Sergey Potehin Poet Date of Birth: 14.06.1951 Country: Russia

A Biography of Sergey Potehin

One classic writer once noticed that lovers, madmen, and poets are made of imagination. But what if all three exist in the same person? Sergey Potehin lives in his own world. His little house is located away from his native village of Kostoma, amidst the ruins of a once thriving cheese factory. Potehin's lifestyle clearly shows that he is not of this world. He is also the author of several poetry collections. Around his house, there are whole plantations of strawberries. Sergey himself is amazed at how easily they grow, but for him, it's only natural. To the fresh eye, it is evident how lovingly the strawberry beds are cultivated. Naturally, for the village boys, this is a real paradise. Most of the thefts happen at night: "Let them take it! I don't mind... I wouldn't refuse if they asked. But that's what boys are for, to seek adventure - I was one myself." In the morning, he bought some candy and caramel. He drank, ate sweets, and that's how he found almost complete happiness. But he still needed to go to the Tepza River to check on his fishing nets. The fishing gear was ancient, but very productive. They catch fish that swim against the current. Potehin respects those who go against the flow. It's his principle. I was warned that Sergey is one of those who drink, so I brought a bottle with me. We drank and settled in the shade. Light clouds swiftly floated by, and out of childhood habit, I involuntarily tried to decipher meaningful shapes in them: a pterodactyl flew by, a lion prepared to jump, followed by an archangel with a trumpet... - "Do you believe that the Earth, the Sun, the stars - are living beings?" - Sergey seems to guess the direction of my thoughts. - "Look at the clouds... It has long been proven that all thoughts are in the water. The Earth thinks through these very clouds." - "And what about humans?" - "I think they were created not to think, but to feel." - "Feel like you, in solitude?" - "Well, I'm not searching for solitude, but for seclusion. Solitude is a tragedy, seclusion is a blessing. "Hmm," I think to myself, "Sergey Alexandrovich... for you, Yesenin is an eternal idol (and in the fact that you share the same first and middle name, you see a mystical sign). But that Sergey was a young man who rushed to the capital and was able to fully realize his talent. And you, in a couple of years, will turn fifty and yet you "hang around" in your native and beautiful Kostoma, where there isn't even a paved road. You cook in your own juice... Yes, you have achieved a lot by learning to understand nature. But these achievements only concern your inner world. Even with every fish that ends up in your net, you ask for forgiveness, and you apologize to the bush that you cut down to build a forest shack for seclusion." For some reason, fate cut off all of Sergey's attempts to break away from his native land and go conquer the Big World. But there were attempts, there were...
A Difficult Journey

When Potehin was studying at the Kostoma school, he couldn't understand the educational system that the local teachers used. They taught from the "Domostroy" textbook, and they would beat (sometimes hitting their faces on the table) and make them cram everything. After school, Potehin went to the district center and enrolled in a pedagogical institute solely to understand if there were any other methods of teaching children. It turned out there were. Here, they taught that everything is based on love.
But he did not have the opportunity to complete his studies. He was drafted into the army. And there, in a completely different world, it was very difficult for the contemplative village boy to adapt. Here, the gray and following the rules were most valued. Potehin ended up in the "plaster" troops. No jokes. During his six months in the army, all he did was plaster. And during breaks, he scrubbed the floors and stairs. With soap. The commanders immediately disliked him. And according to the law of the human herd, the whole "gray mass" joined in with their contempt and mean jokes.
After six months, he was discharged from the army and sent to a mental hospital. Here's what happened. That winter, there was a lot of snowfall. It piled up quite a bit on the roof of the garrison toilet. And the roof of the old building was dilapidated. Sergey decided to clean the roof. But he fell through when he climbed up with a shovel. He fell right on the head of an officer.
After the mental hospital, Potehin was declared unfit for service. He returned to his native home, got a job as a cattleman in the "Red Banner" collective farm, and worked there for twenty years without attempting to leave. However, there was one attempt to "conquer" the city. It was when his poems gained recognition. His friends arranged for the poet to work at the city House of Culture as a handyman. And they settled Sergey in the basement of this very house. He lived there for a short time, but "nobly," as he says, with velvet: half of the basement was occupied by a large velvet curtain in which he "slept and vomited": "I befriended mice, even gave them names. Sometimes they responded."
He came to the city in winter, but in spring, he started dreaming of his house at the cheese factory, and the hustle and bustle of the city suddenly became a burden. There was too much authority... But soon it all ended. They celebrated Victory Day. They drank under the birches - all friends got into fights. Sergey was sitting there, feeling bored. Then some guys from another company called out to him, "Hey, come here!" He approached, thinking they were going to beat him. But they didn't. One guy, without saying a word, punched our hero right in the eye! "Why are you rummaging through our pockets?!" - "What pockets? These are my friends..." - "Where do you live?" He pointed to the House of Culture. "Why are you fooling around with us, you scum?" - And again, with fists.
Maybe he would have stayed in the city longer, but with such a beaten face - all covered in bruises - he immediately decided to return to his native Kostoma. Now his fans came to him. Including women.
And here we come to the main part. The silly question of where poems come from has long found a worthy answer in Potehin's soul. From the heavens... Maybe the Earth, stirring with its numerous clouds, sends special impulses to Sergey, which he transforms into words. Whatever the case, Potehin knows that he doesn't compose the poems himself. He just needs to catch the currents that seem to come from nowhere...
His table in the untidy shack of a village hermit. A pile of poems mixed with letters. One sheet hangs off the edge of the table, and it looks like a fly will sit on it, fly away beneath his feet. I peer into the small handwriting:

My resting place is gloomy,
And gloomy sows in the night window.
But the sadness of the memorable past
Is exquisitely crystal clear.
The memorial service is still not over
For those unfulfilled dreams,
Where in every drop of dew
I built God's temple,
Where a beautiful garden, in which birds
Sing at dawn in heat and cold,
And the springs of living water
Quench sweetness and bitterness.
Let the soul taste the elixir,
Unfit for human consumption,
It celebrates a housewarming
In the soaring golden castle.
There were even more tragic and absurd
Troubles caused by ruin.
The dream is alive until the spirit of love
Is driven out from the tomb...