Non-Silk Road. Poems by Vasily Filippov. About the poems of Vasily Filippov
On the this moment Vasily Filippov is a member of the Chekhov Bears handball club. He is trained by the honored coach V. Maksimov. In the game, he takes the position of point guard. Has the rank of master of sports international class. Vasily Filippov has higher education. In 2004 he became a graduate of the Russian State University Physical Culture.
Filippov Vasily Viktorovich was born on January 18, 1981 in Moscow. He is one of the best Russian handball players who have received world fame and glory. In 2008 he took part in the Olympic Games.
Vasily Filippov started playing handball in quite early age. His first professional club was the Kuntsevo team in Moscow. Big influence on the development of professional characteristics and attitude to the game had on the novice athlete his first coach A. Pankov. It was he who was able to discern a good player with a great desire to win in a novice athlete.
In 2001, the Chekhov Bears sports club was founded. Filippov was one of the first athletes who was invited to join it.
In the period from 2002 to 2008, Vasily Filippov became the champion of Russia as part of his team.
In 2004 he won the World Championship among students. And in 2006 Filippov became the owner of the European Cup
In 2008, Filippov made his debut at the Olympic Games. The athlete showed not a bad game, but the Russian team could not take the main position. Filippov, together with his team, was in 6th place, leaving behind stronger rivals from Spain, Croatia, Poland, Iceland and France. The Russian handball team included such athletes as Konstantin Igropulo, Alexei Kamanin, Yegor Evdokimov, Timur Dibirov, Vitaly Ivanov, Alexei Rastvortsev, Alexander Chernoivanov and many others.
Vasily Filippov believes that the Russians did not have enough strength at the Beijing Olympiad. The athlete is very upset by his loss, but he is sure that at the next Olympiad the Russian team will bring home the long-awaited Olympic gold in this sport.
At the moment, Vasily Filippov is a member of the Chekhov Bears handball club. He is trained by the honored coach V. Maksimov. In the game, he takes the position of point guard. He has the rank of master of sports of international class.
Vasily Filippov has a higher education. In 2004 he became a graduate of the Russian State University of Physical Education. Lives with his family in Moscow.
In his free time from training, Vasily prefers to spend time with his family and close friends. Quite often, an athlete can be seen on the bowling alley, because this is one of his favorite activities.
About the poems of Vasily Filippov
collective unconscious
"second culture"
V. Filippov. Poems. St. Petersburg: Association "New Literature" and TO "Red Sailor", 1998.144 p. 500 copies
With the care of a few friends of the poet, with great difficulty and a fair delay, the first collection of poems by Vasily Filippov was published in St. Petersburg. This name still says little to lovers of poetry. But, according to VICTOR KRIVULIN, there will be nothing surprising in the fact that in a hundred years from all of our so-called "second culture" of the 60-80s. it will be the only one left. The poetry of Vasily Filippov, according to the exact definition of Mikhail Sheinker, is "the collective unconscious of Russian unofficial culture."
"Kommersant"
Vasya Filippov, a young man of extraordinary, angelic beauty, a young man of extraordinary, angelic beauty, at first wrote prose - short and very strange stories. Since 1973, he has been constantly, although imperceptibly, as if by a shadow, present at the poetry readings of Schwartz, Okhapkin, Mironov, Stratanovsky, Shelvakh. Subsequently, all of them will become characters in his poems. He is loved but not taken seriously. Filippov's first public appearances were regular reports at a religious-philosophical seminar in 1976, the first publications were theological studies in the 37 magazine. In the late 70s - a sudden and unmotivated mental breakdown. Since then, he practically does not leave psychiatric hospitals. Almost everything that he wrote in poetry was created either in psychiatric hospitals or in short (no more than two or three months) periods of life in the wild. The corpus of his texts is enormous. Most of it is kept in the Manuscript Department of the Pushkin House, the smaller part is kept by friends. This book is based on the texts kept by Asya Lvovna Meisel.
When recording, Vasily Filippov does not distinguish between his texts - they go in a continuous stream, as if he has been writing one book in one breath all his life, producing a single statement, without pauses and spaces. Filippov's poems are a record of unceasing inner speech. He himself did not read his texts aloud. I just brought them and waited patiently for others to read them. Silently. His “unvoicedness” lived in defiance of the fashion for the sounding word, leaving out the imitation of the psalmist performance inherent in most St. Petersburg poets of this generation. The fundamental soundlessness of Filippov's poetic speech is a consequence of the inner freedom. Freedom to the extent that normal person I simply would not have endured it, because it is impossible to live on the verge of self-destruction and ultimate self-expression.
I don't know any purer verses in Russian poetry, more defenseless and devoid of any kind of conventionality. In fact, we have before us the first real Russian free verse, since free verse here is not so much a formal concept as a meaningful one. Verbal lack of will and amorphousness, these generic vices of Russian free verse, formally present in Filippov, are unrecognizably transformed in his poetics, transforming into a powerful dictate of some kind of transpersonal creative will and the fluid harmony of organismic education.
The organic nature of his texts is not chaos at all, as it might seem at first glance. This is a very complex system with a fundamentally non-isolated internal structure. An attempt to isolate it is tantamount to killing the elusive meaning. But at the same time, Filippov's texts are highly meaningful. Their true meanings are not imposed, but groped for, and the tactile trembling of the word under the fingers of a blind reader creates an artistic effect, the equal of which I do not know in contemporary poetry.
Filippov has many quotations, mostly an echo of Petersburg poetry of the 1970s and 1980s, nothing to do with the latest postmodern technique of the ironic "centone". Alien speech in these verses is evidence of love, not irony and banter. The poet does not mock or imitate. He appropriates "someone else's" by the right of a shadow participant in the process. This shadow over time, as the flesh becomes thinner and the soul gets tired, becomes more and more radiant.
Viktor Krivulin
Petersburg dreams
The existence of poetry in the last 10-15 years has sharply raised the question of the possibilities of traditional lyrics. Conceptualism and minimalism, multiplied by irony as the basis of attitude to the world, on the one hand, and rhythmic intellectual and philological studies, on the other, made the phenomenon of direct lyrical expression rare. In any case, the poet must today not only overcome the inertia of tradition, but also prove his right to exist within the framework of this tradition. And here, of course, traditionalism is determined not by the presence of meter and rhyme in poetry, but by the character of the lyrical hero: before us is an actor's mask, an image or a certain “I” with my thoughts and feelings.
There is a crisis lyrical hero turns out to be redundant. One of the ways to overcome the crisis, probably, can be the rejection of reflection. Relatively speaking, the poet is likened to a musher-singer: “What I see is what I sing”, but the gaze is directed both outside and inward, this is the look of a man of culture, whose naivety is complicated by associations, memory of books read, pop-up quotes and mythologems flickering a little to the side dreams:
When I drive through Leningrad
I remember you,
As if you were hiding behind the walls -
And cyclamens wither for three weeks.
Neva, like a vein,
Hears me
And it seems to me - I'm on the roof of the Pamirs.
This is the beginning of a poem by Vasily Filippov, one of the most original poets of the Leningrad "second culture", whose only book so far came out in mid-1998. The book includes poems written in 1984-1990 - a kind of lyrical diary, almost documentary daily entries: “There was Asya Lvovna. / I fed her poetry”; “So he lived on a trip to Pechory. / Spring has come"; “Today I will read Fedorov”; "A Crazy Evening / After a Beer and a Meeting". And so on and so forth. The themes of the poems are common: love, death, memory. An unusual feature of the poet's vision, transforming Leningrad in the late 80s into a mystical vibrating space, where everyday realities, dreams and visions are mixed. The poems are permeated with a sense of death, the finiteness of human existence and faith in an afterlife. The usual situation for Soviet-Russian urban life
A pipe burst at the Komendant airfield.
The cold flooded the icons-apartments.
Cold-ash
turns into a harbinger of the end of time:
The Creator created the earth, but left it without heating
Until Sunday
And in the cited poem, and in others, a mystery is going on: an angel, dying, becomes a man ("Dream of Preexistence"), a poodle - a spirit that materializes "in a dog / Inside a thorn bush" ("Memory of Yasha"). In the poem “History and Leningrad”, death already lies in wait for poetry itself, and the city, and the country: “Maybe our poetry is in Leningrad / Last splashes, Last sparkles. "..." Tomorrow will be demolished Bronze Horseman/ And Eugene will return. / Tomorrow we will meet in the church last.”
Everything is moving towards an inevitable end, and Vasily Filippov writes a chronicle of his life, life in the outskirts of St. Petersburg, in a psychiatric clinic, in a community of underground poets. His poems are a story exploding with unexpected metaphors and abrupt plot twists. The verse is natural, like breathing, intermittent, uneven, nervous. The words mysteriously flicker and take on a different meaning. The empty shell comes to life and is filled with new content.
Quiet, Lord, quiet
So the dodder crunches on the teeth
In this world
But I'm not alone
My room is with me
Thick volumes
Like at home
Where darkness hides
City where live letters
Clocks are walking down the street
They wear crosses.
Thus ends the book. A book of naked, defenseless, living poems. The poet Vasily Filippov flows completely, without a trace, into the text, into pure sound; he goes into his dreams, from where only a voice comes, free and light. Perhaps this is the last refuge of poetry - the human voice.
Andrey Uritsky (Znamya magazine No. 1. 1999)
Vasily Filippov
Dates of life and creativity
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Father - Anatoly Kuzmich Filippov. Mother - Adelia Ivanovna Filippova (died tragically in December 1983). In the summer of 1980, he was assigned to a psychiatric hospital named after Kashchenko in the village of Nikolskoye near Gatchina. From the end of March 1981 to June 1983 he was in a special hospital on Arsenalnaya Street for escaping from the Kashchenko hospital. 1984-1986 - a period of active creativity. In 1984 he wrote 188 poems, in 1985 - 174, in 1986 - 46. Being at large, Vasily was friends with the poets Viktor Krivulin, Elena Schwartz, Alexander Mironov, Alexei Shelvakh, Sergei Stratanovsky and others. Currently located in the 3rd city psychiatric hospital named after. Skvortsova-Stepanova (since Christmas 1993, hopelessly). Poems by Vasily Filippov (through the efforts of his friends) were published in magazines: "Arion" (Moscow), Obvodny Canal (Leningrad), "Volga" (1992, No. 5-6, p. 22-29), "Bulletin of New Literature" (1992, No. 4, pp. 89-103), "Bulletin of New Literature" (1994, No. 8, pp. 161-168). In 1998, the first book of the poet was published: Vasily Filippov. Poems. - St. Petersburg: Association "New Literature" and TO "Red Sailor", 1998, - 144 p. 500 copies |
- Poet. Laureate Literary Prize Andrei Bely (2001).
- In the early 1970s studied at the biological faculty of Leningrad University, then at the philological faculty of Gorky University. Since 1976 he was a laborer, worked as an elevator operator, librarian, laboratory assistant. Member of the literary association D.Ya. Gift and the Religious and Philosophical Seminar by T.M. Goricheva.
- In 1979 he was first imprisoned in a psychiatric hospital, in 1981 - in a special psychiatric hospital on Arsenalnaya Street, where he spent two years. He began to compose poetry in 1984, for several years he wrote over four hundred poems. Since 1991, he was almost constantly in a psychiatric hospital, where he spent almost a quarter of a century, until his death. He was helped, looked after by A.L. Meisel, poets Elena Schwartz, Viktor Krivulin, Yulia Lanskaya... In recent years, after the progression of the disease, he did not write poetry.
- A well-known representative of St. Petersburg uncensored poetry. Most of the works are free verse. His work is called by the writer M. Ya. Sheinker "The Collective Unconscious of the "Second Culture"". The first poems were published in the samizdat magazine Obvodny Kanal (1986, No. 9) and in the Volga magazine (1992, No. 5/6). In 1998, the 1st collection - "Poems" was published, in 2000 - the 2nd collection - "Vasily Filippov's Poems", in 2002 - "Selected Poems" and in 2011 - the last, fourth - "Poems" (this included works, written in 1984-1985).
- Died August 13, 2013. He was buried at the Smolensk Orthodox cemetery.
Boris Smelov. Photo portrait of Vasily Filippov. Photo from the mid-1970s.
Vasily Filippov. 2011. Photo by Olga Zikrat (Photo from www.echo.msk.ru)
In Leningrad, artists and poets live in their holes,
They leave the stage
And raise children with female faces cyclamens.
Here I wandered through the ring city
With a cat on a leash
Along summer garden to the river.
Is it worth remembering?
To write in a notebook?
For the future reader to come to sleep in it?
Is it worth living?
Maybe a narcissistic doppelgänger awaits me beyond death
And I will merge with his face
And I will become a father.
Our walks along the Summer Garden will die.
I know one thing: the reward is waiting HERE,
If I kiss an emerald.
What did your cracked lips say,
It turned out in the convolutions of my brain,
But longing-boa constrictor obscured the stars.
What are my feelings?
It's sad to remember them.
But it's scary to die.
I have to look at the wall THERE for all eternity.
The skies will open.
In the meantime, wasps suck my brain.
How many cigarettes have I smoked
Until I crawled to the typewriter.
I will die and everything will die with me.
How vision came to life when the Magi walked
Behind the Star of Bethlehem.
Vision used to rejoice at palaces,
And now people are scattered through the forests,
And he dies in the Titian Museum.
Is it true that there is still meaning
On the bottom of a beer bottle?
Is it true that the silk nets did not break?
Is it true that your lips are not cold yet?
Is it true that people once lived in this city?
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