Ovseyevich Ovseevich Driz Biography

The hunter shot at me, and the bear was killed! Henry Sapgir translated several dozen Drisa poems. Their creative community was a continuation of personal friendship. Henry Sapgir was twenty years younger than Drisa. Sapgir called Drisa “the main pioneer of the country”, because Ovsey’s birthday - May 19 - coincided with the birthday of the pioneer organization B., he said about Drieza: “The next character of this“ Theater on the Boards ”was Ovsey Dris.

At the first moment, I thought that this poet Mikhail Svetlov was sitting opposite Henry with a faceted glass, into which vodka was only poured. But it was someone else, similar to Svetlova. Both have long narrow faces with sharp chins, dark eyes, dry arms and legs. DRIZ said something, and I caught the difference.

Svetlov gravitated to a good fun joke, to the immediately composed joke, to a funny story. DRIZ was more muscular in body and character, harder, stronger. His stories rested on dangerous life situations. Mikhail Svetlov was a Jewish child prodigy in Soviet poetry, a balo of the Komsomol, a welcome participant in poetic evenings and feasts, a favorite of a literary fraternity. Ovsey Dris wrote to Yiddish.

He was one of the first modernists in Jewish poetry. ” On trees, on the villages - snow, snow, snow and the poet lies on the bunks - eh, eh, eh. The lines are confused, the deadlines are ay-yai-yai! And the wire has a dog barking, barking. But to the patient leaned, the conscience of the Russian people - the Pushkin nanny shines in the fog. Soon, soon the sun will rise, it will chaos the rooster, the snowy snow will stop, the fluff, the fluff, look, the glass sparkles, the whole crystal is clear.

I can raise it at the table today for your living faith and holy pain. The translation of Henry Sapgira, Dris read his poems to Yiddish. And immediately - in Russian. He gave his versions of translations. He read vigorously, actively, very emotionally. Gray long wavy hair fell on his eagle face. He read and read. Sometimes he stopped to explain the special meaning of a particular metaphor or situation.

Now, after many years, the features of his face merge in my memory with a self-portrait of Martiros Saryana began to read more precisely-to sing more precisely-it was something like a melodiclamation, but absolutely natural, without a shadow of deliberation or some kind of artificiality. The impression was the most fascinated by a combination of wisdom and naivety, openness and isolation.

Ovsey Ovseevich spoke about his life sparingly. Ovsey after the death of Stalin was excluded from the Writers' Union as a ballast. The hall was ready to vote, but at the last minute Alexander Fadeev appeared and took Ovsey under protection. And this is not an exaggeration. It is unlikely that any of the poets who write in Yiddish can be compared with Ovsey Dris on truly cosmic circulations, popularity.

In the years, the Books of Drisa were published in translations in many languages ​​of the national republics. The origin of the surname of the poet is interesting. According to family legend, it was like this: time arrived in one of the great -great -grandfathers to go to serve in the royal army. This happened in the time of Nicholas I. The service was then difficult, especially for the Jews, and lasted 25 years.

The relatives decided to send the guy away from Tomashpol, where they lived. He was illiterate, with great difficulty wrote his surname Gaisinsky. And they invented a new surname for him - shorter, out of four letters, arbitrarily - Driz. From here, Drizes went. Alexander Leizerfovich spoke about Drieze: “I translated one poem -“ My poor uncle ”, and in the following days I developed a violent activity - got the numbers of the magazine“ Soviet Gameland ”, where Driez’s poems were published, mobilized relatives and acquaintances of the older generation, who else could read the Yiddish, forced them to make the adversaries, began to translate the most important thing or seem to find, to find it, to find it, to find it.

A difficult and even more difficult to transmit without pressure, the name of the intonation, which so brightly sounded in reading Dris himself. Some verses seemed to be waiting for them to be translated - so lines naturally arose and formed. Then, however, after some time, it turned out that it was still to work and work on them! Others - they did not give in to any translation - Russian lines did not sound, remained dead.

After a month or so, having recognized the home address and phone of Drisa and having agreed on the meeting, I went to him at the Airport, where he recently bought a cooperative apartment in the "writer" house for fees for "children's poems". He drove the fruits of his labors. Then there were still meetings - at his place, in the house of writers I do not dare to say that we “made friends”, but Ovsey Ovseevich benevolently reacted to my work - he accepted it with almost no comments.

For him, not literal accuracy was important, but the intonation of the verse. I read poetry not accepted into print. He knew how to give an amazingly capacious “Setter”, which, coupled with his melting reading, as if he himself prompted translation moves.He did not allow some verses to translate, said that he promised them to his friends, who literally “fed” him for many years, publishing translations of “children's” verses, often under his own name, when Dris himself and, in general, Jewish poetry were “outlawed”.

He remembered his fear that the son would be in the army - "I drank it in full." Even drinking, softening his soul and pouring out in good feelings for the interlocutor, he seemed to retain a certain protective shell. His literary tastes were wide and difficult to predict. I remember that he really fell in love with the Roman Steinbeck Roman “Winter of our anxiety” relatively recently published in Russian, he never returned it to me - “read it”.

Recognition, wide fame come to Ovsey Driez on the sixth ten life. Since the beginning of the 10ths, his books have been published in million circulations. He was happy in any audiences. He was full of new plans. But they were not destined to be embodied. For all his life, Yakov Driez remembered how touched the farewell to his brother was: “He was lying on the elevation, and Bello Akhmadulin - a little elegant woman - could not reach his face.

I lifted her, and she kissed Ovsey. " Yuri Koval later wrote: “Ovsey was buried strange. In the party of the Writers' Union stood his coffin. It was ridiculous and wild: Ovsey in the party cardinet! I cried, as I was crying now, recalling Ovsey Ovseich, my eyes did not see anything then, but all the time I felt some laugh: “Ovsy in the party cardinet! For a long time we were looking for our oats.

They found and buried, and laughed Ovsey Ovseich that we, fools, were confused. My flowers have been wound on your grave for a long time, but I feel that in my life I will remember you many times, Ovsey, the Divine Poet. ” Ovsey Dris was buried in the area of ​​the Vostryakovsky cemetery in Moscow.