We are Russians
Konstantin Frolov-Krymsky
"We are Russians - what a delight!"
A.V. Suvorov
One eccentric with a face of false sadness,
"huddling" in the cabin of his "Porsche",
He said: "I'm ashamed to be called Russian.
We are a nation of mediocre alcoholics.
"Solid appearance, demeanor -
Everything is thought out by the devil.
But the merciless virus of degeneration
Grinding ingloriously all of his insides.
His soul is not worth a penny,
Like a yellow leaf from broken branches.
But the descendant of the Ethiopians Pushkin
He was not burdened by his Russianness.
They considered themselves Russians by right
And raised the Motherland from its knees
Creators of Russian seafaring glory
Both Bellingshausen and Krusenstern.
And not putting up with a narrow worldview,
Trying to see beyond the horizon
It was considered an honor to be called Russian
The Scots are Greig, de Tolly and Lermont.
Any one of them is worthy of admiration,
After all, to sing the Motherland is the law for them!
So he gave his life without regret
For Russia, the Georgian prince Bagration.
Our language is multifaceted, precise, true -
It heals the soul, it strikes like steel.
Are we able to appreciate it immensely
And to know him as the Dane Dahl knew?
What's Dal! And nowadays there are many
Those who speak the great language
No worse than the Ukrainian Mykola Gogol,
What was once familiar with Pushkin?
Don't bang your head against the wall
And in a rage, saliva splash in vain!
"We are Russians!" Shevchenko said so.
Read the Kobzar more carefully.
Cherishing filial love in my soul,
Worked all my life up to seven sweats
Suvorov, Ushakov and Mendeleev,
Kulibin, Lomonosov and Popov.
Their names remained on the tablets
As a true history of the basics.
And among them, like a pillar, is the old man Derzhavin,
In whose veins is the blood of the Tatar Murza.
They go - sometimes servants, sometimes messiahs,
- Carrying your cross on bent shoulders,
How he carried it in the name of all Russia
A descendant of the Turk, Admiral Kolchak.
They instilled love and raised
From ancient origins and roots.
He is Russian, whose soul lives in Russia,
Whose thoughts are about mother, about her.
Patriotism is not sold in the load
To berets, boots or coats.
And if you are ashamed to be called Russian,
You, my friend, are not Russian. You are nobody!!!
18.11.2012
Other articles in the literary diary:
- 08/27/2014. Russia didn't start with a sword!
- 08/24/2014. Battles for the Sea of Azov. Am I confusing anything?
- 08/23/2014. Continuation of the revolution.
- 21.08.2014. One eccentric with a face of false sadness
- 08/16/2014. Carnation
- 08/12/2014. Yatsenyuk Scientologist, Turchynov sectarian of the church
- 08/11/2014. Donetsk, August 11 news.
- 08/03/2014. Vladimir Zhirinovsky announced his readiness to appear on
- 08/02/2014. Airborne Forces Happy Holidays!
- 08/01/2014. Cafe Putin
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Grammars and Goethe and Dumas
Like the brainchild of enlightened Europe
They often sounded sleepy in Russia -
In respectable ancestral homes.
Ordinary people did not strain their minds
And he said, unlike scientists,
Eating a soaked apple
As the motherland itself said.
But the hour has struck to change the order:
The mental progress made us
To shoulder the reform of the language,
The labor of selfless husbands
Wealth of persons, tenses and cases
Using for Slavic speech.
-«-
Using for Slavic speech
The witticisms of the Gauls, Gothic laconicism,
We revived an ancient organism,
As if the candles were changed in the lanterns.
It's not that we have nothing to boast about,
(Like, where is our well-known patriotism?)
But everything good can cripple
Plebeian small-town egoism.
Influence on the power of new thoughts
We have been celebrating since the time of Peter the Great.
And Lomonosov understood this:
Who has a clear physical norm
He also put it into poetic form,
That Russian syllable raised above the world.
-«-
He raised the Russian syllable above the world,
The one whose soul has always been free,
Whose thought was pure and noble,
As an inspiration, a bright ideal.
He listened to the delightful Muse
At the springs of folk poetry
And broke old traditions
With characteristic natural perseverance.
And on the foundation of past victories,
which have been built for many years
His wise forerunners,
For our timeless use
He erected a graceful temple to the tongue -
And that has already immortalized itself.
-«-
And he has already immortalized himself
A poet on the bosom of a clean slate,
That light, refined speeches
put into the mouths of the common people.
Like a sigh, his poetry is simple.
His talent was noted by the Almighty,
And the syllable is both weightless and flawless,
Like a butterfly taking off from a bush.
To enjoy the fruits of thought,
The soul must always work
Because the main fruit is herself!
But gradually changing the taste,
Subject to insidious temptation
And we, though not devoid of mind.
-«-
And we, though not devoid of mind,
They are greedy for different Europeanisms.
We blindly accept their orders
And we bring their morals into our homes.
And in the souls there is a mess:
On the shine of the foil we rush without looking back.
The light of truth hid the fog from us,
Like that weed that clogs the beds.
It's easier for us to learn English slang,
Than raise your own tongue from your knees!
How heartless people are to their riches!
No time to dig into dictionaries.
And we, without bothering ourselves in vain,
-«-
Before alien words, beads with a sword.
Low-worship in Russia in honor.
It is our cross that weighs on our shoulders.
And God knows how much we can carry it.
A tit, tightly clenched in a handful,
Dearer to us than the swift-winged gyrfalcon.
Well, now a child of six years old -
And he babbles in a foreign way.
But, like the revelation of a prayer,
Language and soul are merged together.
Unbelieving Thomas also believes in this.
Without it there will be no man.
So why at the end of the century
Our vocabulary, how poor sum?
-«-
Cleaned with dirty hands
Littered with weed words
Only because of the poverty of the mind.
When there is devastation and plague in the house,
The evil one controls the simpletons,
And all the corners are clogged with spiders -
Darkness rules over the mind.
An unfair game is played:
Tinsel is given out for value.
The customer, as before, is not noticed.
He pays to quickly dry up the spring,
And I am very glad that our language
-«-
Helpless, illiterate, crippled
The syllable of a man who became a slave.
It doesn't matter if he has his own home
From privates, il rank marked.
Let him be financially secure
Achieving this through your hard work.
The world of expensive things is his Sodom,
Because he is mentally crippled.
The horizon is limited by the shell:
Car, apartment and fence.
Work is a hopeless haze.
Sold, bought, costs, profits...
And in the depths of a tortured soul -
Lakes that have become shallow before their time.
-«-
Lakes that have become shallow before their time
In the absence of healing springs -
The seal of an incurable vice,
Disease of gold mines.
We cooled the souls inadvertently
While at the turn of the century
Our language again stepped at the behest of fate
Through the borders of all continents.
There, on the plexus of world roads
Our melodious syllable burst into their world
Discharge of electric current!
Aborigines of the northern country,
Wells long dried up
Fill from the eternal source!
-«-
Fill from the eternal source
Your empty hearts!
Let them fall to the bottom of the deep soul
Always mean speeches of the Sage.
Sometimes he scratches cruelly
An offensive word, without raising his face.
Sometimes unfinished lines
Understandable so without requiring an end.
Freedom of combinations and sounds
Prefixes, suffixes and endings
Our language in the whole world is incomparable.
It was created by Russian poets.
And to be sure of this forever,
Read Pushkin! Live it!
-«-
Read Pushkin! Live it! -
The creator of "Ruslan and Lyudmila".
His poems are always sweet to the heart
With your joyful touch.
The poet's bright spirit is tireless,
He inspires strength in everyone,
Escaping from the shackles of the grave to us,
Through the centuries, understandable and loved.
And may you be far from art -
Above the essence of the unfinished line
Do not be afraid to think inadvertently.
And opening the volume every time,
The finest filigree of precise phrases
Save your tongue from evil fate.
-«-
Save your tongue from evil fate,
Hanging invisibly over the country.
She was tortured mercilessly by a cruel age
Invasion, betrayal, war.
Paid at an unthinkable price
It's a long road back to the Temple.
She came as a prologue
To the recovery of the motherland of the sick.
But in the years of catastrophes and upheavals
The poet imperiously raised us from our knees.
His art is like magic:
Just a few moments are enough
And your spirit will strengthen the great Genius
Just one touch.
-«-
With just one touch
With a flight of thought, clothed in a word,
The lost wanderer finds the way again,
Seeing the guiding lights.
They lead him tirelessly
To the openings that break the shackles
And tearing away the veils from eternal secrets,
(But not sacred, God save).
So distinguish the highest gifts
From vain shiny tinsel,
Protecting children from vice.
From birth to goodbye at the door
Meet the sons and daughters
With the creations of the Poet and the Prophet!
-«-
With the creations of the Poet and the Prophet
Our spirit is truly invincible.
He leads us in a fierce battle
Forward to victory, through fire and smoke.
Curly-haired French, blue-eyed German,
With the conqueror's worm in my chest
More than once they tried to enslave us,
Dare to dispose of the will of Rock.
Before the tongue, as before the Siberian cold,
A deadly weapon!
Fool who did not understand this.
And let arrogantly and bewildered -
bow in respect ceremoniously
Grammar and Goethe and Dumas!
-«-
Grammars and Goethe and Dumas
Using for Slavic speech,
He raised the Russian syllable above the world -
And he has already immortalized himself!
And we, though not devoid of mind,
Before alien words, beads with a sword.
Our vocabulary is like a poor sum,
Helpless, illiterate, crippled.
Lakes that have become shallow before their time
Fill from the eternal source -
Read Pushkin! Live it!
Save your tongue from evil fate
With just one touch
With the creations of the Poet and the Prophet!
March 16th, 2014 06:37 am
We are Russians
"We are Russians - what a delight!"A.V. Suvorov
One eccentric with a face of false sadness,
"Hugging" in the cabin of his "Porsche",
He said: "I'm ashamed to be called Russian.
We are a nation of mediocre drunks."
Solid appearance, demeanor -
Everything is thought out by the devil.
But the merciless virus of degeneration
Grinding ingloriously all of his insides.
His soul is not worth a penny,
Like a yellow leaf from broken branches.
But the descendant of the Ethiopians Pushkin
He was not burdened by his Russianness.
They considered themselves Russians by right
And raised the Motherland from its knees
Creators of Russian seafaring glory
Both Bellingshausen and Krusenstern.
And not putting up with a narrow worldview,
Trying to see beyond the horizon
It was considered an honor to be called Russian
Scots - Greig, de Tolly and Lermont.
Any one of them is worthy of admiration,
After all, to sing the Motherland is the law for them!
So he gave his life without regret
For Russia, the Georgian prince Bagration.
Our language is multifaceted, precise, true -
It heals the soul, it strikes like steel.
Are we able to appreciate it immensely
And to know him as the Dane Dahl knew?
What's Dal! And nowadays there are many
Those who speak the great language
No worse than the Ukrainian Mykola Gogol,
What was once familiar with Pushkin?
Don't bang your head against the wall
And in a rage, saliva splash in vain!
"We are Russians!" Shevchenko said so.
Read the kobzar more carefully.
Cherishing filial love in my soul,
Worked all my life up to seven sweats
Suvorov, Ushakov and Mendeleev,
Kulibin, Lomonosov and Popov.
Their names remained on the tablets
As a true history of the basics.
And among them, like a pillar, is the old man Derzhavin,
In whose veins is the blood of the Tatar Murza.
They go - now servants, now messiahs, -
Carrying your cross on your bent shoulders,
How he carried it in the name of all Russia
A descendant of the Turk, Admiral Kolchak.
They instilled love and raised
From ancient origins and roots.
He is Russian, whose soul lives in Russia,
Whose thoughts are about mother, about her.
Patriotism is not sold in the load
To berets, boots or coats.
And if you are ashamed to be called Russian,
You, my friend, are not Russian. You are nobody.
