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Frolov-Krymsky K. One eccentric with a falsely sad face We are Russians and one eccentric

March 16th, 2014 , 06:37 pm

We are Russians

"We are Russians - what a delight!"
A.V.Suvorov

One eccentric with a fake-sad face,
“Huddle” in the cabin of your Porsche,
He said: “I’m ashamed to be called Russian.
We are a nation of mediocre drunks."

Solid appearance, demeanor -
Everything is cunningly thought out by the devil.
But the merciless virus of degeneration
I ingloriously ground away his entire insides.

His soul is not worth half a dime,
Like a yellow leaf from broken branches.
But the descendant of the Ethiopians Pushkin
He was not burdened by his Russianness.

They rightfully considered themselves Russians
And raised the Motherland from its knees
Creators of Russian nautical glory
Both Bellingshausen and Krusenstern.

And not putting up with a narrow worldview,
Trying to look beyond the horizon,
It was considered an honor to be called Russian
Scots - Greig, de Tolly and Learmont.

Any one of them is worthy of admiration,
After all, singing the praises of the Motherland is the law for them!
So he gave his life without regret
For Rus' the Georgian prince Bagration.

Our language is multifaceted, precise, true -
Sometimes it heals the soul, sometimes it strikes like steel.
Are we capable of appreciating him immensely?
And to know him, as the Dane Dahl knew?

What is there Dahl! And nowadays there are a lot of
Speaking the Great Language
No worse than the Little Russian Mykola Gogol,
That you were once acquainted with Pushkin?

Don't bang your head against the wall
And in rage, splashing saliva in vain!
"We are Russians!" - Shevchenko said so.
Read the kobzar more carefully.

Cherishing filial love in my soul,
All my life I worked until seven sweats
Suvorov, Ushakov and Mendeleev,
Kulibin, Lomonosov and Popov.

Their names remained on the tablets
Like a true story of the basics.
And among them, like a pillar, is 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
Descendant of the Turk, Admiral Kolchak.

They instilled and nurtured love
From centuries-old origins and roots.
He is a Russian whose soul lives in Russia,
Whose thoughts are about mother, about her.

Patriotism is not sold as a load
For berets, boots or coats.
And since you are ashamed to be called Russian,
You, my friend, are not Russian. You are nobody.

Grammarians of both Goethe and Dumas
As the brainchild of enlightened Europe
They often sounded in sleepy Russia -
In decent family homes.
Ordinary people did not strain their minds
And he said, unlike scientists,
Snacking on a pickled apple,
As the motherland itself said.
But the time has come to change the order:
Mental progress has forced us
Put the language reform on your shoulders,
Through the labor of selfless men
Wealth of persons, tenses and cases
Using for Slavic speech.
-«-
Using for Slavic speech
Gaulish witticisms, Gothic laconicism,
We have revived an ancient organism,
It was as if the candles in the lanterns had been replaced.
It's not that we have nothing to boast about,
(Like, where is our famous patriotism?)
But everything good can be crippled
Plebeian parochial egoism.
The influence of new thoughts on the state
We have been celebrating since the time of Peter the Great.
And Lomonosov understood this:
Who has a clear physical standard
He also put it into poetic form,
That Russian syllable raised the world above.
-«-
He raised the Russian syllable over the world,
The one whose soul has always been free,
Whose thought was pure and noble,
Like inspiration, a bright ideal.
He listened to the delightful Muse
At the springs of folk poetry
And broke old traditions
With characteristic natural persistence.
And on the foundation of past victories,
Which has been created for many years
His wise ancestors,
For our timeless use
He erected an elegant temple for the language -
And thus he has already immortalized himself.
-«-
And thus he has already immortalized himself
A poet on the bosom of a blank sheet of paper,
What light, refined speeches
He put it 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 that flutters from a bush.
To enjoy the fruits of thought,
The soul must always work,
Because the main fruit is herself!
But gradually changing taste,
Subject to insidious temptation
And we, although we are not devoid of intelligence.
-«-
And we, although we are not devoid of intelligence,
They are susceptible to various Europeanisms.
We blindly accept their ways
And we bring their morals into our homes.
And chaos happens in souls:
We rush towards the shine of foil without looking back.
The light of truth was hidden from us by fog,
Like that weed that clogs the beds.
It's easier for us to learn English slang,
How to raise your own tongue from your knees!
How heartless people are towards their wealth!
There is no time to dig through dictionaries.
And we, without bothering ourselves in vain,
-«-
Before alien words, beads with a sword.
Kowtowling is an honor in Rus'.
It is our cross that weighs on our shoulders.
And God knows how long we will carry it.
Tit, tightly squeezed in a handful,
More dear to us than the swift-winged gyrfalcon.
Well, now even a child of six years old -
And he babbles in a foreign way.
But, like the revelation of a prayer,
Language and soul are fused together.
Unbelieving Thomas also believes in this.
Without this there will be no man.
So why at the end of the century
Is our vocabulary like a poor bag?
-«-
Cleansed 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 being played:
Tinsel is passed off as valuable.
The customer, as before, was not noticed.
He pays so that the spring dries up quickly,
And I am very glad that our language
-«-
Helpless, illiterate, crippled
The syllable of a man who has become a slave.
It doesn't matter if he has his own home,
From the rank and file, or marked by rank.
Let him be financially secure,
Having achieved this through my own 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 hassle.
Sold, bought, costs, profits...
And in the depths of the tormented soul -
Lakes that have become shallow before their deadline.
-«-
Lakes that have become shallow before their deadline
In the absence of healing springs -
The mark of an incurable vice,
Gold mine disease.
We inadvertently cooled our souls
While at the turn of the century
Our tongue again stepped by the will of fate
Across the borders of all continents.
There, on the tangle of world roads
Our melodious syllable burst into their world
Electric current discharge!
Aborigines of the northern country,
Wells that have long since 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 the terse speeches of the Sage.
Sometimes he scratches cruelly
With an offensive word, without raising your face.
Sometimes unfinished lines
They are understandable without demanding an end.
Freedom of combinations and sounds
Prefixes, suffixes and endings
Our language is incomparable in the whole world.
It was created by Russian poets.
And to make 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 instills strength in everyone,
Breaking out of the shackles of the grave towards us,
Through the centuries we understand and love.
And may you be far from art -
Above the essence of an unfinished line
Don’t be afraid to think about it inadvertently.
And opening the volume every time,
The finest filigree of precise phrases
Save your language from evil rock.
-«-
Save your tongue from evil fate,
Hanging invisibly over the country.
She was tortured mercilessly by a cruel century
Invasion, betrayal, war.
Paid at an unimaginable price
It's a long road back to the Temple.
She came as a prologue
To the recovery of the sick Motherland.
But in years of catastrophes and upheavals
The poet authoritatively raised us from our knees.
His art is akin to magic:
Just a few moments are enough -
And your spirit will be strengthened by the great Genius
Just one touch.
-«-
Just one touch
With a flight of thought, clothed in words,
The lost wanderer finds his way again,
Seeing the guiding lights.
They lead him tirelessly
To discoveries that break shackles
And tearing away the veils from eternal secrets,
(But not sacred ones, God save).
So distinguish the highest gifts
From the vain shiny tinsel,
Protecting children from vice.
From birth to farewell at the door
Meet your sons and daughters
With the creations of the Poet and Prophet!
-«-
With the works 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 Frenchman, blue-eyed German,
With the conqueror's worm in my chest,
More than once they tried to enslave us,
Daring to control the will of Rock.
Before the tongue, as before the Siberian cold,
A powerlessly deadly weapon!
The one who didn't understand this is a fool.
And let it be arrogant and bewildered -
They bow in respect ceremoniously
Grammarians of both Goethe and Dumas!
-«-
Grammarians of both Goethe and Dumas
Using for Slavic speech,
He raised the Russian syllable over the world -
And thus he has already immortalized himself!
And we, although we are not devoid of intelligence,
Before alien words, beads with a sword.
Our vocabulary is like a poor bag,
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
Just one touch
With the creations of the Poet and Prophet!

We are Russians

Konstantin Frolov-Krymsky

"We are Russians - what a delight!"
A.V.Suvorov
One eccentric with a fake-sad face,
“huddling” in the cabin of his Porsche,
He said: “I’m ashamed to be called Russian.
We are a nation of mediocre drunks.

"Respectable appearance, demeanor -
Everything is cunningly thought out by the devil.
But the merciless virus of degeneration
I ingloriously ground away his entire insides.

His soul is not worth half a dime,
Like a yellow leaf from broken branches.
But the descendant of the Ethiopians Pushkin
He was not burdened by his Russianness.

They rightfully considered themselves Russians
And raised the Motherland from its knees
Creators of Russian nautical glory
Both Bellingshausen and Krusenstern.

And not putting up with a narrow worldview,
Trying to look beyond the horizon,
It was considered an honor to be called Russian
Scots – Greig, de Tolly and Learmont.

Any one of them is worthy of admiration,
After all, singing the praises of the Motherland is the law for them!
So he gave his life without regret
For Rus' the Georgian prince Bagration.

Our language is multifaceted, precise, true -
Sometimes it heals the soul, sometimes it strikes like steel.
Are we capable of appreciating him immensely?
And to know him, as the Dane Dahl knew?

What is there Dahl! And nowadays there are a lot of
Speaking the Great Language
No worse than the Little Russian Mykola Gogol,
That you were once acquainted with Pushkin?

Don't bang your head against the wall
And in rage, splashing saliva in vain!
"We are Russians!" - Shevchenko said so.
Read Kobzar more carefully.

Cherishing filial love in my soul,
All my life I worked until seven sweats
Suvorov, Ushakov and Mendeleev,
Kulibin, Lomonosov and Popov.

Their names remained on the tablets
Like a true story of the basics.
And among them, like a pillar, is old man Derzhavin,
In whose veins is the blood of the Tatar Murza.

They are coming - now servants, now messiahs,
-Carrying your cross on your bent shoulders,
How he carried it in the name of all Russia
Descendant of the Turk, Admiral Kolchak.

They instilled and nurtured love
From centuries-old origins and roots.
He is Russian, whose soul lives in Russia,
Whose thoughts are about mother, about her.

Patriotism is not sold as a load
For berets, boots or coats.
And since you are ashamed to be called Russian,
You, my friend, are not Russian. You are nobody!!!

18.11.2012

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Frolov-Krymsky K. One eccentric with a falsely sad face We are Russians and one eccentric

We are Russians

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