The Old Poet

Rich old men.

I come back from school. On a regular spring day, harmony prevails in the street: neither breezes nor clouds, in general, silence and peace. You can clearly hear the sonorous songs of thrushes and larks, the rolling barking of dogs, the rustle of leaves, and distant cries, passing passing children. School lessons were over, and the streets began to be gradually filled with children. From the side it was like a mass procession or a parade in honor of a holiday. They walked a long, slender strip of several people. The silence disappeared, replaced by a noisy environment. There were lively disputes and conversations, on a variety of topics. Who discussed the successes of the past day, and who and the failures; Talked about innovations in the gaming industry, mobile smartphones, auto brands. Involuntarily you ask yourself the question: "How do they all know?". In the lessons and two words they can not really put it together, express their opinion or judgment, and then they debate, like experts and professors in these fields. You come to the conclusion that they are wasting all their potential for nothing. You feel like in the Far Eastern market: noise, traffic, crush, do not understand anything, what's what, where you are, you simply get lost in space. But after a while, the people diverge, the streets get their old look. Immediately it becomes calmer and freer. At the stop, as always, a whole bunch of people are crowding. Standing, far from everyone, I left with my thoughts deep in myself. While I was swimming in the ocean of dreams, reflections, unreal landscapes and ideas, people became more and more. I do not know why, I was interested in a man. In appearance, well, the usual drunkard and slobbery, dressed in torn, old, dirty, worn clothes. Look lost, unsteady gait, walking, stumbling on every meter (for a small one did not spread out on a dusty roadside). Somehow he came, sat down on the bench, and a few minutes from him could not hear a single sound. But after a while, to the surprise of all the people standing next to each other, he asked a very simple question to one guy: "What do you know about Pushkin?" An elementary question, but he could not answer it. What a shame a person does not know about the most famous playwright in the history of Russia, the creator of the modern Russian literary language. But apparently, he even expected such an answer. The old man has long been familiar with the total illiteracy in the country. But most of all grieving attitude to the history of his native country. Abroad, no matter who you ask about national poets and writers, they will give out a confident and informative answer: the writer's date of life, his short biography, contribution to the development of literature, works written by him. Most importantly, even most foreigners are familiar with such a genius of poetry and prose as Pushkin. The old man's goal was not not to reveal that shameful ignorance, the complete lack of representation in general about Russian literature. Since we can state with complete certainty that Pushkin is the basis of Russian literature and talent to convey the inner feelings of the hero, closely interwoven with the turbulent historical situation in the state, in the ideal harmony that reigned in his works. On the contrary, his goal was to instruct the true path, to the path of research and knowledge, the essence of everything created by an unknown and unattainable man. After all, in an involuntary way you will not achieve anything, a person must come to this himself, force himself, only then he can reach the worldly heights.

He spoke calmly and distinctly, as if it was another person, reborn from a drunkard and a moral monster in an object of literate, focused and purposeful. If you omit the facts that he drank, he was dressed in dirty and ragged clothes, and from him bore an unpleasant smell, you could easily write it to class ranks of the intelligentsia. The basis of our corrupt, dying, and inhumanity and greed drawn into a dark hole. Only thanks to the highly intellectual representatives of the people, we remain afloat, although we keep our course on the naked and sharp razor-sharp cliffs of hatred and selfishness. Everyone fell silent, waiting to hear the old man's stupid speech. After a minute he added: "You know, honestly, I'm not a big admirer of Alexander Sergeevich's works, as Dmitry Pisarev wrote, Pushkin uses his artistic virtuosity as a means to dedicate all reading Russia, to the sad secrets of his inner emptiness, his spiritual poverty and his mental Impotence "- you know, I largely agree with his opinion, but this does not mean that I question his talent. Far from it, I'm just keen on other genre and time literature, more modern, vital and real, affecting today's problems of economic, social and military policy. No one even paid attention to the very sensible, and most importantly interesting speech of the old man. Everyone was waiting for the bus to quickly dash away from this wilderness, into the world of civilization and the latest technologies. Moreover, today young people are not interested in classical literature, they forgot about the huge contribution that Russian writers made: Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Chekhov, Gogol, Pushkin, Lermontov, Nekrasov, Goncharov, Herzen, Ostrovsky and many others. But most of all the old man was upset that now there are no worthy literary figures in the country who could counter something to foreign authors. Then he began to read his own verses, distinguished by the originality and accuracy of the author's representation of human values in this not sinless world. Oh, what vertices could he reach, if not the vices that destroyed everything, without any attachments. I will tell you one of his poems.

On the street there is a carriage,

In which was the master,

Known to all,

As the owner of obscene institutions.

He was dressed in a shiny greatcoat,

On the neck, the cross hung sullenly.

On the street there was a fog,

And the rain gradually dripped.

He got out of the carriage,

And he was tall,

The fog cleared,

And the sun seemed to be.

A boy ran up to him suddenly:

Ripped and a rogue.

At the sight of this figure,

He had a feeling of disgust.

The boy said in a thin voice:

"Serve a few coins for food and clothing"

Having become stern, he pushed the child away,

And he moved forward.

Approaching the threshold,

He has risen on a step.

All sun-drenched by the sun

He was like God.

And inspired by the light,

He felt pride and freedom,

He was such a man,

Similar to the prophet.

Just think, such charming poems should evoke a feeling of respect and admiration, but except for laughter and a few sharp phrases directed towards the old man; I did not hear anything. What happened is that upbringing, those traditions that reigned for centuries in the Russian people, then the spiritual development of man. Ah, where the former people have gone, they, like an old man, have been reborn, but not into an educated man, but into a vile creature living in a world of its own, which does not care about ordinary things. How far we are from the next stage of evolution, but here in general, it's not a matter of evolution, but of our degradation. They are masters of seeing in all grief and suffering, blame the modern government for this. And that they themselves have tried to correct, change for the better. Correctly - nothing. Now, if every person starts from himself, tries to overcome all his shortcomings and vices, and revises his views and values, then one can achieve something else, namely, a civilized and humane political and social system, where all will be guided by kindness and knowledge, and Not power, blood and money. After all these long crucifications and humiliations, the old man, like David Livingston, failed to lead the Christian tribe of the tribe of the Quen people of Tswana. But who will suffer more from this, the old man will not get any worse, this is the modern youth society that still has to live and gain experience, according to the natural law of nature we must progress in our spiritual and moral views, and people on the contrary move backwards - regressing.