Russia (bbabo.net), - Nothing tells us so clearly about the transience of life as a short story by a good writer.

"Happiness" - this is the name of the new book of stories by priest Yaroslav Shipov.

Yaroslav Alekseevich was born on January 16, 1947 in Moscow. The family lived on Horoshevka, near the Central Airfield. Father served in the "Krasnaya Zvezda", mother - in the BBC newspaper "Stalin's Falcon".

The boy dreamed of the sky and disappeared at the airport. When it turned out that due to his health they would not take him as a pilot, he looked for himself for a long time. Brilliant successes in physics and mathematics could have led Yaroslav to science, but they did not (but his elder brothers Rolland and Alexei became prominent scientists).

After school, Yaroslav worked as a printer in a printing house. Graduated from the Literary Institute. He was in charge of the prose editorial office in the capital's publishing house.

In 1991, at the age of forty-four, he became a priest. Behind these two words - "I became a priest" - is a sharp turn of fate that coincided with abrupt changes in the life of the country. But what are the changes - Russia fell into a tailspin. And father Yaroslav happened to be where this rapid fall was felt, perhaps most acutely - in the Russian northern village.

By the way, the pilot and the priest have a lot in common: they both deal with the sky, albeit in several different guises. After the ordination, Father Yaroslav suddenly said goodbye to life in Moscow, from a prestigious, as they say now, work, and was appointed to the village of Verkhne-Spassky Pogost, Tarnogsky District, Vologda Oblast. He turned out to be the only priest in four parishes. I spent the winter in a hut with a dilapidated stove. The people were in trouble and the priest was with him. He fed from a skinny garden and from the forest - mushrooms, cranberries collected.

But, perhaps, it was precisely these difficult years that made the Moscow writer a truly Russian writer, gave Yaroslav Shipov's stories a deep breath of Russian classics.

The story "Snowfall" published today takes us back to the author's adolescence and has a somewhat mysterious dedication: "D.S." However, the reader of the "Poetry Calendar" can easily guess to which of the Russian poets this study in prose is dedicated. After all, the most famous work of this wonderful poet is also called "Snowfall".

So prose and poetry call out to each other, so that we too remain a long echo of each other.

Date

January 16 marks the 75th anniversary of the remarkable writer and good pastor Yaroslav Alekseevich Shipov.

An excerpt from the poem

Snowfall

December. And the cold is

In Moscow, harsh and sad.

And a certain young soldier

In a scanty hospital overcoat

The tram is waiting.

His family

In evacuation in Siberia.

Someone else's faces in their apartment.

And he is free in the whole world.

He's on vacation, and so was I.

... Yes, and me at a different time

Sadness suddenly came through

That the woman is gone

And will not appear in the poem.

I wish I could bring her back

Walk under the snow again ...

How I would like to be next to her

Turn into that alley!

How I would like, walking with her,

Admire the snow, the gesture

Bring back the coldness of these days

And a mouth bitten by bliss ...

I have grown old, and you are still the same.

And you are in any of my landscapes -

The light of the sky or the light of the water.

And you are not there, and you are everywhere.

How did I dream to portray?

I don’t know myself. How life is a thread

The fragile one tied two

To separate them soon?

No, this is perhaps not enough.

The most important thing here is the snowfall,

With which from head to toe

Moscow hugged a soldier.

It flew, beautiful snow flew

Flowed without rest

And stayed in us forever,

Like music and inspiration ...

Learning to write from Russian prose,

In love with her spacious syllable,

So that later, like speech through tears,

I myself could break into poetry.

Story by Yaroslav Shipov

Snowfall

We stood at a tram stop near the park. Snow was falling. I knew that this short man with thick glasses was a great poet, but at that time he was not interested in his poetry. However, he kept one, the most famous poem about the war, in his memory.

By the will of very old, front-line circumstances, he was friends with the parents of a girl dear to my heart. And he lived for many years in the house where they lived. Then he moved. And now we stood in front of the windows of that very house and watched the snow fall. The flakes fell softly on the branches of old trees, on the patterns of the cast-iron fence, on the rails, on the asphalt, on the heads and shoulders of passers-by.

- Once upon a time, - he paused, remembering: - Once upon a time I already saw this beautiful snow. And the strangest thing that I saw here - on the Fight Square.

A tram came up. The poet did not want to sit down.

“You know what,” he suddenly suggested: “Let's go better on foot - we’re not far away.” It's a shame to leave such a snowfall.

Passed Palikha, then Lesnaya. Tormented by naive reflections on literature, I, a high school student, asked him questions that should have seemed ridiculous, but he answered. And so, when I thoughtfully said that poetry is more difficult to write than prose, he shook his head and said the unexpected:- Poetry is regulated, it is squeezed by rhyme and rhythm. And prose is free, there is boundless space in it. If a poem, even the most brilliant, is set to music, only one melody will come out, well, maybe with some variations. And in prose there is so much melody, so much intonation variety. Vaughn Pyotr Ilyich in "The Queen of Spades" transposed several pages of Pushkin's prose to music - an amazing wealth of melodies! So there is a lot to learn from prose. By the way, I do just that: I am learning to write from Russian prose - honestly.

And when they parted on the subway, he said that he did not like the commemoration since the war and that his former neighbors had given up a lot this year - especially his mother.

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