Alexey Biography Poems

The ancestors are the Don Cossacks and the Vyatka peasants. The former joined Siberia, the Far East and Central Asia to Russia, defended Vera, Tsar and Fatherland, the latter - hunted in impassable Vyatka forests and cultivated land. My native grandfather, Flegont Anfilovich, Shorokhov guarded the last Russian king, served in the Life Guards of the Semenovsky regiment, received the St.

George Cross during the First World War. After the revolution of the year and the Civil War, the Cossack grandfather fought on the side of the Reds, his brothers-on the side of the whites, the whole way of Russian life was violated, the classes were mixed up and I was born not on the Don and not in Vyatka, but, as I already said, in Orel, the city glorious with its literary traditions.

It is not surprising that the first verses were written at six years old, the first publications at the age of fifteen. In the year he entered the philological department of the Oryol Pedagogical University, then - the Literary Institute named after A. Gorky in Moscow and graduate school under him. I am writing poetry, prose, literary and critical articles and essays.

In the central literary publications of Russia I have been published since the year. The author of the five books of poems: “Night of the world” year, “The Way of the Involved” year, “Put inexhaustible” translated into Serbian; Belgrade, five poets ”“ Russian writer ”, G. Laureate of the“ Crystal Rosa Victor Rozov ”Prize for the year and“ Eureka ”for the year.

Internet recrecer of the Russian Britain network magazine www. In the year, he was admitted to the Union of Writers of Russia. In the year, he was chosen by the Secretary of the Board of the Union of Writers of Russia. I can’t become others. And enough random lives to leaf through! They are scared to horror: stand on tiptoe, look into the eye - and breathe stop.

I am not chosen by me. I remember my family. Hungry saliva on your sandwich you can’t fill my burning mouth. My name is people, not a title rabble. The stubborn, like “EP”, and reliable, like “yat”, I will be alone in the middle of a few ruined span for every life, for a dying house, and for every whore that you trampled and not raise it anymore. For everything that you can’t take away from me - I will stand.

And you - do not fade. The trees held out their hands and fingers of their knotted ones when in your forests, Russia, Russia was poisoned with freedom and longing, and thought: not to live to a snowfall, forgotten, like a canvas in a workshop, survived - and snow fell, then it melted. I began to live and think about something else ... And life, to the impossibility of simple, lay in my bag - next to tobacco.

In his hunchback, the acceptance of prose. He dried up like a steam locomotive; They beat him on the ribs with red -hot ones! The crowd of ugly people is crowded nearby, and tears strive to touch with a finger, and he lies - he died awkwardly. Now the sands in the nostrils sing him! Here, an attempt and torture of knowledge is mixed into the air; Even Roman copper corrupted vinegar sharpened - Juvenal, poor Lermontov sang, the rest wanted an uprising.

I do not believe the universe, where the fish is alone, because it is silent, the rest fell away from God, because it shouts somehow deadly and it became empty in your warm wrapping so, entertainment, woman, bike, girl, fool, whore, timid frauds - which became a ginger, snuff; Having become conscience, light, flesh, a shouting heart, get used to her barren, to the eternally empty impulses.

How to be us, mine - responsive, stupid - who will judge? .. I drink, so as not to hear your neighborhood. Clouds, wires - to the rest, to the fabulous, strange, to your last, my overwhelming, stored, like nothing in this world, love - unknown, in vain: as you like, call it forever that the road was given to the end, to the end; There - sunset blood, spreading, thickens above the boron.

Until the evening star over a frozen monstrous surface, to my last cigarettes - with this comic board: weightless, inconsistent, through the veins of the running, unlocking, leaving drop in nothing, in the darkness, unanswered in a drop remained some kind of little - this tenderness, this love is incomprehensible pity. Are you yet? Hey, how are you, dear - in the fast and saint, in which, maybe, I will announce soon, with whom to drink and mumble our grief to the very final comma?

You say, the black night of the night, like a heart blackened by pain, which no one will allow you to knock with a bad era in disruption. But you shine - quietly and not suddenly, like the moon snow in the dacha empty, like an anchor in heaven - Russia whole, which stored there its heavenly stability! Listen, drink wine! This is a sea of ​​wise of our troubles. We sit on the stones, throw the jellyfish coins.

Maybe it is here that the very light begins in the white foam of the rain, the noise of the waves and under the swearing of a neighbor. We will learn how to live that the time has already expired that the angels are wandering to us in a sophistication for dinner, and we are sitting together and looking into the living glass, where the stars are moving inside and shine outside.

In this thickness of water - so many fate, hopes, voices that it becomes scary when you scurry them with your hand! As if eternity with a echoing rotors the wheel rotates here, crushing in white splashes and carrying another to the measurement. There will be no end to this fairy tale. Hug me stronger, press - and the sea will open: in white cosmas of the hair and harsh wrinkles of the face, sharp cheekbones of the shafts and with eternal anxiety in the gaze.Kuvakin was so dead in the winter for our cheerful nonsense that there was no straight road, and we see a curve less often.

In this darkness, that it does not give a sleep, in this eternity that has risen behind the back, the dark rumble of swamps and the autumn songs of the mountain ash are heard. I am more and more lost in the darkness of these days, evenings, passages. I don’t remember how many years of this long painful horror. I still expected that a comrade would come that my beloved would stand up.

But the thirtieth autumn - and now: I am alone on this memorable evening ... Everything that will happen is already numbered. To know about it - the soul will not be. It's just that time is: it is dark ... And people are more expensive from this! The wind blows, the snow goes, the ice is melting in Antarctica ... Life passes a little. Everything will happen someday. Everything will happen someday.

All someday in a flight. It is only necessary to finish your studies, and - forward! Ilyichev every day - like along the edge of the abyss. A year after year - forward and forward. As if someone straight and iron there, inside, lives in tension; As if it pulls long and deaf, like a string opened by the wind, this song that I hear in a breath; That someone needs in the world. Every day I leave the house, as if from a train at night - to a blizzard.

And I'm afraid that I can’t see my relatives and acquaintances through a snowstorm! Everything is lost in a whirlwind dance thickened like honeycombs: hundreds of people, lanes and stations, where we may be remembered with good. It only seems that it is more useless and faster that it flickers in the darkness ... We have long been rushing along the abyss, as we rushed on the ground once!

Borodina shower, like a garden, drops the first color and powers a scarlet wind in dawn. And only happiness - it was not, and no!

And again I am talking about happiness. As there is no earthly love, which we are wounded without end from childhood. And there are funny stupid hearts, singing in the foreboding of winter. And there are a great series when, under the sign of glory and troubles, before fading forever, heavy fruits shake the garden. Ermakov without a cross, without prayer, without songs.

How hard was the night! He was no longer interested in anyone, he probably wanted one: how in a dream, as in an ominous fog, removing his last hour, he hoped that he would deceive the same voice for everyone and whispered: “At least I will hesitate a little in this gray swamp region ...” - leaving the desired land, merciless land! And already flying over the field, where snow and water mixed, he forever parted with pain, except for the one that when looking here.

Lukin lasts a long time! How slowly the grass ripens! So far, golden words are blooming between doubts and duty. How I want to live! And wait! To the edge of fate to get ... And at least for a moment to linger in a generous world in a handful! Only the faces of the sinless are still looking after us. Did everything deceive everything from what tormented us so much?

From that distant hum, which is less often conveyed now? I come in my memory - where are you in your protected beauty? And around the virgins respond in reality, and, of course, not the same. Others guess the stars and tickle their palm with a mustache ... Is it really too late for us to light our signal fire? Is it the past - deaf, as if the night that absorbed us?