"Everything will begin later": a poem by Sergei Yursky that turns the soul

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Every year there are fewer and fewer talented people. Some descend from Earth’s orbit, and new stars do not light up. More precisely, there are stars, but no talent. A galaxy of actors, poets and singers of the last century carried the dome of heaven on their shoulders high above us. Now the sky is low, breathing heavily, stuffy…

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Sergei Yursky (1935-2019) lived 83 years, already in the middle of his journey he began to think about the meaning of life, about why a person is happy. He wrote the poem “Everything begins later” in 1977 at the age of 42.

Which of the contemporary artists could be its author?

Evgeny Tsyganov, Konstantin Lavronenko, Yegor Beroev? They probably could, but the backup isn’t the same, the culture isn’t the same. Dmitry Nagiev writes poetry, but his rhymes and depth of thought cannot be equated with Yursky.

Although men think about the same categories. Nagiev, quote from the interview:

And now it seemed to see – luck, grabbed it, but was wrong. He looked back, it was too late, and forward again, and there was something shining, something waving and calling. And he hurried, and that is old age, and thought, and that is all, and doubted whether this was life. And suddenly I realized: but there was luck, but I took it for the ordinary …

For our grandparents, the system offered its own vision of happiness: benefiting others. They went to the demonstrations after their shift and were happy. They have not noticed these inconveniences that seem unbearable to us today’s people. They were taught to value friendship, mutual support, and equality. And they appreciated her and treasured her.

We, on the other hand, are shown a new happiness format on television: you lie by the sea with a cocktail and say: “It’s fine the way it is.” There isn’t a soul around because the rest have no money to go to this paradise come, but you have it.

But that’s so-so lucky. Because everything that money can buy is already cheap.

What will be the happiness of the next generation – only God knows. Maybe fly to Mars as to your dacha? Or build a cottage by the lake on Venus?

Happiness before 50 and after is very different. In the first half of life one expects fateful events, in the second one summarizes the results. If there is a planned outcome – fine, if not – then what happened? How did the person live? And there was youth. She is beautiful in herself.

Sergei Yursky wrote a poem about a person living on standby. He’s waiting for something better than what he already has. Work, family, home – it’s the same as with everyone else. i want change And they still don’t come.

One of the philosophers said that life can only guarantee old age, and even then not for everyone. Therefore, you can enjoy the gifted days from this moment on.

It seems to me that it is very important to ask yourself: Is this how I wanted to spend this evening? Is this how I imagined my weekend? Your working days, your holidays? If not, then describe in detail what exactly does not suit you. But don’t aim for the Maldives and Bali, try to understand what’s going wrong.

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Maybe you want to go to a big city or, conversely, escape the hustle and bustle into the forest. Or maybe you don’t want to see faces that are painfully familiar to you, but want to hear their voices. A person sometimes postpones meetings and trips “for better times”, and then it’s too late …

Happiness cannot be postponed or waited on indefinitely. It only exists once – now.

“Everything Begins Later” 1977

Everything starts later

when will this end

endless stuffy, hot summer.

We hope, we wait, we dream

come soon

What will happen next.

No, not until the present begins.

Maybe as a kid…

well, in my youth… just a little bit…

Maybe it was minutes… hours… well, weeks…

The real one comes later!

But indeed

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For today, tomorrow and a year ahead

so many necessary-unnecessary worries,

so much small work that too

Nobody needs. We don’t care

than a seat at a strange and boring table,

than the splendor of foreign cities beneath the wings.

Not cut to the measure of space and time,

The plane takes us to foreign countries.

And when we get home, will we?

We won’t notice that relatives are all strangers?

I myself alienated.

I don’t even care

that I’m walking in a badly ironed suit,

that the shoes are not polished, the face is wrinkled,

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and everyone you meet seems covered in pollen.

These are not compatriots, but passers-by,

this is all just a prelude to the present.

The real comes later. It will happen here

this vain little pendulum year,

and we will get out of the tormenting cage.

This is the end of the millennium…

Well, let’s hold out, let’s try

already closing…

In our nonexistent sleepy soul

everything frozen will sob and wake up with a scream.

Life ends here… and then it begins.

Source: tayni-mirozdaniya.ru

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