воскресенье, 30 сентября 2012 г.

Стишки

Курица

Курица - словно гороха стручок:
Яйца в ней зреют, будто горошины.
Но если разрезать ее поперек,
То ничего не получишь хорошего.

пятница, 21 сентября 2012 г.

Profession

A lego-teacher.


Преподаватель в школе Лего. 
Кто хочет целый день делать из конструктора роботов и динозавров, а потом еще и получать за это деньги? Все хотят. Но к сожалению, они так редко требуются, эти преподаватели Лего.

Who wants to constuct robots and dinosaurs all day long and get payed for this? Everybody. But unfortunately, there is almost no vacancy of Lego-teachers.

пятница, 14 сентября 2012 г.

Paper diary

Бумажный дневник.


Не могу остановиться. Я веду дневники с 10 лет, а сейчас мне 26. И хотя от тетради к тетради почерк там меняется, это все равно - мой дневник, с вырезками из журналов, любимыми фотографиями и билетами на поезд. Бумажный дневник, в отличие от электронного, не вечный, он стареет, истрепывается, покрывается пятнами от употребленных напитков и заканчивается. А новый дневник - как новая жизнь. Так что, я, наверное, никогда не остановлюсь, так и буду наклеивать в тетрадки красивые картинки до самой старости.

I just can't stop doing this. I've been keeping a diary since I was 10 and now I'm 26. Though the handwriting is changing from one notebook to another it's still my diary - with magazines cuttings, with my favorite pictures and  train tickets. A paper diary, unlike the on-line diary, is not everlasting: it's getting older, tattered,    covered with stains (my drinks) and at last comes to an end. But a new diary is like a new life. So, I suppose, I will never stop and I will continue putting awesome pictures in my notebooks till my old age.

четверг, 6 сентября 2012 г.

Five friends

Dear English-speaking readers!
If you find any grammatical or other mistakes in my little poem please, tell me about them.

Five friends


I had a strange dream-
It was dark, only steam
Was dimly and vaguely heard and seen.
I felt I was light,
I quivered with fever,
Six horses were rushing
Down the dark river.

And who were the people beside me?
My friends.
They were silently sitting
On the shining sand.

Night wrapped us in rugs
Made of beetles and bugs,
They were flying and whispering,
Giving us hugs.
The black silhouettes
Of trees and grass
Could be clearly seen
Not far from us.

My friends were strong winds
From afar they had flown.
I noticed weak glints
From the sides they’d blown.

The first was The Northern –
Stern, gloomy and cold,
He had power of dozen
Strong winds, he was bold.
He loved me as much, as he only could,
Defended me even from my bad mood.

The Southern was the second
Hot, moist and immense.
It was hard when he beckoned
To me, come again to my senses.

The third –the Eastern wind was
Sweet, spicy he smelt.
He’d brought me some treasures,
And made my heart melt.
He put sparkling rings on my fingers and wrists.
He stroked me with his gorgeous wings.


The Western, the forth,
Was the wind on a diet-
So stylish, so sniffy,
So restless and tired.
He taught me new words,
And approved of my dress.
He loved me his own way
As I could guess.

But the fifth wind of mine
Differed much from the others.
He didn’t drink wine,
He was not like his brothers.
He had never kissed me,
He hadn’t even touched me,
He couldn’t imagine,
How much he attached me.

I didn’t know- whether he loved me or not.
If not, why did he come to this spot?
“Don’t be like a stranger,
When friends are around,
Come and seat nearer,
We need no bounds.
I will find the way to your heart and mind,
Even  if it isn’t easy – to find.”
I told him without saying a word –
I tied him without using a cord.

You were in my pack 
As well as the others.
But the sun came back –
Nobody. No brothers.

суббота, 1 сентября 2012 г.