Valentines of the slads biography

The hope of the Stavropol Territory is Valentina Slyadneva a heavy military and post -war childhood. Father returned from the front by a disabled person. Evening school ... After graduating from the Stavropol Pedagogical Institute, Valentine married a military pilot Ivan Shmatko, the young family spun half the country; They lived in Germany. Well, the poems came back at school.

Slyadneva worked in many genres: poetry, prose, translations from the Tatar, Karachai, Circassian languages, texts to songs. During his life, 13 books of poetry and prose were published, including “Gorizvet”, “Crutilla”, “Hour of equinoxes”, “Obli-grass”, “Perepelin Soul”, “Strip of Earth”-by the general circulation of more than many years, Valentina Ivanovna headed the regional branch of the “Literary Fund of Russia”.

Slyadneva’s work was twice awarded the Prize of the Governor of the Stavropol Territory: for the collection “Obli-Grass” and for the cycle of songs for the summer of Stavropol. She - and laureate of the regional youth award named after A. Slyadnev - an honorary citizen of the village of Nadezhda. In her honor, a street in Stavropol and a regional library for youth are named; Name literary prizes and scholarships have been established - for students of universities and young writers and poets.

His furrow with a poet must be born. This is known to everyone. But the question is: where to be born? The one I want to tell about was born on the ground, where the Iskuni lived her grandfathers and great -grandfathers. People like trees. They grow into their land forever. And no matter how far fate leads away from their native threshold, their spiritual roots only grab their native soil tightly.

Valentina Slyadneva’s poetry was born naturally, how spring showers and fluffy snowfalls are born ... From overflowing with the impressions, joys and anxieties of being. No, not in vain I was looking for-and found it! The first book of the poet, with a palm size, light as a feather. There is something indescribably touching in it, as in a chick that has not yet been operated on.

And now, in her line, the energy of a young, indomitable power is raging: they melt in front of his eyes like kisses ... He stuck the body with a wet chintz, dancing along the roads, and I go towards lightning to break out of it and light up ... to light up from the heavenly fire - this is the poet’s dream! And perhaps this, if only combine the momentary and eternal in myself, and then the lines are born: when I read or write poetry, I forget about my hardships - so I forgot my ancestor at the plow about rheumatism, about sorrows and years.

His hand cooled on Soh, and his legs rested tightly on the ground ... Not every every line can compare with my ancestor's groove. By directness and simplicity, and in need of indisputable! My line ... Is it destined to become a furrow, and soon or not soon? .. Now, thirty -five years later, Valentina Slyadneva can see her furrow with person. She materialized in books.

Prose-“strip of earth”, “quail soul” ... and like a song of a lark in heavenly heights, the music of her soul, recorded on the compact disks, sounds. Her labor biography began very early: from the age of fifteen, she went to work in the state farm of the village of Nadezhda. I had to do everything without which the rural way is unthinkable - work in the vegetable store, on the current, on the beet field ...

I graduated from a decadent in the evening school of working youth. Then she entered the historical and philological faculty of the Stavropol Pedagogical Institute. He remembers how worried, going to her first lesson in her life. She taught however, not long -term favorite objects - Russian language and literature. But it was far from her home: when she married a military pilot, she lived in the South and Middle Urals, in the Arctic, in Germany.

Now firmly and thoroughly settled in the native Stavropol. Education, books, poems did not excommunicate it from the ground, because from childhood she knows the entire row of the rural estate: how to plant and pour potatoes, weave and water, the mouth of sheep behind the outskirts, admiring other lambs - those who run in a gourmet in the blue spaces of the sky. Native nature is the co -author of the poet.

When the stars in the sky go out. In gray Burke from the fog, I’ll shake it on sleepy grass with an enchanted subpan ... And to this day Valentina Ivanovna is tied to the ground. On the farm, with a warm, breathing paired yield, the dairy name for her with her own hands to plant delicate sprouts of seedlings in the ground, on the city courtyard - to take care of flowers. In the meantime, hands caress, loosening the soil, collaborating with it for the benefit of spring life, earthly juices are poured to their hearts, awakening inspiration.

Slyadneva, the last among the already publications. Much is understandable already from one of its name. The names of herbs in the Russian language “speaking”, explaining their properties themselves: sleep-grass, placun-grass, break-grass ... And here the grass is overcome. And all because the character of the poetess, like the character of her lyrical heroine, active, viable, assertive, capable of sweeping away all obstacles from the way.

In a friendly conversation, Valentina Ivanovna once admitted: "I do not like to swim like a dead fish, with the flow." In the author’s plans - the release of several volumes of verses and prose. She collects the harvest from the life of life, complains, however: a lot has been written, and to prepare for printing a book, much less releasing them has not yet been released.There is not enough time, her interests are too versatile, she wants to be too much.

At the same time, Valentina Ivanovna is far from reveling already created: she does not warm, and does not shine, and again to me - to run into the garden, cut, dig, plant, listen to delicate leaves babble. The main commandment of the poet, as it seems to me, is to go further in the knowledge of himself and the surrounding world. Valentina Slyadneva succeeds in her best verses with all the directness of a living feeling to fill the line with the content of the experienced spiritual experience that this does not burden the reader’s soul, on the contrary, helps.

The path in the sun runs further and farther ... And because the sun is leaning towards sunset, longer and thoughtful of shadows on the mysterious path that goes into eternity, more and more expensive, transient, incomprehensible, touching and distant in its fleeting and non-return. And the words themselves are composed of prayer: I turn to you with all my heart, Lord, forgive me my sins!

And life will be my comfort. I love everything that you created, I love so much, forever the soul will not cool down. I steal all the meadows under my feet, all your paths to me are shrines. Let her path in the sun last and last, which has become its furrow in an unconscious literary Russian field.