen!” I went, I went, I went, I see it says: 2nd floor. Oh, let me, I think I’ll go until the third, it’s more reliable. My brother and sister-in-law got upset and scolded me: why didn’t I send a telegram? I live one day, another. They’ll take me to the performance, I’ll be everywhere, and I’ll say: “Where am I going, such a disheveled person? It’s better to keep me at home, not show me.” My brother says to me: “Now we’ll make such a madam out of you!” And he took me to the main clinic. He started - Lord, Queen of Heaven, where have I landed! The women are sitting, the men are above them in white coats. They are caring for them, as if in a hospital.

All sorts of caps, bottles! They put me in prison, I'm afraid to move. They cut it all off first, then curl it, then let’s dry my hair.

It seems like half a day wasted in vain, and my brother says to me: “Well, now there’s another manicure!” A manicure is just like a manicure, and one will die. They opened a new room. My hands were placed in a dish with warm water, apparently to soak. What a mess! They wiped the cauldron and cleaned the nails. Then they started painting it pink.

I sit and think: how am I going to milk the cows?

Some kind of baskim? Yes, and she began to cry... The tears came out of me like peas, and the girl was scared, and her brother was waiting, and the authorities came running. What and why, unless they are dissatisfied with something? They were released, I calmed down and I said to my brother: “Send me home for Christ’s sake, three cows are about to calve.” - “Okay, let’s calve without you, let’s go to the store now.” I bought a jacket, a dress, and fashionable shoes. In the evening I got dressed, and I’m not myself. How I looked in the mirror, dears! Am I not me? And she began to roar even more. He drove and drove me, both to a restaurant and to see friends. Right down to the general himself: meet me, dear sister! But my own sister can’t say a word, she’s afraid to step. I’m tired, I barely survived. No, I say, I’ll go and go home. They escorted me out, put me in a nice carriage, and a small suitcase full of gifts. There's no need for gifts, let's go home quickly.

As soon as I got off at my station, my heart began to skip a beat. I stand and look - he’s running! I stand: will he find out or won’t he? He ran past... The whole train ran around, running back. There were no people left anymore. He runs again, but again past me. Well, I think he’ll run one more time, and I’ll call out. As soon as I saw it, I was confused: should I hug or wait? “Eh,” he says, “I’m afraid to approach you. I only recognized you from the suitcase.” e “But, you can’t force everything on the people, next time I’ll put on a different make-up! Haven’t the cows calved?” - “They calved,” he says, “all three...”.

At the post office, pensioners constantly took away a public pen, even tied to the counter with a thread - they signed the transfers and, out of forgetfulness, put it in their bag. The thread was breaking. One day, the cashier’s husband brought especially thin and durable rubber from a military factory - for...

I bought a voice recorder. Give it to a friend for the New Year. So tiny, digital. And in the morning I was getting dressed, and it fell out of my trousers. And on the rug... he fucked. And I apparently accidentally put it under the bed - once! Tapcom. And he turns on the sound...

I stopped a white Opel here. Well, with a rod, you know, a stick for Management. The driver gets out, he’s tired, he’s on fumes, his eyes are red. “That’s it, I say, I’m off! Come on, go on foot." - “It’s not fair, let me blow into the tube, let’s see...” - “What...

I worked in the circus for 50 years, but I won’t work with you, Mr. Director! Write off such a horse! All! Enough! Here is my statement!.. Wait! Come in, Vera!.. Look at her teeth! Young girl! Vera, stop laughing, it’s not funny, they want to write you off!.. It’s okay...

They meet in the hallway of apartment 1. 1 Hello, hello, come in, come in, bro... Well, let's kiss. How many years, how many winters!.. And where is the wife? He promised to bring it! I’ve been married for 12 years, and you still haven’t introduced her to me!! Maybe you're single? 2 Meet...

(The dog is an absolute indifference. Smart and lazy. He doesn’t immediately follow the border guard’s commands, reluctantly. He thinks out loud. The border guard doesn’t hear him. But the dog hears and understands everything. They go out together. The border guard is in front). -So... How are you? (sternly) Sit! (The dog slowly, like a master, sits down in...

I received a letter from my son, I don’t know what to think! He's in my army! First he writes that I should keep an eye on Yulka, his fiancee... Why should I keep an eye on him? Yulka has charisma - it’s creepy! And so economic. Holding piglets. I already...

My mother-in-law and I were stopped by a traffic cop... Drunk. And about my mother-in-law he suddenly says: “Who is this fat one?!” And my mother-in-law is very big, and that day her bag was stolen... and at the hairdresser she cut her hair too short... and sold it at the market...

Yurok! Vovchik! All! Sleep, no fairy tales! Grandfather is very tired and his leg hurts. One? Only one! Good or scary? Scary to you? Pee yourself again. And what about you? About Kolobok? In general, I’m telling you one thing - it’s terribly kind. Once upon a time there lived a kind, kind grandfather... and grandmother! Old...

Hello! I said, I won’t go anywhere and I won’t rewrite anything! I got sick... “Eat a pill”! You didn’t even ask what made me sick!.. I’m telling you: What’s your business?! And generally speaking! The author does not have to attend the rehearsal! ...Edit? Okay, so be it...

Serenya came to me on the night of December 31st, when everyone had already gone to bed. Great! - speaks. - Happy New Year! Ugh! Your elevator, however, is impotent!.. And you can’t tell by your face that you received our telegram! Well,…

A fox lived in the forest. Beautiful, she drove the foxes from the surrounding forests crazy. They really wanted to live with her, get along, make good money, but hunters got into the habit of going into the forest. Shooting in the forest, traps along the paths, dogs rushing, and in the evenings fires, bottles flying into the bushes...

Hello, mom! Our lights have been turned off, it’s already two o’clock in the morning, and Kolya isn’t there yet!... Mom, what does Fidel Castro have to do with it?.. Phenazepam? Good night, Mom! ...Hello, Rit! It's me again. Kolka didn’t come to spend the night! Isn't it with you? I don’t think so...

My second wife was such an artist! Genius! Here she is, let’s say... ...No, I’m not the third, I’m his fourth... The third one was imprisoned, by the way, with complete confiscation of property... So this artist, who was my second, is a talent!.. ...The third one - then with full...

Give me some bread for Christ's sake... No, not like that. ...Good people!.. No. ... Passer-by, don’t let the well-deserved social security worker die of hunger!.. No, don’t talk about merits. And no ideology. And then yesterday there was a guy standing with a sign: “Serve an active builder for lunch...

Yes, I'm a music teacher, so what now!? Yes, I speak four languages ​​perfectly, I know how to dress, how to talk, how to use cutlery, so what?! Yes, there is no money, but I’m sweet, I cook well, I will love one man deeply...

Neighbor Volodya installed electrical protection on his new Toyota - he bought an expensive one that prevents theft. Yes, what people have already written or invented - it’s useless! They still steal it. Volodya has windows facing the courtyard, and his car is on the avenue! I tell him: in the yard...

Grandfather, are you tired? -I'm tired, Mashenka. -Do you want to sleep? -Very. -Then tell me a horror story and go to bed! -A horror story? I don't know any horror stories. -Well, it must be scary!! Repeat after me: One dark, dark night in the cemetery... - Well, one night in the cemetery... -... And so...

As far as I remember, I was forgotten everywhere. At the maternity hospital, my dad gave my mom flowers, kissed her, put her in a taxi, and drove off. And I’m lying on the bench, peeing in the blanket and thinking: when I grow up, I’ll be an astronaut. Grandfather, when I was born, generally thought that the puppy’s parents...

I tell her: “From the monkeys!” She told me: “From the angels”! I told her: “From monkeys!!” She: “From the angels!!” - “Well, look at yourself, I say! Could angels do this?!! Read Darwin! I bought her a microscope: “Look! Where are the angels? - “Oh-oh!.. Microbe!.....

My grandmother is superstitious. If he’s going to his neighbor’s house to get some salt, let him, he says, let me sit on the path. I met a man with empty buckets - I cursed him! A cuckoo once told her she was 84, now she’s 92, so now if she goes into the forest, it’s with a calculator.…

Hello! Ritka, is that you? ...Where am I calling from? I'm calling from heaven! I'm flying in a long jump! Five thousand meters! ...So I’m a master of sports! ...What bobsled!? ...Am I the womanizer?!! Yes, you yourself are a womanizer!!! ...Fool! Hello, Svetul? Hello! Guess where I’m calling from?.. Well, think, think...

Sergey KONDRATIEV
Sober husband
(female monologue in character)

My husband has completely swayed me with his drunkenness! After all, this is impossible - he drinks everything that burns. I saved half a bottle of French perfume for ten years - I blew it out when I was sober. Then for half a day I was indignant: how can the French drink such crap in the morning! I poke him in the face with my makeup bag and shout: “You should have bitten your lipstick, Herod.” He says: “What do you think - I had a snack. The filling of this Snickers is delicious, but the chocolate itself is painfully hard.”

Oh! I stopped letting him into the apartment drunk. So he spent a couple of nights on a rug in the entrance and asked to go home. “And then,” he says, “in the mornings, dog owners take their poodles out to walk in the yard, but they don’t have the patience to go to the yard, and they mistake me for the lawn.”

Well, he started coming home like a piece of glass. And after half an hour, you see, he no longer knits the bast. And you search him all over, like in the Gestapo, and make sure that you didn’t bring anything alcoholic with you, but it turns out that he managed to pour vodka into this... well, you know, like an inflatable rubber ball, and put it under the back of his pants. I would never have known if he had once plopped down on a nail in a stool. I didn’t have time to look back - I licked the entire stool, and at the same time wiped it with my tongue in the corridor.

Where did he hide this vodka from me? In a drain, in an aquarium, in a wall clock with a cuckoo... There, someone's cuckoo spilled - and as a result, the cuckoo began to hiccup. He jumps out every hour and shouts: “Ku-ku-Ik-ku!” I shout: “What have you done, you bastard, to the poor bird?” he says: “Why, even a check is enough for a cuckoo.”

And then - I won’t lie, I didn’t see it myself - but he, apparently, spilled a bottle somewhere on TV. Because that evening Dorenko cursed so much, cursed so much - a sober person would never allow himself to do this!

Oh, what have I done with mine! Instead of vodka, she poured kerosene into the bottle - this only healed his ulcer.

She took me to see the old healer. She’s a very ancient old woman, she doesn’t live that long, she’s already overgrown with moss from old age. “Now, now,” he says, “I’ll drop some drugs on you, my dear, and you’ll never forget about the booze.” And he lapped up the potion and went to kiss his grandmother. I forcibly beat him away from her with my grandmother’s stick, and she, satisfied, smacked her lips and shouted after him: “Apparently, one rage didn’t work, you’re a beauty, bring me to Me more, more quickly - we’ll repeat the procedure!”

Then they sewed a “torpedo” into him. So somewhere in the market he managed to pull it out and exchanged it for a bottle for some Chukchi - he managed to persuade the Chukchi that this “torpedo” would be good for killing seals.

In general, I tried everything in the world, and then he suddenly stopped drinking. How did it happen? I decided to put on a cucumber anti-wrinkle mask for myself. You take the peel of fresh cucumbers, Moment glue, mix it, coat your whole body and wait for it to dry. And if it dries up, you scrape all this rubbish off with a nail file. Where there were no wrinkles, they won’t be there, and where there were, they are now not noticeable under the glue with the peel. A good way - my neighbor suggested it to me; she invented it herself. He says: “Try, maybe you’ll succeed.”

Well, I decided to try it. On Sunday I got up early, covered all of myself - as far as I could reach with my hands - with peel and glue, walked around the apartment, waiting for it to dry. And mine woke up with a hangover to drink some water, saw me in the twilight, and screamed: “You’re lying, you won’t kill me, there are many of us at every kilometer!” Eaglet, little eagle, winged comrade!.. A lot,” he shouts, “I’ve seen green devils while drunk, but I couldn’t even imagine such a terrible thing!”

“Calm down,” I say, “you fool, it’s me, your legitimate wife!” “No,” he shouts, “you can’t deceive me, swamp kikimora!” I’ve always been a legitimate person!” I say: “What do you think, am I not a person?” He says: “If you’re a human, let me get a hangover!”

Well, I gave it to him! Get over your hangover! All the medicine that was left from the healer-kisser - the entire three-liter jar was put out to him. He blew it out in one gulp. Then I spent the whole day hugging my earthenware friend. But after that, everything came to a sudden: I stopped drinking. He doesn’t drink for an hour, he doesn’t drink for another hour... And how many months have passed, and he is no, no: not on New Year’s, not on his birthday, not on his professional holiday - Day of the Door Upholsterer Made from the Customer’s Material.

And most importantly, as soon as the guy was replaced! The next day I was walking home from work and saw him meeting me at the bus stop. “Give me,” he says, “I’ll help you carry your bags.” Well, I think I've lost my mind. I have two pounds of potatoes in this bag, but he never lifted more than two hundred grams in his life.

Well, I'm on good terms with him. “Give me your bags,” I say, “there are people all around, shame on you!” Look around - all people are like people, there’s one, even though he’s drunk, but he doesn’t disgrace his wife: she’s dragging the washing machine on herself, and he’s doing nothing but holding on to the hose.”

No, on the one hand, it is, of course, good when the husband does not drink. If, for example, she goes to the store, then she will bring what she sent for. Previously, whatever you sent for, passers-by would bring it.

Or, I remember, I sent him to the dry cleaner to pick up my blouse, made sure that he didn’t have a penny of money with him, and he came back - he couldn’t be drunker! “What did you drink for?” - I ask. He says: “While the receptionist was getting the wrapping paper, I wiped my shoes on your clean blouse. The receptionist offered to send it for re-cleaning, and I asked her to give me a stain remover instead.”

But there are so many problems with him now! He needs to cook. Previously, I remember, instead of dinner, he would drink water from the tap and smoke his “Amanita Channel”. He called this smoking water “chicken broth.”

And then he says something else: “What kind of oil is that on your windowsill - herring oil, or what? I eat the third sandwich, but it still tastes like turpentine. How I looked! Yes, this is laundry soap.

Or he came in the morning and went to the kitchen. I looked in and the five-liter tank on the stove was empty. But I put the laundry in that tank to boil. “The soup,” he says, “is delicious, but the dumplings are hard.”

Again, now you have to be jealous of him: when he’s sober, just look, someone will covet him. Although he’s not very curvy: about fifty meters with a skullcap. He has a special skullcap - it adds thirty centimeters to his height.

But now I’ve become well-read! He stopped drinking but never parted with his book. I finished reading it a year and a half before the title page. Apparently, it’s a complex work - it’s called: “The Little Humpbacked Horse and His Comrades.” Author: Korzhakov.

Helps around the house - the nail in the stool on which he once plopped down has finally been hammered. Well scored that way -. with one hit. The neighbors downstairs, however, had their chandelier collapsed. I decided to show my father's concern. He came home after midnight and said: “I wanted to pick up the child from kindergarten. He sat until closing time until he remembered that he had been drafted into the army.”

So you look at him sober and you immediately remember our youth with him. How we met, how we went on dates... A week before the wedding, he tore off the entire flowerbed in the front garden in front of the house at night, so that I would wake up and see a bouquet on the windowsill in the morning. And before that, my mother and I took care of this flowerbed for two months...

Even now, when he stopped drinking, he became caring. On March 8th, I polished my suede shoes with shoe polish. I ironed the tights with a hot iron. They have now become openwork.

Well, God be with them, with tights. With the money that he now saves on vodka, these tights can be bought - from Paris to Nakhodka. But now there is peace and quiet in the house. He can’t even watch drunkenness on TV: as soon as someone starts drinking in the movies, he immediately remembers the green devils. So I am forever grateful to my neighbor for her anti-wrinkle mask: after my husband stopped drinking, all my wrinkles disappeared on their own.

This is what I wish for all of you, dear women, from the bottom of my heart!

Monument

I bought a “new Russian” plot of land. The mansion was torn down, a park was laid out, there was a metal fence around it, benches, birch trees... I also decided to install my statue on a hill to make it even more chic. Bros says:

- Why: in the summer I’ll sit on a bench in the cold, and next to me - here I am, standing at full height under a birch tree. But where in our city can you order a statue?

And one of the brothers tell him:

“So there’s a granite workshop nearby.” That’s what it says: “Making monuments.”

And the “new Russian” - he doesn’t understand that the statue is being erected in the park, and the monument... That’s right - in the cemetery. He just wants to stick out at full height. He goes to the granite workshop, sees a granite maker working there, and immediately:

- Hey, Chaldean, can you make a full-length statue? Then measure me quickly - I still have time for disassembly!

The granite worker, who was accustomed to receiving orders exclusively from relatives of the deceased, nearly swallowed the ruler in amazement.

- Who else? I'm crying for money, so is it really a statue for someone else's uncle?

— This is the first time that a client has ordered a monument for me during his lifetime...

- Why should I wait until you die, or what?!

- No, please, please, let’s do it in the best possible way, especially since you’re in no hurry...

- Why is this not in a hurry? I’ll charge the boys, as soon as you do it, they’ll be sealed in tightly that same day.

- So we will fulfill the order in two weeks.

- So, in two weeks they will wall it up.

- Do you already have a place?

- Otherwise! Over the hill. Under the birch tree.

“By the way, we are not only a monument - we can also plant flowers for you on the plot,” the granite worker suggests, thinking that we are talking about a cemetery plot.

And the “new Russian” - he’s thinking about his suburban area, so he says:

- There is no need for flowers, it’s better to have cucumbers growing on the hill.

- You have a strange desire...

- Why is this strange? Whoever comes to visit me will have a snack at hand.

- Well, cucumbers, this is not our part, but we can organize garbage collection...

- What? I pay money for the protection of the “garbage” site, and you are going to clean it up!

- Well, okay, will you order an orchestra?

- Come on, the bros will start dancing and trample all the cucumbers on the hill.

—Have you decided where the monument will stand?

“Everything is thought out: here is a fence, here is a bench, and here are statues.” Next to the sauna.

- Didn't understand. Why do you need a sauna in such a place?

- I'll order the girls. Let them wash me. In the shower. Every Friday.

- So, are they going to drag you from there to the shower every Friday?

- What should we do if it’s a hot summer?! That’s why I put a bench right under the mound: if you drink beer, it will be closer to going to the toilet.

- Who should go? After all, as soon as the monument is erected, everyone will disperse...

- Well, they'll go their separate ways. But I’ll stay!

“I didn’t understand something again: are you planning to go to the toilet from there?”

- Why should I burst there, or what? Or directly at the statue? How about a male? No, I’ll get up from under the mound, go to the toilet and back into the cold.

- On your own?

- How else? Why should I sit on the toilet for half a day? My body is healthy - I went and did what I needed to do and went back under the mound. Light up the barbecue grill.

- This means to celebrate for nine days...

- What about nine? And on other days, should I go hungry there? When you sit in the cold, you know what an appetite it awakens!

— Actually, our clients usually lie there.

- What! Lying alone in the cold can cause you to catch a cold! Now, if some beauty there wants to be alone with me...

“Who would want to be alone with you in such a place?!”

- What are you talking about, I once persuaded someone while drunk in a telephone booth to have privacy. Then it turned out that I had a refrigerator in the kitchen.

A completely stunned granite worker accepted an order from a strange client, and when the monument was made, it was needed that same day - someone planted a bomb in the Mercedes of the “new Russian”. True, they didn’t plant cucumbers on the hill, but the brothers made so many wreaths that the granite worker couldn’t understand how the “new Russian” would get out from under them to the toilet?..

You have read a selection of funny stories by a modern humorist writer.
Smile, ladies and gentlemen!
......................................................................................

I'm talking about another temptation. True, between us women, I’ll say it: Susanin tried to hit me with wedges, but I broke off his wedge for him. So he freaked out and advised me to go to the city - to gain some civilization.

It took me a long time to get ready, oh it took a long time, but I still got ready.

I got ready, which means I go out, alone, onto the road, in an old-fashioned, dilapidated shushun... Another poet wrote about this. It was at that moment that he spied me. I remember sitting in the bushes, whispering: “I’m sad to look at you, what a pain, what a pity.” And he blinks his eyes. And then he invites me to drink out of grief, where is the mug, my heart will become happier. I don’t know what grief he had, but he had a big mug. To hell with her. It's not her business.

I don’t remember how I got to the city, I stopped with a witch I knew and asked her: “Where do you give away civilization here?” Well, she immediately recommended Vosstaniya Street to me - all the decent kikimors go there when it gets dark. I'll go. And what happened to me!..

A man, already older, saw me, and his Mercedes was smashed into a pillar! He jumps out of the car, straight towards me, and, believe it or not, he hits my knees. And he calls me a nasty word... What's his name... Well... Ah! I remembered! You, he says, are a “Vamp” woman! I don’t need anything from you, just be with me in the evenings and tell me fairy tales. And cries. Well, I think, since he loves fairy tales, it means he hasn’t matured yet, he needs a nanny... I went with him.

Oh, if only you knew what he did to me... I told him forest stories every evening, he giggled and wrote them down, and then... He published a book with the title: “Forest Eros.” I read it and was stunned... He wrote the whole truth - about the mermaids and divers, and about how Kashchei lost his egg, and about the Snake - the bastard - why flames are still spitting out of his mouth. Of course, have a drink with him. In general, now I can’t go back to the forest

But the fool is with him, with the forest. It's not about him! I soon ran away from this perverted storyteller. And it was like this. He arranged a presentation of the book. All sorts of friends came to see him, pretending to be writers too. And then one guest, a young, handsome guy, saw me and just trembled all over... You say, I need you like air... Your appearance inspires me to feats. Come with me to the switch, otherwise I will die without you - this very evening...

Well, I heard only good things about Belka and Strelka, so I ran away with this... Erast. Well, the man with the name is unlucky... It’s not even Vanka who is a fool, but Erast... Well, oh well, it’s not the name that matters. Jester with him. Erast takes me in his limousine, takes me, and brings me to some wasteland. I was wary, I remembered Susanin, but Erast did not touch me with his hands. Sit, he says, wait, soon our fate will be decided.

I'm waiting for what to do. And she waited. Five Grand Charoks drive up to the vacant lot, and out come out these... well... huge ones... - like a hamadryas... but bigger... We have bears in the forest - and they are smaller...

I ask my Erast:

What kind of animals are these?

Oh-oh-oh,” he says, “these are such animals!..

“They bite,” I ask.

No,” he answers, “they’re butting heads.”

In December 2011, the regional publishing house LITKARAVAN published my new book “I know a lot about the village.” The preface was written by Galina Ilyinichna Kondratyeva, a local school literature teacher and veteran of teaching.
December 2011.

POETRY LIVES IN THE VILLAGE.

They say about people like Pyotr Danilovich Chernykh: “Where he was born, he came in handy.” And he was useful in his native Biryuchensky region in very different capacities: as a grain grower, as a village teacher, as chairman of the village council, as chairman of the district council, as deputy head of the district administration, as a member of the Central Committee of the CPSU of the last convocation, as a delegate to the last congress of this party in history . And, finally, as a poet glorifying his native Belgorod region, his native village of Kazatskoye, with which his whole life is connected.
For more than ten years we were colleagues: we worked in the same teaching team. A hardworking, purposeful, attentive and kind person, he was always a creator at heart and wrote poetry, although few people knew about it. And here in front of me is the manuscript of a new creative collection “I know a lot about the village...”. It consists of several sections: “Village Motifs”, “Monologue”, “Lyrics”, “Rural Were”, “Village Chronicles”, True Stories”.
The work of Peter Chernykh attracts with its variety of themes and breadth of view of the world. But, perhaps, most of his poems are dedicated to his native Belgorod outback, his native village, his people, whom he loves with that intimate, partial love, absorbed with his mother’s milk, with his native song and speech.
First of all, Pyotr Chernykh is a master of lyrical landscape. Everything excites him: the floods of the estuaries, the weeping willows over the clear river, which he affectionately calls Userditsa, the white slopes of the chalk hills, the lilac color of thyme, the white plain of snow. And magical moonlight, and a quiet stretch, and a crane wedge under the clouds.
Surprisingly, the details of an ordinary village landscape suddenly acquire an unusual attractiveness, a feeling of the warmth of home. Nature does not reveal its secrets to every admirer. She trusts their relatives, who can see sharply, hear sensitively and feel subtly. Individual sketches by Pyotr Chernykh can be called “photographs” of the poet’s state of mind: he is sad, happy, delighted, surprised.

Winter has covered it with snow,
spread a white wing.
And frost with a cold mustache
I breathed on the frozen window.
I'll wait until the snowdrifts go away,
the river will spin like ice.
And the earth will sigh after the chill,
and a tit starts chirping in the garden.

With utmost sincerity, the poet conveys his love and devotion to his native places with their discreet, modest beauty. Impressions of a foreign trip, where he first saw the “high” civilized world, suddenly ends with such sincere nostalgic lines:

During the day I wandered around the flowering lawns,
through museums, parks, palaces.
And in a dream I saw white slopes
and the lilac color of thyme.
I saw the bright colors of Berlin,
and outside the city there is a beech forest.
But the steppe smell of bitter wormwood
I value overseas miracles more dearly.

Like every Russian person, the poet P. Chernykh’s feelings for the Motherland are one of the deepest and strongest. Love for his small homeland, for his native village, permeates many of his poems.

Fate will not ask us, it will vilify us around the world.
But in my old age I will still come here.
Where the birches will cry in May thunderstorms.
Where is the temple on the hill and the house in the garden.

Nature and man are inseparable for the poet. It conveys moments of happy unity of the human soul and the surrounding world. And from here arises a feeling of the fullness and beauty of life. Here are examples:

“...Where in the front garden near the hut
not cypress, but just spruce.
Not on the sand, but in mint leaves
the night will prepare my bed.”

Or “I walk in silence in an embrace,” “and how a cart drove through the shroud, leaving lines from its wheels.” And here’s another: “the stream in the milk pan began to jingle like a symphony of a great orchestra” (this is about milking a cow on an early summer morning!)
With great warmth and filial love, poetic lines were written about the dearest person, about the mother. In the poem “Winter of 1946,” he talks about a fierce, hungry winter, when he, as a boy, dragged a sled with firewood through the snowdrifts in order to heat the frozen hut, where “with tears my mother met her breadwinner, her son, on her native porch.” The image of a woman: mother, sister, beloved - with an unchanging feeling of tenderness and gratitude lives in the poems of P. Chernykh.
But the poet is not alien to high patriotism, citizenship and social vigilance. These themes permeate his poems about the Great Patriotic War, about the fate of former front-line soldiers, about hot spots in the modern world, about the contradictions and pain in the souls of today's Russians. Speaking about war veterans, P. Chernykh does not resort to any hyperbole to paint the image of a victorious warrior. He talks about a modest man living with him on the same street, hardworking, taciturn, who did not know any special honors or benefits, Ivan Demyanov, who, according to rural custom, was called Ivanka.

Everything is burning, everything is in smoke, like in fog.
And the path to Berlin is long.
But our Ivanka Demyanov walked
from my village Cossacks

...on the Reichstag there is an inscription: Demyanov.
And just below is the village of Cossacks.

The poet speaks with bitterness about the ruin that befell Russia during the tragic years of the Gorbachev-Yeltsin reforms, when the ordinary Russian man was left with nothing, when everything that had been created for decades was taken away from him, shamelessly sold off, given away, scooped up.
In the poem “My Father-in-Law” (and many of the poet’s poems are autobiographical), telling about a true hard worker-farmer,
who “during suffering, not knowing day and night, harvested the field,” P. Chernykh speaks with pain about a disturbed peasant house, about fields overgrown with weeds, about combine harvesters taken to scrap metal. The poem ends with lines that sound like a shot at the thoughtlessness and cruelty of time:

It’s clear that you can’t return what was
you can't turn back the old time.
But if my father-in-law rose from the grave,
Having seen this, I would have died again.

Peter Chernykh writes poetry, suffocating in love and grief. They are born from the blood of the heart, immeasurable love for life. They take captives with their truth, their honesty. In the poem “Children of Beslan” we read:

There are caravans in the skies of cranes,
on the ground there are all crosses and crosses.
Mothers cry bitterly in Beslan
and bring flowers to the graves.

I won’t get tired of saying and repeating:
There is nothing worse in the world than loss.
Cry, cry for the children of Beslan,
they look from heaven to earth.

Many people are now writing about the fate of the modern village. And each poet has his own vision of the tragic path of the Russian peasant, his own pain, his own hope. Pyotr Danilovich expresses this very clearly, but with great love, with nostalgia for the good rural way of life, for selfless human relationships, for everything that irrevocably leaves the working village in our difficult, unpredictable and unkind times:

How tenderly white birch trees smell!
There is no Russian village without birches.
Sometimes there may be smells of manure here...
Where bread grows, manure smells...

The poem ends in a generalizing way: “My homeland smells like a village.”
The Russian peasant has never had an easy, comfortable life. The village survived extortions and taxes, survived robbery, remained alive - the poet reflects bitterly and immediately turns to the arbiters of the destinies of the Russian village, and the people as a whole:

Have a conscience so as not to touch it,
have the honor to save the village!

And how difficult it is to preserve and revive something that was deliberately, cynically destroyed, destroyed, corrupted:

The land cried without a plowman,
out of grief it was overgrown with weeds.
And for a long time there was neither a plow nor a horse.
And the peasant under the fence is drunk.

Alas, the picture is from life. The usual way of life is collapsing, people's destinies are being broken, and resentment and anger against former brothers in the union arises, unknown to the Russian soul. And yet, no matter how they call us the contemptuous nicknames “Katsap”, “Moskal” - the people have not outlived worldly wisdom, kindness, purity of soul. Pyotr Chernykh wrote “Ode to a Muscovite,” not being afraid to take the word from high
style (Ode-song of praise). Here is an excerpt from it:

And now I sing my song as a Muscovite.
And let my good friend, the Little Russian, not be offended.
I always love this life without tricks,
and I have never seen more simple-minded people than Muscovites.

Reflecting on the life of village people, the poet does not isolate them, he thinks more broadly, looking for an answer to the question: will Russia stay on the edge of the abyss, which in the 90s was so close and seemed inevitable. The comparison of a devastated, angry country with a frenzied, uncontrollable troika flying along the edge of an abyss (again, Gogol’s image of Rus'-troika!) is striking!

What's ahead? There's an abyss ahead!
And the troika rushes along the very edge.
And the tight one rests his feet
and flakes of foam fall from the chest.

It's time to stop all the lies and promises,
scatter your words in vain.
Who wants to see our life beautiful,
Don't let the troika fall into the abyss!

(“In the abyss, the abyss” - such a play on words with a shifted emphasis is undoubtedly the author’s poetic find).
In the poems of recent years, Pyotr Danilovich Chernykh is more optimistic; he saw other horizons, although not very clear and, of course, not close. But faith in his people gives him a surge of new strength, a surge of hope for a better future for his Motherland.

From heavenly heights the crane's call,
Birch trees stretch their leaves towards the bottomless blue.
Russia will survive all enemies
and my Russia will stand on its feet!

The poems of P. Chernykh attract not only the theme, sincerity and warmth. They are not deprived of real poetic means of artistic perception of the world. In his poems there are personifications, metaphors, comparisons, not far-fetched, not artificial - they seem to themselves be included in the outline of the verse, because they are simple, figurative, inextricably linked with the thought and feeling of the poet, a native of the common people, with a heart connected to the Russian village. Here are some of his comparisons: “Oh, you are summer, you are late summer. You are like a woman on her first maternity leave. Oh, you’re autumn, you’re early autumn, you’re like this woman about to give birth.” Or these: “... frost, like an angry beast...”, “the clock is knocking like droplets on the roof, the calendar leaves are being torn off. And the sounds from friends are getting quieter and quieter, as if the late dawn is going out.” His clouds float like a camel caravan; the years flow by like a slow story; and the swell plays like an accordion on the water. And here are some more lines that give an idea of ​​the poetic gift of the author-nugget:

Willow branches are like girlish braids,
kissing the sleepy river.

...I watch the rainbow burn over the horizon,
to drink miracle water in a distant river.

...We are being watched vigilantly from the sky
a flock of stars with a shepherdess-moon.

P. Chernykh’s lyrics in the book “I know a lot about the village...” are imbued with sad thoughts about lost youth. About friends who are already “on the other side.” About what didn't work out in life. But also about the fact that fleeting time still does not take away that good, that inviolable that is in the poet’s soul.
The “Lyrics” section smoothly transitions into “Village Chronicles” - an interesting author’s study of local rituals, customs that, alas, are a thing of the past, but which people of the older generation remember, the author of the book remembers and tries to pass the baton of folk culture, folklore songwriting, national holidays, such as Patronal Demetrius Day in his native village. In this section of the book, in poetic form, the ritual of an ancient wedding is depicted in great detail and picturesquely: matchmaking, preparation for the wedding, the wedding itself and the life of the newlyweds after the wedding. There are so many interesting moments, accurate observations, picturesque dialogues, so much peasant humor that you read it with a smile and running tears. After all, ancient songs corresponding to each stage of the wedding event are organically woven into this author’s narrative.
The author also vividly and carefully conveys the course of Orthodox holidays, like Christmas, starting with carols (by the way, there are also versions of carols that were in use a hundred years ago and are still alive today). The description of Christmas celebrations gives way to Christmastide, also a very interesting time for communication between rural people. Finally, Russian Maslenitsa. Written brightly, juicily, surprisingly sincerely. This section of the book simply begs to be picked up by modern cultural workers, organizers of festive spectacles related to the folklore of our Belgorod region.
I would especially like to dwell on the sad, tragic chapters of the book “And in the villages the women wailed” and “Russian chanson”. This is prose imbued with the author’s mental pain, prose that no person can read indifferently. The first of them is a story about mournful lamentations when saying goodbye to deceased loved ones. In our places they don’t “wail” but “voice.” These voicings are so diverse, so touching and sad, that you can’t help but think how deep the people’s soul is, that it contains surprisingly accurate and heartfelt words for both holidays and sadness.
And the story “Russian Chanson” is a deeply tragic page from the life of the author himself. The autobiographical nature of the story does not deprive it of great artistic power. As an eleven-year-old boy in the hungry post-war year, he suffers a severe grief that crushes his entire family: his mother and three children. Before their eyes, the father, who survived the hard times of war, dies in peacetime... A collective farm horse with a thundering water cart, mad with fear, rushed straight towards the children playing in the sand. Danil Matveevich, one of the men who saw this, rushed to intercept him to stop the stallion and take the trouble away from the children. One cannot read this with indifference: “Hunter companions, mother and I, ran up to the fallen father at the same time. The father was lying on his back, his arms outstretched to the sides. Blood flowed from the mouth in a thin stream. There was a dent on his temple from the impact of the shaft. Mom fell to her knees in front of her father, took his outstretched hands in hers and prayed: “Danilushka, get up, get up, dear.” Let's go home, it's close... You're almost there..."
The narration is interrupted by the words of a song from the album “Russian Chanson”.

“The bird fell into the reeds,
the swan was deprived of flight.
A swan circles above him:
-Get up quickly, my dear, what are you...

Get up quickly, winter has come.
The road to a long journey is open.
And he answered: - Fly yourself,
I can’t, the wing is damaged.”

“The paramedic who arrived ordered to make something like a bed in the back, they lifted my father and put him in a prepared bed. The paramedic and my mother sat down next to me and took me to the hospital. In the evening, my father was brought in a coffin..."
The story ends like this: “Russian chanson” and a song about swan fidelity are good. I praise women with swan fidelity. My mother and someone's mother. All mothers who lost their husbands early, but remained faithful to them. Let him be despicable who repeats the holy word MAMA in vain.”
Pyotr Danilovich's gift as a prose writer is manifested in his true stories about his fellow countrymen, about tragic and funny incidents from village life. The collection is complemented by beautiful photo illustrations made by the author.
One can say about the work of the rural poet Pyotr Danilovich Chernykh that it is united by a common “melody of love.” Native nature, native way of life, native people merge into a single, living picture. It seems that the poet saw this picture with loving glances and “stopped the moment.”

Behind the village the field smells of bread.
In the blue sky the voice of flocks of birds.
You, my dear Belogorye,
you, my native Biryuchensky region!”

It’s nice to know that talented people like Pyotr Danilovich Chernykh live next to us, in the rural outback. It’s just a pity that publishing a collection of works by an amateur author is not so easy now. I would like to hope that in the Krasnogvardeisky district there will be people who will appreciate the work of this extraordinary person and become sponsors of the work of a talented fellow countryman.

KONDRATIEVA G.I.

Veteran of teaching work.