the citizen of the city of Yekaterinburg, a journalist and the member of the Russian Union of Journalists. The whole work biography is connected with media, and the biography of the soul – with a passion for Russian and foreign poetry. In personal creative arsenal, there are books written in the genre of literary journalism, and there are poetic collections as well. But I write poetry from the early childhood. I’m trying. Studying.
This photo was taken this summer in the Tretyakov Gallery. In the foyer, there are sculptures for tactile contact of visitors with the pillars of the great Russian culture. Pushkin, of course, is the first of them! I did not dare to touch the statue of the genius with my hands; I only stood by it for a while. That is how the lines of my poems fly from the soul, like butterflies, to fly in the same space where the great lines of Russian poets are still alive. Fly and sink into oblivion. But if for a moment the presence of my butterflies-lines adds color to our pragmatic today`s world, I will think that I wrote not in vain.
And only love, the one unequaled…
This autumn day is high and clean,
And golden leaves above your head
The shadow, before unseen,
Onto your soul will not spread.
And even rain is not so bad,
And the wind is just a joker-rambler,
Until your years make you sad
All of a sudden, —
No problems matter!
With the frivolity of spring
You freely run into the autumn,
It`s easy when you are eighteen
To hit the pace, and age`s forgotten.
But miraculous autumn taste
will touch your soul one fine day,
And cry with grief
are interlaced.
And you will see, your hair`s gray…
And then – you live your further life,
And days at all cannot be seen.
The point is to treasure love,
Able to bring back us to eighteen.
To stay alive
Loving means staying alive.
With losses and pain, joy and happiness thread!
In praying, only one meaning should be derived —
«Give us this day our daily bread».
I tell the beads to fate, and ask with easy breath:
Don`t let me rest, preserve my flame!
I feel no envy, anger, no sloth. My only sin is faith
in life and greed for life to find its aim.
Ah, it`s strange and sad to live in those years,
When speaking of love is like blackthorn for heart,
With no chance to feel that joy or tears,
And your heart is full of unspent loving art …
I feel bitter. But I still do not want the gray dream.
I feel pain. It means I`m Here now and ahead.
I’m still among alive people`s team.
I pick up my soul`s pieces in the air stream
And in passion I whisper to my fate-pilgrim:
«Give me this day my daily bread».
If you, my dear Love…
It`s raining outside, creating a blue image
The coat does not help. And car under the rain
All, frozen to the bone: for coldness – no limits
I`m looking for my love, for happy, sunny minutes
With fun and move, and dreams, and feeling
no pain!
The whisper of the sheets – like thunder in the room
I am in search again. This time for woolen gloves
Oh, I would fly away to sea under the moon
With magic golden sands, and waves with their tune
And winds can wildly fly like freedom-loving
doves!
If you, my dear Love, still wander far away
I beg you, be my guest and save my heart from
cold
You won`t decide to leave, I know, you will stay
Let`s live,
Let`s fly,
Don`t die,
Don`t leave,
Be young, not old!
Happy note
Poplars` leaves are flying in the wind,
Autumn touches trees, so skinned,
Summer, tired, running in the field,
Found its rest under September`s shield.
But autumn comes into the yard with solid step,
Walking under September`s spiderweb,
And its October rain will ebb,
November`s silence crawled step by step.
And in frosty snow-white December,
Or in month that we New Year enter
Your heart becomes the soul`s center,
You hear notes – sharp and tender! —
And blue-eyed ice is cut by April,
And snowdrops are so graceful,
Time irons winds into the stone,
Summer is coming and no one is alone!
«Railway stations in the province…»
Railway stations in the province, —
Greetings come from our youth.
How and why could we be promised
What path will be calm, sweet and smooth?!
The hearts are open for impressions,
Soul and body have no sin,
We overcame the fear`s essence
Resting in poems therein!
We, the creators of white gowns,
Who didn`t trust the wise man`s words,
Who had promising grounds,
Who broke hearts of lords.
We chose friends by their honor,
And we despised routine and pain,
We’re not afraid of who was stronger
And used our muscles and brain.
The life trumped us and we were beaten,
With nerves, so strained like tough-hard strings,
Ideals no more could steepen,
We understood they had no wings…
We are surviving little by little,
Though it’s hard to go on breathing,
No
