Poems, dedicated to Ulanova

On Ulanova’s anniversary

The whole theater explodes with applause,

Lodges and tiers have come out of the coast.

Multicolored, solid, tied up with ribbons,

Rain of flowers flew to Ulanova.

…Rising on his wings like a praying monk,

Like they carried a mascot with them in the old days,

I wore a picture of her in my breast pocket.

Swan’s image went through the war.

And – no pain, no rage in the heart – supremacy, 

And the iron reality isn’t icy.

Like the dome of heaven, we are drawn to perfection,

Gives us a miracle, eats with us.

Possesses the art of magic.

Bringing us back to the harmony of fairytales again.

This work cannot be taken into account by an electronic device,

There’s no cybernetics to calculate.

…and bouquets are like umbrellas! Flowers are like salutes!

Not to wake up from a miracle, not to wipe away tears.

There are such moments in our lives… 

After them, they say it’s no shame dying.

And the love and delight didn’t grow as planned.

How lively the theater moved from the flowers.

And Ulanova smiled fascinatingly at me…

From piercing years, from the soldiers’ years.

Mikhail Lvov, 1975

For the play “Romeo and Juliet.”

The curtain is raised above Shakespeare.

The ancient swords were crossed by blades.

And, complaining about the daily routine,

Poetry entered the hall lightly,

Suspended speculation.

And the parliamentary debate,

As a surgeon in surgery, 

Gave people their eyesight back!

What’s going to happen to them tomorrow? Poor

Pride, sold cheap?

But while art touches

All that’s good in the heart.

The wind from the orchestra is flaming

Tearing up the space, behind the walls.

And the theater is as quiet as stone,

And keeps an eye on the stage,

Where’s the winged Ulanova,

All out of the light and the air,

Gives the English anew.

Their great Shakespeare.

Ekaterina Sheveleva, 1956.

For the new year

I’m sitting there thinking about the letter – 

What can I wish for the Goddess?

But the beauty of it is yours, too,

That with all the divinity of the lines

A man is not shaded.

Not the one glorified in the rumors,

And sweet and earthly Galina

I wish that from now on.

She wasn’t tortured by a wise tooth,

So that there’s no footstep on the left

From a whimsical leg.

And there’s sickness in every eye.

I wish the summer blue,

Good books, good meetings,

Save as much energy as possible.

For your evil art.

Last year was full of you.

For everything, thank you for everything.

And with the thought of the beautiful lady.

I meet a new dawn.


Lake treachery

The sun has swollen my poor forehead.

at the lake.

There’s a utopus in the ballet with his head

on the “lake.”

Before the Goddess in a puddle of cotton.

at the lake.

Hunter Swan our trunk

at the lake.


At Levitan’s exhibition

Sunshine, light frost. You’re graceful, fragile.

I’m coming with you. This is a dream and not a dream.

You’re a dream close enough, under a squirrel’s coat,

Our thoughts flow at this hour in unison.

Levitan. It’s been given and wound up narrow,

Which reminds you so vividly of Seliger,

Harmonize with you thoughtful Russian.

And they throw a poetic flirt at you.

Tomorrow you are Swan again, Raymond, Maria,

But now, surrounded by these paintings.

It’s like the Muse of the singing boundless Russia.

And I can’t find the key to your beauty.

Giselle without Ulanova

Giselle isn’t the one dancing – 

Before the play, we were told

But Her silence is full,

She was singing a violin in a dark room.

Dreaminess calls her.

She flies in an air dance

(Continues to lead mine)

Her thoughts, music and stans!

First impression

You hear a sad motive. And is the Swan.

And the high art of the soul is captivated.

And words of admiration are no more than babbling,

And every string in the heart is affected.

It’s line music, inspired by the foam.

Piruettes, adagio and fuetes– 

Everything blends together in one impression.

In an artfully sculpted distant dream.

And you go away excited, with a tender longing.

About the beautiful view of the past day.

How can I answer by repaying some kind of…

The one who gave me that gift.

D. Luzanov


Dear Galina Sergeyevna, my road thoughts.

“Ulanovo”… “Ulan-Ude” – 

Name of Transbaikal stations

It’s like even here (somewhere)

Vitat’s the image of a dance fairy.

” How good for you to get a verst

To be remembered with you.

And with his hand out like a handful,

Touch your lips mentally

In return for the arms outstretched!

How close, though distant,

Excitement of the first meeting with you

Under the new year! How do I keep them safe 

When is the youth of the soul in them?!

It’s only the day before I first

Saw “Silent Mary.”

(Talk about it, write –

you can’t express the charm.)

And all of a sudden, an unexpected date.

You were wearing a blue dress

So cute, simple!

It seemed to me like I was in any

I’ve known you a long time.

I’ve been talking about art.

You, whose name is his emblem,

We’d take all the pathos off the subject,

And I, looking at you at point-blank range,

Couldn’t see the shadows of the pose.

And I couldn’t figure out the magic,

How is it carved from prose

Poetry of a living crystal.

Oh, my dear traits.

Naturalness, simplicity.

And a fine, big flavor 

They have your image in them. In vain.

To sing it in my poems… 

Of course, it’ll only come out “ah!”

How did you evaluate that night

A magazine article in your honor.

But it was, it will be, it is!

You’ve been poured with a lot of feeling.

And how many roses, peonies, lilies…

Your corner was decorated!

Oh, if I could tell you,

What kind of music was that

In my soul, when from the hall.

I saw you at the theater.

It’s the first time we’ve swaned. Now .

Everything is alive, every movement,

The curvature of the back and hand… 

It’s all in my memory… Then suddenly I’m…

Learned all the sweetness of the sensation

To be born again; to be a child.

In the art of seeing and ringing.

The world is screaming about.

I’m not writing to you in a hurry.

And the feeling in my mind…

But, your humility in remembrance, 

I’m afraid the passionate praise…

It’s not in your heart.

Then forget the stanzas.

Coming. Not much about me.

I’m in Chita now.

Heat and dust. My way.

It was walking along the shore of Lake Baikal.

It’s shrouded in a haze of blue.

The tunnels had no number.

The eye of the curves of the lines was captivated,

Then the Transbaikalia stretched out,

The beauty was flickering without end:

The wails of the rivers, the cliffs.

But in this world, the hand of war

The features of the alarm are in place:

Like bivouac – Irkutsk station.

On all train journeys.

The Red Army. And the wagons.

Powder and day and night.

Rushing west.

Sleep in the piss.

It’s stuffy in here at night.

I write, 

In my dreams of Seliger, I’m in a hurry

And I see “three window house.”

And I see “to the lake path.”

With an oar, you go under the mountain.

In Ukraine. Everything is like in flight.

A kayak is a “faithful sister”,

On the shore. Here’s the oar swing.

And in the splashes of sun and water.

You swim on the lake.

Good night, darling!

Take everything that summer gives you!

And I can see that’s the fate,

Seeing you already, Juliette.


There is a sea of admiration around you,

Praise is like foam, pouring to your feet,

But the fuss is bothering you,

Embarrassing your shameful Genius.

All the charm of lines and movements

How do I trust the words?!

One thing – “Ulanova” and us.

I see: “Above all comparisons!”

The charm of purity,

Elegance and nobility,

Harmony and simplicity… 

Goddess! It was you who appeared to us,

Like a lovely dream, like a dream beam,

Oh, our bitter orphanhood!

Leningrad, 1943

Imitating a song

Our northern sun!

Our swan is white-winged!

Who did you leave us for?

Orphaned, destitute?!

Do I walk down the street

Past the lonely house,

I’ll look through your windows… 

Heart is poured sad.

I remember the beauty of the untold.

Do it with a swan,

I remember the ice in the boat in the splash of the sun.

On your favorite lake… 

And that’s how close everyone feels,

And so welcoming, so affectionate,

It’s like being young will come back to me,

Or a coveted friend, the only one,

Or, more accurately, a comparison. 

Like the first favorite!

Leningrad, 1943.


No matter how fast the river runs. 

met with obstacles, yet all the trickles

rocks and shallows around, jubilant salt.

I’ve got a thing for you. My trust is so great,

as if I trusted a big ship.

And for a long, long time, let me think of you… 

you’re like an ivy wall.

Oh, if only we’d never had a bad luck!

Throwing our sleeves over our shoulders in front of the sacrifice bowl,

I will plead with the eternal gods who own 

so they can show you and me mercy.

Underneath Galushi’s “W” slipper.

I’m sitting in the corner, and I’m not goo,

Replacing the theater with a family circle.

Was a director – became a spouse.

Perm, 1942, winter, December

Seliger – lake in Kalinin region

Neprie – village on Seliger.

Both on Seliger and on Seliger.

Lorelei sings a song

Golden curls and big eyes.

Dark as blue ice.

” Got it on Seliger, got it on Seliger

In Nepriya, where there are fifty gates,

Three window house, a path to the lake – 

With a stairway through the garden.

Little house on the hill,

The lodge where she always stays.

She walks in the woods, sunbathing nicely,

She laughs, she looks sad.

But she’s beautiful and the swimsuit is red.

Her costume suits her. It suits her.

Who’s seen it, will believe that on Seliger.

Lorelei lives in Neprie.

There’s not much storage space in the song. Is that a ballad?

Or is it a fairy tale? But – about what, about who?

Who is she, where from? What kind of miracle is it?

In Neprie above a quiet beach.

And I’ll answer in a good way from Leningrad.

And it’s very, very good, really.

He’ll look, and he’ll groan, he’ll look, and he’ll sink…

The young men of a soul in love.

She doesn’t have enough grief: “Did I wish for it?”

And already at the lake. Quickly!

Slim, tan – what does she care?

Her kayak is a sweet sister.

The old afternoon and, let’s say, a joke,

It’s a joke, at least not very fun.

Everyone who’s heard it once will be sad.

Like droplets falling off her paddle.

The lake is carved, the lake is forest,

The lake is like crystal,

And from the kayak paddle at sunset brightly…

“Love, love, love” drops.

Golden curls and big eyes,

Dark as blue ice.

Who has seen, will believe that on Seliger.

Lorelei sings a song…


Summer, 1939.

“…We learned what a miracle is.”

…The wind from the orchestra is fiery… 

Tearing up the space behind the walls, 

And the theater is as quiet as stone, 

And keeps an eye on the stage, 

Where’s the winged Ulanova, 

All out of the light and the air, 

Gives the English anew. 

Their great Shakespeare.

Sheveleva E.

Moscow, 1980.