Autumn was generous that day. The sky was bright, the colorful leaves swayed in the wind, and it was unusually warm for the season. The audience was hurrying to the Russian House. Poetry was alive there.
On September 27, we gathered together — children, adults, those who are just learning to read, and those who perhaps have known Yesenin’s verses by heart since their school days. The occasion — the 130th anniversary of the birth of Sergey Alexandrovich Yesenin, a poet whose lines smell of hay, birch trees, longing for the homeland, and a quiet tenderness toward life.

Dima, the youngest of them all, pronounced the words seriously. He already has experience — he performed on May 9 on the stage of the Russian House. Dima’s mother was going to sing for us too, but a little later. First, the youngest ones performed. After Dima came Liza.

The organizer and heart of the event, Oksana, gave each next participant time to prepare. Between the recitations, she spoke about different stages of the poet’s life. Each poem marked the end of a period, accompanied by a short story and photographs projected on the screen.

The hall was decorated with shawls — Pavlovo Posad ones. And of course, there were samovars. Real ones — not decorative, but those in which the water actually boiled and puffed. Together, all of it created not just scenery, but an atmosphere — the kind you want to immerse yourself in completely.

One should mention the overall setup separately: fragrant apples with transparent skin, golden crispy bagels — and not a cherry on the cake, but the cake itself, poetically named “Beryozka” (“Little Birch”).

But that came toward the end. Before that, our participants read and sang. There was something very personal in those readings. Not everything was perfect — not everyone managed to overcome their nerves. Someone stumbled, someone forgot a line… But no one judged. On the contrary — there were warm rounds of applause, approving nods, smiles. It felt as if we all were part of one big family.
And then… a voice. Pure, high, melodious. Maria. No music, no backing track — a cappella. She sang, and the ceiling with its stucco seemed to listen. No one breathed. It wasn’t a song — it was a prayer in notes.
Then came a game. Funny, lively, kind-hearted. “Little Stream” — who would have thought that this old folk game would fit so naturally into a day dedicated to a great poet?

It seemed that everything had already been said. The evening was coming to an end. And then — a quiet but determined voice:
“I can’t stay silent any longer. May I sing? Just… don’t judge me harshly.”
It was Svetlana. She hadn’t performed, hadn’t prepared. She just sat and listened. But her heart couldn’t stay silent. And she sang a romance. Simple, old-fashioned. Without a microphone, without accompaniment. Only her voice. Warm, slightly trembling — like the light of a lamp. She sang, and it was as if she floated through time. And the hall fell silent once more.

We decided: in 2026 we will meet again — for readings dedicated to Mikhail Lermontov. But before that, there will be other evenings too. One of them — very soon.

The next gathering of the literary salon will be a special one. We’ll peek into the pots, teapots, and bread baskets of Russian literature. After all, Russian cuisine in the classics is also poetry — the cabbage soup of Oblomov, the porridge of Troekurov, Pushkin’s pies, and of course, Gogol’s dumplings.

Join us. It’s cozy here, like home. Where poetry lives not only in books, but also in voices, in gestures, in tea with bagels — in kindness.

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