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January. Seasons

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January. Seasons

January begins with a holiday that separates the ol Martin Beaupré paintings

d from the new, the past from the future, known from the unknown. And, like every border, becoming a transition, it is filled not only with a miracle, but with forebodings.

Unformed, foggy, viscous and uncertain, and ultimately terrible forebodings that affect my mood more than at any other time. Probably, therefore, melancholy in January covers me with a head.

I get used to the new hard, hard, with expectation rather terrible, than cheerful, comfortable in the already adjusted and familiar, which, albeit not always convenient, but it is known. The new drags violently, the old forcibly restrains. And who is stronger?

Transitional time is a terrible time, at all times people knew this: the new has not yet strengthened, the old has not yet let go. The coming Christmas time is not only sacred, but also a time of revelry of evil spirits and otherworldly forces. Christmas is the time not only for holy wonders and holy stories, but also for terrible fairy tales, legends and myths. In them we sink for twelve short days. And then everything will go as it will go ...


You are moving into the new year,
As in a new rut.
You from past misery
Carries a car.
Silence of forests and snow rhythm,
And the branches are background,
And the eye laughing burns,
As a traffic light.

At the bottom of the wheel swell,
It's dark around.
That's how you enter, runner,
On a new circle.
To you from speed to get drunk,
Breaking business,
A glass of thinly ringing
Oh the edge of the table.

Do not sum up the changes
In your destiny,
Alien changes, your betrayals,
Change to you.
And behind the window a wolf howling
In the night pore
And the trees of your childhood
Stand in the square.
(A. Gorodnitsky, on the train, 1963)

Pasternak in his "Winter Feasts" is not at all festive, but with the same January sadness, telling more about the New Year's bitter aftertaste than about the joy of a miracle:

The future is not enough.
Old, new little.
It is necessary that the Christmas tree
Eternity in the middle of the room has become.

To the hostess poked
A scattering of stars her dress,
To all for the holidays
Sisters and brothers came together.

How many chains or try on,
No matter how you tie with the toilet,
Still seems a tree
Naked and half-dressed.

Now, the chimney-sweep is dirty,
After beating his hair with a club,
Elka puffed up lady
In several skirts with a bell.

The faces become more stony,
A shiver runs through the candles,
Flames of a lighted flame
Lips squeeze the heart.

The night before dawn is satiated.
All shuddering from snoring,
The house, as if it were a fragile hut,
The door closes.

New twilight follows,
The day decreases in growth.
Breakfast slept, lunch
Overnight guests.

The sun sets, and the drunkard
From a distance, for the purpose of transparent
Through the window stretches
To bread and a glass of cognac.

Here it is stuck, ugly,
In the snow I'm shaping up plump,
Colors of filling currant,
The village is decaying and extinct.

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