Yuri Kazarin biography. Well ice. Poetry. Monographs and study guides
Why did the poet and professor Yuri Kazarin exchange a modern city for the Ural wilderness?
“Poet Yurka” is respected in the Ural village of Kamenka. He built a house with his own hands, made of stone, sheathed it with wood himself. He himself cuts firewood, he himself heats the bathhouse and grows trees. True, many people consider blue spruces and cedars in the garden to be strange - normal people have potatoes all around. He dresses simply in a rustic way: he wears a quilted jacket and felt boots. And if you meet him, wandering in any weather to Chusovaya with a fishing rod, then only by a thinking look will you distinguish him from the indigenous inhabitants of the Ural hinterland.
About a real person
Poet and doctor of philological sciences, professor of the Ural federal university, which universities dream of getting from New Delhi to London, Yuri Kazarin has long become a part of both Kamenka and nature in general.
“When you live in a village, you suddenly begin to understand that you are not more valuable than a bird,” says Kazarin. - You live, think and feel the same as grass, trees, bushes feel. And when you understand this, you become a real person. Because a real person is part of nature, not part of the city.”
We come out onto a cliff rising above a winding river and an endless - almost already yellow - forest, Yuri Viktorovich steps to the very edge of a rocky ledge, looks into the distance for a long time, occasionally runs his hand through his graying beard. And it seems that he himself became a continuation of the cliff or the cliff itself.
The professor wanted to leave his native Yekaterinburg in 2000, he was then forty-five. Kazarin fled from the people around him, the more he became more famous. Someone was attracted by his poetic gift, someone by his life experience: work at a factory, in a mortuary, on television, service in intelligence, and for someone he was just a “class teacher” from the philological faculty. To rejoice and bathe in the rays of glory, but instead Kazarin fled into his village loneliness.
“Before, almost no one lived in the village in winter, except for me. And in severe frosts, I went out at night and made a fire, - says Kazarin, - imagine winter, minus forty, night, and around - stars. And you are alone. I had the feeling that I was alone on the planet. And suddenly, I don’t know where it comes from, suddenly some incomprehensible sounds begin to be heard, some incomprehensible intonation constructions, and you slowly, slowly begin to realize that something is happening to you, you forget, but then you come to yourself, and you have a poem.
In the village, Kazarin wrote some of his best scientific works - about poetry and literature, about the nature of creativity - and the poetic collection "Kamensky Elegies", which was sold in home libraries, like books by fashionable poets of the thaw.
Poet from Uralmash
With verses, Kazarin began to think - all real poets do not write, but think - with kindergarten. The lines in my head beat off with rhythms, closed with rhymes. At first, it seemed to Yura that everyone was like that, but the reality turned out to be much less poetic.
Little Yura lived with his family in the gangster district of Uralmash, where "the air was saturated not with poetry, but with fear." I had to learn to overcome it. This skill came in handy when Kazarin headed the Ural Union of Writers, whose building the local crime boss wanted to take away. Many times it was convincingly explained to the chairman with arms in hand that it was not the poets who now rule, but the poet thought differently. And he didn't give up.
"Otherness of thought" also came in handy more than once to Kazarin, including in business state security. Once, people in civilian clothes came to the scientist, explained that in the center of Yekaterinburg there was a car with tens of kilograms of explosives, whose it is - it is not clear, but there is an anonymous letter. Based on this letter, the linguist compiled a linguistic portrait of the author and even presumably identified his name and education. It turns out that in any text a person leaves his "passport data", Yuri Viktorovich knows how to "read" them.
From these meager facts it is already clear: Kazarin is not a boy poet with a refined appearance and a subtle biography, but a male poet with a powerful destiny. “Man,” as Vysotsky said about Shukshin. Therefore, Kazarin chose for his thinking not a warm pulpit somewhere near Paris, or on “one of the five continents, resting on cowboys,” but the harsh Ural region, where there is one sea - a sea of \u200b\u200bmosquitoes; where the cold makes one breathless and in bad weather the lights are always turned off.
Kissed death
“A Russian artist needs the will so that no one touches him, no one torments him, no one forces him to do what he is disgusted with,” lists the advantages village life Kazarin, lighting candles on a rainy night. - I am happy that I have found such a point on earth where I feel free. And where you don't let yourself waste time. In the city you can lie down, take pills, wait for their action. And then I drank the pills for pressure, got up, brewed coffee, took out the slop, dragged firewood, water and began to live.
“Yurka lives right,” says the Kamensky bastard Uncle Kolya, and confirms what was said by the Ural proverb “as it is”, “as it is, he lives right. More fish than ours."
But the city people do not understand why it was necessary to leave for the countryside. For them Kamenka is the edge of geography, for Kazarin it is the edge of metaphysics.
Literary critics believe that Yuri Viktorovich is one of those writers who managed to look behind death. His poems are too deep, so in Russian literature only those who walked the blade between life and eternity knew.
Kazarin, in fact, writes a lot about the death. “Because I am already on the other side,” says the poet, “I hugged death, kissed it and stood behind her back.” It seems that living in the very heart of the Urals, and hence the whole Earth, he understood something that can be explained not only by words.
... Saying goodbye to Yuri Viktorovich in the early dank morning, leaving behind a heated house and a garden filled with the smells of approaching autumn, we witnessed the first timid snow. "Oh, it's snowing! the village Dante exclaimed joyfully. - Soon the air will be strong. Everyone will leave. Only dogs, birds and me will remain! Goodoo!"
was born in 1955 in Sverdlovsk. Graduated from the Faculty of Philology of the Ural state university. Since 1981, he has been working at the Department of Modern Russian Language, Ural State University. In 1984-1997 taught Russian abroad. In 2002 he defended his doctoral dissertation on the topic "Poetic Text as a Unique Functional and Aesthetic System". Chairman of the Yekaterinburg branch of the Writers' Union of Russia (2003-2010). Winner of several literary awards. Poems were published in the magazines "Ural", "October", "Znamya", "Youth", "New World", etc., as well as in the USA, Spain and Italy. Author of poetry books "Weather" (1991), "After the Flood" (1994); Book Five (1996), Field of View (1998), Escape (2002), Against the Clockwork... (2005), Selected Poems 1976-2006 (2006), Kamensky Elegies (2009), “Kamensky elegies. Part Two "(2010), a book of poems and prose" Swimmer "(2000, additional ed. - 2006). Lives in Yekaterinburg.
head of the poetry department
Yuri Viktorovich Kazarin was born on June 11, 1955 in Yekaterinburg, at Uralmash, in the family of an engineer and a physician. He went in for sports (athletics and basketball). After graduating from school in 1972, he worked as a milling machine operator at Uralmashzavod. Throughout his life, in parallel with his studies and main work, he tried and mastered several professions: a carpenter, a dryer (of wood), a watchman, a cleaner, a loader, a nurse, a registrar and an assistant to a pathologist (in a mortuary), a fuel technician (aviation kerosenes and oils), journalist (print media, radio, television), reviewer in literary and art magazines, deputy. chief editor of the journal, editor, proofreader, head. department of poetry of the journal "Ural", manager (of literary and artistic projects), publisher, writer, teacher, lecturer, lexicographer, essayist, columnist, etc. Served in the Northern Fleet.
In 1981 he graduated from the Faculty of Philology of the Ural University. He defended his candidate's and doctoral dissertations in the specialty "Russian language". Doctor of Philology, professor. Author of seven textbooks and eight monographs devoted to the study of poetry and poetic text. Co-author of monographs, textbooks and seven explanatory (ideographic) dictionaries. Winner of several scientific awards. Honorary Worker higher education RF. Professor of the Department of Modern Russian Language, Ural University. Artistic director of the specialty "Literary creativity" (poetry and prose) at the Yekaterinburg State Theater Institute.
He has been writing poetry since childhood. The first publication - in 1976, 11 books of poems and prose ("Swimmer", "Swimmer-2"). Compiled more than 120 poetry books, collections, almanacs and anthologies. Author of more than 120 prefaces and afterwords to poetry editions. Winner of several literary awards and prizes.
In 2001–2002 was Deputy Editor-in-Chief of the magazine "Ural" for creative work. In the 80s, it was the Ural magazine that published a large selection of poems on its pages, after which Yuri Kazarin has been a regular contributor to this magazine for many years. In addition, for a year and a half, Yuri Kazarin led the Lebyadkin literary club at the Ural magazine. Since September 2010, he has been the head of the poetry department of the Ural magazine and has been in charge of the Ural regional literary club under the editorial staff of the magazine.
For seven years he headed the regional branch of the Writers' Union of Russia. Creator of the Regional House of Writers in Yekaterinburg. Author and initiator of the project of the international festival "Poetry Marathon" (Guinness records and the Russian Club of Records "Lefsha"). The project was awarded the National Prize "Silver Archer". After leaving the post of head of the regional writers' organization, Yuri Kazarin managed to gather the best poetic forces of the Urals and other cities of Russia in the editorial office and on the pages of the magazine.
Poems were published in the magazines "Ural", "Ural Pathfinder", "Uralskaya Nov", "Youth", "October", "Znamya", "New World", "Arion", "Siberian Lights", as well as in the USA, Israel , Germany, Ukraine, Italy, Spain, etc.
Lives and works in Yekaterinburg.
Yuri Kazarin
well ice
In the field, water is stuffed into felt boots
And baked to the heel with ice.
Pulling from the sky
birdhouses bedrooms -
Like in an orphanage -
treasury row.
A bunch of stars are exterminated with shovels -
Fan outstretched bird cherry. Stop -
It's good to live here bearded,
So that the forehead shines like a woodpile.
Your eyes are like a backward path
With a woman's hoof in a circle of goads.
Nine months - immense longing,
So that she is born at Christmas.
So that neat water creeps -
Like the ocean - from window to window.Log cabins are poured with an apple,
tearing apart the ice husk
at the well, where bare lips
the razor of the wind is taken on the run.
Fur coats are heated from the inside
and above the snow they blaze in the snow.
Come in, I say, you don't pass,
lean on the other side:
only to the north you take away the zenki,
so the red veins are visible.
Don't go away, fool around
and - with the speed of blood to blood -
go on with life and death
as the last love in life.1. Well from under the brows like a pipe
spyglass, where the thread is torn off,
where you see how, closing up,
flickered
two points of the Lord's vertical,
and approaching like the air from the subway,
crazy views full bucket.2. And at home on tin cans without shame
water broken by doodle
and bend on a red frying pan
scavengers killed soles
and the first candle, entering the dwelling,
does not recognize the one who lit it.3. And outside the window glass chips
on wires, squashed skulls,
autumn garden who surrendered to the pogrom,
empty adjective for house,
as if imperative verb
moved from speech to bad weather.4. And in the field the name freezes,
not an angel, but a man -
ancient Greek -
from Crimea to Crimea iambic distances
crosses diagonally -
so the Scythian astronomer hurries
for truth, for love, for wine.5. And beyond the river - to the west - Siberia,
where the fourth bullfinch whistled -
the last one, blowing into the aorta
the poet who froze his face
from baldness to piebald beard,
stuffed with crumbs of marble water.6. And behind the soul, as usual, the soul,
river gravestone, penny
on indigenous clatter, ice floe -
or under it a venous rapid -
still sprinkles the last oxygen
walrus
into the frozen Karsky mouth.7. And from Siberia looks south
so good, as if he is around,
where is the house and the garden, and the wedding of Asians,
where Sunday
and a collection of views
a well dug into the sky, dug into the ground
and somehow covered with your face.N.
The stream froze to the bottom and stretched out like a staff
On stone ground - you can’t move seven.
He's all inside a lemon - in veins and wheels,
When you chop it into a bucket with an ax.
Movement is compressed into a crystal pencil.
And a stone of water does not grow into speech.
And only on the cheek shine and burning.
And a big winter heaves his shoulders.
Faceted pieces are carried to the stove in the hut -
In a glass, roll red tea in handfuls,
Like a Christmas tree hot toy
Which you can't take with you...It's good to cry at the stove -
smoke pine eyes eats,
and dry pulp of fire,
hugging the cross
cross folded chocks,
penetrates the croaker
to heavenly plaster,
to the transparency of the earth.Okoyoma cup holder
The blue is bursting.
The word spoken is wanderer
Waiting for relationship.
If the sea is like a coin
Side light force
Twisted on edge...
And remember this until death
Sensation of the subject
Wooden in the fire.The tabletop has solid rivers -
And a knot baked in resin
Flattened with warm money forever
And left to lie on the eagle.
I'm dying of happiness today
And spill wine on the table
And a good hundred snowflakes
Releases the window.
And the pupils of the tolkon haste
It turns into well ice.
Because rough tails
Your eye will find it anyway.The wire cools down in a burnt out lamp
Formerly its glass, lime and shells.
Your heart is still - everything - in iambic pentameter.
Your death is not yet up to the sixth foot.
Full beak clicks - the switch is over,
Darkness clears the sight, the air is offal.
It's too late. The Creator has long known you
Light, earth, heaven, tree and verse.
In the city you see only trees - medium
Deciduous forest and coniferous, mixed with height.
Even when the moon is knocked out like the front.
Even when she is everywhere, like gold.The first word is the last word
sushi and solid night kinship.
Twilight. The meeting of an empty place
with a complete absence of this place.
A window-side ball is molded in the skull,
it would be now and always - dark,
if you don't know what's in the corner, behind the icon -
light spot on the plaster.From a mighty plant
this house is built to
take away the poem
on platbands - in snowdrifts.
To the gold digger -
month - got up for half an hour,
extending the window sill
white field in the sky.
To make the eye narrow
like a ski track, from desolation
bird of speed and descent
lock in a poem.
So that from the sky a stitch of a look,
running around the ring
reported the profile of the garden -
winter garden - face.Transparent darkness, crystal pole,
moon frozen in the water,
like a core of light or firmament
between the vertebrae of bad weather.
Separate air and frost
and a deep shadow on the slabs
plains, bulging with tears,
where the wolf's breath smells of alcohol,
where the stars are thicker than words,
stuffed into a poem
where is the monotone
snowflakes, barely audible -
like the eternal horror of repetition.The eye rests on the darkness,
The villus in the mouth is decreasing,
Like. Heart stuffed to the shoulders
You are approaching speech in a dream.
And the gap and your support -
Vertical ends, track
Heights, not death, science
Hurry for the scratch of the sound
In the golden melancholy of life.
This is how manure works in beds:
Running frost under the skin
Tear out with the air an onion of light
And clean up the pain and tears
An arbitrary name for an item.On the threshold of vast darkness
ball trembling,
you are the whitewash of the bellhop
take it on your shoulder.
And you will feel behind your back
mirror, linen
or wings, icy
his rags.
Like a dream within a dream - trouble
drunk moon -
you will see yourself from the side,
From the left side:
like along a dust-web
planted under the shoulder blade
golden twigs
from the keyhole.1. In gold rims without wheels
Rolled like tears, frost -
From the cheek to the well, to the edges,
Where the eyelash is shod by the sun, -
Between the sky and me - a track
Resurrection, sight and birds.2. Cold. Cold. Cold.
Like a horde of bees
Or a roll - round timber,
Where the years are compressed into a spring,
Like a soul on the eve of Judgment,
Unwrinkled clay muscles, -
Turned into three halves
Water breaks tub.The squirrel is warm under the arm,
when she is in a prayer position
breaks a drill on a bird
eyesight growing in terror.
Eye-catching, standing together
tears in the open air
and, having met, the eyes ring -
it's so cold today.
The earthly family is frozen.
The spoon has been eaten up to the hole.
From my common eternity
a stitch has been dropped to the north.
To the left where the heart grows
in the land of love and suffering.
Where slowly the snow gives
everything that has passed, outlines ...Frost pulled the skin
Like an apple tree - matting,
Like cheeks - a glass blower
Or hunger - pike beak.
Ile eyelashes grew into a knot,
Blood frost narrowed the eyes
To the dimensions of life -
Very sharp edges.
Where is the cold weather
As immortality - for six months.
And anyone without difficulty
Holds hard water.Winter pier, half-station
weather crowding south
and the boat goes like a plane
according to the tree of hardening waters.
And the yellow moon field
with board edged pond
lays down as a tabletop of will
under the dark elbows of labor.
And along the shores of the priumytyh -
caught off guard by the eye -
the trees froze like an exhalation,
already passed into inhalation.Golden frost board
the dead pond will be slammed obliquely -
the flooring is moving apart
where is the direct arshin of the question
black swan swallowed.
He stands - black gloves
on the snow, where after the fight
the poet bit the snow,
where I didn't make a typo
pestle, mortar, pistol.
In winter, everything is smooth and field,
polynya without alcohol
and in raspberry boots,
young old age, will,
God's speed, passion and share
make full circles.
Golden chills of excitement
aspen has a bit map,
and it's time to finally
from a frozen sideburn
wolf gnaw out a lollipop.So tired that I stumbled
about the shadow of the pole. Hard
lose your temper - from chills to warmth:
birches breathed - white without snow,
and me, like a hollow -
thickening drops, led to the ground
craft -
a drill gets stuck in a penny,
the channel of speech in the mouth rounded:
hello-
I bend over - the shoulder blade sticks out,
like an oar
rakes out the soul, I wake up out of spite
of death. Again the seventh
January. Carried away from the window
exhale branch. The air has passed
through the glass
lighter look
in the field of Cosmos, God
and the Winter Garden.Our season is Christmas
and the houses reached for the sky.
This snow is made from the streets
and its surface is beautiful.
I can't sing in the cold
good kisses of iron.
This snow is made of wood
from trees on pure snow.
This snow is made of a dress
from a flaming piece of ice in the mouth.
This snow is entirely from an embrace,
not to go into the void.The cigarette is running out.
A window grows from the east.
And you can see when it's dark
Inside, in the emptiness of the object
Under the shell - wine,
half insight,
The giver and the thief - a dictionary.
In my head is the light of a jug,
Like a lantern in the window at night.
Frosts. Blizzard. Sheepskin.
Seventh number. January.According to the old-new year
for Russian December in January
you breathe freedom for a long time -
and your collar in silver.
Green tits tumbling,
feathery noise of reeds.
Visible in the snatches of breath,
on a low wind - the soul.
On the specks of sheep's peas,
on a slope with heavy mica,
where, as if in an icon, frozen
birch leaf drunk.
And black, like behind a convoy, -
the road with the village in the sides, -
loved by pure frost
the river runs south.Footprint in the snow that capital letter:
Beast or bird? Where is the pressure from?
From firmament or from land? Which cranberry -
Arterial - burst into smoke ...
We are all alive to death, eager -
You tear roadside snow tin,
If there are tears and eyes
Read your full flour.The lake surveys itself. running,
feeling a punt on your shoulder,
hides from itself like love and shame
like milk in a funnel.
If you look from under the ground - it
dented into itself, into a hidden bowl, by the sky,
as at the wake of my wine -
bread.
So many glances are squeezed in it -
That's why
it looks into itself and stands with a jack,
like a man throwing his face back into the darkness
enters and remains light.Not a word, not a speech, not a sound,
not the dark essence of fire -
my love gets out of hand
the loss of all of me.
But before you lie down in the clay
on top of native heads,
I'll tell you how beautiful speech is -
before speech, before the first words.
And the thought of the anguish of fire,
making a draft
think for me
untrodden reed.From the same river, from the bend,
The rack is growing stronger,
And, with depth apart,
Falling, backing fish -
In the hard sky - salmon.
Am I with a spear on the edge
Didn't spoil on the edge.
I forget my name
So I'm giving out names.
There's something like this -
Naming shame.
Item Disappearance
He will keep his name.
I whitened my eyes, knocked out
The fluid of life, her
Thirst, and a new death -
My full name.I looked out the eyes to the formula of water,
To the death of poplars, to the angel's eye.
Now I don't care - I know the essence of the trouble
And happiness too much in the open spaces of conversation.
Fly and stand, water, lie down for sure
And trample the boat with a big antique booty.
And sweet in the morning the Dutch skate knife
Like first love, love, try it.Not a willow put in a jar
take a sip of ice cold water,
and turn the light inside out
furry side.
They hurt from such a frost -
with the seal of a cold - mouth,
when the word is spoken
and hears his emptiness.M. Chupryakova
1. Raise me, sparrow,
above God's white eyebrows:
where the water freezes into balls,
there are sharp breasts near the flame,
I don’t remember myself there, for the life of me
me with a feather, sparrow...2. Show, Aquarius, in order
the appearance of crushing ice,
construction and masonry in an open field
snowfall is forever.
I smell clay stronghold and slip,
and chills, and shoulder death.
And the sad soul multiplication
without dividing into land and firmament.Winter day of the lost spring.
Snow flies, rolling
In leather, in clay, in black soil.
Smells like real death
Or a pond of fish.
At the love of a laborer
Speech is darker than dots
And in the bosom burn -
Overcooked snow.
In the soft air bruises -
Oxide apple and fish,
And a bite, and a hook -
Whether the look of excesses,
Or a pit from the pupil.
Not a slap, a tickle
If vodka became water -
Just a little tingle
For the fifteenth sip...When a fisherman follows the breakwater
and his beard in dry sea urine,
empty net sways like a fur coat,
like a woman alive on the shoulder.
And the sea, seven miles above the steppe, crumples a dove
and multiplies familiar fingers behind the stern,
changing depth, folding into a tube
and unfolding the height map.
On land it’s good when a boat is at hand -
by the sky, by the earth, by dear abysses,
where vodka sweats through the glass for a long time
in gardens - from the naked apple.
Bumblebee fleece swarms golden:
chamomile, clay, blood and bronze manure -
How simple sentence,
spread to tears.I loved it here when the ground shook.
Look at the sky - the same blue.
Where the young horse lay
the grass smells like a horse there for a long time.
May this day be repeated,
when peas are green sugar
and smells like cucumber grapes
fleecy and almost maple leaf.
And a hillside in gold-bearing holes.
And too much marginal space.
Potatoes, as expected, in their uniforms.
The dog, as expected, in burrs.The bird casts no shadow
because it's in the air
everywhere, like a heavenly plant,
full of sight and grain,
and you flying towards
if not a clavicle with a knot,
then - with interest - babble and speech -
angelic and bird language.
You feel the sun is eaten by an object,
finally become - as a subject -
sheath of light, or light,
if he bears the light.
So warmly loitering on the sidelines -
strong as a wall and peas,
hovering right above the funnel
breath-taking word.cold rag,
Autumn weather,
Today she has
Chowder of a pedestrian
Sobbing, in the brow
Catching a snowflake
Biter of blood
In her lips - her bitterness,
Like a warm bubble
Airy - in a loaf of bread,
growing across
And the blades, and the sky.I look at the wind, at the garden running in a crowd,
where autumn in leaf fall strokes the house.
In the era between hell and the flood
we are well, my soul, we live.
In the morning creaks from the frost of the transom -
and breathes black earth, crushing the foot ice.
And exactly at noon the weather from the south
will come - and the soul smiles.
And my daughter sings easily and cries bitterly.
And my mother carries to hang clothes.
And in five minutes love will change me
for its immeasurable times.
Now I will not yield to hell or flood
my soul is a working monastery,
my asian house with gates to europe
and a garden with space for Siberia.Misfire vision - flair,
not the power of God, but her
from the high movement
breath in the eyelashes.
When you look to the sky -
you are in the sky. You see: the strip -
your eyes work
but not from an airplane.
And, with my eyes on the air,
you cut the air without a knife
for snow and water.
For an angel and a bird.daughters
Royal ratchet, tsifir -
Grasshopper, phone number,
Launched from Albion
To my frosty Siberia.
Where is happiness - as tall as a pike's beak -
Swallows and presses in all the eyes.
Where is the book, swallowing the air,
Like a bird, it gets used to the house.
Where is not a window, but a pillowcase -
Minting salt and dew.
And the boring west by the east
Steals midnight hours.1. After the thaw - at once
imperceptibly erupt
cold: eyelashes fall out
on a disheveled diamond
frozen water.
And until the summer, in reserve,
vegetates higher than a bird
gaze out of sight.2. Like a glass of vodka with a slide -
frozen deep pond.
Just about behind the dark, rancid
snow will occur.
And in the isolation of the house
stick to the pupil
window opening
o last bruise.3. Tinning holes in the window -
with warmth and frost - doubly
narrows the district and the garden,
the look becomes shorter,
the days are getting shorter
as if alone in the world
trams and snow - a trap,
steel double track.Do you remember the time when I went without a coat:
to forget the earthy embrace of the overcoat:
stood high at night in an airless blizzard
and understood, decreasing like snow, into a sieve:
death is the air no one breathes,
the air that from the balcony - like from the sky - dressed
in a white, wider footstool, coat.Space asks for zgi and the evil eye,
mountains and seas with bones
from blood, snow and diamond,
like the tea pupils of the Caucasus,
diluted with brandy
like the balance of flight
and look full fields,
already without a bird and a bumblebee,
like darkness, and the eyes of an astrologer,
grape mustache and yawning,
and thoughts are a dead loop,
and late autumn work,
where the sky lasts like infantry,
when the earth ends.If you come from the city, you will bring bread.
The village will peel potatoes for dinner.
Walks on the radio choir of the Komsomol.
And the windows are glassy.
But in the evening you won't die of love
and you will carry a change of linen through the garden,
where the gray Ural falls to the gate
and the dilapidated greenhouse looks like a bus.
You naked will leave the bath in the snow -
and the night is filled with wind and sight,
when, how young man,
frost will cover you with snowfall.
And in the morning, when they repeat the movie,
you open the curtains straight south.
To the sea again far and dark:
road, fence and barrier in Circassian.Ekaterinburg
(1955-06-11 ) (57 years old)
Russia
E. V. Kuznetsova
Yuri Viktorovich Kazarin(born June 11) - poet, linguist, professor of the philological faculty of the Ural State University. A. M. Gorky.
Biography
Born in the city of Sverdlovsk. Graduate of the Faculty of Philology of USU. Since 2010, he has been working at the Department of Modern Russian Language, Ural State University. In - gg. taught Russian abroad. He defended his doctoral dissertation on the topic “Poetic Text as a Unique Functional and Aesthetic System” in Moscow. At USU, he reads all the main courses in the specialty "Russian language". Research interests: poetic phonosemantics, lexicography, lexical semantics, language ability, Russian language poetic personality, philological analysis of poetic text, etc. Student of Professor E. V. Kuznetsova. Belongs to the Ural Semantic School. Participates in the lexicographic work of the Department of Modern Russian Language, Ural State University.
Member of the Union of Writers of Russia (since a year, one of the guarantors - A. A. Tarkovsky). Chairman of the Yekaterinburg branch of the Writers' Union of Russia (2003-2010). Since 2010 - head. department of poetry of the magazine "Ural". Winner of several literary awards (Moscow, Yekaterinburg, Perm). Poems were published in the magazines "Ural", "October", "Znamya", "Youth", "New World", etc., as well as in the USA, Spain and Italy.
Major editions of poetry and prose
- "Weather" (poems), 1991;
- "After the Flood" (poems), 1994;
- "The Fifth Book" (poems), 1996;
- "Field of View" (poems), 1998;
- "Swimmer" (poetry and prose), 2000 (additional ed. - 2006);
- "Escape" (poems), 2002;
- "Counterclockwise..." (poems), 2005;
- "Selected Poems 1976-2006", 2006;
- "Kamensky elegies", 2009;
- "Kamensky elegies. Part two", 2010;
- "Kamensky elegies. Part three. Angel. Bird. Man", 2011.
- "Kamensky Elegies", Izbornik, 2012
Monographs and study guides
- Poetic text as a system, 1999;
- Problems of phonosemantics of poetic text, 2000;
- Linguistic Analysis of a Literary Text: Textbook for High Schools, 2000 (co-author);
- The poetic state of the language (attempt to comprehend), 2002;
- Philological text analysis: Workshop, 2003 (co-author);
- Linguistic analysis of a literary text. Theory and practice, 2003 (co-author);
- Philological analysis of the poetic text: a textbook for universities, 2004;
- Last poem. 100 Russian poets. XVIII–XX centuries Anthology-monograph, 2004
- Poetic graphics: monograph, 2007 (co-authored);
- Prosody. Book about versification, 2007;
- Text workshop: a book about text creation, 2008;
- Poet Boris Ryzhiy, 2009;
- Fundamentals of text creation, 2009;
- Poetry and Literature, 2011;
- Ural Semantic School: history, people, events, 2011;
- Poets of the Urals, 2011;
- Conversations with Maya Nikulina: 15 evenings;
- Last poem. 100 Russian poets. XVII-XX centuries Anthology monograph, 2011 (reprint)
- First Poem: 100 Russian Poets of the 18th–20th Centuries. My Poem: App. to the anthology-monograph. "The Last Poem", 2011;
