Julia Solomonova, husband Poetess Sola Monova: "There are people who are created to save others" Sola Monova biography personal life

© Monova S.

© AST Publishing House LLC

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#1997

#Here_and_calm

That's peace, that's gone,
Someone else to look for.
On a sleeve trimmed with fur,
Black snake - a strand.
The leaves are spinning, spinning together,
They cannot be caught on the fly.
And why? Because you don't need
Soon they will be swept away in heaps.
The flame will clog, the flame will cool,
The first snow will fall.
[Maybe white, maybe blue,
Maybe something else...]
It will become transparent, it will become sparkling,
It will be the end of November
And on the paths untouched-clean
I will be with me only.

I am without desires, I am without requests,
I am without forgotten verses.
No matter how hard you try, summer is not autumn,
The desire to have is not love.
Whatever you do, dead leaves
All will reach the ground.
Don't come back: I sleep sweetly,
If you are somewhere far away.

#All_my_fun

All my fun is just a mask
All my fun is fake makeup.
You kiss on the lips - a March fairy tale,
But kissing on the lips won't do anything.

And my eyelashes are like spider legs
(How many webs do they need to weave?)
In a small hallway I put on a hat:
You're afraid of me, it's better for me to leave.

You are afraid of me, as children are afraid
Bite an unknown fruit with your teeth.
And I look calmly, thinking about the summer:
How it starts, how it goes.

On your steps, worn and slippery,
I don't like going down a couple of floors.
I put on shoes, got taller,
I want to stay, but I can't.

I am silent and hesitate, the blood froze in a vein ...
After a little silence, it's better to disperse -
All the mute charm of this stupid scene
In the way you squeeze the brush goodbye!

#I_think_that_I'm_going_crazy

I feel like I'm going crazy:
I sleep during the day, I don’t see him in my sleep,
I'm going where I shouldn't go
Just to be a little closer.

And on the steps, among different faces,
Kiss him with a sad look
And hide behind curtains of eyelashes
Salty water light coolness.

Snowdrops that bloomed in the park
I would ruthlessly rip it off for him,
And the cloud that basks in the distance,
They made him a blanket instead.

And the very first emerald hop
From small roadside blades of grass
How black coffee would bring to bed:
I'm crazy, which means I can do anything.

#Fly

False sedation -
Tobacco smoke.
For me one moment
It became a pack.
And fog, no one understands,
Started to cry:
In a useless half-winter city
Rain and slush.
Two moons - two delusions
Two sorrows.
I pray that their eclipses
Didn't match.
I pray for something true
Something third
And I squeeze WINSTON in my fingers
Cigarette.
But she's already decayed
The smoke does not melt.
Of course, I'm more sinful
Than a saint.
I'm holding on but I can't take it
The walls are crushing!
I'll tell myself everything today -
Open my veins!!!
I'll call myself by my first name!
Hearing pain?
I'm the same as all of them -
Just... a fly
Flew in ... a late guest.
And it looms.

He will die, because here instead of air -
Tobacco smoke!!!

#You is not the one

You're not the one I need right now
You is not the one.

My city is once again cold,
All will pass.

They say it's raining all week
Will pour.

You can part the clouds with your hands.
Whether it is necessary?

I will bring incense from the bright church
To a dark house.

At first, everything is easy and complicated.
And then?

Someone has to be stronger and taller.
It's me.

And they drop gold on the roofs
poplars.

About you the last of the lines,
Like a dagger.

I only loved the shell.
It's a pity!

#I_bought_chrysanthemums

I bought chrysanthemums
Modestly, for myself.
Didn't search for common topics
The one who took me home.

Clouds quarreled in the distance,
blackening sky,
Two snowflakes fell
And hit the glass.

I tried to guess
What is happening on earth:
Whether the city sobbed
Is the city sick...

And I thought: "You're waiting,
Watching the shooter run
And in me the last rain
Passes into the first snow.

#I him

I love him.
Autumn again.
I love him.
Red snow.
I love him.
Someone will ask.
"I love him", -
The whole answer.

I'm looking for him.
The evening is getting cold.
I'm looking for him.
The stairs are dark.
I'm looking for him.
The breath will flow.
I'm looking for him.
I'm alone.

I want it.
Soft velvet.
I want it.
Light sleep.
I want it.
All cards lie.
I want it.
Well, what about him?

I love him.
Too late.
I love him.
Black fur.
I love him.
The stars are fading.
I love him…
To hell with everyone!!!

#1999

#Girls_with whom_you_sleep

The girls you sleep with
Forget the rings under the bed.
Then you pull them in your hands,
Remembering tender hugs.

Stones enclosed in metals -
Only the creations of clever jewelers.
The girls you slept with
How much did they give you?

Thousands of second pleasures
And dozens of easy awakenings?
It's good when it's easy and slippery,
And ecstasy depends on the movements

Well when not too long
And wine in a nearby shop
Expensive, but not exactly as much
To not be left on the rubber.

Of course, you will say: “Cynical!”
Twist your mouth into a wicked grin.
Okay let it be romantic
Here, for example: there were stars in the sky ...

The stars were like big asters
In autumn yellowed flower beds.
Her eye is unmixed colors,
The pupils have silver moons.

How the dress slipped under the arms,
How easily the shoulders touched,
Darkness hid, but under the bed
In the morning you found her ring.

Are you satisfied now? But hardly.
Well then, please forgive me.
You removed my portraits from the walls -
Now I don't care who you sleep with!

#Dog_elegy

We walk very well with the dog:
He writes and I write.
He is on poles and under fences,
And I'm talking about a fallen soul.

And I have a suspicion
That my dog ​​writes poetry
Because spiritualization
Close to his character.

He is tense and focused.
In moments of lifting paws,
And pours on the whitewashed curb
Lyrical dog speck.

How does he take care of
To my works:
A little weariness in the yard
And again add a line to them.

And this, apparently, historically,
That our connections are so easy:
My dog ​​shits poetically
I write bad poetry!

#2004

#How_chocolate_sticks_to_thigh_

How chocolate sticks to your thighs
Well, just at least completely forget about sweets!
Chocolate invisible to the eye
More noticeable on the body a hundred times!

I'm twenty-five, I started to squat
In aerobic workouts,
And, like a giant rabbit, I drink carrots,
If only to drive away these charms.

Belly and butt lost the fight -
Lose weight under stress
But the hips are fatal deposits
Unshakable, like a monument.

Oh, fashion, how difficult it is with you!
After all, it’s like I’m not a donut from birth:
Crying over "Bird's Milk"
I envy the Renaissance.

My friend came up with a move:
Having pampered the body with gluttony,
She goes and just pukes
And then eats not a drop at least.

In the program of the interesting "BBC"
They called it "bulimia"!
From this, O Lord, save
Dying in Europe. Mamma Mia!

The method doesn't work for me. What nonsense -
Giving delicacies to the toilet.
There is a benefit in the hips: on the edge of ecstasy
Hold onto them gently - or not?

#2005

#Blossoming

I need a lover with blue eyes
No biography and no extra questions.
We will bite into each other, nose to nose,
And not to classify sins before images.

I need a lover who explodes at once
Without a universal reason and plans for the evening,
We'll rip out the buttons, we'll enter the endless
Corridor - from touching fingers to orgasm ...

I need a lover who will say through his teeth
Final spells and stain the sheets with protein.
In the afternoon I will write his sweet-salty name
Mentally on the foreheads of interlocutors and become wet.

I need a lover that I will lose without sadness
No pain, no laughter, no discussions with mom.
Oh gods, why curse me! Why do I need cold marble!
At the age of the most blossoming!

Do you speak Russian?

#Sad

You know, I was sad today

They say artificial art
I don't know... you hear the wind blowing.

He plucks a leaf from the sad maples...
At night, so that no one sees the theft.
They say there are no lovers
They say - and kisses ... even ...

Here comes the winter, so that the birds freeze -
I will sprinkle crumbs on the balcony.
It is impossible, they say, to fall in love -
To fall in love… all the more impossible.

So everything is pointless and boring ...
They say… didn’t know… young…
I'll put my hands in my mittens
And spoil the fragile ice with traces ...

And in the spring the river will change its course,
Children will launch boats in it ...
You know, today I ... became sad
Because there is no love in the world ...

#Long away

He's probably somewhere
Far away, where there is no me,
Stroking the fur of a red dog
By the fading fire.

It's dark in his rooms
Look sad portraits in the hall,
He has an unhappy marriage
And sparkling eyes.

And outside the windows the same century
Same month, same God.
A person I don't know
With a red dog at warm feet

Drinking hot milk
Resting from the bile of the day.
Too bad he's far away
Far away, where I am not.

#Remember_me_for a long time

Remember me for a long time
Like the best of the set
Like the best of brunettes
As the best of the unnecessary...
Remember me and only.
I'll put the appliances together
I'll put a napkin on my lips
And this dinner is over.

Remember me by the moans
By razor-cut nerves,
By strange dreams of a cage,
By the pure color of karma.
Of a thousand false stories
Print mine first
Read it very rarely.
And cry outside the cameras.

Remember me wild
Remember me yours
(I'll stay in something of yours.)
Read my correspondence...
Remember me with a gift
Someone's birthday...
I feel like I'm lost
And I won't do it again
Close…

#Star fever

I loved him:
He was young, healthy and neat,
Woke up with the dawn
I ran to the horizontal bar even in the cold.
I loved him:
He did not put stains on the tablecloth,
Admired Copernicus -
Ancient advanced husband.
I loved him:
He was an excellent athlete since childhood,
Gathered dust on the chest of drawers
Dozens of plastic cups.
I loved him:
I came to replace the previous one
And slept on my shoulder
Pretending to be good and fragile.
I loved him:
He was a true inhabitant of the World.
In his bedroom Gagarin
Staring at the poster of Venus.
I loved him:
I learned about black holes
About some supernovas and dwarfs of mega sizes.
I loved him:
I loved his overload
Weightlessness, articles about comets, plots from orbit.
I loved him:
He addressed me in Russian,
And to colleagues, as if in a Hebrew dialect.
I loved him:
I dreamed of rafting with fires,
I found decent rafts on the cheap for the summer.
I loved him:
He thought love was strange.
I loved him…

He trained himself to be an astronaut!

Honey, you are something like a hawk:
Somewhere over the meadow, but where is unknown.
There are too many unknowns between people -
Everyone wants to take their place.

There in the clouds you need to argue with the flows.
Green-green is the bottom of your heights,
The river is visible with filament sources.
Big plans don't fit in.

People are constantly waiting for the beautiful,
Waiting too long is, of course, difficult.
Honey, you are something like a hawk,
I am on a rabbit in emerald grass.

#On distance

maybe I'll love you from a distance...
shot!
Are you public property?
pure!
I will burn with love, like a girl to a boy ...
At a distance, everything, oddly enough, is more tempting!

maybe I'll wish you from a distance ...
image!
like a stranger with a mysterious charm?
vote
it is better not to hear, so that the feelings remain innocent!
we will do the same with the surname, patronymic, first name ...

#Not_of_plastic

And you can, I'll be good and gentle:
Without rough movements, without sharp batmans,
Laugh at the eternal less and less,
Don't think about swing and marijuana...

Watching children in strange overalls
With a cart to wander in the supermarket for a long time,
Loving evenly four seasons,
To spread the bed is not on the principle of duty.

Or maybe I'll clean out the memory like a bag,
Where there is a lot of garbage there, behind the lining,
And past comics - someone's drawings -
I will ruthlessly tear out of the common notebook.

And you can, I again, as if for the first time,
I'll be wrong a hundred times, I promise. I often
So I want to believe that people are alive,
Not plastic, not plastic.

#One day

One day we'll meet somewhere at a party
And I will be thirty, and you - count for yourself.
You will be with a young and very thin blonde,
And I - with a gray-haired man with a trimmed mustache.

You kiss my hand - so it is necessary according to etiquette,
And I will tell you about the children left with the nanny at home ...
And I'll be wearing a black-black dress
[His favorite] You will say - I'm incomparable ...

Then I will congratulate you on something terribly important,
Successful, good, useful and very necessary ...
And you will stretch out a paper rectangle to me,
Which, of course, will go into her husband's wallet ...

And the meeting will last for minutes, well, at the most ... eight ...
And everyone will be called to the tables, rhinestones will flash in the lamps ...
We won't ask each other anymore
Like millions of lovers who didn't pick up the puzzle...

#Jealousy

When I walk down the street
and beautiful women fly past me,
with golden skin
and hair of soft honey or completely
black color,
talking on mobile phones
and smiling into the tubes,
seeing nothing but that distant interlocutor,
I'm sure they rush to You,
and your voice rushes in invisible waves
from one electronic device to another...

I am sure that these beautiful decorations
on their thin necks - Your gifts,
and You gently lifted their hair,
when he tried to snap the little clasps,
and said something very tender and sincere,
something you would never say to me...

That all these text messages are on your phone,
even signed by male names, -
secret messages,
coded messages,
so that only two can understand their special meaning,
and sparks sparkle in your heart
at every signal
breaking the night...

When I sleep alone
and tipsy company under the windows
trying to imitate modern performers,
and you rest in your bedroom without me
or from me
I'm sure you're not alone
that someone is pressing their back against your hot belly
and asks to pull the blanket higher,
so that not a single kilojoule
Your warmth has not been lost...

And in the morning you smile
and in imperceptible wrinkles around the eyes
flashing sequins erased lipstick -
kiss marks:
evening,
night,
morning,
I'm sure you'll remember them in the day...

It seems to me,
that this jealousy
like a cancer
tearing me apart from the inside
she, like a snake, penetrated my liver,
washed with wine and poisoned blood,
and it grows, grows, grows
They say there is no cure for cancer...
And the pain
this constant unbearable pain
and the crackle of torn tissue.
You said I got so heavy
and I don't eat much...

I'm sure this jealousy will kill me
Sooner or later…
late…

#Whom is she with?

Who is she with? She is free.
Only very strong black.
It's fashionable, it's not fashionable.
Fashion even for girls.

We are all trophies in some way,
Who - pride, who - vice.
If you live in coffee shops
So it's just lonely.

Everything must be very fashionable:
From cell phones to death...
Who is she with? She is free.
If in doubt - check.c

#Gray_day

Gray day. Wet gray asphalt in a gray city,
People drive in gray cars to their gray offices,
They hide gray thoughts in beards gray from time ...
Gray rain according to forecasts of severe weather forecasters will be.

Photoshop. new. Grayscale... contrast adjustment.
Where are the RGB colors? Where are the shades for the web?
Gray day. Not enough to colic passion.
This terrible dullness descends from the very sky.

Gray day. The traffic light (three times gray) blinks to drivers.
The kiss is too gray to recolor the day instantly.
This gray suit suits you - it's almost amazing,
But beneath it, pale gray blood to match the matched veins.

#Do not be afraid

Don't be afraid, I'll leave inaudibly -
You won't get tired of me.
Taking a mobile phone with shoes under his arm,
I will leave the entrance and melt.

People exist side by side
People don't need crossovers
Don't be afraid, I'll leave instantly.
Twice I will not enter your current.

I will not wander through the bodies
From the roll of the final cue.
Don't be afraid, I'm not fifteen -
I'm leaving professionally!!!

#I love you

I love you. Didn't you want this?
What else can I do? Tell…
In a little, little heart of a poet
There must be at least one celestial...

To fill the space with icons,
Protecting yourself from the fatal world.
I love the white rosehip song
I love you…
only you...

ideal.

#I_love_him_so

I love him like wolves love their cubs,
Kissing their muzzles with their tongues in a burrow.
I love him like the timid inhabitants of Chad -
Run with a thin spear for the Red Book animals.

I love him like a seasoned fisherman loves his net,
Fixing it every evening, turning cheekbones.
I love him like the condemned - death
In your soft bed, not in the electric chair.

I love him like a blind rastaman loves
Approaching Jah, turning insights into melodies.
I love him like a melancholic fog -
A native Englishman who has not been to his homeland for five years.

I love it the way tourists love the hot East,
Eating worms in a five-star hotel at dinner.
I love him like I love my first flower
A belated virgin dreaming of a husband.

I love him like the sparkle of a crown is a tyrant,
Like princesses - themselves, like flying money - beggars.
I love him like a gray-haired Muslim - the Koran,
As an artist - canvases, as hungry - a plate of food.

I love him like a free bird - a wing,
Like the depths - a mollusk, and how much - its narrow crack.
I love him the way homeless children love warmth.
I love him like a simple earthly woman.

#2006

#25_centimeters_of_love

If he did back and forth -
"You are very welcome" sign.
You can pull, but not always.
(Every stranger is not necessary!)

It can be very bent,
And different colors.
Maybe - straight, and Prutkov Kozma
Wrote something about it!

It also happens to be shaggy, ribbed,
Circumcised at a young age.
After washing, it is usually clean,
Upturned and a little pompous.

At "mine" he is upright, funny!
About a quarter of a meter...
Loves! Wags! Arto, follow me!
Lady with a dog!
Retro!

#Adamu

And we will walk through the foliage in November,
Leaving businesses and cars.
I love all this rib bullshit
Man created by God.

And I will close my hands under your coat,
Seems to be in the right place.
Bandaged under the scar
A God-made bride.

#Aloe

He came out of the blue of simple electronic signs,
But he was real and carnal, like bread and honey.
And his eyelids smelled of the dream of the scarlet poppies,
And something like a Sunday-prayer stomach smelled.

He went out and stood somewhere: far away, but nearby,
And I kept his mobile number in my chest.
But apparently I wore the wrong clothes
I didn’t know what to do in the midst of, inside, among ...

He came out of the blue, but the portico did not moor in mine,
He came out of the blue and went into the same blue.
And the cabin boy was throwing his sailor's bent dagger
In high masts that held red silk.

#Run

Wherever you run
Gravity, time, rumor.
If you ask for something to drink, they will take three prices for a rope at the well.
Wherever you run
Languages ​​bear fruit.
People want to eat, people want to fight with someone!

Wherever you run
This is society - you are doomed
In the rough world of elbows, learn the art of pushing.
Wherever you run
Relying on someone's shoulder
You can fall painfully and break on sharp stones.

Wherever you run
Too busy, too big
Demand for quick money and easy happiness as an inheritance.
Wherever you run
Has anyone found this box?
A moment before you - get used to the difficult neighborhood.

Wherever you run
The world is filled and holds in the teeth
A blue dream like a cutout of a lion in a zoo.
Wherever you run
From diaper to plush in coffins
You can make a princess with the hands of a burnt cook.

Wherever you run
You can't run away from yourself anyway.
Chips are built in, conscience will find an excuse for instinct.
Wherever you run
Feeling the thrill of sharing
They can take away a finger for a ring with a fake sequin.

But wherever you run
Be kinder and say goodbye more often
Unloved women and unmedaled warriors.
And wherever you run
Even if you run on an empty stomach,
Do not rush to food, albeit with a slight, but a sign ... stink!

#Be_reverent_to_the_World

Be tremulous to the World -
He is just as touchy and small,
And love him not in the spring, but in the vile slush.
Imagine, the world happens to want to cry:
Be tremulous to the World -
It also has an ending.

Be tremulous to the World -
He's so amazingly fresh
And so his soil awaits the spring seed.
Be tremulous more often: in all areas and with everyone.
Be tremulous to the World -
We are children, and He is our playpen.

Be in awe of the world
And He is embodied in the little things:
In innocence of insults and in memory of memorable nicknames.
Be tremulous to the World - he also suffered from master keys.
Be in awe of the world

Hidden in someone's eyes.

#You know_2

You know, the months will go by
You will call ... but much less often ... and ...
People live according to the laws of the area:
Continental and coastal.

Everything is fine. And, of course, it will turn out
Everything. Good. The belts are tight.
I am a hostage of time zones
I sit down to have lunch when you have dinner.

Autumn is wonderful continental.
Autumn is wonderfully one-time.
There are belts, but the waist is not visible -
Forever my planet is pregnant.

Leaves spread along the coast
The leaves are carved ... with your profile ...
To be at least a little adjacent to me -
Though the secretary with black coffee.

Or you ... but where are we ... Various
Spectators, scenes, spotlights, replicas.
The leaves are so red in autumn.
And coincidences are so ... rare ...

Can be synchronized with your arrows
Run around like a black horse.
He who is obsessed does not tolerate petty things.
And the possessed are the doomed.

#Men_who_are_suitable_for_us_fathers

Thin innocence: delight from puddles,
Mystery in disrepair.
Who do I need? Lover? Husband?
For admiration? Pity?

Youth is magical - any garcon
He looks like a fairytale prince.
What do I need? Inside? Style?
The agency is working in the sky.

Maturity is gratifying - puts its highlight
A small month for the city.
Who do I need? Youngster? Old man?
To fill a bedroom.

Algorithm programmed -
BASIC - classical language:
If not, then go to… line limit
Thirty is the critical limit.

I want to drink water from my face
In the thicket, listen to the oriole.
Girls are looking for their father in everything!
Maybe expand the sample?

ONLINE: Sola Monova

IN PASSPORT: Yulia Solomonova

ABOUT MYSELF: Writer

Moscow city

AGE: Gentle

CHARACTER: Lyrical

EDUCATION: VGIK (workshop of S. Solovyov, V. Rubinchik)

MORE EDUCATION: FESTU, Institute of Economics and Management

AND ANOTHER EDUCATION: Far Eastern State Academy of Arts

PROFESSION: Director

GORPROEKT - Julia, tell us about yourself: about your childhood, growing up, motherhood. How did your style of writing change depending on what period of life you were going through?

SOLA MONOVA - I was born in Vladivostok, I have been writing poems since childhood. At first she wrote humorous poems for grandparents, read them at family parties and everyone really liked it. Then, at school, in a hooligan way, I reworked poems from the school curriculum, Pushkin, Lermontov, Mayakovsky - even boys from parallel classes came to listen. I still love this genre.

Let's drink from grief, where is the mug.

And we'll have a snack ... Where's the snack?

I would like a fat girlfriend

To make me look narrow!

Russian women, it's not easy for us!

Fatal seal on us!

In the case of oil and silicone

There is a resource, so you need to download!

At that time, I certainly didn't think that writing would be something serious in my life. Although I always wrote and remember almost everything by heart.

When social networks appeared, I took the risk of posting my poetic archive to the judgment of network friends, friends liked it, then friends-friends, friends-friends-friends and complete strangers. It turned out that the poems diverge like viruses.

GORPROEKT - What do you think, where does such an interest in poetry come from?

SOLA MONOVA - People like not just poems, but stories. People are interested, because they see in these stories not the author, but first of all - themselves. Most of my readers don't even know what I look like and, in principle, it doesn't matter to them. They visit the page to read something about themselves.

The square of my screen.

I remember when I was 15

And there was no Instagram.

Nice and very flat

And it was ninety some year

And alcohol on tap at the kiosk.

This poem "In an era without Instagram" was distributed by a huge number of reposts. Everything turned out to be familiar: basements, and Pashka with a guitar, and songs about princesses.

GORPROEKT - Do you have a literary education?

SOLA MONOVA - I have three higher educations, all of them are very creative, but not writing. I am a professional film director, theater director and production manager. I received two diplomas in Vladivostok, and in Moscow I graduated from VGIK, the directing workshop of Sergei Solovyov and Valery Rubinchik. I love my profession very much, and in Vladivostok and Moscow I worked on television for many years, was a presenter, director of programs, after that - already the main director of my own studios, staged performances.

GORPROEKT - And now the main thing is poetry?

SOLA MONOVA - Yes, it happened. I am a very energetic and creative person. When I gave birth to a child and moved with my husband to a country house in the suburbs, I got into real isolation from society - silence, beauty, Christmas trees, pine trees, fresh air, and no communication ... except for the Internet. That's why I got so caught up in network poetry.

It was impossible to shoot a movie with a child in her arms, and one could write poetry while rocking the cradle and walking with a stroller. And most importantly, what was written turned out to be put to the judgment of readers at the same second. Cinema has a very long way to the audience. Poetry in this respect is an ideal art. "No cameras needed, no rails."

In recent years, I have written a huge number of poems. Therefore, the need to release books has ripened, now readers are interested in how I myself read my own works, but I think they are interested in just looking at me, whether I look like them or not (laughs).

GORPROEKT - Reading your poems, one is amazed at how you manage to "get into the mood" of the readership. Did you pass through each poem and lived through it?

SOLA MONOVA - I only write about what I know well. Sometimes these are strong emotions of my loved ones. When a loved one suffers, do you feel his pain? This pain becomes yours.

It also happens that sharp questions hang in the air and I, as a contemporary artist, simply cannot pass by. For example, it is impossible not to notice the militant moods on the network, even on the pages of friends I sometimes find quite aggressive statements. And so, it was the eve of the Great Patriotic War, the entire Internet was full of St. George's ribbons, a great occasion to post poems about the war.

If you are an educated person

Get rid of swastikas and paranas.

Where does the war start? In my head -

Every third is now in the head with the war.

So you think you would have prevented -

Proved, avenged, avenged everything...

Shake your head - TNT is in your head,

In this head - a spark, and it will blow!

GORPROEKT - Where do you get your inspiration? What energizes you to write the next masterpiece?

SOLA MONOVA - When I meet bright living people, I want to write about them. Maybe I just feel someone else's pain well ... I'm a director. When the directors analyze the plays, they must determine the desires of all the characters, their goals, tasks, this is how the main conflict emerges (in Stanislavsky's way). Every time I write a poem, I create a little piece of drama. Here we are talking, it means that there are already some relations, desires and expectations between us. As in Chekhov's "The Seagull", the plot for a short story. And I, almost like Trigorin, can write a poem about it. I really don't even know how it will turn out and how it will end. You can't guess here. There are no guarantees.

That is why I do not write to order. True, earlier, back in the first institute, I wrote and, it seems, I did it quite well, easily and with humor. There were even regular customers. But I didn’t save these verses, and now I’m unlikely to be able to compose something like that. Although no, maybe I can, but here we need a cool motivation, some kind of space fee. (laughs).

You know, I recently watched a program about film music. Rybnikov, one of my favorite composers, was asked: “What inspires you to create such brilliant music, and even within tight production deadlines? ". He replied: “The deadline itself is very inspiring, because there is no choice - you get inspired and write” (laughs).

I am also inspired by people from the Internet: social networks are a vanity fair - they allow everyone to "position" themselves: upload photos, philosophical opuses, show off. Sometimes, looking at a person’s page, you learn so much about his life that you can’t help but write poetry, most often sarcastic, and sometimes even obscene.

GORPROEKT - Which of your poems from a huge variety do you especially highlight and love?

SOLA MONOVA - I love all my poems, and my favorite is always the last one. Hits are made by readers. But I guess they choose not so much poems as topics that are close.

I sometimes write something and think: “God, what a good poem!”, I walk around happy, read it to myself, rub my hands. And now, if I thought so, there will be no backlash. But it’s worth writing a couple of lines from the “well, nonsense” series - a flurry of applause, comments, people react, associate with themselves, laugh or cry, drag them to their pages. Here, for example, is an excerpt from an unexpectedly topical poem about summer.

I am writing from a beautiful place

In our forest-steppe zone,

'Cause you're a bum and a bum

And you don’t take it to the sea, like everyone else.

Scratched, gnashed his teeth,

Went into the phone book

Got a motorcycle with a sidecar

And took me to the fairy forest.

And now I'm on Instagram -

Super photos! Frost on the skin!

And a merry river with beavers,

And the bites of angry wasps,

And nudist scenes in the sedge

And a trip for vodka to the area,

The sky is infinitely high

With a crow flying away.

GORPROEKT - Do you take offense at your readers when a poem to which you devoted a lot of time does not find a proper response? Or are you your own biggest critic?

SOLA MONOVA - Well, I'm also a follower of other people, someone reads my poems, and I look at someone's photos, listen to someone's songs. Something like it, something not. It's like in Hollywood - one good picture for 100 bad ones.

And criticism is needed, but it should not clip the wings. Criticism that makes you want to drop everything and go to a monastery is network terrorism. I noticed that even the most remarkable artists of our time have "haters".

GORPROEKT - What do you think, who would you be if you had not become a poetess?

SOLA MONOVASOLA MONOVA - First of all, I am a director. And poetry is my springboard.

I was lucky, I chose a profession in which a career does not end at 20. If you dream of becoming a model, at 15 you should get into an agency, at 16 you should get contracts, at 17 you should become the face of a famous brand. And if you are a director, the older you are, the more expensive. The director is a wise man. Therefore, I do not worry that I spend my best years on poetry, a good springboard is needed for a big jump. In general, I want to make films and I will.

GORPROEKT - That is, we can expect some interesting project from you in the future?

SOLA MONOVA - Yes, you can't even, but you will definitely wait. But for now, I have small children. Now my son is two years old, and when he turns four, and he will already be a completely independent man, I can be distracted by my big things (laughs).

I have already made a book out of one of my screenplays, this is a small prose “Dandelion has white blood”. It is also for sale on my website. Reader responses are quite interesting. I hope that one day a great movie producer will read this book and say: “Listen, three pennies budget, we need to film it!” (laughs).

"with my data"

Sola Monova

Of course, there are prettier and smarter...

What's strange about this?

You just doubt me

And don't compare.

After all, if you look around,

All such stars

And you are a tireless astronaut

In open space.

Skies sparkle with diamonds

With the coming of the evening:

Who is entrenched in Virgo, who is in Libra

Forever and ever.

Their unearthly names are ringing

All over the galaxy

And I'm standing at the sad window

In one coat.

And I feel so simple

so small

When there are a hundred million in the sky

Cheerful emoticons.

And I think who to imitate

They have dates.

They fight: white cats

With black cats

Vying with each other shouting to dumbness

in front of the girls.

In the morning, a neighbor's cat will crawl

Very hurt.

You compare life and the sky,

And don't compare.

After all, if the General acts the law

over organisms,

Everything that looks very high

Basically, it's low.

You see, I'm trying somehow

Understand the laws

And I light the way with my phone

Through the dark room...

"in an age without Instagram"

Sola Monova

In the dead of night" illuminates the plaid

The square of my screen.

I remember when I was 15

And there was no Instagram.

Didn't like my belly

Nice and very flat

And it was ninety some year

And alcohol on tap at the kiosk.

A river of singed alcohol flowed,

The cassette player swore in the background,

I only saw from afar

Cell phones

Gloomy brothers and luxurious ladies

In boots on bare feet -

Those were desperate years

And cult for many.

Someone was killed, and someone turned sour

From poppy or from vodka,

Dads patched up their socks

Mothers - their pantyhose,

Teenagers treated their acne

And imagined a lot

And Tanya taught me to smoke

At the school behind the garages.

Tanka and I did not know about social networks,

Followers or trolls

Tanka and I wanted to smoke inhalingly

And roam without control

Tanka and I believed that life is a game,

And Pashka Karmanov is a genius,

And Instagram would seem to us

Some stupid bullshit.

And Pashka Karmanov read with difficulty

And poked tsatski in trams,

On the pipes in the basement made a house

And he treated everyone royally,

He sang about princesses until he was hoarse,

How you want to kiss them

And the cats climbed to the song in the basement

And warmed themselves on glass wool,

And dripped from these hot pipes,

And it smelled pretty bad

And if I have at least some YouTube,

You would know his art,

Since everyone went to Pashka,

Descending into darkness and humidity

And Pashka would definitely not have sat down then

For someone's empty wallet...

Today on the Web - all kinds of slag

And a lot of good songs.

I was looking for Pashka, but I did not find it,

Perhaps the world is not small,

Aluminum Wi-Fi antennas rang,

The world processor buzzed,

Driven in hashtags - brought down content,

But not those princesses...

And those from the basement have caught a trace,

And this is not at all strange.

Princesses ruled at fifteen -

In an age without Instagram!

"The heat was unbearable"

Sola Monova

The heat was unbearable

Milk boiled in the blood

And you said I'm beautiful

And I believed easily.

I wanted to sit down

And brightly bring your eyes

I realized that I'm beautiful

When you said this.

I couldn't slouch anymore

[and could not eat for three days],

And we went along the summer street -

And EVERYONE looked at me...

And the heat pecked passers-by in the temechko

And crowed like a cockerel:

"Such an ugly girl

With such a handsome man!"

"Youth"

Sola Monova

Youth, you are so smart

Just do not leave!

If you want, let's go and buy a handbag,

Let's eat sweet.

Do you want to go on a trip

To the sun at sunrise.

It's kind of crazy

Your departure from me!

Youth, you are so close -

Do not betray your loved one.

Do you want me to become a climber -

Let's move into the cold.

Do you want sparkling? Do you want strong?

Let's take a day off

Everything that was not glued before, with paper clips Let's connect into one.

I read about poor virgins,

And about the bloody shower.

Maybe for a simple one: injections,

Powder, lipstick, mascara.

Maybe you'll be delayed, even temporarily,

Even for a couple of years?

Youth, dear, modern?

No answer.

skype dad

Sola Monova

And today it's been raining since morning,

I also had a good dream

I have a dad, Skype dad,

Dad is in business.

They say that my dad is red-red,

On Skype, he's static and sullen

But on the other hand, my mother and I live in Paris,

And I speak French.

I used to miss it, now not so much

A real dad is not for me!

Electronic dad like a Tamagotchi

Will give to Disneyland and will not give a belt!

Dad will call at New Year's Eve dinner

Waving in the online "widow Clicquot",

I want exactly the same husband -

To a lot of money and away!

Website:

Sola Monova is the most popular poetess in the Russian segment of the Internet. The author of vivid memorable poems “sells manuscripts”, monetizes talents and raises children.

Yulia Solomonova (Sola Monova is a pseudonym) was born in the capital of Primorsky Krai in 1979. She began writing poetry before she went to school. The girl was prompted to literary creativity by the enthusiasm for the poetry of her parents. The poetess is grateful for the support of her father Valera, who managed to see a gift in her daughter's first opuses, distinguished by black humor.

Judging by the number of diplomas of higher education, the favorite pastime of a native of Vladivostok is studying: Yulia is a certified manager, director, actress.

In the early 2000s, Solomonova hosted popular programs on Primorsky Television, and grateful viewers recognized her on the streets. However, the Far Eastern expanses became cramped for a versatile girl, and she rushed to Moscow, entered the VGIK in the workshop.

Poetry

Although behind Monova's shoulders is the film "911", staged in the United States, the only occupation that allows her to communicate with the Almighty is poetry. The most famous poems of Sola are “I feel that there are women nearby” and “Frost”. In general, all the works of the lady writer are addressed to the fair sex, they can be entitled "Poems about men."

Critics scold Sola's poems for the fact that after getting to know them, readers do not experience catharsis, but only rejoice in recognizing previously experienced emotions. There are grammatical errors in the lively verses. However, the millionth audience of subscribers of the poetess in social networks is delighted with the opuses of their favorite author.

Sola is witty, feels the rhythm, picks up bright, unexpected rhymes. Monova's poetry is stylistically similar to the work of Igor Irtenev, but is not dedicated to politics, but to gender relations. Readers will recognize elements of their biographies in the lines of the poetess.

Personal life

In an interview, Sola Monova says that she met her future husband - then a politician, and now a businessman - thanks to poetry: Nikolai Morozov presented the poetess with a diploma for winning a literary competition. Then fate brought the young people together again at Sola's friend's bachelorette party. One day passed from the marriage proposal to the wedding: the connections allowed the groom to quickly organize registration in the city of Vladimir, where the lovers went to admire the ancient architecture.

Monova flirtatiously comments on her personal life, claiming that Kolya fell in love with her because she knows how to do what he likes - poetry. The only thing objected to by the life partner in Sola's work is profanity.

The husband is 5 years older than the poetess, he is the author of more than fifty scientific books, he managed to work both as an assistant and vice-rector of the main Far Eastern university. Photos of Nikolai on the Internet testify to the taste of the poetess: the man has a pleasant appearance, a harmonious physique and thick hair. The couple have two children. The birth of Vanya and Nina made Monova's poetry more lyrical.

Sola Monova now

In May 2018, the poetess performed on the main square of Russia. On December 29 and 30, 2018, the creative lady gave concerts in the Moscow Capercaillie Nest, tickets for which cost from 2 to 3 thousand rubles.

Each performance of Sola is a one-man show, in which she appears in spectacular (usually black) outfits. The grateful audience weeps, and after the performance brings books to the idol to decorate them with autographs.

The poetess pleased the fans: posted in "Instagram" a new poem dedicated to 2019 - the year of the Pig.

Books

• 2014 - Dandelion has white blood
• 2014 - "Left Book"
• 2014 – “Right book. Network poetry»
• 2016 - "Poems about men"
• 2018 - "Poems for a handbag"
• 2018 - "Poems"
• "Complaint book"
• "Pink Book"

A bright personality with an out-of-the-box thinking. With her shocking poems, she simply blew up the Internet. Today, by the number of subscribers, she is the most popular poetess of Runet. The number of followers is already over a million. And if some of her poems seem too harsh and even delusional, others are sure that this is the perfect mix of sarcasm and wisdom. So, Sola Monova, the biography, family and work of the popular modern poetess are in the center of our attention.

Biography of Yulia Solomonova

Sola Monova was born in Vladivostok in 1979. Already at the age of 6 she wrote nursery rhymes, saturated with black humor. The poetess herself admits that she chose the path of art thanks to her father. With his submission, they drew, sang, wrote poetry from early childhood. The last one worked best for her. Sola (real name - Yulia Valerievna Solomonova) says that the strangest dream is the most sincere. And it should be performed by every woman. But it's very strange - to want to be a poet ...

It seems that half of her life she was engaged in her own education. In 1996 she graduated from an English school in her hometown. Then she became a graduate of the Far Eastern State Academy of Arts (2003). Specialty - theater director. In 2004, the future Sola Monova, whose biography we are considering, received another diploma in the field of production management.

The soul of a poet

By the age of 27, Sola was hosting a popular TV show in Vladivostok. She was recognized on the streets. As the poetess herself admits: "I was dressed in luxurious clothes, and I was the director of my own studio." But Sola felt she was missing something important.

Therefore, at the age of 27, the poetess abandoned everything - luxurious clothes, an excellent career and her hometown. The girl went to Moscow, began to study at VGIK. She settled in a hostel, like an ordinary student. It was during her studies that her roommate registered her on the social network. And one day Julia decided to post poems on her page. By the way, none of her Moscow acquaintances knew that she was a talented poetess. Sola says that her poems received a lot of positive feedback then. And when the number of subscribers exceeded 200, her husband advised her to publish her own book. But then this idea did not arouse enthusiasm among the young poetess.

In 2011, she graduated from VGIK and the directing workshop of Solovyov and Rubinchik. And in 2012, she received a diploma from the Hollywood film school and even shot a film in Hollywood called "911".

The personal life of the poetess

As Sola herself admits, she met her husband at a poetry competition. But their relationship began many years later, when they met at her friend's bachelorette party. At that time, Sola Monova's husband was a State Duma deputy in Vladivostok. Today he is in business.

Our heroine talks little about her husband. She does not post his photos on social networks. He says that there is always a conflict between two loving people. But they learned to understand and appreciate Nikolai does not forbid her to pursue a poetic career. But he forbids writing obscene poems. But Sola has a group on VKontakte dedicated to them! These verses are sharp and meaningful. And, it should be noted, they have their fans.

From her husband, Julia gave birth to two children - Nina and Ivan. The children of Sola Monova are still very young: a nine-year-old daughter and a four-year-old son. Julia jokes that her mother-in-law is waiting with horror when her granddaughter, at the request of the teacher, recites her mother's verse ... and it turns out to be obscene.

"The light is deliberately extinguished
Under the cover of darkness
I fall asleep without pillows
Between two children...".

For a long time, the poetess lived in Miami, but today she rarely visits America. Her professional plans are connected with the Russian capital. Sola performs quite often, tours Russia with concerts. She says that these concerts are more of a hobby for her than a way to earn money. She feels that she is in demand as a poet. That she is loved and appreciated.

About poetry and age

Most often, Julia writes about love. Her early poetry is more lyrical, less of the murderous sarcasm. The poetess is sure that her poems change with her. At the age of 16, she went without a hat in winter to be beautiful. And now she always wears a hat in the cold, because the main thing is warmth, not beauty. “Now I am,” Sola says during an interview, “mother and wife. And at 16, I was ready for any adventure. At 38, I am not a traveler. I am a hearth.”

"And we will walk through the foliage in November,
Leaving businesses and cars.
I love all this rib bullshit
man created by God."

About inspiration

Writing poetry for Sola Monova is a kind of revelation that suddenly comes to her. The poetess admits that she has a rather high technique and can rhyme anything. But no technique will provide the ability to write truly sincere, light, heartfelt poems. It is a kind of door that opens suddenly. You need to drop everything and write down what came to mind, otherwise you will not be able to recreate this process later. And "what came to mind" can be anything - lyrical, sarcastic or even obscene. And after writing the verse, what worried, bothered, hurt there - finally lets go. "For me, writing poetry," says the poetess, "is a kind of meditation, during which I disconnect from everything else."

Sola also notices that when she experiences only positive emotions, her poems receive much more positive feedback.

About love and happiness

Sola Monova prefers not to talk much about her personal life. She says she allows herself to feel happy for 5 minutes once a week. But at the same time, she does not consider herself unhappy. Depression, the poetess is sure, is far-fetched. This is the daily pressure of society and the stereotypes that it imposes. If you get rid of stereotypes, you can become much happier. You have to enjoy every day and everything you do. Despite 3 higher educations, Sola believes that she still has a lot to learn in life.

"She fell out of love with him in convulsions.
She is very strong - she can do everything.
Sheep are sad on girl's panties -
No one now counts them in his mind ... ".

But the poetess also writes other poems - warm, cozy, saturated with sadness and something a little magical. In each of them there is a piece of Sola Monova's love biography.

"He's probably somewhere,
Far away, where I am not.
Stroking the fur of a red dog
By the fading fire."

That is why Sola is so popular. Every girl finds something for herself in her poems.

Books by Sola Monova

She says that after the first book went on sale, she was pleasantly surprised by its huge popularity. Neither the author nor the publishers expected such a stir. Today, Sola Monova's books are very popular among her readers. And if her "Left Book" is saturated with sarcasm and obscene language, then "The Right Book" is the perfect combination of wisdom and lyrics. Also on sale is the "Pink Book", "The Dandelion Has White Blood" (in honor of the verse of the same name), "The Complaint Book". On the latter, one can even guess, as the poetess claims. Whether predictions come true - is not recognized.

Today, her books can be bought at concerts or ordered online. Cost - from 500 to 2500 rubles.

Finally

So, today we discussed the biography of Sola Monova, a popular poetess not only in Russia, but also abroad. Her poems are so different - funny, rude, sad, obscene. But they are unusual and original, they cannot be repeated.

If at the end of the month it occurs to you to go to the Library. I.A. Bunin near Krasnaya Presnya, a rare spectacle for Russia awaits you - a poet who is able to earn money with poetry. The show itself, however, is even more entertaining than the economic anomaly. Sentimental melodies are squeezed out of a black piano, a hundred fans in evening dresses shed tears on the shoulders of squirming boyfriends, and the autograph session in the finale turns into a massive catharsis. The show is called "a romantic evening of virtual poetry in real life." And this is either the most interesting or the saddest thing that is happening today with Russian poetry. Watching who to ask. “Here you feel like a writer!” - On an October evening, he cuts the air of the library chief's office with his hands. The poetess in an expensive black dress balances on her heels against the backdrop of state-owned office furniture and a photograph of Vladimir Putin. Tousled dark hair and pink lipstick make her look like a high school student called to the principal for trying to carry a flask of whiskey in a stocking to prom. “Performances in the library are a truly poetic format. Such postmodern. A quote from the past,” Sola explains as I try to catch the irony.

Buninka appeals to the lyrical side of Sola's personality. If it were another apartment in Pasha Kashin's studio in one of the skyscrapers of Moscow City (entrance is limited to twenty guests, tickets for five thousand rubles run out before you know it), she would have drunk a couple of glasses of sparkling wine, climbed onto the piano and would not skimp on cynical jokes about the mores of high society. But today she will be more sensual, will try to swear less and, perhaps, will not climb barefoot on a stool.

But rather a detective / With a serious certificate / I figure out the asshole, / Feeling the heartbeat. /

I would give away my whole self, / But the heart valve is not made of rubber. / And if I have talent, / It should be monetized. /

Far from being an engineer, / I won’t lie on the couch - / I’ll invent ... /

"Asshole!" - prompts the liberated part of the audience, who nevertheless ended up on a stool, Sole, and claps exaltedly. Solar continues with one of her hits, the poem "In an Age Without Instagram", which talks about the 90s, lost love and the ruthlessness of the tech era. Suddenly, a young girl with red hair to my right begins to sob. Alena, it turns out, has been following Sola for four years, knows a hundred poems by heart and came to the performance from Vladimir. “It’s just about me and about my feelings,” Alena explains the reason for her tears with the most popular comment among fans of mass network poetry, adding, for reliability, the second most popular cliché: “I hit the mark.” “And who else do you like from modern poets?” - "Well, Ah Astakhova."

“The poems of Akh Astakhova do not represent any artistic value. This is not just secondary, but tertiary poetry, full of cheap melodrama and not having a clue about style. Please note that almost all commentators write that Astakhova expressed "directly their feelings." She does not surprise her fans, but confirms what they already know, ”literary critic and poet Lev Oborin wrote on The Question website in September, accompanying his answer with a devastating review of the poetess’s poem. In the past five years, likes and retweets have helped virtual poetry creators turn their hobby into a real profession - with touring, tech riders, hefty royalties and fans chasing their idols. On the shelves of bookstores mixed with Tsvetaeva, Akhmatova, Yesenin and Mayakovsky are collections of Akh Astakhova, Yes Soya, Sola Monova, Milena Wright, Stef Danilova and other authors hiding under pseudonyms. On the steroids of the mass internet, the new wave of online poetry doesn't need magazines, publishers, or critics. The author and the audience now fall in love without intermediaries. And is it really so important if the relationship is based on, perhaps, rather primitive poetry?

Wi-Fi

My enamored, sensual/ man/ He just can't be shy./ If he doesn't write, then there is a reason,/ So he perishes in the class struggle./

So storms, tornadoes and tsunamis, / And another natural force majeure / Lie cruelly between us. / I pray! Everything will be fine!/

The Internet is wireless and free / Bypassed the man - / I believe how insulting and how painful / To know that he will not contact me. /

I manage. I pray at night: / “Our Father, be in heaven, / Take care of him, because he is a teapot, / At least plant for Mac, at least for PC”, /

Teach, let him become skilled - / Unlock the hacked profile, / Replace the poor guy's battery, / Bring to the source of Wi-Fi, /

Logic and effective analysis / Put in your favorite head. / And also put originality, / To lie at least like a man! /

Sola Monova, 2014

Poems about Russian Botox

Oh Botox. Oh, my delight! / Hope of the speech zone. / I, apart from nasolabial folds / I see nothing in people. /

My friends are firmly in the subject, / They have nothing more to change - / With the annoyance of indoor plants / They look down on me. /

Full of calmness and power, / They will find husbands for themselves, / And I’m on the topic: “Don’t wrinkle your forehead,” / I seem to have lost my mind already. /

I turn on the children's program / “Good night, kids” / And I see where they pumped something, / What became flat, what was big. /

Colleagues are wooing a man / (He took off on the difference in currencies), / And I look into his wrinkle / And mentally prick her. /

I have a presentiment - a fit is close, / But I don’t know how to stop it. / I’m in the portrait of Mona Lisa / I found four joints - /

She needs to make a nasolabial lip, / But only do it well. / [Slightly smeared Leonardo, / But photoshop does not save]./

In all ages, the problem is the same - / Wrinkled flesh hangs. / On all the masterpieces of the Hermitage / I will show you where to inject. /

Somewhere they will turn over in their graves / Van Gogh, Picasso and Matisse ... /

Only the native president…/ Not Botox, but conservatism!/

Sola Monova, 2014

Philosophical lyrics

Pigeons ask for bread in the park/ [Bitch, they ask again and again]./ Do grandfathers react to you?/ Congratulations, you are thirty-five!/

Birthday cake, not finished, / I’ll crumble, driving away the cat, / And I’ll put a box with “sushi” / [What kind of good to disappear]./

They will fly in like non-peaceful atoms, / And a frantic zhor will begin, / I will turn around - attracted by birds, / An elderly boyfriend is standing. /

It glows with heavenly delight / And fraternally ready to hug ... /

Thirty-five, it's not even seventy, /

Well, this is youth, ... your mother! /

Sola Monova, 2015

Irina "Ah" Astakhova anxiously walks around the dressing room. At first she missed the plane. Then she was put in a bad hotel. Her concert in Krasnodar was moved at the last second from the House of Culture to a place called The Rock Bar - a gloomy institution hung with portraits of rock stars. People are not allowed. In the vestibule, an aesthetic conflict begins to brew between quivering female students and members of the Kuban alcohol underground, who came to their home and suddenly discovered that it was now impolite to swear there. And you can finally lay out the books! Please. Ah Astakhova is almost not irritated. Except just a little bit. It is important for her that you know that she is not some eccentric diva who rolls up scandals. She doesn't like upsetting others.

A compact girl with green eyes, a velvety voice and bandana-tied hair, Akh Astakhova is the top league of Russian online poetry. She began to write actively about five years ago, and now her group on VKontakte has more than 250 thousand subscribers, YouTube clips collect hundreds of thousands of views, she goes on tours in Russia and Europe, and hundreds of people fill the halls. The poet's Instagram page broadcasts a dream lifestyle - travel, model shoots, noble interiors and outbursts of emotions in the form of poetry.

I hear you in my intonations, / and I really, really don’t like it. / and whatever one may say, it’s time for us to part. / and whatever one may say, I have to deal with this. /

The hall begins to be enveloped in light sadness, as if from a Disney cartoon. “Poetry has now become part of prestigious consumption,” a young man with long blond hair and sly features tells me. He doesn't clap. Denis Kurenov plays the role of my guide through the poetry scene in Krasnodar, which is now rapidly developing: evenings are held, circles and associations are formed. Kurenov's first and last collection of poems was called "Blood, Sperm and Hot Dogs" and came out when he was still at school. Since then, Kurenov has not liked being labeled as a poet. He prefers to experiment with different poetic masks, never going to publication: "I'm attracted to the process itself, not the frozen forms of the final product."

During the intermission, Denis Kurenov sarcastically rolls up to two admirers of Akh Astakhova. Both sides are suspicious of flirting: Katya and Marina justifiably feel a catch, Denis is an intellectual gap. But nobody stops. “Do you have a favorite poem by Akh Astakhova?” - asks Denis. Yes. "I'm sick of you all," Marina replies flirtatiously. "Is this about Sartre?" - "Who is it?" - "Which other poets do you like?" - "I like Assads."

The Soviet poet, along with other preachers of mass rhyme of the 1970s like Yulia Drunina, are most often remembered by critics and fans when they try to find context for modern web poets. Eduard Asadov, with a black mask tied over his eyes (he lost his sight in the war), heartfeltly read about love to concert halls for several thousand people - an audience that so far does not shine for modern network poets. The structure of poetry consumption has fundamentally changed since then, but it is hard not to notice the similarities between the two eras in themes and techniques. A melodrama of emotional throwings, presented in the most conflict-free way, the purpose of which is to convince listeners of the value of their experiences. When Lev Oborin criticized the work of Akh Astakhova, fans of the poetess attacked him with angry comments. “It's like football fans. Any criticism is perceived as an encroachment on the inner world, ”explains Oborin.

At night, Denis and I sit in the bar "Bachelor-Romance" and discuss Akh Astakhova. Opposite us sit Fedor and Alexander, also local poets. French post-structuralists and Moscow conceptualists are coming into play: the names of Gilles Deleuze and Dmitry Alexandrovich Prigov fall on the table. On it are glasses of light beer and plates of garlic croutons - the cheapest option on the menu. Denis, Fyodor and Alexander, together with friends, organize various actions: either a spontaneous poetic evening in a cheburechnaya shop, or under the cover of night they will attach memorial plaques to the houses in honor of the migrants from Central Asia who built them. And recently, Fedor and Alexander had a fight during one of the Krasnodar poetry evenings. This is called the poetry of action. “The task was to blow up the atmosphere of mutual likes prevailing at such events. But within the framework of the simulation reality, the space, of course, has not changed. Because the fight was also a simulation,” Fedor explains.

The night ends with reading Sola Monova's work on camera: Fedor and Alexander put small bills into the mobile payment terminal and recite "In an era without Instagram." Both say that they do not have strong hostile feelings towards Akh Astakhov or Solya Monova. They are annoyed by the public, which does not want to develop, preferring comfortable consumption to real poetry.

“Such poets usually write bad poetry themselves,” Arseniy Molchanov comments on the action of Krasnodar residents. I met Pegasus at the anniversary "LitPone" - poetry meetings for virtual poets. Even at the end of the 2000s, he felt a change in the poetic climate and the need to offer the audience emerging on VKontakte an intermediate option between the lofty elitist evenings and the nauseating graphomania of open microphones. Today, LitPon is like a rock festival: spectators sitting on the floor drink hot dogs with beer and watch with gratitude as the boundaries between poetry, stand-up comedy, hip-hop and theater are blurred. Backstage is no less impressive: dozens of dressing rooms in which the poets dress up in eccentric outfits, take pictures, drink whiskey, joke, smoke, yell and laugh.

“The phenomenon of popular poetry is embedded in our mentality,” says Ars-Pegasus, a stocky and energetic young man with a sonorous voice. With his poem "Country" in December 2011, the rally "For Fair Elections" at Chistye Prudy began - the very first one. LitPons, however, turned out to be a more successful undertaking: over a hundred of them have passed in the last six years. “Many say that Akh Astakhova or Es Soya are the gravediggers of poetry, that their work is terrible, vulgar and tasteless. But they return interest in poetry! Boys and girls, who lost their interest in poetry at school, then come to the classics. All the young poetic riffraff kindles the light in the eyes of young people, encourages interest in reading,” says Molchanov.

today in a dream

today in a dream I killed a man./ he secretly broke into my apartment./ what was he looking for here?!/ profit?/ accommodation?/ in my very personal, bleak / dream./

I do not believe! / I don’t know!/ and only flashes, / two bright flashes of frightened eyes! / I touched / the boy with a sharp knife - / he, without having time to say a word, faded away! /

without remembering myself, with a trembling hand / (with a bloody hand!) I grabbed the phone; / I came to my senses only at gunpoint / of the escort / shouting a strict law at my back! /

please, everything! took a walk!/ now only - bunks./ ...I'm in the courtroom, and there is no one around./ and the hands of the judge (or not) - the orderly!/ throwing me a photo:/ - did you know him?/

... my face turned black: / I see a child. / more precisely - myself, fifteen years ago ... / my dream spun like an old / film! / I opened my eyes / not having endured this hell ... /

and, as if rejoicing that the darkness / dissolved, / I thought about the eternal in the silence of the night. /

but my heart felt: / my world has changed. / as if all childhood / perished / in me. /

Ah Astakhova, 2015

the little Prince

I am writing a letter to you from childhood: / read - / there is only half a page. / let them break into a windy heart / a couple of lines / from the little prince. /

do not be angry - / I'm not looking for an answer / to the questions - with whom now, and who are you? / I gave you my planet / so as not to deprive you of your freedom. /

you know, dear, / my starry path / is full of regrets and sorrows! / I found myself another rose, / and its thorns do not sting me. /

only this is also of little use: / I walk in a vicious circle - / the memory pricks sharper than a needle / our / endless / separation. /

Ah Astakhova, 2015

“For what we do, it is high time to come up with another term. Let's say "pop poetry" sounds cool - a relaxed Ukrainian accent appears through the intonations. - We really have the status of rock stars. Not very big, but with all the privileges and attributes. It would be foolish to argue with this statement anyway, but when you look at Soya, the incentive disappears completely: this is a tall androgynous with bleached hair, a ring in the nostril and tattoos "Love" and "Be Your Own Hero" on the knuckles. It would have looked more appropriate at a glam party in London in the 70s of the last century than on the sidewalk in the city of Obninsk.

In the meantime, it was getting chilly outside. “Today is going to be fun,” Yes Soya says, finishes his cigarette and enters the glass door of the Lebovsky bar. He slips to the counter and orders a glass of champagne and three tequilas. The ingredients are mixed in an empty glass, the head is thrown back, and a quarter of the mixture is poured into the poet. The cocktail is called "See Paris and die" (it is necessary to pronounce it in a dreamy voice, looking up. - Approx. ed.). A foppish hat worth twenty thousand rubles goes to the hanger along with a short double-breasted coat, and their owner is left in a tight turtleneck, tight black pants and pointed ankle boots - equipment that requires free thinking to wear it and self-irony to wear and not look like an idiot .

A red-haired beauty a few stools away from us is undressing Soya with her eyes. You have to be a prude not to notice: almost all popular network poets are sexually attractive. While some fans want to be like them, others want to fuck them. The redhead's predatory gaze continues to shatter my ideas about the distribution of roles between men and women in the pick-up culture of Obninsk bars, but Soya does not notice anything. He met his last two girls during concerts. This, he said, was not the best idea.

By the beginning of the performance, a couple of dozen people had crammed into the Lebowski. Theoretically, Es Soya is able to gather more people, but he organizes concerts on his own and usually agrees to all proposals, regardless of location and fee. A fan of Jack Kerouac appreciates the opportunity to be on the road: “I perform everywhere, I don’t care about the number of people. Theatres, clubs, galleries, taverns, the Ochko bar in Rostov, a squat in Lipetsk, a bowling club in Zaporozhye. One day I have a full hall, a hotel, a driver and dinners in restaurants. In another, they tell me: “Well, ... come to eight to read poetry.” It doesn't matter. The main thing is to have a connection.”

“How can you fit in micro…” - in the middle of the show, Es Soya appears more like Peter Pan than Neil Cassidy: a daring and sharp-tongued, but vulnerable and sentimental boy, and not a rebel who sends to hell the values ​​​​of the world around him or at least classical poetic forms. But he is effective and outrageous in his own way. His feminine and foolish mannerisms, coupled with emotional exhibitionism, provoke rejection among some Obninsk residents who have not yet learned about the post-gender model of masculinity. A group of young guys in the corner giggle sarcastically and roll their eyes at the lyrical punchlines.

"Guys, any problems?" - asks Soya, turning on the ringing silence in the hall. You should know that Yes Soya grew up in Odessa with a mother - a staunch Catholic and a father who drank and was actually not around, and their son combined Sunday church school with communication with bad guys in the gateways. Now the synthesis of these cultures, reinforced by the second “See Paris and die”, determined his behavior: the poet approached the mustachioed intellectual, who looked like Dr. Watson, put his hand on his shoulder and brought his face closer, erotically and dangerously at the same time. The mustache twitched indistinctly. “So… [why] are you standing here if you don’t understand poetry? Soya asked. “Or maybe you want a literary battle?” The guys did not want to and began to gather. “…[Damn] how complicated everything is,” Soya sighs wearily as his opponents finally leave the establishment.

I follow out to record their poetic preferences. The mustachioed man's name is Artyom, and he is studying to be a doctor, next to him is a girl with dreadlocks named Masha and her boyfriend - chubby Rostislav (or, if tenderly, Rustik). Men agree that Es Soya is a "outrageous androgynous" and "gay rooster". "I like this. Very sensual and beautiful,” Masha suddenly disagrees. Artyom's personal choice is hip-hop, because "this is modern poetry that comprehends the social bottom." Rastik is silent for a long time, apparently going over the names in his head, but then he still decides: “But I love Akh Astakhova.”

Inside, Yes Soya was reading poetry. According to him, there are about a dozen works for which he, as they say, is ready to answer. This is one of them.

“How can you fit in a Microsoft Word / August comets / Sunday newspapers / in which a crossword puzzle is never solved? /

there is nothing more to catch in this day, / it's time to leave / fall asleep / shoot / read you in a dream. / carefully / carefully, / as if you are a new testament. /

we/yesterday/today/tomorrow/ are seventeen,/ lovers are always seventeen.”/

The editor-in-chief of a poetry magazine, Dmitry Kuzmin, once compared Es Soi's poems with quatrains on greeting cards. They are not devoid of grace, but talking about their literary value, in his opinion, is meaningless - they are not intended for this. “Mass art in a beautiful and fashionable wrapper gives a person what has been repeatedly chewed and digested by previous generations, allowing him not to change, not to develop, not to think and be satisfied with himself,” says Kuzmin.

In the mid-90s, Kuzmin opened an online library, a landmark resource for Russian-language online literature. Today he remains one of the main critics of "amateur poetry" and modern Internet culture, famous for the free publication of the creative expression of anyone. “One could say that mass art fulfills an important social mission - psychotherapeutic and recreational, that it’s better to let them listen to voiceless pop singers with three chords than to inject themselves and hang themselves out of hopelessness, but this is not the kind of humanism that I profess,” Kuzmin notes.

“If Nick Cave or Tom Waits criticized me, I would probably listen,” Yes Soya jokes, but then becomes more serious: “Listen, I understand everything. I would like to write better. I would like to write more seriously. I'm reading. I compare. I see. If I could control what I write about and how I write, but I don't. I can't do anything better yet. In the end, the audience, the critics, don't matter. It's just me and the paper." But lately, Es Soya has begun to wonder what will happen to him and other representatives of network poetry. According to his theory, in five years the situation will reach the point of absurdity. And during this time he needs to change, because no one likes aging young men.

Akh Astakhova nervously smokes in the cold of the night and peers into the windows of a pompous country hotel. There, the business establishment of Rostov-on-Don in butterflies and pearls devours foie gras pate and pours champagne under the pretext of participating in a charity auction. Gentlemen chuckle, ladies miraculously keep their balance - the instability of the hairpins is compensated by the tightness of short dresses, which does not allow the legs to move apart on the slippery parquet. “Gentlemen, let's help the orphans,” the auction host, in despair, mortally moves from lot to lot: a decorative figure “Excellent work” (76 thousand rubles), a ring “Magic” (88 thousand rubles). There are no applicants. The hall languidly revives in the alcohol section: someone buys Barack Obama's favorite wine, but disdains red, which Vladimir Putin allegedly adores. A banner under the ceiling glorifies the organizers - the magazine Art of Consumerism.

“This is how poems are invented,” Astakhova tells me, burning through the glass with her eyes. She agreed to speak here at the request of a friend, but she already regretted it many times over. She worries about the children, is outraged by the falsity and farce of the event, and it also seems to her that she herself, in shabby sneakers and with flowers in her hair, is another attraction on the menu of the public who has become adept at skillful consumption. I wonder: is she really going to write evil poetry? “And I have written before,” she admits, and begins to read, embarrassed, but emotionally:

Everything here smells too cheap, / Bone-hands, clinking glasses greedily, / Pour wine on the luxurious floor / And laugh dishonestly, but coherently. /

Mouthpieces made of diamond bags/ They climb like slippery snakes/ With the advent of a new day/ Demi-humans become angrier./

“I think you should read them right here,” I suggest. She blushes and hurries inside. The hammer misses the last chance to hit the piece of wood. Ah Astakhova takes the stage. I grab jamon and blue cheese from the empty table. “First of all, I want to say thank you to everyone who bought something today,” the poetess says to the half-empty hall. She runs a short program, professionally but with minimal enthusiasm. No evil demi-humans and mouthpiece snakes. But she unexpectedly puts an end to the poem "Temptations", which can claim the status of social criticism.

Do you like tasty food - / Try semolina porridge on the water; / Control your womb, / Accustom it to emptiness. /

If you love money, give it to passers-by;/ If you like a drink, drink water;/ Be honest and stricter with yourself;/ Lead your dreams to come true./

“Oh, was that too much? Astakhova asks me excitedly. Shouldn't you have read it last? It happened by accident, I wanted to put it at the beginning, and then mixed it up ... "

From the depths of the hall, the strangest couple of the evening was moving towards her - a plump man in a tracksuit and leather boots, accompanied by a woman in a gray fur coat and over the knee boots, nouveau riches from the nineties, as if arriving in a time machine. All evening they did not leave the bar, not paying attention to the auction. They start to interrupt each other:

Wow! - Crap! Thanks for the last verse! - Let's fucking write a book together! - I am writing such a detective now. - Here, take a business card. - Bull's-eye. - Thanks.

I love you

I love you / smoke lines / fresh wounds / burnt curtains / torn jeans /

I love you / without memory / burning bridges / slowly smoldering /

I love you / without fawn / without … / without Fairplays /

Es Soya, 2008