Poet, prose writer.

He studied at a vocational school, a printing college. In the first post-war years, he was sent to a colony for juvenile delinquents, from where he escaped in order to search for his father. Changing professions, traveled a lot around the country.

He published his first poems in the mid-1950s. In 1960, the first collection of poems "Search for warmth" was published. Author of collections of poems "Thank you, earth", "Slanting streams", "Monologue", "Facial features", "Reflections", "I am sitting on the bunk" and other works.

Member of the SP of the USSR (1963).
He was elected a member of the Audit Commission of the Writers' Union of the RSFSR (1985-91), the Board of the Writers' Union of the USSR (1986-91), the Supreme Creative Council of the Writers' Union of Russia (since 1994).
Member of the Russian PEN Center (1996).
Academician of the Academy of Russian Literature (1996).
Member of the editorial board of the journal "Aurora" (since 1977).
He was a member of the editorial board of the newspaper "Literator" (1991).

Author of over 40 books of poetry and prose. Many songs have been created to the verses of Gleb Gorbovsky, not only by bards, but also by professional composers. Suffice it to mention the names of V. Solovyov-Sedogo, S. Pozhlakov, A. Morozov.

The words of the song "Lanterns" ("When the night lanterns sway ...") (1953) are considered by many to be folk, not knowing that their author is the poet Gleb Gorbovsky.

prizes and awards

Laureate of the State Prize of the RSFSR (Moscow, 1984).
Order of the Badge of Honor (1985).
Jubilee medal in memory of Marshal Georgy Zhukov (Moscow, 2001).
Medal "In memory of the 300th anniversary of St. Petersburg" (2003)
Peter's Medal "For Faith and Loyalty" from the Chapter of Russian Orders (St. Petersburg, 2000).
Two awards of the magazine "Our Contemporary" (1990, 1998).
Prize to them. Andrey Platonov "Smart Heart" (1995).
Prize of the weekly "Literary Russia" (1998).
Prize of the magazine "Moscow" (1999).
All-Russian Prize "Ladoga" them. Alexander Prokofiev for the book "Cursed little head" (1999).
Laureate of the public competition (according to a survey of readers of St. Petersburg) "Writer of the Year" (2001).
Golden Pen Award of the Interregional Union of Writers of the North-West (2001).
All-Russian Orthodox Literary Prize. St. Prince Alexander Nevsky (2004).
Prize of the Government of St. Petersburg for the book "Rasputitsa" (2005).
Prize to them. Ivan Bunin (2007).
New Pushkin Prize (2008).
Prize to them. Konstantin Balmont (2008).

Gleb Yakovlevich GORBOVSKII (born 1931) - Russian poet, prose writer. Academician of the Academy of Russian Literature.

Gleb Yakovlevich GORBOVSKII Born October 4, 1931 in Leningrad in a teacher's family. Father, a native of a peasant Old Believer family, Yakov Alekseevich Gorbovsky (1900-1992) was repressed in 1937. Mother, daughter of the Komi-Zyryan children's writer Agnia Sukhanova Galina Ivanovna Sukhanova, just before the war, sent her son to the sister of her arrested husband in Porkhov, which was captured by the Germans. After the Victory, a mother was found who had spent the entire blockade in Leningrad. The poet later recalled how he wandered around orphanages until his mother and stepfather found him and assigned him to vocational school No. 13. From the school he ended up in a colony for juvenile delinquents in the city of Marx, made a successful escape. He got to Leningrad, but by that time his mother and stepfather had moved to Novosibirsk, and Gorbovsky left for the Kostroma region, where his exiled father taught at a rural school, who helped him get a passport and finish the seven-year plan.

Gorbovsky graduated from the eighth grade already in Leningrad, then he served in the construction battalion (for three years of service he spent more than two hundred days in a guardhouse). After the army, he entered the Leningrad Polygraphic College, from where he was expelled two years later.

He studied in literary associations, first in the DC of vocational education with David Dar, then with Gleb Semyonov at the Mining Institute. In the literary association of the Mining Institute, he met Lydia Gladka, who became his first wife and with whom he later went on a geophysical expedition to Sakhalin, where he worked for several years.
He began to write poetry at the age of sixteen, in the army he wrote songs, one of the most famous - "I'm sitting on the bunk, like a king on a name day." The first publication of poems was in the Volkhov regional newspaper Stalinskaya Pravda (1955). The first book was published in 1960. Member of the USSR Writers' Union since 1963. Since 1974 he has also been writing prose. He wrote the libretto of the operetta "Shine, shine, my star" to the music of S. Pozhlakov (1978).

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Gleb Yakovlevich GORBOVSKII: poetry

***
Parting with life, tighten up,
face death with a clear prayer.
From her - and indeed - wherever you hide,
not to leave: not to succeed, not to be able to.

Everyone would prefer a fierce death
death - in a dream, or - in drunken oblivion ...
To die, yearning for remorse:
Here is a dream, here are my thoughts!

... I stand in the temple - a stranger:
fate swept past the temple -
drunken trio! With a tortured blush
on the cheeks of a drunken slave,

There were too many words, and laziness,
and bragging - in my lifetime.
I'm kneeling in the temple
and I can't get up off my knees.

Gotta get on all fours first
and, groaning, uplift oneself in anguish,
relying not on a cane and money -
on a candle in your hand!

SEMYONOVNA

Semyonovna, there is longing in your eyes.
No, not melancholy ... Perhaps this is the time.
I did not know that living in the world is harmful:
sheds eyes like late meadows.

No. Not melancholy ... Alive - not up to it.
A cow entered a narrow gate,
cats ran to a wonderful drink
and warm lap up life.

Huge - already bent over -
a pumpkin grew in the garden.
Semyonovna, tell me, how are you?
The old man is in the ground. The last son drank.

Excellent over the clover river -
a scythe does not take them ... And who will sharpen? ..
I can not. Grandfather-neighbor - does not want.
Forgive me, Semyonovna, but I have to go...

It's time for yourself. I am attracted by the city.
I run again, whispering to you: "Thank you."
You remain to guard Russia,
drink her healing milk.

Semyonovna, goodbye. Live forever.
In your eyes - love, in patience - strength.
…I looked back. And she - baptized!
Whom? Me? Village? Cities?

***
Passionless time sums up
labors that pass by...
Modern palaces are more expensive
ruins of ancient Rome!
We drink to the modern world
cocktails: love for next to nothing...
And Shakespeare's human passions
don't leave the stage!
Are pseudo-prophets
they broadcast, and ... they are not there again ...
But through the distances and time
unshakable Truth of Christ!

A LIFE

Wake up... Take a pen and paper,
look from the lowlands to heaven
And remember God that from the darkness
pulled you out by opening your eyes.

Your eyes opened, your mind
so that you manifest beauty
burned ... but - did not flare up immediately,
and called her a saint.

You visited the moments of life,
what the Lord has given you.
... Hang on a branch like an apple
and fall, having lost the flesh.

* * *
Everything that interfered soared brains -
I shattered over the years into pieces.

And yet there was a lump of fire,
that burns the soul out of me...

No, not despondency and not alcohol -
they have relinquished their role.

Remained a flaming result
doubt that God exists.

But I go - in burns and in smoke -
towards the desired - Him!

RIVER OF LIFE

No, I did not live in vain, not in vain,
keeping fire in the heart ...
Let all the rivers flow into the seas
but one runs into me.
Flowing through all the ages
from afar, far away
River of Life - God's River
falls into my sadness.
She carries golden sand
meaning - and the foam of evil,
and blood through the veins, and faith current,
and honey, like a honeycomb - a bee.
Believe, friend, do not be sad, brother, -
there is no reason to doubt...
May all rivers flow into the Sunset,
but yours falls - into Dawn!

TORTURE

Die and rise again
on a rotten, but - dear bed.
To dance to a demonic tune,
feeling exhausted in the body.

Gradually look out the window
extracting omens of life there.
And float up, leaning on the bottom,
from the enclosing abyss - to the light!

But, Lord, for this game
I am grateful to you in abundance:
do not whine that, without swimming, I will die,
but - endure double torture!

* * *
I looked into the depths of the fire
and remembered that once upon a time -
not only was I not there,
but also Adam and Eve.

The light of the sun without people is not extinguished.
What if the world is deserted?
And if so, then at a certain hour -
us on earth ... will not be again.

The spirit will disappear, the flesh will disappear,
sea ​​and land will collapse...
... But if the Lord created us, -
He will recreate our souls too!

Everyone in his own way ... But there are exceptions.
And yet "ego" is our credo here,
here, on the parade ground of earthly existence...
Above all pronouns - "I".

And what is love? Love is God's gift.
Not the love of the sexes, more precisely - couples.
She evaporate - a couple of trifles.
And the gift of love knows no shores.

He, this Gift, keeps on the ground
everything that exists is in the hands, and not in a noose.

PALM SUNDAY

Easter warmth,
the sky has shaken off the clouds!
last year's wormwood
was still smelly.

Over the pregnant river
got willow earrings ...
And delight, not peace -
in the soul of ... little faith.

Little faith! And who am I
if only at the threshold
on the bright holiday of Genesis
according to the "cheat sheet" - I remembered God ...

Gleb Yakovlevich GORBOVSKII: interview

Gleb Yakovlevich GORBOVSKII (born 1931)- Russian poet, prose writer. Academician of the Academy of Russian Literature: | .

Gleb GORBOVSKII: "ALL POETS ARE GOD'S WHISTLES"

Gleb Yakovlevich, how was the next summer in the holiday village of Komarovo? How did you work and rest? What are the new verses about?
- For the fifth year from June to October I have been living in a writer's village in Komarov. I was given a "half a booth" for rent. I write poetry every morning - secluded and being absolutely sober. 103 poems have already accumulated in my fat notebook this summer. What are they, you ask? Yes, everything in the world! About many-sided life and coming death. And about old age too. However, the inevitable whining and grumbling at my age I humble with a saving irony and a smile. I always hated boredom and tediousness - both in life and in poetry!

At the beginning of the summer, I proofread and signed for publication the fourth volume of the collected works - this is prose of the 70s. I wrote these stories in the Belarusian village of Teterki near Vitebsk. There, from the late 60s to the first half of the 90s of the last century, I annually visited my ex-wife's relatives. I wrote well in Teterki. For a quarter of a century, in addition to prose, he brought out hundreds of poems and songs for adults and children. So the 5th and 6th volumes of collected works may well replenish my “Belarusian Notebook”, presented in the 2nd and 3rd volumes. And now they have just delivered signal copies of the fourth volume, the very first one was presented for the anniversary to Dmitry Mizgulin, a poet and philanthropist from Khanty-Mansiysk.

Lida and I also had to hastily start laying out a book of selected poems from the first decade of the 21st century, Two Shores. According to the compilers, there was plenty to choose from - it turns out that he scribbled more than a thousand verses! Weeded out mercilessly, but still the future book turns out to be thick.

Thank God, without me this summer an addition to the collection of my works was also made - a collection of selected songs by numerous composers, musicians and bards who set my poems and texts specially made for cinema, theater and stage to music.

It is surprising to me that so far the most diverse people, in their own motives and ways, sing my poems, not only in Russia. For example, at a recent creative evening - in connection with the presentation of my diploma as a nominee for the Union State of Russia and Belarus - the song "Height" sounded wonderfully, which was brought as a gift from Boston by composer Yevgenia Khazanova and a wonderful young singer Alexander Pakhmutov.

As always, guests came to us in Komarovo - not random, but dear ones: Lyudmila Efremova from Nadym, Tatyana Agapova from Murmansk, Inga Petkevich, Anatoly Domashev, Lilia Starikova, Viktor Sosnora with a film group and many more good friends. And the meeting in the House of Creativity of Writers "Komarovo" turned out to be a real celebration of communication - Dmitry Mizgulin came to present me with the "Ugra" award.

Your literary fund dacha is two steps away from the dacha, or booth, of Anna Andreevna Akhmatova. There is something significant in the fact that you were not included in the group of "Akhmatov's orphans", although you could have been included in the age and commonality of some companies, it was prestigious and profitable in a literary sense. And whose are you, if I may say so, a poetic son or an "orphan"? ..
- Here, as you can see, there is not one Akhmatova "booth": there are five more houses. And many other wonderful poets and prose writers lived and worked in each of them at one time, but for some reason they are not remembered. And if memorial plaques are hung on these houses, then the walls will not be enough. The house where Akhmatova lived, as you know, was put in order by Alexander Zhukov, a talented composer who set poems by Akhmatova and other poets of the Silver Age to music. He is one of the founders of the New Pushkin Prize, which I also had the honor to receive in 2009. Now another laureate of this award, Valery Popov, lives in Akhmatova's house. The remaining houses have not been repaired by the Litfond since the 50s of the last century, so the tenant writers had to repair and improve the territory on their own and with their own means. And now no one can say that our "village" is ownerless and neglected. More than once - both in prose and in verse, and in many interviews - I talked about how Joseph Brodsky, Anatoly Bobyshev and Anatoly Naiman introduced me to Anna Andreevna Akhmatova. You can read about it in the second volume of the collected works. Both in the past and in the new century, I dedicated poems to Akhmatova.

As for the "Akhmatov orphans", I did not even think of being among them. I think that an adult, especially a poet who believes in the Heavenly Father, who recognizes himself as the son of his native land-Fatherland and the entire Zemshara, can hardly call himself an orphan. Joseph Brodsky dedicated prophetic verses to me in his youth, and I answered him only after his death ...

Anna Andreevna had only one orphan son - Lev Nikolaevich Gumilyov. It was Lieutenant Schmidt, as you know, who turned out to have "orphans" without a number.

And my creativity comes from my own parents, teachers of the Russian language and literature. My father turned me to the book, to creativity, whom I found after the war in the village of Zhilino in the Volga region, where he lived in exile after 10 years in the camps. And only then - Pushkin, Lermontov, Nekrasov, Blok, Yesenin ...

In fact, I felt like an orphan even when my parents were alive: the regime took my father from me for many years, and the war took my mother. And she, damned, took away childhood itself: she made me a wounded animal. It’s good that the solid core, which I inherited both from my parents and from my ancestors, who were strong in body and spirit of northerners - farmers, hunters, fishermen, did not break. So I got out, I found my way.

Don't you feel like driving around Russia, Belarus, Ukraine, once again feeling like a citizen of a large country of the USSR, meeting with fellow poets, reading poetry in the palaces of culture, listening to the Kursk nightingale, looking at the white stork in the sky of Polissya, bright stars over the Ukrainian hut?
- To be honest, it doesn’t pull anymore ... This has long been experienced, seen, felt - and turned into poems and songs ... All this cannot be mastered again. But my memory has not changed me, my imagination has not become impoverished, the “cursed kettle” cooks day and night. Therefore, I can mentally look back and see everything in detail: a military childhood with gallows in Porkhov, wanderings around the Pskov region and the Baltic states; adolescence with a craft, a children's prison and a colony; construction battalion youth, and only then Sakhalin, and Kamchatka volcanoes, and Verkhoyansk, and Ukrainian Odessa, and Belarusian Khatyn, and Italian Venice, and American New York. And many other cities and villages. Time allowed me to see everything passed as if anew. All these images and impressions are now turning into new verses.

In what colors do you perceive your military childhood, youth, maturity? And what is your favorite color anyway? And your favorite flower, favorite time of day, favorite song?
- Favorite flower - forget-me-not. Favorite colors are blue and green, the colors of the sky, water and spring fields. And my least favorite color is red: the color of the regime that took my father away from me for many years, the color of blood and the glow of military conflagrations. I love mornings, especially sunny ones, when I write poetry. Many people love songs, but especially Lermontov's "I go out alone on the road."

Now it has become fashionable to make ratings of poets, hastily add up anthologies, dictionaries, publish lists ... And at the same time, often no one can remember the very poems of the “first poets”, no one reads them to their beloved girls, no one recites from the stage ...
- I don't want to think about all these ratings. I don't give a damn about all this mouse fuss, foreign rubbish. It's just a distraction from the real work of the writer, especially the poet.

Where do words and thoughts come from?
- My "process of adding poetry" begins with a sudden flash in the brain. It will sparkle - and there both thought and experience help. Usually it goes without effort, without tedious searches. And sometimes it’s as if I’m writing down from dictation ... Maybe it’s not for nothing that someone called me “God’s pipe”? It seems that all of us, poets, His "whistles".

What verses were the most difficult for you? And how many poems are in your still incomplete collection of poems today? At least approximately?
- The most difficult were those for which they paid too dearly: fate, heartache, loss of loved ones ...
And I don’t do counts of written poems and publications.

Is it possible, in your opinion, to judge a poet for his actions - perfect or imperfect? Or are great poets beyond jurisdiction by definition?
- I am sure: all of us, including poets, are subject to jurisdiction. And before the court of the people, the people, and before the court of one's own conscience. And then there is the Supreme Court - God. Only a stupid person, immoral by and large, can imagine himself beyond jurisdiction. Sooner or later, each of us will have to answer for everything.

- Are there any verses for which you are ashamed?
- What I published, perhaps, I am not ashamed. Well, something didn’t work out or it turned out weakly, inaccurately in word and thought - so it’s quite natural with such a flow ... Still, I managed to remain myself. And what he composed in army times, passionately desiring to be printed, - to publish in newspapers, thank God, no one wanted. Thank them for this!

Maybe you yourself will ask yourself a question that you have never been asked, but which you would like to publicly answer?
- I would ask myself this question: “But didn’t you poison yourself, my friend, with poems, using them without measure, and also producing them in such quantities until such advanced years?”
I will answer this way: “Alas, no: the appetite and thirst for these products are insatiable and inexhaustible, although I am already really an old toothless man and have become like a hippopotamus.”

I testify for our readers and admirers - the poet Gleb Gorbovsky is in excellent shape! As you can see in the photo. Thank you, Gleb Yakovlevich, for an interesting conversation and poetry. Health to you!
- Thanks!

Russian poet, writer.
Born into a teacher's family, Gleb's parents were teachers of the Russian language and literature. The father, a native of a peasant Old Believer family, was repressed in 1937, on an absurd denunciation, served 10 years in labor camps, and then received a defeat in the right to reside in large cities and settled in Kineshma, having lost contact with his son for a while. Just before the war, the mother sent her son for the summer holidays to the sister of the arrested husband in Porkhov, in this village of Gleb Gorbovsky the war was overwhelmed. Mother spent the entire blockade in Leningrad. The poet later recalled how he wandered around orphanages until his mother and stepfather found him and assigned him to vocational school No. 13, where he received the profession of a carpenter.
From the school, Gorbovsky ended up in a colony for juvenile delinquents in the city of Marx, made a successful escape and reached Leningrad, but by that time his mother and stepfather had moved to Novosibirsk. Gorbovsky left for Kineshma, where his exiled father taught at a rural school, who helped Gleb get a passport and finish the seven-year plan. Gorbovsky graduated from the eighth grade already in Leningrad, then he served in the construction battalion (for three years of service he spent more than two hundred days in a guardhouse). After the army, he entered the Leningrad Polygraphic College, from where he was expelled two years later.
He began to write poetry at the age of sixteen, in the army he wrote songs, one of the most famous - "I'm sitting on the bunk, like a king on a name day." The first publication of Gorbovskiy's poems took place in the Volkhov regional newspaper "Stalinskaya Pravda" (1955). Later, Gorbovsky studied in literary associations, first at the House of Culture for Vocational Education under David Dar, then under Gleb Semenov at the Mining Institute.
Gleb Gorbovsky traveled a lot around the country, worked as a model maker at the Krasny Oktyabr factory, a Lengaz locksmith, a loader, a lumberjack and an rafting worker in Siberia, an explosivesman on geological expeditions in Kamchatka, Sakhalin, and Yakutia.
In the 1950s, Gleb Gorbovsky became one of the most popular unofficial poets in Leningrad. Literally everyone became aware of his songs - “When the night lanterns swing ...”, “A drunken guard stood at the premises of the Beer-Water ...”, etc. Gorbovsky's first book of poems was published in 1960. In 1963 he joined the Writers' Union. He wrote a great many completely Soviet poems. Since 1974 he has also been writing prose. He wrote the libretto of the operetta "Shine, shine, my star" to the music of S. Pozhlakov (1978). In total, Gleb Gorbovsky published more than 30 books of poetry and prose.
He was married three times (in his first marriage to the poetess Lydia Smooth), has three children.
Gleb Yakovlevich Gorbovsky - Laureate of the State Prize of the RSFSR (1984) and many others, Academician of the Academy of Russian Literature (1996). Awarded with the Order of the Badge of Honor.

From the book of fate: Gorbovsky Gleb Yakovlevich Born October 4, 1931 in Leningrad, in a family of teachers, Gleb's parents were teachers of the Russian language and literature. The father, a native of a peasant Old Believer family, was repressed in 1937, on an absurd denunciation, served 10 years in labor camps, and then received a defeat in the right to reside in large cities and settled in Kineshma, having lost contact with his son for a while. Just before the war, the mother sent her son for the summer holidays to the sister of the arrested husband in Porkhov, in this village of Gleb Gorbovsky the war was overwhelmed. Mother spent the entire blockade in Leningrad. The poet later recalled how he wandered around orphanages until his mother and stepfather found him and assigned him to vocational school No. 13, where he received the profession of a carpenter.

From the school, Gorbovsky ended up in a colony for juvenile delinquents in the city of Marx, made a successful escape and reached Leningrad, but by that time his mother and stepfather had moved to Novosibirsk. Gorbovsky left for Kineshma, where his exiled father taught at a rural school, who helped Gleb get a passport and finish the seven-year plan. Gorbovsky graduated from the eighth grade already in Leningrad, then he served in the construction battalion (for three years of service he spent more than two hundred days in a guardhouse). After the army, he entered the Leningrad Polygraphic College, from where he was expelled two years later.

He began to write poetry at the age of sixteen, in the army he wrote songs, one of the most famous - "I'm sitting on the bunk, like a king on a name day." The first publication of Gorbovsky's poems took place in the Volkhov regional newspaper "Stalinskaya Pravda" (1955). Later, Gorbovsky studied in literary associations, first in the House of Culture of Vocational Education under David Dar, then under Gleb Semyonov at the Mining Institute.

Gleb Gorbovsky traveled a lot around the country, worked as a model maker at the Krasny Oktyabr factory, a Lengaz locksmith, a loader, a lumberjack and an rafting worker in Siberia, an explosivesman on geological expeditions in Kamchatka, Sakhalin, and Yakutia.

In the 1950s, Gleb Gorbovsky became one of the most popular unofficial poets in Leningrad. Literally everyone became aware of his songs - “When the night lanterns swing ...”, “A drunken guard stood at the premises of the Beer-Water ...”, etc. Gorbovsky's first book of poems was published in 1960. In 1963 he joined the Writers' Union. Since 1974 he has also been writing prose. He wrote the libretto of the operetta "Shine, shine, my star" to the music of S. Pozhlakov (1978). In total, Gleb Gorbovsky published more than 30 books of poetry and prose.

He was married three times (in his first marriage to the poetess Lydia Gladkaya), has three children.

Prizes:

State Prize of the RSFSR (1984);

laureate of the "Smart Heart" contest named after Andrey Platonov in the "Poetry" section (Moscow, 1995);

laureate of the public competition (according to a survey of residents of St. Petersburg) "Writer of the Year" (2001);

"Golden Pen" of the Interregional Union of Writers of the North-West (2001);

Orthodox Literary Prize of the Holy Prince Alexander Nevsky (2005);

Prize of the Government of St. Petersburg in the field of literature (2005);

New Pushkin Prize (2008).

Awards:

Order of the Badge of Honor (1985);

Peter's Medal "For Faith and Loyalty" from the Chapter of Russian Orders (2000);

Jubilee medal in memory of Marshal Georgy Zhukov (2001).

In October 1931, a remarkable poet and prose writer Gleb Gorbovsky was born in a family of Soviet teachers in Leningrad. His father was a native of peasants, and his mother was from the family of a famous writer. Apparently, Gleb Gorbovsky inherited his talent. The poet did not really like to be frank about his life, but he wrote a witty autobiography, where behind a joking tone one can clearly hear and understand a huge life responsibility.

Autobiography

Much was unbearable already in childhood. As a boy, Gleb Gorbovsky survived the occupation far from home, wandered for four years. He endured a lot in his youth: problems in educational institutions, a colony. But already at an early age, it turned out to go headlong into poetry. Gleb Gorbovsky began to write them at the age of sixteen, a fugitive hiding far away in the wilderness. Where his disenfranchised father taught while in the settlement. All this, probably, is impossible to tell seriously without tears, and it is not fitting for a man, even a poet, to cry.

Therefore, the already adult and great poet Gleb Gorbovsky covered up his childhood experiences in his autobiography. He immediately warned that he did not intend to be naked even verbally in front of people. "The most decent thing," he says, "is to unbutton two buttons on a shirt to show personal data." Despite the writer's undressing breed, he remained true to himself: he was frank, even intimate, but without the slightest sign of spiritual nakedness.

biography

The autobiography that the poet offers us is read not just excitedly. The reader experiences each described event as if it is happening to him at the moment. And it was Gleb Gorbovsky who did not read his poems, where an incredible depth of feeling is hidden in such simple words. The poet does not philosophize slyly, does not pour ambitious casuistry from empty to empty. He honestly and bluntly states in his autobiography: "I am bad."

And then he explains why these two words were the basis of the whole long and full of turning events in his life story. The poet Gleb Gorbovsky does not show himself to the reader. He speaks of the hard-won, the sacred. He considers himself bad not because he drank, smoked, played cards, loved women, was in the occupation, was in a penal colony. Although, as the poet admits, not without it. But that's not the reason at all. She is in insufficient faith in God. It is impossible to discern it clearly, and from the vagueness the foundation of being is unsteady underfoot.

path to god

In fact, studying the poet's autobiography, the reader understands that Gleb Yakovlevich Gorbovsky went all the way in this direction - to God. Even before he began to travel to monasteries and learn from his old father faith in God. Even before being baptized. The biography of Gleb Gorbovsky developed in the same way as most of the people who grew up in the war.

He was born near St. Petersburg University, but he had to study at school in fits and starts. And the best place was for him - this university. Father Yakov Alekseevich is a teacher of literature at school, mother Galina Ivanovna is the daughter of Agnia Danshchikova, the first children's writer among the Komi people. But Gleb Gorbovsky did not study at the university. He also wrote children's poems about this (which especially concerns poems for schoolchildren). At fifteen, he managed to finish only two classes of school, and those before the war.

Loneliness

He had to live most of his childhood without a father, and despite the fact that he was born in the center of a glorious city, he spent many years wandering far from civilization. My father was imprisoned in Yezhovshchina. For eight years. And in June 1941, the boy went to his aunt, his father's sister, to a dacha in Porkhov, a town in the Pskov region. He was not yet ten years old. Mom put him in the car and saw her son only after she experienced the blockade.

It was so hard during the occupation that the poet Gleb Gorbovsky wrote about it in poems for children only in oblique terms, hints, he took care of the child's psyche. He quickly fought off his aunt, and therefore had to wander, work as laborers, even steal. After his release, he was found by his mother, who, fortunately, was alive. Much later, everything experienced by the child gradually began to pour into poetry. But even here, in poems for schoolchildren, Gleb Gorbovsky does not allow either exaggerated pathos or squeezing out tears. How simply it is written about refugees under shelling, about a child who eats from the garbage heap.

School of Life

Returning to the liberated Leningrad, the future poet could not stay at school. Apparently, long-term wanderings finally violated his ability to adopt a certain way of life. I had to enroll in a vocational school, where I also failed to settle down. Gleb Gorbovsky wrote poems for children about St. Petersburg not then. He was sent to a penal colony in the city of Marx, on the Volga. In the colony, his freemen at school and college were remembered as a boon.

For a long time he could not stand it - he fled. Oddly enough, it worked out well. He arrived in Leningrad, where he almost got caught again, but was not caught. Then I went to my father, who by that time had served his time. Wilderness, tiny village near Kineshma with a school for twelve students in all four classes, the father is the only teacher. Then poetry began, from the age of sixteen.

The search for a home

He realized what was the worst thing in the world. It's only one thing - to be alone. Knock on the window. And never get home. It was simply impossible not to write about it. When, having escaped from the colony, you miraculously get to your home, but it turns out that your mother and stepfather are already far away - they live in Novorossiysk. And the father is unknown. Gleb Gorbovsky nevertheless returned to Leningrad and immediately entered the eighth grade of the school. Father prepared. But I didn’t manage to finish my studies, then there were three years of the army - a construction battalion.

A little over a thousand days. Of these, he spent almost three hundred days in the guardhouse. That's the craving for freedom was the poet. After demobilization, he studied at the Polygraphic College for about two years, from where he was also expelled. Obviously not good at studying. On the other hand, Gleb Gorbovsky wrote poems for 4th grade children in such a way that schoolchildren were imbued with a great love for science, learned the richness of the Russian language, and became infected with curiosity for the nature of their native land.

Poems and songs

While in the army, Gleb Gorbovsky did not write poems for children about autumn, this happened much later. And he wrote other poems and songs there, many of which he later burned with whole notebooks. But some remained, and probably forever. "I'm sitting on the bunk, like a king on a birthday" - this is from there. And even the famous "Vladimir Central" next to such a high-class chanson clearly pales. Returning to Leningrad, the poet was engaged in various literary associations, and worked wherever he had to.

In the literary association of the Mining Institute, he met his first wife (there were three in total, four are mentioned in some sources). She also wrote poetry, many of them on dissident topics, for which she was expelled from the Mining Institute, after which Gleb Gorbovsky went with her to Sakhalin on a geological expedition as a bomber. Traveled for work throughout the Far East, Yakutia, Kamchatka. There were many, many impressions.

Literature

His poems were first published in 1955. It was the regional newspaper "Stalinskaya Pravda" in Volkhov. And the first book - "The Search for Heat" - was published in 1960. According to the results of publications in 1963, Gleb Gorbovsky became a member of the Writers' Union of the USSR. Since 1974, he began to write prose, and he did it no worse than poetry.

In 1978, he wrote the operetta libretto "Burn, Burn, My Star" (music by Pozhlakov). The operetta was a great success. And yet, many more of his poems changed hands in lists, and his songs sounded untitled everywhere. Gleb Gorbovsky always felt like a poet first of all, regardless of where he worked - whether he worked as a carpenter at a piano factory, a mechanic in the gas facilities of Leningrad, an explosivesman on Sakhalin, or an assistant to a volcanologist in Kamchatka.

Personal life

But he was considered a dissident poet, and he was also a heavy drinker. The latter, admittedly, was true. Only the third marriage stopped the poet for a while, and he did not take any alcohol in his mouth for almost twenty years. With the beginning of Perestroika, he was upset and untied again. Well, what kind of dissident is Gleb Gorbovsky after that? He, who wrote a huge number of absolutely Soviet poems - pure, heartfelt, deep, loves his own country with all his poetic soul and suffers from every pain of it. The country celebrated his work by singing his songs in the largest cities and in the smallest villages, often without even knowing him as an author. Only in 1981, Gorbovsky received the Order of the Badge of Honor, and in 1984 he became a laureate of the State Prize.

In Perestroika, despite the fact that he not only did not welcome her, but was also horrified by the deeds that were taking place, the poet was treated kindly much more: the PEN club, the Academy of Russian Literature (academician!). Already in the fifties, Gleb Gorbovsky became a cult poet in his native city, remaining completely unofficial. Poems that were not published in books were passed from hand to hand in rewritten leaves. His songs were sung literally in every restaurant: "There was a Soviet guard at the Beer-Water pavilion" or even more famous: "I'm coming from the pub, I'm not waiting for anyone" ("Lanterns"). Indeed, even if Gorbovsky composed only this one song and did not write a single line more, he would still become no less famous than he is now.

Publications

Gorbovsky's books of prose were published nine times, mainly the stories: "The Station", "The Rosehip Branch", "The Pipe in the Wind" and others. The last in 1994 was Confessions of an Alcoholic. Books of poetry, beginning in 1964, appeared frequently, with breaks of a year or two. In 2000, "Thunder" came out. Gleb Gorbovsky published his first poems for children in 1965, and the little Leningraders really liked the book Who Rides What. In 1972, the second children's book of poems "Different stories" was published. And adults read the poet's stanzas from the books "Thank you, earth" (1963) and "Slanting branches" (1966), from the excellent collections "Silence" (1968) and "New Summer" (1971), the touching book "Return to the House" ( 1974).

Gleb Gorbovsky's poems are exclusively musical, they themselves are music, and therefore they did not really need a melody. However, composers - and the best ones - have often been inspired by them. Pozhlakov, Kolker, Morozov, Solovyov-Sedoy wrote music on his poems. On the stages of the highest level of applause after the performance of songs on his poems, such performers as Shufutinsky, Dolsky, Pakhomenko, Tolkunova, Zakharov, Khil, Piekha, Kikabidze and many others. Everyone knows these songs: "Come spend the night with me", "Autumn", "Daddy, give me a doll." The list of them is very long.

Depth

In Gleb Gorbovsky's poetry there is an exceptional musicality, and the poet achieves this with the simplest choice of words and the most accurate rhyme. But under this simplicity there are great depths, which each of his poems shows gradually. These simple words give the reader a surprisingly wide view through the associations that appear one after another. It seems that the poet needs to search for the original meanings, behind which he makes the reader dive deeper and deeper, revealing sign after sign and phenomenon after phenomenon.

He is lonely, like any real artist, but his soul is looking for warmth, and the poet understands this, but still does not want consolation from the reader. He firmly connected in his lines his own era and eternity, the details of real life and the desire for a fairy tale. Gleb Gorbovsky found not just new images. He is the creator of a whole system of images, a system of truly universal scale.

Creation

Gleb Gorbovsky always lived as a recluse, despite various acquaintances, mostly bohemian. Knowing all the charms of life in communal apartments, he knows how to disengage from circumstances. That is how he always wrote poetry: the room is locked, knocking and shouting is useless. Now he is not here, not with us, his poems have been taken away. Like his father, Gleb Yakovlevich is becoming a long-liver; this October he turned eighty-six. He is the author of forty-two books, the winner of many competitions, the State Prize, the New Pushkin Prize, and many, many more can be listed. However, this is not the main thing.

The main thing is the unquenchable interest in the work of a man of amazing fate and no less amazing gift. So many impressions have been accumulated in childhood alone that one can write poetry for several hundred more years without stopping this process for a single day. And youth! And the army! And the Far East! And I must say that Gleb Gorbovsky is still writing - all the time, almost every day. By the eightieth anniversary, "Favorites" was published - poems created after 2000. It turned out more than two thousand poems.

purpose

Restlessness from childhood, the horrifying events that had to be experienced, are usually fatal for the poet. Gleb Gorbovsky could also overtake the fate of his friend Nikolai Rubtsov or his idol Sergei Yesenin. And the fact that the unique, original, insightful poet is still with us is a wonderful miracle and indescribable happiness. How many were there, wounded animals, damned little heads, orphans and half-orphans, orphans, colonists with poetic talents? Rubtsov, Shklyarevsky, Rusakov, Ustinov - this series of names of children of an unmerciful era can go on and on.