What is the difference between a children’s writer and a writer for adults? During periods of creativity, a children’s writer should be happy. This is his professional responsibility.
Sergey Makhotin, a happy man
Sergei Makhotin: “Someday in the thirtieth century we will be as ancient as the Greeks. We will pass through the entire neighborhood without fail…” Photo: From the archive of Dmitry Shevarov
Once every hundred years the world goes crazy. This is normal, historians say. This was to be expected, psychologists say.
But we didn’t live a hundred years ago, so this kind of life is new to us. We are still not used to kings, presidents and prime ministers cheerfully informing us in the morning from television or YouTube: “We have gone crazy! We have gone crazy!…”
What a shame, we think.
To preserve at least our sanity, we involuntarily cling to something normal. The fisherman takes a fishing rod and goes fishing. The footballer takes the ball and runs towards the football field. The doctor selects a finer scalpel and heads to the operating room. An astronaut boards a rocket and flies into space. The reader quietly goes to the children’s room and, while the children sleep, he steals a children’s book from the bookshelf.
In a children’s book everything ends well, and this is very important to wake up in the morning as a more or less sane person.
In critical times, children’s poets and prose writers save nations, in the same way that grandfather Mazai saved hares. Poets are not greedy people: they share their happiness with children and set an example of sanity for adults. An example of how you can live like clouds in the sky, like ladybugs in the palm of your hand, like daisies in the field.
Unfortunately, adult writers are not suitable for the role of sissies: they are too adult. They don’t have time to fly from palm to palm.
But a children’s writer only seems like an adult; Deep down I am a three year old child. He still doesn’t owe anyone anything. The editor or publisher will not put you against the wall: why didn’t you write about gnomes?… – You haven’t heard that they established a prize for the best work about themselves! And why haven’t you talked about the Moomins yet? Why didn’t you support the shorts with poetry? – This seems suspicious… Well, and most importantly: where is the fairy tale about parrots? – They’re going to go to the polls again, and you’re dragging your feet…
Of course, sometimes it’s not easy for a children’s writer either. At the end of the day, being a talented, happy, and kind person doesn’t pay off. They simply love you for this.
Everything I wrote above is just a preface to introduce you to the poems of the children’s poet Sergei Makhotin.
date
70 years ago the poet Sergei Anatolyevich Makhotin was born in Sochi.
By the way
Sergey Makhotin is one of the founders of the festival of children’s writers “How to Write Well”, which will be held for the 15th time in St. Petersburg from October 6 to 8.
Sergei Makhotin’s Favorites
Summer’s afternoon
Today I am not myself, because I suddenly discovered that I am alive and alive is my friend. The eyes of a living dog suddenly laughed, and a living dragonfly rose into the sky. The wind cracked a branch and licked her in the face. Across the river, a horse neighed and a little mouse ran to a hole under the porch. A shadow rests on the grass, the clouds fade, I whisper: – See you tomorrow, day, Wind, forest, river…
I’ve been wandering aimlessly
My dad told me: “Don’t walk around without a goal!” I didn’t argue with my dad: he didn’t see how the cranes flew by and the rain galloped after them. My busy dad barely noticed how the drops rustled on the grass, how the red cat hid her clumsy kittens in the cellar. A poplar leaf rested on my cap, and the wind chased me. And my poor father got angry from the balcony and urgently called me home…. And during A long time later I remembered in bed, How the leaves rustled, the crows chattered, How the puddles did not want to let me go, How fun it was to wander without a goal!
sea in a jar
Boria is very tanned. Petya is very sick. Petya is slowly recovering in the ward. His best friend approaches him in a bathrobe. He brought Petya a flask as a gift, the best in the world. The jar is full to the top, Guess: what is it with? Not with raspberries, not with strawberries And not with a wild lizard, Not with an orange beetle And not with a fat hamster. A bottle with the sea! A bottle with the sea! This is Borin’s gift! Waves, calm and fog, Storms, tempests, hurricanes hide in this jar, They sleep in this jar. And listen to the jar -The bells ring on the sailboat, The free seagulls scream, The bosuns grumble menacingly. And you smell the bottle -The sea in a bottle, the sea in a bottle It smells better than all the seas. Get well soon!
Stream
In the river there is a river wave, In the stream there is a gentle wave. On the forest path We will sit by the stream And on our wet backs we will caress the stream. About the ant For about forty-five minutes I, probably friends, looked at the worker ant. She stubbornly dragged a needle to her house, climbed onto a blade of grass, climbed down from it. She suddenly threw down the heavy load and shouted, “Are you watching?! Not to help!”
plasticine dog
Don’t be angry with me, plasticine dog: the plasticine nose turned out to be crooked, the plasticine tail hangs like a cord, and the plasticine side is a little dented… Then, perhaps, I will blind you again. And now I love you like this.
before the snow
It’s time for the leaves to fall. Everything creaked yesterday. We no longer need to rake leaves for the fire. Our shirts smell like smoke, Mom is baking bread, The pitchforks and rakes are hidden in the old barn for the winter. The sun rises calmly and evenly behind our porch and the day ends, like a book with a good ending.
