Russia (bbabo.net), - It may seem strange, but there are few letters about poetry and poets in the Poetry Calendar mail. Almost all letters are about life. And this seems to me a great advantage of Russian poetry - it has not turned into juggling with words, into an intricate game, interesting only to philologists. As our reader from Chelyabinsk wrote to me: "The poems that you print scratch, but do not scratch. I read you and I want to live, cry, stroke my daughter's head..."

In response, I would like to say the same about your letters.

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Spirin covered the retreat

I read your materials about young poets who died in the war very carefully. It's a shame for all those who gave their young lives and ended up in oblivion.

I am 82 years old, and for half a century I have been searching for information about the dead and missing countrymen.

And it began with the fact that in 1975 an old fellow villager told how our officer died before his eyes. In the autumn of 1942, when heavy battles for Stalingrad unfolded, and other German units rushed to the Caucasus, the war came to our village. Beyond its outskirts, near the forest, the advancing enemy was met with machine-gun fire. But the forces were unequal, and the Soviet soldiers suffered heavy losses. The order was given to retreat. The retreat was covered by one of the officers. He was attacked by many Germans. He ran out of ammo. When there was only one bullet left in the pistol, he fired it into his forehead. The old man said that when there was a lull, the villagers buried the officer on the outskirts in a crater formed by a bomb explosion.

We decided to dig up the grave to establish the name of the heroic officer. There were three of us: the village librarian, the artistic director of the House of Culture, and I, the director of the House of Culture. But an old shepherd came up to us and said that such things are not done on their own, permission is needed. The excavations were stopped, but by that time we had already found a mouthpiece where the name Spirin had been scratched out. We began to make inquiries and found out that it was an officer of the 151st division, which blocked the Germans from the way to Baku oil. Listed as missing. He was from the Gorky region.

"On the edge of the village, we found a mouthpiece where the name Spirin was scratched..."

We in the village decided that such a hero deserves a reward. In response to my letter to the awards department of the Ministry of Defense, they answered that I should apply to the military registration and enlistment office. But going there didn't do anything either.

How I would like, while I am alive, to know that the feat of a warrior is worthy of recognition!

Long beeps

Good afternoon, Dmitry!

I would like you to pay attention to the Moscow poetess Olga Astafieva. She herself is short, outwardly inconspicuous, but her poems are full of spiritual strength.

We met by chance on March 1, 2015 - we walked side at the procession in memory of Boris Nemtsov. While walking, she talked about her parents, they were repressed. She told a story that I still can't forget. In the late 1940s, Olga's older sister was supposed to be arrested and sent to a camp, but one of the NKVD officers, at his own peril and risk, secretly took the sisters out in his car and handed them over to relatives.

Olga Astafieva, then a little girl, forever remembered how the nervous trembling of that NKVD officer beat when he drove them in a car, how his hands trembled on the steering wheel, how pale his face was.

The man left his sisters his home phone number and said that if they call and no one answers, it means that he is no longer in the world. And so it happened: they called, and long beeps were heard in the receiver.

Throughout her life, Olga gratefully remembers this man, although she never managed to find out his name.

In parting, Olga gave me her book of poems.

Without us, gone forever into songs,

Morning turns blue

For our souls, which have become rails,

Russia will go to the future ...

Another first day of life

...- Man, take your hands off!

I'm trying to see what's going on in the bus.

- Are you sick? Who touches you?! - yells the kid.

Nobody stood up for the woman. Deaf, blind, asleep. Lost the power of speech. The salvation of the drowning is the work of the drowning themselves ...

Why is it so hard to live in this world? After all, the level of progress and comfort is amazing. We live in a world where soap pours itself into the hands, water washes away the soap itself, and the Internet has become a digital dementia.

We read or hear about someone's courage in a fire - but we don't imagine what it's like to stand in front of a burning house in which children are screaming and understand that you have no choice - if you are a man, you have to go there - into smoke and flames. Not "if you are a hero", but simply - if you are a man.

There is always a choice - difficult and at the same time - necessary ...

I had to visit a nursing home. I watched a fat, beefy "offspring" that drove up in a luxury car. It only said two words to its mother. I don't think she dreamed of such a meeting...They say there is no time to look after the elderly. And where did it go - your time? What are you spending it on? To chat on the phone? On stupid communication in social networks? For making money? How much money do you need to get one thought - just one! There will never be people more dear and close to you than those who now need your help so much.

At school, I gave my children essay topics. Why can't you read other people's emails? Why can't you unceremoniously climb into someone else's soul? Why is it impossible to betray those who love, to raise a hand against the weak? Why can't you be indifferent?

The answers pleased and puzzled me: because meanness remains meanness; one cannot take a single step without evil; but you can't get used to it, justify yourself.

It's all hard! All this requires great effort of the soul.

Each new day is another small step to change your life, another first day of life.

If you are rich in something, share it!

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