Russia (bbabo.net), - In the past year, a book was published, which became an event for everyone who once worked at Komsomolskaya Pravda. It would become an event for many longtime readers of "Komsomolskaya Pravda", but, alas, the circulation of the publication is only 200 copies.

The unexpected title of the book - "Poems of the Sixth Floor" * - is understandable and close to everyone who remembers "Komsomolskaya Pravda" of the 1960s-90s.

The newspaper often gave its pages for poetry publications. Poetry and romance were in the very atmosphere of the editorial office. On the sixth floor, where "Komsomolskaya Pravda" was located, the poets felt at home.

Here once, while waiting for her first publication, Novella Matveeva spent the night on a sofa. Still very young Yevtushenko, Akhmadulina, Voznesensky easily ran here.

In my column I will return more than once to Poems of the Sixth Floor, an anthology that has become a joint project of the Club of Journalists of All Generations, Komsomolskaya Pravda, and the Khudozhestvennaya Literatura publishing house.

In the meantime, I'll tell you about my discovery that happened on the 585th page of the book. A selection of poems by Vladimir Sidorov begins on this page. To my shame, I had not heard his name before. The only justification for me is that Volodya worked at Komsomolskaya Pravda in the 1970s, long before it fell to me to be there.

Vladimir Sidorov's poems filled me with such Christmas freshness, such happiness that I immediately wanted to find the author, thank him, greet him and, if possible, hug him ...

But, taking a running start to reading poetry, I missed the biographical note with the dates of life: 1948-1993.

"The lovers, as always, were late ..."

The poet and priest Vladimir Evgenievich Sidorov was buried near the ancient church of the Nativity of the Virgin in Old Simonov, in which monks-warriors Alexander Peresvet and Andrei Oslyabya are buried.

Memory

From the memories of friends about the poet

After "Komsomolskaya Pravda" we all fled a little. Time passed, and suddenly we learn that Volodya Sidorov is serving in the church. We find out without surprise: if for someone such a transition was logical, then just for him. It all came together: his spirituality and soulfulness, his Russianness, love of history. The heroes of the Battle of Kulikovo, Peresvet and Oslyabya, buried in the Church of the Nativity of the Virgin in Old Simonov, seemed to have been waiting for just such a person to revive the temple ... But it was not easy for us, his friends from Komsomolskaya Pravda, to get used to Volodya's new status. I remember my first visit to his church ... We were sitting in the churchyard, and in such a new situation I tried to ask an old friend many questions that occupied me. As always, he answered thoughtfully, without haste. She asked: do the departed know about what is happening to us who are left here on earth? He answered briefly: "They know. But in a different way ..."

Ella Shcherbanenko

On January 10, 1993, in the Transfiguration Cathedral of the Novospassky Monastery, His Holiness Patriarch Alexy II ordained Deacon Vladimir Sidorov to the rank of priest. January 26 was his first independent service day. Father Vladimir served a liturgy, a prayer service, a panikhida, baptized, and received communion at home. On January 27, Father Vladimir went out to receive confession from those wishing to receive Holy Communion. There were already only a few people left when the priest, suddenly interrupting confession, went to the altar. He died, standing at the throne and looking at the image of the Savior ...

Treasured notebook

From the prologue to the poem "Bullfinch"

Oh wait! Into a silver horn

Already whistling

The December postil is whistling!

Are you whistling into your fist? Well, my friend?

As they say, is our song sung? ..

More and more darkness and ice.

Less and less light.

But look: tremble among the branches

Sudden fires of bullfinches!

* * *

After the Moscow hospital

Back in my hometown

The old people on leave ... I can't sleep.

Or a watch on my hand

Too spread out. Either

Dad was snoring in the evening.

Either he got rid of the pain of the heart,

And out of love - I failed.

A room of unsteady light

The moonlight is full.

And far, far away until dawn

As in the ocean to the bottom.

You look out the icy windows,

Like a magic lantern:

Hello, in the moonlight, Russia,

Faith, hope ... January

Snowy will probably be -

Look how in the morning he went.

Well, it will bring it in, at the same time it will cool it down.

Lord, how good it is!

So - what is life for a half

I would give it - no, it does not take:

Heart into a pillow like a guardian

Into the mallet

Unkillable - beats!

Recollection of poplar

Like the best dream - Sunday near the house

In the district town. The year is fifty-ninth.

The house is new, three-storey. Mom and dad

And all the neighbors - some with a pick, some with a crowbar.

I also dug a hole with a shovel

And he planted his lawful seedling,

Poured water ... And to the hand - green

The leaf stuck. And - the smell is bitter!

... You push the window with your hand - and here it is, next to it:

Huge - above the roof; knotty -

They sawed five times so that the light would not obscure;

All iron - you can't turn it out with a shell.

Stranger. From under my power he came out.

... And at night - the same bitter smell!

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