Svetlana Surganova
Notebook of words
With thanks
Zoya Mikhailovna Surganova, my grandmother, and Liya Davydovna Surganova, my mother, - for the fact that I am Svetlana Surganova
Nastya Badestova, poet, philologist, friend, - for reading, editing and helping me believe that my words are needed in the space
Marina Chen, childhood friend, wonderful poet, godmother of “Notebook”, - for the “shoulder” and the ringing bell of laughter
Kira Levina, “Brodsky in a skirt” and dear friend, - for “I'm losing you” and other equally amazing poems that are yet to become songs
To Peter Malakhovsky, a talented musician and close friend, a switchman on my path, irrevocably shifted my life axis towards music
To my favorite teachers: Natalya Nikolaevna Agafonova and Viktor Aleksandrovich Smirnov - for finding yourself in life, sensory experience and lifelong sadness for the departed
Svetlana Golubeva - for inspiration and inaccessibility
Diana Arbenina - for the elephant
To my "Orchestra" - for professionalism and understanding
To those others who still lives in my heart...
And, of course, to my fans! – for making me believe in myself
How, why and for whom
It all started in 1985. Being an ordinary teenager, I, like many at this age, began to make attempts to comprehend what was happening around me, communicate with the world, understand it and bring something of myself. This is how the first songs and poems appeared, and then a small “samizdat” collection. It had two epigraphs. First: “It’s just a form of communication.” The second is from Richard Bach: “If we are connected spiritually, we must definitely meet. Soul mates are born to live life together.” It is to these souls, the souls of loved ones and loved ones, that I turn now, almost twenty years later. The book you are holding in your hands contains my “charms”, my sympathies, outbursts and reflections.
This book does not claim to have literary, much less any cultural value. That's why it's called the Word Notebook. This is a kind of sensory-emotional autobiography, the costs and delights of Puritan upbringing.
“The Notebook of Words” would never have been born if it weren’t for the people who surround me. They treat what “Surganova and the Orchestra” does with love and some kind of motherly patience and warmth that is always missing from me. It is their support that inspires me and helps me move on. “Notebook of Words” is published thanks to and for the sake of my audience. Thank you for life!
/Svetlana Surganova/
From friends
The book is full of tenderness and air. This is an anamnesis book: Sveta literally shines through it. On these pages are all those “incurable” people who live in it. It’s not easy to take out personal, inner “diamonds” from your past and put them on public display, because to some they may seem like cheap pieces of glass. But Sveta took a risk, and this is worthy of respect.
/Nastya Badestova, philologist/
Songs, poems, free verse – all of Sveta’s creations are herself. There is no contradiction between the author and the lyrical hero. Everything is honest, everything is true.
/Petr Malakhovsky, musician/
/Kira Levina, poet/
The release of this book is a huge event for me, Svetlana’s relatives and friends, those who love and respect her work, for whom it helps to find themselves and find their path in life. Svetik’s ability to share Light with people, awaken positivity, strengthen fortitude and nobility of soul is endlessly admirable. I am sure that the “Notebook of Words” will give many wonderful moments of contact with the present, fill feelings, thoughts and actions with meaning, and help spread their wings.
/Marina Chen, poet/
Preface
Sveta Surganova does not have to solve the problem of how to capture the reader’s attention, how to convince him to buy this book. For many years now, admirers of her talent have been going to her concerts of their own free will and with great pleasure, reading her interviews to find answers to life's questions. important questions: how to relate to yourself, people and life. Everyone always needs ideas on the basis of which they can build their own model of the world in which to live.
But there is something else in the story of this book. The one who opened it wants to know even more about Sveta Surganova, as much as possible, wants to guess, reading between the lines, about her secret and her secrecy. The author will not deceive your hopes for sincerity.
The life of Sveta Surganova is like an experiment in self-ignition: creativity is born from a destructive fire. The facts of her biography are collected into a classic myth: a suffering artist sculpts some deep beauty from his torment and genius. But the fact is that Sveta Surganova has long been able to allow herself to go beyond the standards and set her own personal interpretation of herself, without relying on classical myths. She is a troublemaker, a clown, and an ugly girl who upsets the stagnant moss with her insolence, drinks everything that burns, plays pranks, chases skirts, cries, laughs, drinks tea with lemon, keeps a diary, photographs the skin of a tangerine, reads before bed and falls asleep in a ball. She keeps people dear to her in SMS and e-mail, runs away from the past and lives in it. And only those marked by her love are given the right to recognize her in her personal space.
In this book, Surganova allows herself not only to love the reader, but also to trust him. This book is a “point of expansion” in recognizing Sveta. Read chapters linked to the EE coordinate system and find answers to YOUR personal questions.
From these pages, Sveta Surganova will allow you to get acquainted with those officially recognized geniuses who shaped her character, her basic personality. She, without fear of injury, will show you her pain points in the soul. Through poems not set to music, she risks moving into the category of “confessionals.” You will have nudity, and a word frozen in anticipation, and passages, and minuets, and a sweet smiling girl...
Are you waiting, reader? Well, I won’t interfere with your hugs anymore.
/Svetlana Ivannikova, actress/
Song lyrics
The section includes the lyrics of songs performed by the group “Surganova and the Orchestra”. These are both very early works and quite recent. Not all, but most. Mostly these are texts of my own composition, but there are also others that once found a response in my soul. However, sometimes I even forget that it was not me who wrote them - they are so mine and about me.
My songs make me happy: the birth of each of them is like the birth of a long-awaited child. Only the timing is different. Sometimes songs take years to mature. Take, for example, “Isn’t It Me” based on the verses of Joseph Brodsky: almost 10 years passed from the moment the melodic idea arose to the last arrangement touch. Why so much? I’m probably too responsible about “spitting into eternity.”
People often ask me: what style do you play? I don't have an answer to this question. And, it seems to me, this is our main advantage - that we are not like anyone else. If someone really needs a definition, let it sound like this: “beautiful music.” Or so – “an original musical and poetic phenomenon, flavored with drive and lively emotions.” None of this really matters. The important thing is that this music, judging by letters from fans, helps people live. This justifies me and what I do.
In my creativity, I, like many, try to solve for myself the fundamental questions of existence. I talk, sing, shout about it. The result is a burning mixture of depression and catharsis. When music brings tears, when it takes your breath away, when your heart begins to beat wildly, it means that life is changing for the better. Everything says that you are truly alive! In my opinion, this is precisely the main task of any creativity - to excite human souls.
/Svetlana Surganova/
(Text – S. Surganova)
We're having bad weather again.
and it has been drizzling since morning.
It drips, and every drop of rain
remains in my heart.
Oh, how I would like for a while
I need to stop this rain
dispel the gray clouds,
so that the sky becomes blue.
And the rain - drip, drip, drip,
drip, drip, drip -
sheds her tears.
Drip, drip, drip,
drip, drip, drip -
We cannot live without sadness.
All roads are blurred for us again,
You and I cannot avoid separation.
How bad it is that the rain has been crying for so long;
I'm so sad and have no one to tell.
And life is such a thing:
sometimes sunny, sometimes cloudy and raining,
quarrels, meetings, partings,
sadness, hope and love.
And the rain drips, drips, drips...
June 1984
I was 14, he was 41. His name was Viktor Aleksandrovich Smirnov. Funny, wildly talented, complex, interesting person. I fell in love. This was one of my first fascinations with men. The strongest, and one of the few. He worked as a table tennis coach at the Central Park of Culture and Culture. I studied in his group and loved every minute I spent next to him. When it rained, classes were canceled. I was worried, sad, angry and somehow – in an impulse – I wrote this song.
About the rain-separator.
I need you
(Text – V. Smirnov)
Your heart burns like the sun,
and the eyes of the dark night are blacker,
and I can’t compare you with anyone,
You won't find anything nicer in the whole world.
Evil night, no blizzard, no blizzard
will not cover your tall image,
no blue snow peaks,
and no rivers with cool sources.
Take my heart, take it!
Place it in your palms and listen.
All day long you stand in front of me
and disturb the foggy soul.
If there is someone else in your heart, and not me -
I will get through this storm.
Even if you don't love me
I still wish you happiness.
09.07.1984
When bad weather did not interfere with V.A.S. and me, I tried by hook or by crook to prolong the moment of our communication. After class, I walked him almost to the door. Once, on the way home, on the tram, I plucked up the courage and told him that I wanted to write a song based on his poems (I knew that he was composing). And he, right in my notebook, wrote down this very text with his own hand - “I need you.” Of course, fantasies immediately played out in my head: it seemed to me that this was a hint, that the text was addressed to me, that it was me that he needed... Oh, naivety!
Twenty two hours of separation
(Text – S. Surganova)
Twenty two hours of separation -
for me years.
And the trains carry away
us in different cities.
I'm leaving to come back again,
overcome the pain of loss.
I'm leaving, but with every step
I rush to you through the night.
Eternal road, timid tear
you and I are connected forever.
Honey, you are a fairy; lady Destiny,
Something is kind these days, not as always.
If only we could walk side by side like this,
bread, sadness divided into two,
everything that was and everything that will be,
I'll give it to you.
But sometimes it feels strange to me
that life passes recklessly,
that leaving a mark is so difficult
on earth and in the soul.
Year after year I rush in a hurry
for your dream.
I still want to catch the train,
that he left a long time ago.
What has passed cannot be undone,
what will come cannot be avoided.
Only life parallels
They will tell me everything again:
eternal road, timid tear,
pain, sadness, separation and dreams,
the glorious chime of my spring days,
song of a lullaby of coastal waves.
If only we could walk side by side...
The song is addressed to O.I. She wore a hat and leather pants and, according to her own words, knew karate techniques. So, walking with her through the city at night, I felt completely safe...
Such a girl could not help but charm me - so much so that separation from her, even at 10 p.m., always became an extremely serious test for me.
Pre-war waltz
(Text – S. Surganova)
White seagulls are circling, circling
over mirror water.
You and I are dancing a waltz,
Farewell school waltz.
You and I are dancing a waltz -
pre-war waltz.
And those boys and girls
that they then went into battle,
and so that we are with you now
could dance.
We remember you! Farewell Waltz
we store it carefully.
We remember youth and love
soldier of the forties.
And we hear the echo of that war
in the sounds of a metronome,
in the quiet crying of mothers,
in the sound of the wind in the field.
And maybe in a hundred years
we will remember
how the battles went, how the soldier fell,
and that farewell waltz.
February 1985
“Pre-War Waltz” was written during my school years, for an evening in honor of Victory Day. Despite the fact that there was a certain “installation”, everything was sincere. The theme of war has worried me since childhood.
Not book characters, but real people– strong, courageous, noble. I admire them.
And all the time I ask myself the question: if I were in their place, could I live this time with the same dignity, without losing my mind, work, and not rob, live, and not kill?
Just remain human...
(Text – S. Surganova)
Music, music,
you are eternal, like the Milky Way,
my music.
Live in your heart
call for you,
The favorite music!
Call your sisters and brothers
for a sacred battle, a battle of love.
If only people would forget death and evil...
Just help me with this
erase enmity and hatred,
Sow hope and goodness in people's hearts.
Music, music...
When darkness lurks in the soul
and my heart is filled with pain and fear,
when both friend and enemy are on the same shore,
I'll fall there again
where is the sea of feelings, love, kindness,
and I will entrust my life to the song forever.
Music, music...
(album “Round the World”)
“There is one love - a dream, this is music...” And so it happened. True, “one” does not mean the only one. Rather, one of...
Talk
(Text – S. Surganova)
- Is it still spring outside?
“No,” he said, “autumn.”
writes sonatas from the rain,
everyone is worried about you.
Now the old lady has no time to sleep -
your every moment prophesies,
the day hurries, followed by the years -
everyone is worried about you...
– What about friends, are they faithful?
- Faithful. While we're alive
in your deeds, in your dreams -
there is no reason for sadness.
And you live, don’t expect rewards -
there everyone will be rewarded for everything.
And who was right and who was wrong -
Let's not figure it out.
- Again you are gloomy, again you are angry!
Looks like the rains are bad
play a detrimental role
in my fate-misfortune.
– Resentment, quarrels, swarm of gossip -
That is not your salvation!
and you will be mine
without further ado!
And again, everything is about him... Despite the strength of my feelings for him, they never received real embodiment.
Which is probably for the best.
And my daughter
(Text – V. Smirnov)
And my daughter is afraid of the dark.
But I love morning dew
and quiet evening hours,
and quiet evening hours.
Oh, sunny bright paths...
And yet sometimes darkness is closer.
I turn on the light and I don’t see anything,
and turn it off - Universe, shine!
And when I turn it off - Universe, shine!
How the stars burn brightly with mystery,
how the dusk of the sky is menacing and serious.
Like a madman through the tops of the pines,
I go where my eyes look,
I go where my eyes look.
And my daughter is afraid of the dark.
I’m afraid of her myself, I’ve been an adult for a long time.
But I love morning dew
and quiet evening hours,
and quiet evening hours.
August 1986
(album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
About everything that has been lived
(Text – S. Surganova)
And something has been lived, and something has been understood
and it was proven to me contrary to reason.
And what is forgotten will not come true;
and it’s time for me to sum up my results,
and it’s time for me to sum up my results.
And everything that has been lived is not dusted,
and everything is fresh and new, as if for the first time.
the years are rushing into the distance,
like horses at a distance
Yes, only years, years, years, years, years,
the years are rushing into the distance,
like horses at a distance
they rush off to the cherished finish line.
What has been lived and what has been understood?
What truths did you discover?
And there are thousands of rules, and many truths,
and yet confession is the first star.
And yet confession is the first star.
I want to hear that story from many people.
people are distrustful
and will instantly turn away again.
Yes, only people, people, people, people,
people are distrustful
like you call a bird, it will fly
and will instantly turn away again.
After all, something has been lived, something has been understood.
Now I can save you from mistakes.
All of you, who are in memory and from time immemorial -
I want to hug you all and not spare my heart.
I want to hug you all and not spare my heart.
About everything that has been lived and everything that has been understood,
I want to tell you in songs and poems.
the rhymes still don't work,
just like life, not everything is poetry,
Yes, only rhymes, rhymes, rhymes, rhymes,
the rhymes still don't work,
just like life, not everything is poetry,
and it happens that prose gives way.
26.07.1986
I've always been annoyed when people are fake. I had and still have a thirst for the sincere, sincere, trusting, and I encourage everyone around me to do this...
(Text – S. Surganova)
I'm singing about you again
a song that I have kept in my soul since spring.
not about autumn rain and darkness -
about eternal youth,
immeasurable loyalty
about bright joy
selfless friends,
about your land.
you are a connoisseur of all worlds,
look into us
from the heights of hoary centuries.
I won't ask for peace.
Just give me strength
to enter a happy age,
Don’t let your heart go out without fire.
Seven notes -
it's not so little -
we will also write “Campanella”.
Hundreds of stanzas
waiting for great talents
a star will fall for poets.
Spin, young planet,
in a whirlwind of a cheerful good dance,
pick up this song and join us
oh about peaceful skies and happiness!
you are like spring water, -
from origins to nowhere.
In a moment, in an hour,
when I leave for another world,
I want to leave the earth
to friends - flowers and songs,
to enemies - all that
what I understood about the past.
20.03.1986
(album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
In the mid-80s, the Komsomol was still strong, and while I was in my first year at medical school, I actively took part in this “movement.”
Hence the patriotic pathos that fills the song “Time”.
Lyrical geopolitical
(Text – S. Surganova)
Whoever baptized our world is wrong
immortal and reliable.
Yes, it is big, but only in breadth,
But in essence, it is insignificant.
He is fragile, like autumn ice,
he exists while he still lives,
but now it’s going nowhere,
like dew falling from the leaves.
Adherents of the theory of English pop
They tear the bottomless world to shreds, like the peel of an orange.
Those sermons of Malthus blinded their eyes,
But a blind man does not know where his violence leads.
Whether you are a violinist or an extra,
You are first a doctor - and that is your duty,
so that our wonderful world can be healed
from star wars fever!
Just remember one thing:
that the world is beautiful in rain and snow,
that a person needs a home,
The universe needs a person.
The universe needs a person!
05.12.1986
Another song born in unifying euphoria Soviet years, in the feeling that you are able to change this world for the better. Naive in many ways, but absolutely kind. Perhaps now it is no longer so in tune with reality, but despite this, the public asks for it.
I don't keep you in my thoughts
(Text – V. Smirnov)
I don't keep you in my thoughts.
I live by myself.
Wherever I want, I go again,
I'm not going with someone else.
I don't keep you in my thoughts,
and the heart is at peace again.
I value personal freedom,
I can't be with someone else.
I don't keep you in my thoughts.
A new world opened up to me.
I don’t find any joy in it
and I won’t find it with another.
I don’t keep you in my thoughts...
(album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
Simply one of my favorite songs...
And on your cheek yesterday...
(Text – S. Surganova)
And yesterday there was my tear on your cheek.
And you slept with a smile so sweetly, carefree.
At that moment, believe me, it hurt me like never before,
but no hand rose to wake you up.
Sorry, my dear man, for never
as before, you will not be my only support.
That there is another, I realized, I must admit, not soon,
who needs your eyes more in difficult times.
When everyone leaves at once, I feel empty and sad;
melancholy settles into the monastery. And yet first
me before being injected intracardially with adrenaline,
I will sing to you - I will look for a pier for myself.
Reproach for the usualness, for the colorlessness of the day.
I repent that I can’t make it better.
But don’t blame the creator for stinginess
and in indifference right there.
Tear up the photos, burn the letters,
slam the doors!
Let it be yours
which is characteristic of pride,
but do not turn the souls of those into ashes
who is faithful to you to this day.
Who loves you to this day.
September 1986
Very personal. My Magadan. But not the one that comes to mind first. There is only one Magadan on the map, but in my life there are two.
(Text – S. Surganova)
You got your piece of the estate
lived like a khan, flopping around in fat.
Kisses of women and drunken gossip -
This is your destiny and specialty in everyday life.
If only we wouldn't be so sad
since the inevitability of heaven.
Thank you, memory is the temple of truth,
examining everyone impartially,
as it is, called it future
a liar, a poet and a fool.
It’s just a pity that, no matter how you cut it,
changing style, abandoning formation,
under the roof of everyone is lucky one
bus with black stripe.
A century of generations bringing freedom,
an alloy of detached, downtrodden, dumb,
who left the stage to please someone,
but still kinder and better than us.
I'm not a fan of general revelations,
repetitions of mistakes and festive words.
To a world in which everything is above suspicion,
where everyone is loved, I walk through the veil.
Yes, it's just a pity that never
the edges will not be erased.
I don't understand what the blasphemy is for,
cult of slander and abuse.
But retiring
another world is bequeathed to us.
Written in a state of shock from acquaintance with the paraphernalia of funeral services.
Our sluggish days are like fallen leaves.
We went blind, like flowers going blind in the asphalt.
I was coloring the chicken, the firebird came out,
but you can’t be painted, you are you.
They failed to build a barn instead of a temple.
Lost in the rain, fear of water hidden.
You tried to warm your cold body,
but you can’t warm me, I am me.
I'm tired of wading through the bushes.
You're tired of trembling in anticipation of winter.
You and I are abnormally normal people.
You and I will not change, we are us.
(album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
Why do I feel so lonely sometimes
(Text – S. Surganova)
It seems that you are nearby - and again you are not there.
You leave and appear invisibly,
like the arc of the rainbow in the rain and sun.
Why do I feel so lonely sometimes?
In a world of controversy, mistrust and evil
my opponents are unimaginably cruel
My opponents are unimaginably cruel
A bad fate befalls those closest to you.
Why do I feel so lonely sometimes?
Maybe they just didn't hear me
in the song where I glorify anxiety,
in the song where my life is all for you?
In the song where I glorify anxiety,
In the song where my life is all for you.
September 1986
It’s annoying when a loved one doesn’t want or can’t understand you, when he remains “impenetrable” on issues that are important to you. This song is an attempt to reach out. Another try...
Arrangement
(Text – M. Bernadskaya)
Arrangement, staffing
registered in the house.
And somewhere outside the windows there is restlessness
with sad faces
a lamppost reveals its unfoundness,
with a quiet step he expresses his bypass.
The earth, without breaking its rhythm,
And people are in a hurry, simplifying the need to communicate.
Prices for a warm word and even a smile have increased,
as if this leads us to a big loss.
Wait, man,
don’t complain about your fatigue,
in the depths of your own soul
find the unfound.
When indifference took the place of the driver,
There are strangers everywhere you go.
(albums “Around the World”, “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
There was a dream
(Text provided by V. Smirnov)
I had a dream to see the mountains,
ascend them to heaven,
where the wind is blue
tears the clouds into the sails.
A dream come true! I'm where the light is
snow pattern that doesn't melt...
But I could live in the world
live without these eternal mountains!
I had a dream to see the sea,
where the sun gives us heat.
Where is the gold in the open
The mermaid glides through the waves.
A dream come true! I'm where the wind is
A fishing boat carries off into the distance.
But I could live in the world
live without these noisy waves!
There was a dream to see joy -
your face, your eyes,
in which the sun blazed
and the heavens were reflected.
A dream come true! Early in the morning
your eyes found me.
I can't get used to their shine,
I can’t live without their fire!
The building is being painted
(Text – S. Surganova)
The building is painted yellow.
The building is painted grey.
Staircases of familiar stone shine,
like unmelted snow, white.
I walk along the sleepy floors
to its fourth pole.
I'm going where I've never gone before
I'm going where I've never gone before
The building is painted pink.
The past will disappear under the paint.
And your footprint is clear in the snow,
it still hasn't melted.
The window is open to February,
flowers in the middle of winter...
She left without us. Didn't wait
you are your own spring.
She left without us. Didn't wait
you are your own spring.
I put candles at the head of the bed
a love I don't understand.
Chance thickens the palette of the season,
and we, as before, speak in verse.
What about the words? Now you are a shadow.
I blame myself for
why aren't you through the door then?
left my home
why aren't you through the door then?
left her home.
22.01.1987
We studied together - a beautiful, lively, delicate girl. One day, looking out into the school yard, I saw her stretched out in the snow, pale as that very snow. She just stepped out of the window. Problems at home, unhappy love, and - this is the result... My first encounter with death was an incredible shock.
(Text – S. Surganova)
Again, as before, we are warm in the rain
We run barefoot slowly.
Again, as before, the world became careless
and the music of the midnight stars is heard.
I want people to be happy
children carried flowers,
happy was the one who grows bread,
keeps us from war.
I want it not to be a burden
there was sadness of separation,
so that there are no lies in the world,
illnesses and misfortunes.
(album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
It is proven: there have been bright moments in my life!
(Text – S. Surganova)
The soul is like an open wound,
It’s bubbling, but everything is out of place.
Take me with you, flock,
swirl the crazy leaves.
But for some reason everything doesn’t heat up.
The thread of fun is broken.
So you sow separation for me,
I don't have the strength to bear it.
Frames again. Beyond the wall.
People are rushing into and out of the arches.
What am I expecting: resentment? Trouble?
Is your gaze frozen on the windows?
You are loved and do not expect grief -
The house is full of children, the mother is alive.
Unfortunately, this is the only thing you notice
when you're alone again.
September 1987
As soon as a person begins to understand something in this life, as soon as he thinks about death, about how to live in the world without loved ones, he is “covered.” This happened to me when I was 3 years old. I remember that I even burst into tears at the thought that my grandmother, apparently, would be the first member of our family to leave.
And after a while a song was born - a song about happiness.
About real happiness - when “the mother is alive”, “the house is full”, when everyone is nearby and is not sick. The rest is secondary.
Best draw
(Text – P. J. Beranger, translated by V. Kurochkin)
In spite of autocratic fortune
I will start saving gold
To the feet of my beautiful one,
My Jeannette, put it down.
Then I have all earthly goods
I’ll buy it for my beloved;
God is my witness that I am not a miser, -
But I love, love, love!
Come to me, poet's delight, -
And to the most distant centuries
I'm a cute name: Zhannetta
I will convey it with my love.
And in sounds sweeter than a kiss,
I will catch all the secrets of passion:
Vogue sees that I am not looking for glory, -
But I love, love, love!
Decorate my forehead with a crown -
I will not be at all proud,
And will be the decoration of the throne
Jeannette is my frisky one.
Under the spell of burning passion
I will give up all rights to her...
After all, I do not seek power, -
But I love, love, love!
Why empty seduction?
Why do I catch ghosts?
She's in a moment of infatuation
She told me herself: I love you.
No! A better draw is impossible!
I am full of my happiness;
Even if I am poor, weak, insignificant,
But I am loved, loved, loved!
(album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
My birthday gift to Marina Chen is a message and recognition of the wonderful poems of Pierre Jean Beranger.
I'm leaving again
(Text – S. Surganova)
I'm leaving again
but now forever.
I have old thoughts
will replace the year.
Let time help
I need to reach my goal.
Let time heal
all the wounds of melancholy.
From my own doorstep
the road leads us -
the path of eternal separation,
careless friends
fleeting lights
the path of our loved ones.
To the native threshold
roads lead us
memorable days for us,
fate turns,
roads of love.
It happens, I go
I'm on the needles of fate.
Sometimes I get tired
I don't have enough strength.
Like a blind woman in the night
hidden fear of the path,
I'm holding on to someone
and someone is holding me.
From my own doorstep
the road leads us -
the path of eternal separation,
careless friends
fleeting lights
the path of our loved ones.
To the native threshold
roads lead us
memorable days for us,
fate turns,
roads of love.
Inspired by a poem by Marina Chen:
“I will leave as quietly as I once came...” A kind of poetic dialogue.
We have been for so many years...
(Text – T. Khmelnik)
We've been talking about this for so many years
that wings are needed in order to fly.
In the black sky, in the empty sky
we are crucified on the starry cross.
We've been counting the stones for so many years,
but I don’t have the strength to scatter them.
We're waiting for the rainbow in the purple rain.
We dig earth for our graves.
We've been in everyone's sight for so many years,
that it won’t be difficult to boo us.
Take, eat our crying and laughter,
Great trouble will equalize us all.
In an underground bunker at the hour of death,
when the useless gas mask is removed,
when the last fire went out,
losing consciousness, you will remember us.
You are a living flame
(Text – T. Khmelnik)
You are the living flame of a burnt candle,
look at me through the night and be silent.
You know the whole truth, you see all the lies,
you feel pain, you will forgive and understand.
In the land of sunset, where the star rises,
You live forever, but you look here.
And a look that helps the fallen to rise,
neither time nor darkness extinguishes.
You are the living flame of a burnt candle.
We will meet, everything will be done on time,
and my tears will return to their source.
You'll say hi! in what language?
And together - into the sunset, together - down the river.
(Text – T. Khmelnik)
My soul is a burning graveyard,
where charred shadows writhe
all those who came to me,
but each carried his own shield, his own cross
and counted the steps out loud.
My star is hot for mortals.
For those who are weak, peace is always more valuable.
A candle burns for each of them,
and the blind worm gnaws at the sick heart.
Everything is quiet in the burning house.
The grass will come up to cover my burns.
The moon will rise and no one else will
I will not show you the way to my soul.
Pyotr Malakhovsky introduced us to Tatiana Khmelnik. Poet, journalist, speleologist - an amazingly multifaceted personality. Her poems made a strong impression on me, they helped my soul “develop”, excited me, forced me to empathize and create. For which I am very grateful to her.
(Text – S. Surganova)
Leave everyone! Go away!
To the door, to the gate
the night will see you through!
Everyone here blew their nose. No dreams.
Your tram is heading east,
my bus is in a ditch!
Along the dark streets,
where is everything except buildings
and the yellow moon, makes you shiver,
I walk across faceless, dull faces,
I’m walking without the right to help anyone.
Buy flowers! Dollar, ruble, lev.
Well, should you become kinder?
The city is full of eyes, but the city is blind:
the city no longer sees lights.
Who among the living still tramples the asphalt,
hey, stop your marathon...
In the basalt sky you hear an alto -
someone in the sky started a gramophone!
Children in neighbors' apartments are bored,
their relatives immediately quietly go crazy.
Today is reception day in nursing homes,
Today there is a war with someone somewhere again.
Some in a carriage, some on foot,
some with a million, and some with a dream.
But hands reach out to meet a stranger,
the hands of someone who cherishes his Home.
It was in Bulgaria. We were sitting in a cafe, and a beggar woman came up to the next table, where wealthy men were treating themselves to cognac - a shabby old woman with the same shabby bouquet, which she tried to sell, at least for a couple of coins... She was driven away, rudely and abruptly, and I... felt pain.
There are only a few of us
(Text - T. Khmelnik and S. Surganova)
There are only a few of us, there are millions of us.
Other people's husbands, other people's wives.
We are restless, we are not involved.
Together they are not happy, apart they are unhappy.
Together they are not connected, apart they are inseparable.
We owe nothing to well-being.
Fragile fingers break the shackles.
We carry within us an unburnt heart,
but we can’t keep warm in the snow.
God, do not let us forget and be forgotten.
Our former faces are guarding us.
We are unavailable, we are not worthy.
We turn life into silent wars.
There are billions of us; we are bees and honeycombs.
Time dictates who you are with and who you are.
Frozen photos in the hole of the pupil.
The brain is boiling from the torn note!
God, don’t let us forget and be forgotten,
Our former faces will guard us!
They are waiting to stick behind a dead mask,
to erase both sounds and colors.
1988, 2007 (album “SALT”)
Tatiana Khmelnik had beautiful, laconic poems that sounded wonderful in acoustics.
But when, 9 years later, the idea arose to make an arrangement and perform the song with a group, there was a shortage of text. And I took the liberty of finishing it - that’s how Tatyana and I became co-authors.
Angel in the flesh
(Text – S. Surganova)
Why can I sleep better tonight than in heaven?
why I wake up, smile and sing.
There is no dullness pressing on the brain - the boredom of tomorrow.
Everything is easy for me because I saw you!
Angel, angel!
the sound of sadness and love!
lakes of eyes,
in which it is sweet to drown,
a sip in the heat,
fire looking into the darkness.
You have a brother and sister, I have strong tea.
I dream of becoming myself, you dream of not being bored.
You are awakened by the flattery of deceitful people, I haven’t slept since the night...
You shout to all those who hear, I sing only for you...
Angel, angel!
Give me the strength to become wiser.
my lost friends.
Get me off my knees
fallen on the way
take a break from everyday affairs.
A black day turned white and white. We haven't seen each other since spring.
Unforgotten dreams swirled around in a gentle whirlwind.
But even this fun was completely drunk...
Angel, angel!
Give me faith to wait.
Give me a day
to give it to you.
My life -
just a handful of grain.
What are you sowing?
it grows for centuries!
N.A. The beginning began. I say without hiding that this is the best thing that happened in my life.
(Text – S. Surganova)
Stolen faces at once
suddenly in the evening they will come to life.
She can't sleep alone all night;
A new day is like a new whip.
A solo brings to the stage,
anticipating a full house again,
he will enter easily and quietly,
slowing down with a firm step.
The imprint of a loner
on a frayed sheet
everything will dot the “i’s”.
Tears smell in the dark.
He will wake up everything that is sleeping.
It will smooth out the folds of the walls.
Shaking off the fatigue,
he will go to her captivity.
Stolen faces at once
suddenly in the evening they will come to life.
The two of them can't sleep all night...
09.12.1989
(album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
Promised snow
(Text – T. Khmelnik)
When the promised snow fell to the ground
and the last chord burned out,
in the red passion indicator
any person outside our walls
became such a stranger
so as not to let him into the house!
And we turned off
harmless,
but a phone that can kill silence!
And the blade fell out of my hands into the snow,
so that he will never be found again!
Let's melt down the cinders of past days
in a big candle
so that the cold couldn't
take us by surprise!
1989 (albums “ISN’T IT ME”, “ALIVE”, “ROUND THE WORLD”)
I really wondered what this song was about many years after I first sang it. This is a serious, sad and even tragic text, but then, in 1989, I was “hooked” by just one phrase in it - about the telephone.
Let me explain: when we lived in a communal apartment, the telephone was in our room, and all the neighbors came to talk to us - non-stop, for hours, around the clock... Imagine how much I hated this device! I still don’t like calling – I prefer SMS. And I sing this line with rapture!
(Text – S. Surganova)
If I had tears in me,
Snow would fall from my eyes.
And the wings, what can they do?
when they have no one to fly with.
I would like to become your moon,
but the sky was covered with rain.
The field was plowed in early spring,
and you expect something from him.
I would like to become a burning candle
in your slightly chilled hands.
But they already contain joy and sorrow,
keys to doors to nowhere.
I would like to drink at least a sip of sadness
from your tired eyes.
The leaves opposite me whispered something,
but I cannot understand their language.
Autumn. The stoves are lit,
They just don’t make it any warmer.
It will cover you in the bitter cold
some alien sorcerer.
The wind tears down the branches,
The time for fairy tales has passed.
Fate will set new networks,
another game will begin...
A hoarse raven shouted to me
through window frames:
“Stay! You can’t catch up with your dream!” -
He, too, apparently, was alone.
Am I drowning in the mud of life,
I wander in the snow-white mountains -
you are in me, like in a picture,
in evergreen flowers!
28.05.1989
Having written this song, I longed to convey it to the person to whom it was addressed, to confess and open up...
And here we are sitting on the steps of the Kazan Cathedral, a guitar in my hands, my voice and knees trembling synchronously - I’m singing. And - lo and behold! - she liked it! It was a historical moment - it was then that I realized that I could do something.
And the green flowers are from Nikolai Rubtsov - the recipient of the song loved his poetry very much.
Among the lights
(Text – S. Surganova)
along the endless tablecloth of roads,
racing to play with my own shadow,
I rush to you when I'm lonely.
Haven't opened my arms yet
over the gloomy Neva Palace Bridge,
They won’t send their curses to me anymore
fifty red road guards.
In your window - a week's fatigue.
Your home and everything around you wants silence.
I won't break it, just a little
I’ll stay around, get away from the bustle.
Around the house and dusty stage,
which crown the doors to heaven.
The souls are closed with locks and buttons.
The city's airwaves are filled with the finest abuse.
There is so much unnecessary and imported stuff!
The station is filled with people writhing in the corners
my no longer young townspeople
in shabby, smelly attics.
And I sing so as not to take my anger out on my fists.
And I sing so as not to be a fool.
And I sing about what I won’t write in a letter,
I sing about what I am silent about to you.
Among the lights of night Petersburg,
along the endless tablecloth of roads, in
distillation playing with one's own shadow,
I rush to you when I'm lonely.
1989 (albums “Round the World”, “SALT”)
My night cycling trips to Ivan Fomin Street... The best thing that happened in my life.
A song about the deputy head of the physical education department and other wooden objects
(Text – S. Surganova)
This is strange:
we raised for so many years
the most powerful and green,
the darkest forest in the world.
Why in the beloved country
not enough wood?
Oak on oak – that’s where the power is!
There won't be enough rivers to float everything!
This body is so perfect
nurtured over many years
strenuous physical work.
Chicken breeding manners
it is impossible to find the best -
take a look at any of our universities,
ears droop in conversation,
you can see right away: uncle is an ace!
Oh Maine! Superman!
Dude! Super dude!
Nice! But it's rubbish.
Dumbism everywhere you look!
Make way, heat and cold!
Either I'm drunk or I'm stupid
I'm going to physical education
forgetting about everything,
develop muscles;
biceps, triceps - accessories,
improve your figure!
Brothers, sisters! That's it!
So pour some digitalis!
Our athlete is unique:
instead of gyrus postcentralis
he has a tight steelyard.
Oh Maine! Superman!
Dude! Super dude!
Nice! But it's rubbish.
Fizra, everywhere you look!
I loved physical education
Been friends with her for many years!
But, having recognized such Maine,
Everything melted like snow.
You shattered my dreams
and there is no way to return!
Don't threaten me with a date
I'd rather go on maternity leave!
We, students of the pediatric medical institute, sincerely hated physical education. It’s not that I wasn’t friends with sports - it’s just that physical education was considered such an important and compulsory subject that getting a pass in it was more difficult than passing anatomy.
Somehow the gym teacher completely angered us.
Here it is, the result.
White people
(Text – S. Surganova)
White people in dark alleys -
There aren't many of you here.
Inexplicable
on Sunday,
Punishing snow fell.
This autumn
April autumn.
You feel cold in the house.
I don't know you
but I won't leave the way
the one that leads to you
liberating the essence.
I don't know the one
that she promised to live.
Captive and string
I will still live.
White people in dark alleys
why are you here?
Patriarchal,
neonatal sleep,
everlasting day,
a piece of childhood,
strange tenderness towards
to whom were you given?
I don't know you...
10.04.1990
The beginning of a beautiful and at the same time difficult era...
OK it's all over Now
(Text – S. Surganova)
OK it's all over Now.
And I left like the first snow,
to the sound of shackles,
to loud laughter,
under the idleness of vanity,
don't look after me.
OK it's all over Now.
Brings castles in the sand
tired wind. He's sad
knocking on black glass
where am I alone?
OK it's all over Now.
I feel sorry for myself, as well as for those
who is barefoot in a draft,
shrinking, praying to the warmth, -
this hardening is useless,
not for future use
The deadline has passed.
OK it's all over Now.
I feel cold near these walls.
Snuggle up to them and I'll catch a cold.
Under the ground to hell, under the sun in the steppe
I'll go somewhere
and I'll get lost.
OK it's all over Now…
28.11.1990
(album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
I can't go with you
(Text – S. Surganova)
I can't go with you
this dense forest,
I can't cry into your shoulder.
I can't wait for you at night
to your old house,
don't look at you out the window.
I can't iron silk
your brown hair,
do not look into the reflection of the soul.
I can't wait, I can't live,
don't even just sing -
the bins are empty without you.
I have absorbed
the themes of your songs,
like dry land - rain.
Phone call,
somewhere a door creaked -
then hope you are coming.
Whether on earth or in heaven -
does it matter
how angels come to us at night.
You are someone else's sister
someone is a brother for you,
some are mothers, some are daughters.
Let the warmth of your hands
warms the one
the triune that once became.
Let the words get tired
crumble in your mouth
unpretentious light staccato.
Spring praised
colors of a gloomy day,
Well, I believed her:
ran -
there was a knock on the closed door,
but this made it warmer.
I am a traveler heading towards the rising star.
You are a prince, you are an affectionate jester.
I can’t walk with you through this dense forest.
Everyone chooses their own route.
16.06.1990
“White people”, “Well that’s all”, “I can’t go with you” - all this could have been the best thing that happened in my life, but it never happened.
You are my breath
(Text – S. Surganova)
You are my breath
take it as a white cloud.
By the salty desperate wind
You are my heartbeat
don't rush to stop
eyes tired of separation
don't rush...
You are like a rainbow across the sky.
You are the sun by day, the moon by night.
Your tears are the strings of a warm shower.
You are the moon.
You are my presence
in the absence of any reason,
chained by emancipation
for no reason.
You are my contradiction:
He who can, must fly.
Born to fly it's hard to breathe -
she must fly.
You are my breath
take a timid note,
flocks of enchanted birds
07/11/1990 (albums “IS IT NOT ME”, “LIVE”)
It turned out that one person periodically had difficulty breathing... hence the image - I wanted to wish him healthy and free breathing.
Energetic vampire
(Text – S. Surganova)
I was drinking tea.
I watched a movie.
Over the last thousand years
nothing happened to me
Snow just fell on my hands.
I would still live
maybe a year, maybe two,
giving in to the illusions of the century.
But I went out into the yard.
The moon blinded my eyes...
Portrait in the wall
an implant in me,
an antigen that appeared suddenly
the moon spread out my immunity
to everything that will be scary!
A hundred thousand steps from you to me,
a hundred thousand unspoken words.
My killer is with me, it's so easy for me now
with the disaster that will happen tomorrow!
My energy vampire is you.
To be your shadow
prejudices are funny.
I'm tired of screaming into space.
Believe me, I didn't care for a long time,
who gives you constancy.
I'm calm as death
the cold breathes into your face.
I am the fuse of the fuse at the edge of the cliff.
Bring me a candle and I'll sing for you
the song of the last explosion.
My energy vampire is you.
Get me off the stage of the game.
Tell another story.
I'll believe again. I'll go there
where they won't put a mask on me.
I'd love to go.
But there are no roads.
There is no one who would give me strength.
The moon alone shines on me with its bright face,
but only now - in the back.
My energy vampire is you.
10/11/1990 (albums “CHOPIN’S BELOVED”, “ROUND THE WORLD”)
Exhausting, de-energizing love - this could only happen in youth.
Woe in the sky
(Text – S. Surganova)
Grief walks across the sky
grief floats across the sky,
Not autumn words -
calls him a black bird.
I came to you, my dear,
I came to tell you:
“Not by separation, not by nettles
I will decorate your light."
I too was executed for my loyalty.
I hear the bell ringing.
My joy, Your Grace,
Please accept my bow.
There is no limit to the wait
there is no end to gray gossip -
so we walk around the planet -
you are alone and I am alone.
04.09.1991
(album “CHOPIN’S BELOVED”)
Probably a reflection on Akhmatova’s texts.
Here I am completely a woman, a girl, a girl... Behind the text - very different people: the image is exclusively collective.
When you're tired
(Text – S. Surganova and P. Malakhovsky)
When you're tired,
tell me you're wrong
say it's autumn
came into its own,
that the sun is bigger
doesn't heat up at all:
cooled sea, coast, mountains, wind
And now he sprinkles white chalk on
all around -
winter, dressed in a caftan, embroidered
silver
In her hand -
ringing tambourine,
and in the other -
she is the path that leads to you, everything
When you're tired,
notebook sheet music
open it up, and maybe
you will compose a caprice.
Tune your guitar -
princess of short dreams -
and don’t hold the lump in your hand,
tender words!
And now with white chalk...
When I'm tired, I
I will come to my last refuge,
even
no one is waiting there
spring wind
I'm drawn to my rock 'n' roll,
forgetting in the process
where is the ceiling, where is the floor!
And now with white chalk...
22.12.1991
(Text – S. Surganova)
Not only the silence of gray fences,
not only the grief of devastating losses.
Leave at least something as a memory of yourself.
Leave at least something as a memory of yourself...
Half a beat of notes that did not fly off the fretboard,
because I shout to you through a closed mouth:
“Leave at least something as a memory of yourself!”
Slow down your horse's pace - I'll catch up with you on the way!
I will fly through the maelstrom of distances
and tell you about the tart taste of alms.
Spur your horse - I will catch you on the way!
Leave your remorse to the prickly darkness.
And the fact that you exist is not a mistake at all.
You gave me your smile.
Leave at least something to remember me.
Leave at least something as a memory of yourself.
Not only the silence of gray fences,
not only the grief of devastating losses,
leave at least something as a memory of yourself.
12.06.1991
(album “CHOPIN’S BELOVED”)
Zoya Mikhailovna Surganova, grandmother. Posthumously.
Ultimate Steelmaker
(Text – S. Surganova)
I'm lonely as a sigh
like a printed envelope.
Hiding the essence under the roof
and wrapping my soul in a vest,
I'm walking over black water.
And above me is a swarm of stars
destined my earthly path.
So be with me!
I'm lonely as gas
kitchen stove burners.
I may be a razor, perhaps a knife -
I cut it into small pieces
chest straps
belts that you can't breathe in,
do not shout after the one flying in the heat:
“So be with me!”
I'm lonely as a park
where winter lurks.
I am a rusty kettle with a whistle,
in which they let off steam.
I am an absolute steelmaker!
An unquenchable fire in my soul,
He will be yours.
So be with me!
I'm lonely as I am!
I have had a craft since childhood.
My whole family raised
my nature without boundaries.
Accept him, forgive him
you couldn’t - and God is with you,
but take a better look
and be with me!
14.09.1991
(albums “IS IT NOT ME”, “Round the World”)
Over time, the lyrics were changed, as was the title - the song was originally called “Loner Reggae.” Call again and again - to no avail.
Somewhere
(Text – S. Surganova)
Somewhere up there, high
very far,
where the pages of notebooks are empty,
where is the plexus of words,
like green moss
hides frozen memory.
Somewhere out there, in the back streets
poems sung by me,
where I opened the gate for you,
my dreams are magic
and dreams of celebration
will suddenly appear and arise.
Somewhere there is twilight
softly, with imagination,
outlined the shadow of the silhouette for you.
Where did you swing the swing?
like a cradle
mischievous but responsive wind;
take a walk with me
on the chilled leaves
under the November wet decoration,
where solemnly and proudly
sounds "A minor"
unchanging in its constancy.
Somewhere up there, high
very high,
where only the violin and flute sounded,
the bud was opening
from gray petals
and helplessness subsided like a train,
You didn't catch up with me
sometime on the way,
Maybe it was the fog that bothered you?
So let's now
let's take a walk alone
along the alleys of a slightly sad park.
November 1991 (album “SALT”)
Simply - a musical invitation to my birthday.
Sound guitar
(Text – S. Surganova)
Oh, tell me how you loved me.
Embalm my soul, let it be completely
Today it's raining in a lifeless desert
and the yellow moon blooms in the sky.
Sound guitar
like a ringing sound, like a running rumor!
Sound guitar!
I don't have time to sleep now either.
Windows are broken
a gust of wind and verse.
And I'm calm
I feel so calm without you!
Without disturbing the sequence of rituals and suits,
I am in your book, like a class of unprecedented animals,
entered without knocking, fear, salt, soap, litter and things
and quietly left, taking the cave door off its hinges behind her.
I'm a hooligan
The dust of the roads is more important to me than my coat.
I -...don't!
I’m telling you THIS, not THAT.
They ruined my youth
three strong passions, three pillars,
but I loved everyone at once,
without feeling any shame.
Sound guitar...
Oh tell me about South Korea
about Sakhalin, about dear Magadan,
about where we were not given route lines
and where now you and I will never be together.
I am a scoundrel.
I am no good either THERE or HERE.
I'm a slob
and my attic is in chaos.
I put words to music,
and who asks me about this?
Like snow and rain, it takes me away
indescribable melancholy...
Sound guitar!
28.12.1991
(album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
The influence of Russian chanson could not be avoided here...
As for geographical references, South Korea “lit up” in the song thanks to my favorite friends - Marina Chen and Valery Thay. And with Magadan, I think everything is clear.
(Text – S. Surganova)
you hear, it hurts me with you,
And, leaving the globe,
I'm setting off on a new journey
and you still follow me,
as before, pain...
And I don’t have the strength to fly with you
me, pain...
Sadness hangs over me like a castle.
I open the doors to sleep
and behind the doors is neither hell nor heaven,
but only pain...
It hurts to look into closed eyes
and see my orphaned home.
And the tears in them are like candle wax.
The fire will melt the forms of the day.
Will leave an echo in the night
my tears, my pain...
your absence in the spring,
I take a year for five.
I hear from night to dawn
that they left me...
04/18/1992 (albums “IS IT NOT ME”, “LIVE”)
Another song dedicated to my grandmother, and the first radio-rotational song. She was taken to Nashe Radio - despite the fact that “It Hurts” did not quite fit into the format. However, because of this “otherness” she was probably noticed... When I first performed this song to S.G., tears flowed down her cheeks. A very bright, poignant, unforgettable moment. And everyone thought about their own...
In this city of lanterns
(Text - M. Chen)
In this city of lanterns,
fleeting cold meetings
take me, warm me up,
you can save me.
It's dark in this city,
and no one will understand me,
when your lips are dumb
my heart will suddenly burn.
There is silence in this city
and old houses grinning.
Someone else needs me
Someone was looking for me yesterday.
In this city I left
my last empty tram.
Among the overgrown damp graves
find out my new shelter...
1992 (album “A DROP OF TAR IN A BARREL OF HONEY”)
This text simply fascinated me. It is very contrasting: at first there is light and warmth, then cold, emptiness, darkness. This duality is very catchy. Although, of course, love won, as always :).
Good evening
(Text – S. Surganova)
Good evening,
it's so strange to me
the fact that you came to my house -
restless, desired,
gray-eyed and crazy.
I forgot everything that happened.
I opened the door wide
and let in Good Evening
on an unrumpled bed.
Welcome guest,
taking off my shoes,
throwing off the dusty coat,
whispered: “Light the candles,
We haven't seen each other for a long time.
Let the foxtrot and tango sound.
Let everything be like in a dream.
Don't be angry, friend, it took so long
I was getting to you."
Good evening,
you know
how it hurts more when apart.
For you - like pages,
and not in depth, but only in passing
without offense or attraction.
How brand new it had to be
chocolate color dress
and “night” style.
My welcome and dear guest,
don't be sad, but sing me the blues.
And fill it with sound
everything unsaid out loud.
Smile at me goodbye.
I know the path will be difficult.
Fly away, but if you can,
come back sometime.
September 1992 (album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
She loved the blues very much...
(Text – S. Surganova)
What drives you from city to city?
Who is calling you to the heavenly distance?
Songbird grains from palms
Since childhood, alas, we are not accustomed to take.
There is a blizzard outside the windows, rain is not a barrier.
There is strength in the wings - you can’t fall asleep again.
Neither praise nor reward attracts you,
Songbirds, what drives you on your way?
In the attic dust of abandoned castles
more comfortable than in the gold of caged knitting needles.
And if space is no less than the sky.
And if freedom is not for two.
What drives you from city to city:
the enthusiasm of a bright, but still crowd?
Nations? Outfits? Customs? Talking?
Impermanence? And just cats?
So fly away into the night accord
curtained windows and lanterns,
into the luxury of deserted and washed streets,
in the rigor of channels and squares.
Songbirds, so joyfully painful
I can watch your free flight.
But this flight is so similar to wandering
from “I believe” to “I don’t believe” and vice versa.
What is driving you, what?
16.11.1992
(albums “LIVE”, “ROUND THE WORLD”)
In a sky full of stars
(Text – S. Surganova)
In the sky full of love - there are no your eyes...
We're all bought for a sparkling penny
fake smiles, meaningless phrases.
In a sky full of stars - your name.
In a world full of love, there is no you.
Returning to my empty home,
you bring only a trace of rain in your palms.
Behind you there is fatigue and pain,
Just don’t take all this with you.
On the road that I invite you to,
we will take ten strings and four wings.
Our path will lie in a sky full of stars.
In a world full of love we can close
a quartet of our wise and gentle hands,
giving oblivion to all the worries of separation.
Still the same tone and the same words,
but with greater love I tell you:
“Let my dominant be heard
through the noise of airplanes and melting snow!
18.02.1992
(album “LIVE”)
Somewhere between the poems of Tatyana Khmelnik and Alla Pugacheva’s song “Tell me, birds...”. Such latitude, such flight...
It's so awkward
(Text – S. Surganova)
I'm not asking you for anything.
Only, if possible, a little
sit quietly next to me.
Without the prefix “carefully”
and with the word “no” to you
I'm wandering around like a frozen wolf cub
in the malachite green of the day.
What a pity that there is no demand in life
from those who can fly.
What a pity there is no request
for those who know how to wait.
The rhythm of the pulsation is right
say there is no change.
But hardly through the keyhole
you will see the whole world as it is.
And the difficulty is not that you were.
And the whole difficulty is that you are,
my madness and powerlessness -
next to those to whom I will sing
all my life, and maybe more.
And if my friend suddenly asks:
“Baby, were you happy?”
I will answer: “Perhaps
and more often than hundreds around.”
I sometimes tell myself:
“You shouldn’t intrude so often into someone else’s
consciousness with the word “I love you!”
15.05.1992
(album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
There are the same sorrows in the heart as in the enlightened rain,
reconciled sorrow for an unrealized hour.
For me, a constellation appears in the sky,
but my heart prevents me from contemplating this happiness.
Song – July 1992 (albums “CHOPIN’S BELOVED”, “ROUND THE WORLD”)
At one time I was very interested in the work of the Nautilus Pompilius group. When this text caught my eye - a poem by Lorca in a wonderful translation by Valentin Parnach - Butusov himself spoke and sang within me!
For each other
(Text – S. Surganova)
We became for each other
a little more than strangers...
When I'm alone with you
bridges carried us
we heard each other
a little more than deaf,
sometimes not seeing underneath
flight altitude.
We became without each other
a little more than family...
The ambiguity of speech now
will not bring us harm.
No paradoxes of days,
not the imprints of sorrows,
and the gold of silence
autumn brought us.
We have become apart
hear a little more songs,
the meaning of the phrases
We won’t understand it at all.
Should we not meet?
even if by accident,
in some trolleybus,
going east?
We started talking about each other
think lightly and gently...
All grievances have dissipated,
just like dreams.
We became for each other
a little more than strangers
but who told you what it is
reason for hostility?
01/09/1992 (Albums “IS IT NOT ME”, “LIVE”)
I am for any emotional vicissitudes between people to end, if not in bed, then in strong long-term friendship.
Prayer to the easel
(Text – S. Surganova with the participation of A. Balgozina)
Neither alive nor dead...
Life is leaving me.
What will I leave, what will I erase -
I'll just ask you one thing:
sometimes in a distant dream
remember me.
This is fatigue, like old age,
touching it, it burned me.
Either wisdom or pity
wrapped around my throat.
Not as a reproach, but for my peace
You went home.
I won't leave and I won't stay.
I'll just be next to you.
Not in hope and not in burden
someone issued a decree:
to be faceless and dumb -
Here is my portrait for you.
If only paint, yes to the palette,
and the easel, and to the canvas -
the world would never tire of marveling
on girlish beauty.
But the firmament of the earth has cooled,
and they took me there.
She's alive, not dead.
Life is still right.
What will I leave, what will I erase -
Now I’ll sing to you like this:
“Both in dreams and in reality,
I live only by you.”
06.21.1992 (album “CHOPIN’S BELOVED”)
I'll leave just as quietly
(Text - M. Chen)
I'll leave just as quietly
as I once came, -
no sobs, no screams,
not a flap of a wing.
Like snow on your eyelashes
dried salt,
and hides in my soul
unbearable pain.
I'll take it and forget it
your lips silence.
I just won't cry -
because now there is no need.
I won't look
the warmth of your hands,
I can understand
the inevitability of separation.
You have to leave proudly -
in gilded victories,
to leave for a long time
there is a trace in your memory.
I'll remain faceless
what was - was not.
I'll leave just as quietly
as I once came...
(Text – S. Surganova)
Percentage of crazy people in our apartment
will increase if you don't come.
And spring is not spring if you have forgotten
your rainy city, this garden and home.
In a communal apartment - Sodom and Gomorrah:
cats give birth, children scream,
and the neighbors' monsters rattle the dishes -
smoke, smoke and forge happiness.
Spring, spring is coming!
Make way for spring!
Spring, spring is coming!
Make way for spring!
But I understand that this is all for you
I've been tired of it for a long time, and more than living.
That there is no emptiness - there is a lack of faith,
that there is no dislike - there is the presence of lies.
And March with its indiscriminate nonsense
will lay the bodies of the young in its soil,
so much so that the resuscitator couldn’t
surpass yourself in your art.
Spring, spring is coming!
Make way for spring!
Spring, spring is coming!
Make way for spring!
So what if the ties are broken?
So what if the wires are silent?
So what if all the songs are similar?
one on top of the other, and that one on you?
My Underworld seems to be crowded,
but it’s too late to stitch the wound edge to edge,
and I share all occasions
what happened before and after you!
Spring, spring is coming!
Make way for spring!
Spring, spring is coming!
Make way for spring!
March 1993
(albums “CHOPIN’S BELOVED”, “ROUND THE WORLD”)
“Spring” is a complex conglomerate of feelings, destinies, and memories.
Here's one of them. I was in my 2nd or 3rd year when a rumor spread throughout the institute: a student had died. He was attacked, beaten, hospitalized, still alive. His father worked in that same hospital as a resuscitator. His son was admitted to his department and died. In my father's arms...
Communal rock and roll
(Text – S. Surganova)
Take her in your hands
lock the door.
She will push the walls apart
and will blow off the ceiling.
Carefully,
perhaps the building is old,
and also neighbors
The kennel is full.
Take nine moons
on the seventh turn,
and you will become glass
in her stained glass window.
Carefully,
perhaps the tapestry is still intact.
Wash the color from the canvas
and enter into his captivity.
Play a couple of notes
on sawn strings.
Who was - is now
rests in urns.
Carefully,
maybe the string will break soon...
Who will be last
drink with her to the bottom?
There's a source in the kitchen
winter and sausages,
my tenant lives -
dumb refrigerator.
Take the battery
hide it under your hem.
We're dancing in the kitchen
rock-n-roll with you.
November 1993 (album “TIME TESTED”, part 1, “Perpetual Motion”)
A communal apartment is a controversial phenomenon. It has both pros and cons, but one thing is for sure: it is extremely difficult to go unnoticed there when you want... a sea of love :).
(Text – S. Surganova)
I have seen such free and pure ones.
I've seen people like this who are headed to heaven.
I've seen such puzzled-flexible ones.
I also know those who are always pushing themselves over the edge.
I know people who walk on rooftops.
There were also those who were sitting at home.
I'm aware that they can't hear me here again.
Yes, I'm not one of those who believe their ears.
Delay in transit for more than half a century...
Those who could rested, those who wanted were late.
I have seen stupid people and apostates from the faith.
I also know those for whom everything is half and half.
I looked a lot, but saw little.
I often drowned in too bright rays.
You've accomplished a lot, yes, but still listen,
It's not about the wings, it's about the roots.
But you are a cat that walks on its own.
You are a cat that walks on its own.
An inversion of feelings, like a change of beds,
familiar to residents of these latitudes.
There is consistency in price, but more -
loss and gossip a fountain spouting from the mouth.
I know how to live with fiat coin.
I saw instincts hateful power.
I, too, am one of those crazy poets,
who could so easily fall into error.
Yes, you are a cat that walks on its own.
You are a cat that walks on its own.
June 1993
E.K. gave me a lot of emotions, and this song is definitely her influence. At this point I was a little angry with her—jealous, I guess.
The sun has gone out, or Magadan
(Text – S. Surganova)
The sun went out and the clouds rolled in
tons of rain on the ground.
A couple of hours and an iron bird
will kidnap you again.
How long will your distance last?
How many years will it last?
Living in anticipation of life is possible
It's worse when she's not there.
She'll be there
where summer fades into autumn.
She'll be there
where they drink wine at night.
She'll be there
where the asphalt misses the wheels.
She will be with those
who was far from her.
You're leaving my city and tomorrow
the path will become meaningless.
In the rhythms of the rain of the passing summer
you leave me to drown.
Where they grow old without being born yet,
where the jester fancies himself a king;
It's better to be a fish
capable of launching
in the sea behind the ship.
She will be there...
The night marked the way to salvation
the song of the tram rails.
All is decided. And now, like a prayer, -
departure date, flight.
One of my old acquaintances will tell me:
“Listen, you’re out of your mind!”
I do not care. I'm tired of sending letters.
I'm leaving to see you.
We will be there...
November 1993
My second Magadan - D.A. I think it was not in vain that I was born into the world - it had to be experienced, lived, known.
With her arrival in my life, a lot has changed. However, why use words now? Everything that could be said has already been said, everything that could be done has been done. I'll keep it short - THANK YOU.
February wind
(Text – S. Surganova)
The February wind is knocking on your house,
in the house where we were alone;
over a cup of cocoa, in the smoke of cigarettes,
with the eternal question: yes or no?
So strangely the day has been pulled into corners
you and him, her and me.
And the night hastily mixed the deck,
probably angry at the bad weather.
The script has been written and the roles have been cast.
And seemingly not apart, and seemingly free:
she's somewhere out there, hugging a guitar,
and he is not alone: sometimes sober, sometimes drunk.
And the city that remembered all their routes,
lit the lanterns and dried up the puddles,
put on a black tailcoat and stars to boot,
to shine and for good luck.
But something that was stronger than the lanterns
the plans of architects and other things,
erected a wall, spent energy,
and the whole became like two halves.
The February wind knocked on your house,
in the house where we stayed alone.
Evening on the bed. Breathing in the palm of your hand.
Next to you, you forget about pain.
And you, leaning your chin to your forearm,
you look at the candles in fascination.
The night fell silent in the arms of the moon,
and everyone watched their dreams about their own...
25.01.1993
(albums “IS IT NOT ME”, “Round the World”)
N.K. is my classmate, an amazing friend, a doctor by vocation. The song is for her and about her.
I asked
(Text - M. Chen)
I asked you to pick me up
to break away from the sinful earth.
You didn’t dare, my dear, to refuse,
You risked getting a hernia!
And at that moment you yourself were not happy,
that for some reason you suddenly contacted me,
he lifted me up, stood and strained,
After all, I weigh almost sixty.
In anticipation of a difficult end
I’m ready to cry so timidly,
you lowered my body to the ground
I'll find the right trace in the snow.
On the slope of the Milky Way
I will be able to find you
then I can hug you
and whisper: “Well, how long can you wait?”
I don’t recognize my own hands!
I draw stars instead of letters.
But he asks for a leaf of crucifixion of words,
and instead of dots there are blots of dreams.
And I cross out the days
but they repeat...
All over again
I want to start today...
January 1993
I have one friend who loved to hum the chorus of this song in the Georgian style. She felt my sympathy for this nation...
Premonition C
(Text – S. Surganova)
A premonition of death, oddly enough,
arose in my subcortex; constantly
grows silently in the head of the accursed.
I'm waiting for your death, but how strange it is.
Scattered across bars, across notes, across the fretboard
life and death cool duel.
Memory casts are just a sign of death.
Haven't you played the role of the root cause?
I love you, do you hear!
I love you, see!
I love you, you know
how my home yearns.
I want you, do you hear?
see on the roof
and have time to shout to you:
“Let’s live some more!”
And my hands are shaking while dialing your number.
The numbers on the disk – and they argue with me.
And there would be at least a reason for such a quarrel,
but my hands are shaking while dialing your number.
Curse of oblivion -
Isn't it too late?
To see clearly and sleep through -
not that difficult.
What's easier? - question -
I can't comprehend it:
I love you, do you hear!..
Balance has fallen on the scales!
Rejoice, philosopher! Rejoice, constellations!
Events called “life” have happened,
and after them - the “death” of the page.
And I am like a weak snail:
I hide behind rhymes, I run behind smiles.
What's easier? - question -
I can't comprehend it:
die yourself or watch them die?!
I love you, do you hear!..
26.02.1993
(albums “IS IT NOT ME”, “LIVE”, “ROUND THE WORLD”)
What is S.? Maybe Svetlana, maybe passion, or maybe sex. The word “death” in the title is too harsh and straightforward, immediately depriving it of illusions and associations.
I didn’t want this, because the text is much broader.
(Text – S. Surganova)
I don't know how your face will change
when you turn your back on me.
Give me the desire to just be next to you.
And when on your tanned shoulders
Spring will drop its wet dreams,
will burst into my inconsolable speeches
and the word will breathe out -
You're so far away there's not enough room to take off
and there is a place for foreign ships to land.
Give me the opportunity
wander through the fields with you.
I don't know which of us closed the last door
and carelessly dropped fresh flowers on the floor,
but in my cage the beast has been raging for a long time
because you don't see
the way these days are blindly hitting the stones
your prejudices - you leave them to others.
All I can wish for is for us to remain alone.
And then, crossing out all the unnecessary sounds,
you can touch my silence.
And only the night can break it
in one word
1993 (albums “A DROP OF TAR IN A BARREL OF HONEY”, “ALIVE”, “ROUND THE WORLD”)
A.Kh., my classmate. I stand, look after her and think: was she happy about our meeting, was she sincere, what is she thinking about now? After all, it often happens: turning his back, a person “exhales”, takes off the mask of friendliness from his face and becomes no longer the same as a minute ago, when he looked into your eyes... My opinion
(Text – S. Surganova)
My look became akin
with the smoothness of glass,
behind which is winter
from the January clouds
crumbles white sand.
Anxiety weighs on my temple.
How much smoke has gone
from under the exhalations of days,
how I want to go to her...
And who would give me the answer,
how long is the wall
from her to me.
Every stroke has been studied for a long time,
Every rustle has long been studied.
My invisible old man
dries tears like gunpowder.
Replacing the window with the ceiling,
the pupil is stuck on the web.
Don't you see how to the bottom
comes my: “No, he won’t leave.”
Number on the dial
the arrows were captured -
this is the limit.
The day has turned to the east
at the start and went down.
I'd like to take a nap for an hour.
But thoughts and hearing
forgot about the dream -
waiting in unison.
Blind window
in my muteness
talks about you.
Every stroke has been studied for a long time,
Every rustle has long been studied.
My invisible old man
dries tears like gunpowder.
Replacing the window with the ceiling,
the pupil is stuck on the web.
Don't you see how to the bottom
mine goes: “No, he won’t leave...”
1994 (albums “IS IT NOT ME”, “ALIVE”, “ROUND THE WORLD”)
Sometimes the anticipation is so strong that you start counting the seconds out loud, and your eyes get stuck at one unremarkable point. You are cynically killing time within yourself.
Seven cities
(Text – S. Surganova)
I want to leave here as quickly as possible.
You will forget me,
as soon as you turn off the light.
Bury peace in lilac thoughts
and return to the litter
their new victories.
I want to quickly lock it up
Notes
In the version performed by Svetlana Surganova, the word “spin” is used, in the original text by Marta Vernadskaya – “spin”.
End of free trial.
The love story of Surganova and Arbenina has haunted all fans of the Night Snipers group for many years. Svetlana’s sudden departure from the team and outright ignoring of her former colleague Diana suggests some mysterious reason for this behavior. What really happened, and is it possible for two talented women to reunite? Let's find out!
Diana Arbenina
The singer’s biography and personal life are replete with blank spots. It is known that the singer was born on July 8, 1974 in Belarus, and lived in the city of Borisov, Minsk region, until she was 3 years old. Then the family moved to Chukotka, from there to Magadan, where the girl graduated from a pedagogical institute. By that time, her parents had been divorced for a long time, Diana lived with her mother.
Later, in 1994, she moved to live in St. Petersburg and transferred to the philological faculty of the state university.
Music was in Diana's life from a young age - she learned to play the guitar. Since 1991 she has performed at school and student events. At the same time, she began to write poetry and successfully set it to music. In 1993, she married a well-known musician in the northern capital. The frontman of the group “Zimovye Zverey” was needed as a spouse only for St. Petersburg registration. They quickly divorced, but Diana decided to keep her husband's surname.
Svetlana Surganova
Singer, violinist, poet - this girl has enough talent for several people. From birth she had to learn what human cruelty is. On November 14, 1968, her mother gave birth to her in Leningrad and immediately abandoned the baby. At the age of three, the girl was adopted by Liya Surganova, a childless woman and a candidate of biological sciences. Having successfully completed school, Svetlana studied at a medical school and a pediatric academy. Was this a tribute to his adoptive mother? Be that as it may, the girl did not work in her specialty. Svetlana Surganova tries not to advertise her biography and personal life. At the age of 27, she learned that she had sigmoid colon cancer. After numerous operations and clinical death She was an ostomy patient for 8 years (1997-2005).
Only music truly captivated and attracted her. While still studying at school, she became the lead singer of the “League” group. The group quickly became popular and won all possible prizes at music competitions in the northern capital. Then there was the group “Something Else” and the joint creative work with Svetlana Golubeva. 44 songs were recorded as a duet with the St. Petersburg poetess. Before her significant meeting with Diana Arbenina, Svetlana Surganova was already known in the city on the Neva, but in 1993 a truly historical event took place in the lives of both girls.
"Night snipers"
The art song festival in St. Petersburg brought together two girls who tried to perform several songs together. Talented and gifted, they should no longer be separated. But Diana drops out of school and goes home to Magadan. A new friend promises to visit her and soon comes to visit. It is not known exactly when the love story of Arbenina and Surganova began, but it is generally accepted that it was at this time that a completely unfriendly relationship arose between them.
For almost a year the girls have been successfully touring Far East, giving concerts in clubs and visiting apartment buildings. Their performances were a great success - at that time women in rock and roll could be counted on the fingers of one hand. Moreover, and quite mysterious. If Svetlana never hid her orientation and actively participated in all actions protesting against the infringement of the rights of sexual minorities, then Diana did not make any statements about this. The girls come up with a name for their group (“Night Snipers”) and return to St. Petersburg.
Success, fame and a lot of music
In the cultural capital, they continue to give performances at various venues, but in addition to this, they are simultaneously writing their first album in the studio. “A drop of tar” instantly pulled them out of the abyss of obscurity. Songs from the album hit the radio, and the country learned about the existence of the group. Real concerts began, which could not only improve their financial situation, but also provide an opportunity to work on their second album.
Between 1999 and 2002. “Night Snipers” release three albums, songs from which enter the music charts and become instant hits. Success, millions of fans and well-deserved fame make the band members rock stars of the first magnitude. The songs “31st Spring”, “You gave me roses”, “Catastrophically”, “Frontier”, “Perfume” are played on all radio stations. The team is invited to such prestigious national concerts as “Invasion”.
At this time, Svetlana Surganova and Diana Arbenina practically do not hide their relationship - they kiss in public and appear together everywhere. Short haircuts, no dresses or makeup - what other evidence is needed to believe in the love story of Arbenina and Surganova? Fans are rejoicing - these are not staged kisses and hugs of young girls under the direction of Two grown women will not invent such an image for themselves.
Gap
In 2002, fans of the group came to the next concert, where they were presented with a fact - Surganova was no longer a member of the group, and now this was Diana’s solo project. The public's indignation led to the audience chanting the violinist's name. Arbenina reacted calmly to this and asked everyone who expressed their dissatisfaction to leave. She did not expand on the reasons for the separation, limiting herself to the fact that it was simply time for each of them to go their own way. Fans could not believe that the love story between Surganova and Arbenina was over.
Scandals, intrigues, investigations
The separation hit both hard - Svetlana disappeared for a while, and Diana was blamed for the collapse of the group. She did not hide the fact that she asked the violinist to leave the group. Much later she revealed some details - it happened in the evening, when the girls were talking in a calm atmosphere. The reason was also revealed - Surganova cheated on her lover, and Diana could not forgive the betrayal. The girls went their separate ways.
Diana has already released 8 albums and taken part in many television projects. Successful collaboration with the Bi-2 group brought her even greater popularity. IN this moment Arbenina is not married, but is raising twins - daughter Marta and son Artem (b. 2010).
Svetlana Surganova's albums ("Strangers as Our Own", "Isn't It Me", "See You Soon", etc. - 9 in total) were no less successful.
She created the group “Surganova and the Orchestra”, with which she continues to tour successfully to this day. 15 years after the breakup, both girls declare that a reunion is possible, which cannot but please fans of their work!
The history of “Surganova and the Orchestra” began 9 years ago, when Svetlana Surganova left the group “Night Snipers”. The history of this book began much earlier - almost simultaneously with how Surganova herself and her love for writing and recording began. Song texts, spontaneous poems and favorite quotes from Svetlana Surganova, framed from frank “marginal notes” and author’s graphics - in the long-awaited “Notebook of Words”!
The book you are holding in your hands contains my “charms”, my sympathies, outbursts and reflections. This is a kind of sensory-emotional autobiography, the costs and delights of Puritan upbringing.
“The Notebook of Words” would never have been born if it weren’t for the people who surround me. They treat what “Surganova and the Orchestra” does with love and some kind of motherly patience that is always missing from me. It is their support that inspires me and helps me move on. “Notebook of Words” is published thanks to and for the sake of my audience. Thank you for life!
Svetlana Surganova
With thanks
Zoya Mikhailovna Surganova, my grandmother, and Leah Davydovna Surganova, my mother, - for the fact that I am Svetlana Surganova
Nastya Badestova, poet, philologist, friend, - for reading, editing and helping me believe that my words are needed in the space
Marina Chen, childhood friend, wonderful poet, godmother of “Notebook”, - for the “shoulder” and the ringing bell of laughter
Kira Levina, “Brodsky in a skirt” and dear friend, - for “I'm losing you” and other equally amazing poems that are yet to become songs
To Peter Malakhovsky, a talented musician and close friend, a switchman on my path, irrevocably shifted my life axis towards music
To my favorite teachers: Natalya Nikolaevna Agafonova and Viktor Aleksandrovich Smirnov - for finding yourself in life, sensory experience and lifelong sadness for the departed
Svetlana Golubeva - for inspiration and inaccessibility
Diana Arbenina - for the elephant
To my "Orchestra" - for professionalism and understanding
To those others who still lives in my heart...
And, of course, to my fans! - for making me believe in myself
How, why and for whom
It all started in 1985. Being an ordinary teenager, I, like many at this age, began to make attempts to comprehend what was happening around me, communicate with the world, understand it and bring something of myself. This is how the first songs and poems appeared, and then a small “samizdat” collection. It had two epigraphs. First: “It’s just a form of communication.” The second is from Richard Bach: “If we are connected spiritually, we must definitely meet. Soul mates are born to live life together.” It is to these souls, the souls of loved ones and loved ones, that I turn now, almost twenty years later. The book you are holding in your hands contains my “charms”, my sympathies, outbursts and reflections.
This book does not claim to have literary, much less any cultural value. That's why it's called the Word Notebook. This is a kind of sensory-emotional autobiography, the costs and delights of Puritan upbringing.
“The Notebook of Words” would never have been born if it weren’t for the people who surround me. They treat what “Surganova and the Orchestra” does with love and some kind of motherly patience and warmth that is always missing from me. It is their support that inspires me and helps me move on. “Notebook of Words” is published thanks to and for the sake of my audience. Thank you for life!
/Svetlana Surganova/
From friends
The book is full of tenderness and air. This is an anamnesis book: Sveta literally shines through it. On these pages are all those “incurable” people who live in it. It is not easy to take out personal, inner “diamonds” from your past and put them on public display, because to some they may seem like cheap pieces of glass. But Sveta took a risk, and this is worthy of respect.
/Nastya Badestova, philologist/
Songs, poems, free verses - all of Sveta's creations are herself. There is no contradiction between the author and the lyrical hero. Everything is honest, everything is true.
/Petr Malakhovsky, musician/
/Kira Levina, poet/
The release of this book is a huge event for me, Svetlana’s relatives and friends, those who love and respect her work, for whom it helps to find themselves and find their path in life. Svetik’s ability to share Light with people, awaken positivity, strengthen fortitude and nobility of soul is endlessly admirable. I am sure that the “Notebook of Words” will give many wonderful moments of contact with the present, fill feelings, thoughts and actions with meaning, and help spread their wings.
/Marina Chen, poet/
Zoya Mikhailovna Surganova, my grandmother, and Liya Davydovna Surganova, my mother, - for the fact that I am Svetlana Surganova
Nastya Badestova, poet, philologist, friend, - for reading, editing and helping me believe that my words are needed in the space
Marina Chen, childhood friend, wonderful poet, godmother of “Notebook”, - for the “shoulder” and the ringing bell of laughter
Kira Levina, “Brodsky in a skirt” and dear friend, - for “I'm losing you” and other equally amazing poems that are yet to become songs
To Peter Malakhovsky, a talented musician and close friend, a switchman on my path, irrevocably shifted my life axis towards music
To my favorite teachers: Natalya Nikolaevna Agafonova and Viktor Aleksandrovich Smirnov - for finding yourself in life, sensory experience and lifelong sadness for the departed
Svetlana Golubeva - for inspiration and inaccessibility
Diana Arbenina - for the elephant
To my "Orchestra" - for professionalism and understanding
To those others who still lives in my heart...
And, of course, to my fans! – for making me believe in myself
How, why and for whom
It all started in 1985. Being an ordinary teenager, I, like many at this age, began to make attempts to comprehend what was happening around me, communicate with the world, understand it and bring something of myself. This is how the first songs and poems appeared, and then a small “samizdat” collection. It had two epigraphs. First: “It’s just a form of communication.” The second is from Richard Bach: “If we are connected spiritually, we must definitely meet. Soul mates are born to live life together.” It is to these souls, the souls of loved ones and loved ones, that I turn now, almost twenty years later. The book you are holding in your hands contains my “charms”, my sympathies, outbursts and reflections.
This book does not claim to have literary, much less any cultural value. That's why it's called the Word Notebook. This is a kind of sensory-emotional autobiography, the costs and delights of Puritan upbringing.
“The Notebook of Words” would never have been born if it weren’t for the people who surround me. They treat what “Surganova and the Orchestra” does with love and some kind of motherly patience and warmth that is always missing from me. It is their support that inspires me and helps me move on. “Notebook of Words” is published thanks to and for the sake of my audience. Thank you for life!
/Svetlana Surganova/
From friends
The book is full of tenderness and air. This is an anamnesis book: Sveta literally shines through it. On these pages are all those “incurable” people who live in it. It’s not easy to take out personal, inner “diamonds” from your past and put them on public display, because to some they may seem like cheap pieces of glass. But Sveta took a risk, and this is worthy of respect.
/Nastya Badestova, philologist/
Songs, poems, free verse – all of Sveta’s creations are herself. There is no contradiction between the author and the lyrical hero. Everything is honest, everything is true.
/Petr Malakhovsky, musician/
/Kira Levina, poet/
The release of this book is a huge event for me, Svetlana’s relatives and friends, those who love and respect her work, for whom it helps to find themselves and find their path in life. Svetik’s ability to share Light with people, awaken positivity, strengthen fortitude and nobility of soul is endlessly admirable. I am sure that the “Notebook of Words” will give many wonderful moments of contact with the present, fill feelings, thoughts and actions with meaning, and help spread their wings.
/Marina Chen, poet/
Preface
Sveta Surganova does not have to solve the problem of how to capture the reader’s attention, how to convince him to buy this book. For many years now, admirers of her talent have been going to her concerts of their own free will and with great pleasure, reading her interviews to find answers to vital questions: how to relate to themselves, people and life. Everyone always needs ideas on the basis of which they can build their own model of the world in which to live.
But there is something else in the story of this book. The one who opened it wants to know even more about Sveta Surganova, as much as possible, wants to guess, reading between the lines, about her secret and her secrecy. The author will not deceive your hopes for sincerity.
The life of Sveta Surganova is like an experiment in self-ignition: creativity is born from a destructive fire. The facts of her biography are collected into a classic myth: a suffering artist sculpts some deep beauty from his torment and genius. But the fact is that Sveta Surganova has long been able to allow herself to go beyond the standards and set her own personal interpretation of herself, without relying on classical myths. She is a troublemaker, a clown, and an ugly girl who upsets the stagnant moss with her insolence, drinks everything that burns, plays pranks, chases skirts, cries, laughs, drinks tea with lemon, keeps a diary, photographs the skin of a tangerine, reads before bed and falls asleep in a ball. She keeps people dear to her in SMS and email, runs away from the past and lives in it. And only those marked by her love are given the right to recognize her in her personal space.
In this book, Surganova allows herself not only to love the reader, but also to trust him. This book is a “point of expansion” in recognizing Sveta. Read chapters linked to the EE coordinate system and find answers to YOUR personal questions.
From these pages, Sveta Surganova will allow you to get acquainted with those officially recognized geniuses who shaped her character, her basic personality. She, without fear of injury, will show you her pain points in the soul. Through poems not set to music, she risks moving into the category of “confessionals.” You will have nudity, and a word frozen in anticipation, and passages, and minuets, and a sweet smiling girl...
Are you waiting, reader? Well, I won’t interfere with your hugs anymore.
/Svetlana Ivannikova, actress/
Song lyrics
The section includes the lyrics of songs performed by the group “Surganova and the Orchestra”. These are both very early works and quite recent. Not all, but most. Mostly these are texts of my own composition, but there are also others that once found a response in my soul. However, sometimes I even forget that it was not me who wrote them - they are so mine and about me.
Current page: 1 (book has 8 pages in total)
Svetlana Surganova
Notebook of words
With thanks
Zoya Mikhailovna Surganova, my grandmother, and Liya Davydovna Surganova, my mother, - for the fact that I am Svetlana Surganova
Nastya Badestova, poet, philologist, friend, - for reading, editing and helping me believe that my words are needed in the space
Marina Chen, childhood friend, wonderful poet, godmother of “Notebook”, - for the “shoulder” and the ringing bell of laughter
Kira Levina, “Brodsky in a skirt” and dear friend, - for “I'm losing you” and other equally amazing poems that are yet to become songs
To Peter Malakhovsky, a talented musician and close friend, a switchman on my path, irrevocably shifted my life axis towards music
To my favorite teachers: Natalya Nikolaevna Agafonova and Viktor Aleksandrovich Smirnov - for finding yourself in life, sensory experience and lifelong sadness for the departed
Svetlana Golubeva - for inspiration and inaccessibility
Diana Arbenina - for the elephant
To my "Orchestra" - for professionalism and understanding
To those others who still lives in my heart...
And, of course, to my fans! – for making me believe in myself
How, why and for whom
It all started in 1985. Being an ordinary teenager, I, like many at this age, began to make attempts to comprehend what was happening around me, communicate with the world, understand it and bring something of myself. This is how the first songs and poems appeared, and then a small “samizdat” collection. It had two epigraphs. First: “It’s just a form of communication.” The second is from Richard Bach: “If we are connected spiritually, we must definitely meet. Soul mates are born to live life together.” It is to these souls, the souls of loved ones and loved ones, that I turn now, almost twenty years later. The book you are holding in your hands contains my “charms”, my sympathies, outbursts and reflections.
This book does not claim to have literary, much less any cultural value. That's why it's called the Word Notebook. This is a kind of sensory-emotional autobiography, the costs and delights of Puritan upbringing.
“The Notebook of Words” would never have been born if it weren’t for the people who surround me. They treat what “Surganova and the Orchestra” does with love and some kind of motherly patience and warmth that is always missing from me. It is their support that inspires me and helps me move on. “Notebook of Words” is published thanks to and for the sake of my audience. Thank you for life!
/Svetlana Surganova/
From friends
The book is full of tenderness and air. This is an anamnesis book: Sveta literally shines through it. On these pages are all those “incurable” people who live in it. It’s not easy to take out personal, inner “diamonds” from your past and put them on public display, because to some they may seem like cheap pieces of glass. But Sveta took a risk, and this is worthy of respect.
/Nastya Badestova, philologist/
Songs, poems, free verse – all of Sveta’s creations are herself. There is no contradiction between the author and the lyrical hero. Everything is honest, everything is true.
/Petr Malakhovsky, musician/
/Kira Levina, poet/
The release of this book is a huge event for me, Svetlana’s relatives and friends, those who love and respect her work, for whom it helps to find themselves and find their path in life. Svetik’s ability to share Light with people, awaken positivity, strengthen fortitude and nobility of soul is endlessly admirable. I am sure that the “Notebook of Words” will give many wonderful moments of contact with the present, fill feelings, thoughts and actions with meaning, and help spread their wings.
/Marina Chen, poet/
Preface
Sveta Surganova does not have to solve the problem of how to capture the reader’s attention, how to convince him to buy this book. For many years now, admirers of her talent have been going to her concerts of their own free will and with great pleasure, reading her interviews to find answers to vital questions: how to relate to themselves, people and life. Everyone always needs ideas on the basis of which they can build their own model of the world in which to live.
But there is something else in the story of this book. The one who opened it wants to know even more about Sveta Surganova, as much as possible, wants to guess, reading between the lines, about her secret and her secrecy. The author will not deceive your hopes for sincerity.
The life of Sveta Surganova is like an experiment in self-ignition: creativity is born from a destructive fire. The facts of her biography are collected into a classic myth: a suffering artist sculpts some deep beauty from his torment and genius. But the fact is that Sveta Surganova has long been able to allow herself to go beyond the standards and set her own personal interpretation of herself, without relying on classical myths. She is a troublemaker, a clown, and an ugly girl who upsets the stagnant moss with her insolence, drinks everything that burns, plays pranks, chases skirts, cries, laughs, drinks tea with lemon, keeps a diary, photographs the skin of a tangerine, reads before bed and falls asleep in a ball. She keeps people dear to her in SMS and email, runs away from the past and lives in it. And only those marked by her love are given the right to recognize her in her personal space.
In this book, Surganova allows herself not only to love the reader, but also to trust him. This book is a “point of expansion” in recognizing Sveta. Read chapters linked to the EE coordinate system and find answers to YOUR personal questions.
From these pages, Sveta Surganova will allow you to get acquainted with those officially recognized geniuses who shaped her character, her basic personality. She, without fear of injury, will show you her pain points in the soul. Through poems not set to music, she risks moving into the category of “confessionals.” You will have nudity, and a word frozen in anticipation, and passages, and minuets, and a sweet smiling girl...
Are you waiting, reader? Well, I won’t interfere with your hugs anymore.
/Svetlana Ivannikova, actress/
Song lyrics
The section includes the lyrics of songs performed by the group “Surganova and the Orchestra”. These are both very early works and quite recent. Not all, but most 1
For reasons beyond the control of the author, the book does not include the lyrics of the songs: “Dear Traveler,” “Flowers and Stars,” “Grey-haired Angel,” “Night.”
Mostly these are texts of my own composition, but there are also others that once found a response in my soul. However, sometimes I even forget that it was not me who wrote them - they are so mine and about me.
My songs make me happy: the birth of each of them is like the birth of a long-awaited child. Only the timing is different. Sometimes songs take years to mature. Take, for example, “Isn’t It Me” based on the verses of Joseph Brodsky: almost 10 years passed from the moment the melodic idea arose to the last arrangement touch. Why so much? I’m probably too responsible about “spitting into eternity.”
People often ask me: what style do you play? I don't have an answer to this question. And, it seems to me, this is our main advantage - that we are not like anyone else. If someone really needs a definition, let it sound like this: “beautiful music.” Or so – “an original musical and poetic phenomenon, flavored with drive and lively emotions.” None of this really matters. The important thing is that this music, judging by letters from fans, helps people live. This justifies me and what I do.
In my creativity, I, like many, try to solve for myself the fundamental questions of existence. I talk, sing, shout about it. The result is a burning mixture of depression and catharsis. When music brings tears, when it takes your breath away, when your heart begins to beat wildly, it means that life is changing for the better. Everything says that you are truly alive! In my opinion, this is precisely the main task of any creativity - to excite human souls.
/Svetlana Surganova/
Rain
(Text – S. Surganova)
We're having bad weather again.
and it has been drizzling since morning.
It drips, and every drop of rain
remains in my heart.Oh, how I would like for a while
I need to stop this rain
dispel the gray clouds,
so that the sky becomes blue.And the rain - drip, drip, drip,
drip, drip, drip -
sheds her tears.
Drip, drip, drip,
drip, drip, drip -
We cannot live without sadness.All roads are blurred for us again,
You and I cannot avoid separation.
How bad it is that the rain has been crying for so long;
I'm so sad and have no one to tell.And life is such a thing:
sometimes sunny, sometimes cloudy and raining,
quarrels, meetings, partings,
sadness, hope and love.And the rain drips, drips, drips...
June 1984
* * *
I was 14, he was 41. His name was Viktor Aleksandrovich Smirnov. Funny, wildly talented, complex, interesting person. I fell in love. This was one of my first fascinations with men. The strongest, and one of the few. He worked as a table tennis coach at the Central Park of Culture and Culture. I studied in his group and loved every minute I spent next to him. When it rained, classes were canceled. I was worried, sad, angry and somehow – in an impulse – I wrote this song.
About the rain-separator.
I need you
(Text – V. Smirnov)
I need you like the sky is a star,
like the moisture of the earth to a plant.
I'm not afraid of any trouble with you -
I know this for sure.
Young spring is you,
voices of early birds at dawn
and big earthly flowers - it’s you
on a beautiful planet.Your heart burns like the sun,
and the eyes of the dark night are blacker,
and I can’t compare you with anyone,
You won't find anything nicer in the whole world.Evil night, no blizzard, no blizzard
will not cover your tall image,
no blue snow peaks,
and no rivers with cool sources.Take my heart, take it!
Place it in your palms and listen.
All day long you stand in front of me
and disturb the foggy soul.If there is someone else in your heart, and not me -
I will get through this storm.
Even if you don't love me
I still wish you happiness.
09.07.1984
* * *
When bad weather did not interfere with V.A.S. and me, I tried by hook or by crook to prolong the moment of our communication. After class, I walked him almost to the door. Once, on the way home, on the tram, I plucked up the courage and told him that I wanted to write a song based on his poems (I knew that he was composing). And he, right in my notebook, wrote down this very text with his own hand - “I need you.” Of course, fantasies immediately played out in my head: it seemed to me that this was a hint, that the text was addressed to me, that it was me that he needed... Oh, naivety!
Twenty two hours of separation
(Text – S. Surganova)
Twenty two hours of separation -
for me years.
And the trains carry away
us in different cities.
I'm leaving to come back again,
overcome the pain of loss.
I'm leaving, but with every step
I rush to you through the night.Eternal road, timid tear
you and I are connected forever.
Honey, you are a fairy; lady Destiny,
Something is kind these days, not as always.If only we could walk side by side like this,
bread, sadness divided into two,
everything that was and everything that will be,
I'll give it to you.
But sometimes it feels strange to me
that life passes recklessly,
that leaving a mark is so difficult
on earth and in the soul.Year after year I rush in a hurry
for your dream.
I still want to catch the train,
that he left a long time ago.
What has passed cannot be undone,
what will come cannot be avoided.
Only life parallels
They will tell me everything again:eternal road, timid tear,
pain, sadness, separation and dreams,
the glorious chime of my spring days,
song of a lullaby of coastal waves.If only we could walk side by side...
* * *
The song is addressed to O.I. She wore a hat and leather pants and, according to her own words, knew karate techniques. So, walking with her through the city at night, I felt completely safe...
Such a girl could not help but charm me - so much so that separation from her, even at 10 p.m., always became an extremely serious test for me.
Pre-war waltz
(Text – S. Surganova)
White seagulls are circling, circling
over mirror water.
You and I are dancing a waltz,
Farewell school waltz.
You and I are dancing a waltz -
pre-war waltz.And those boys and girls
that they then went into battle,
and so that we are with you now
could dance.We remember you! Farewell Waltz
we store it carefully.
We remember youth and love
soldier of the forties.And we hear the echo of that war
in the sounds of a metronome,
in the quiet crying of mothers,
in the sound of the wind in the field.And maybe in a hundred years
we will remember
how the battles went, how the soldier fell,
and that farewell waltz.
February 1985
* * *
“Pre-War Waltz” was written during my school years, for an evening in honor of Victory Day. Despite the fact that there was a certain “installation”, everything was sincere. The theme of war has worried me since childhood.
Not book characters, but real people - strong, courageous, noble. I admire them.
And all the time I ask myself the question: if I were in their place, could I live this time with the same dignity, without losing my mind, work, and not rob, live, and not kill?
Just remain human...
Music
(Text – S. Surganova)
If you ask me
who do I love in the world,
I will answer without delay, without hiding,
what in the world is for me
there is one love - a dream,
it `s music.Music, music,
you are eternal, like the Milky Way,
my music.
Live in your heart
call for you,
The favorite music!Call your sisters and brothers
for a sacred battle, a battle of love.
If only people would forget death and evil...
Just help me with this
erase enmity and hatred,
Sow hope and goodness in people's hearts.Music, music...
When darkness lurks in the soul
and my heart is filled with pain and fear,
when both friend and enemy are on the same shore,
I'll fall there again
where is the sea of feelings, love, kindness,
and I will entrust my life to the song forever.Music, music...
(album “Round the World”)
* * *
“There is one love - a dream, this is music...” And so it happened. True, “one” does not mean the only one. Rather, one of...
Talk
(Text – S. Surganova)
- Is it still spring outside?
“No,” he said, “autumn.”
writes sonatas from the rain,
everyone is worried about you.
Now the old lady has no time to sleep -
your every moment prophesies,
the day hurries, followed by the years -
everyone is worried about you...– What about friends, are they faithful?
- Faithful. While we're alive
in your deeds, in your dreams -
there is no reason for sadness.
And you live, don’t expect rewards -
there everyone will be rewarded for everything.
And who was right and who was wrong -
Let's not figure it out.- Is everything allowed here?
and has it been decided at all?
– We live, as of old, in someone else’s mind:
not “before”, rather, but “after”.
The main thing for us is that the story
didn't make us bored.
Neither the devil nor God dictates to us,
and there is no science for us.- Again you are gloomy, again you are angry!
Looks like the rains are bad
play a detrimental role
in my fate-misfortune.
– Resentment, quarrels, swarm of gossip -
That is not your salvation!
You was,
you are
and you will be mine
without further ado!
* * *
And again, everything is about him... Despite the strength of my feelings for him, they never received real embodiment.
Which is probably for the best.
And my daughter
(Text – V. Smirnov)
And my daughter is afraid of the dark.
But I love morning dew
and quiet evening hours,
and quiet evening hours.Oh, sunny bright paths...
And yet sometimes darkness is closer.
I turn on the light and I don’t see anything,
and turn it off - Universe, shine!
And when I turn it off - Universe, shine!How the stars burn brightly with mystery,
how the dusk of the sky is menacing and serious.
Like a madman through the tops of the pines,
I go where my eyes look,
I go where my eyes look.And my daughter is afraid of the dark.
I’m afraid of her myself, I’ve been an adult for a long time.
But I love morning dew
and quiet evening hours,
and quiet evening hours.
August 1986
(album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
About everything that has been lived
(Text – S. Surganova)
And something has been lived, and something has been understood
and it was proven to me contrary to reason.
And what is forgotten will not come true;
and it’s time for me to sum up my results,
and it’s time for me to sum up my results.And everything that has been lived is not dusted,
and everything is fresh and new, as if for the first time.
the years are rushing into the distance,
like horses at a distance
Yes, only years, years, years, years, years,
the years are rushing into the distance,
like horses at a distance
they rush off to the cherished finish line.What has been lived and what has been understood?
What truths did you discover?
And there are thousands of rules, and many truths,
and yet confession is the first star.
And yet confession is the first star.
I want to hear that story from many people.
people are distrustful
and will instantly turn away again.
Yes, only people, people, people, people,
people are distrustful
like you call a bird, it will fly
and will instantly turn away again.After all, something has been lived, something has been understood.
Now I can save you from mistakes.
All of you, who are in memory and from time immemorial -
I want to hug you all and not spare my heart.
I want to hug you all and not spare my heart.About everything that has been lived and everything that has been understood,
I want to tell you in songs and poems.
the rhymes still don't work,
just like life, not everything is poetry,
Yes, only rhymes, rhymes, rhymes, rhymes,
the rhymes still don't work,
just like life, not everything is poetry,
and it happens that prose gives way.
26.07.1986
* * *
I've always been annoyed when people are fake. I had and still have a thirst for the sincere, sincere, trusting, and I encourage everyone around me to do this...
Time
(Text – S. Surganova)
Time,
I'm singing about you again
a song that I have kept in my soul since spring.
No no,
not about autumn rain and darkness -
about eternal youth,
immeasurable loyalty
about bright joy
selfless friends,
about your land.Time -
you are a connoisseur of all worlds,
look into us
from the heights of hoary centuries.
No,
I won't ask for peace.
Just give me strength
to enter a happy age,
Don’t let your heart go out without fire.Seven notes -
it's not so little -
we will also write “Campanella”.
Hundreds of stanzas
waiting for great talents
a star will fall for poets.Spin, young planet,
in a whirlwind of a cheerful good dance,
pick up this song and join us
oh about peaceful skies and happiness!Life,
you are like spring water, -
rushing
from origins to nowhere.
In a moment, in an hour,
when I leave for another world,
I want to leave the earth
to friends - flowers and songs,
to enemies - all that
what I understood about the past.
20.03.1986
(album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
* * *
In the mid-80s, the Komsomol was still strong, and while I was in my first year at medical school, I actively took part in this “movement.”
Hence the patriotic pathos that fills the song “Time”.
Lyrical geopolitical
(Text – S. Surganova)
Whoever baptized our world is wrong
immortal and reliable.
Yes, it is big, but only in breadth,
But in essence, it is insignificant.
He is fragile, like autumn ice,
he exists while he still lives,
but now it’s going nowhere,
like dew falling from the leaves.Adherents of the theory of English pop
They tear the bottomless world to shreds, like the peel of an orange.
Those sermons of Malthus blinded their eyes,
But a blind man does not know where his violence leads.Whether you are a violinist or an extra,
You are first a doctor - and that is your duty,
so that our wonderful world can be healed
from star wars fever!Just remember one thing:
that the world is beautiful in rain and snow,
that a person needs a home,
The universe needs a person.
The universe needs a person!
05.12.1986
* * *
Another song born in the unifying euphoria of the Soviet years, in the feeling that you are able to change this world for the better. Naive in many ways, but absolutely kind. Perhaps now it is no longer so in tune with reality, but despite this, the public asks for it.
I don't keep you in my thoughts
(Text – V. Smirnov)
I don't keep you in my thoughts.
I live by myself.
Wherever I want, I go again,
I'm not going with someone else.I don't keep you in my thoughts,
and the heart is at peace again.
I value personal freedom,
I can't be with someone else.I don't keep you in my thoughts.
A new world opened up to me.
I don’t find any joy in it
and I won’t find it with another.I don’t keep you in my thoughts...
(album “TIME TESTED”, part 1 “Perpetual Motion”)
Simply one of my favorite songs...
And on your cheek yesterday...
(Text – S. Surganova)
And yesterday there was my tear on your cheek.
And you slept with a smile so sweetly, carefree.
At that moment, believe me, it hurt me like never before,
but no hand rose to wake you up.Sorry, my dear man, for never
as before, you will not be my only support.
That there is another, I realized, I must admit, not soon,
who needs your eyes more in difficult times.When everyone leaves at once, I feel empty and sad;
melancholy settles into the monastery. And yet first
me before being injected intracardially with adrenaline,
I will sing to you - I will look for a pier for myself.Reproach for the usualness, for the colorlessness of the day.
I repent that I can’t make it better.
But don’t blame the creator for stinginess
and in indifference right there.Tear up the photos, burn the letters,
slam the doors!
Let it be yours
which is characteristic of pride,
but do not turn the souls of those into ashes
who is faithful to you to this day.
Who loves you to this day.
September 1986
* * *
Very personal. My Magadan. But not the one that comes to mind first. There is only one Magadan on the map, but in my life there are two.
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