Elena Konovalova Biography

After graduating from the Saptin high school, she remained in her native village, along with classmates as part of a combined Komsomol-young detachment of young livestock workers, she worked on a farm. The first publications of her poems in the district newspaper "Rural Lights" dates back to this time. In the year she entered the Kirov State Pedagogical Institute named after V.

Lenin at the Faculty of Philology. But already in the years in the geography of her fate, the city of Lutsk of the Volyn region appeared Ukraine, where the Volyn State Pedagogical University named after Lesya Ukrainka in the specialty “Teacher of Russian Language and Literature” graduated from the Volyn State Pedagogical University. And then the village of Pangodes of the Nadym district of the Tyumen region of the Yamalo-Nenets Autonomous Okrug, where she moved due to family reasons and worked as a teacher in kindergarten.

The return to the Vyatka land in the year was marked by a twenty -year contract under the contract in the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation, professional retraining at the Vyatka State Pedagogical University with a degree in psychologist and continuing literary activity. It happens: life tests become steps of mental growing up and creative growth. Over the years, she participated in the All-Russian festival of the author’s song “Greenland” Kirov, the regional literary seminar “Green Street” Kirov, in the second, third and fourth all-Army meetings of military writers in Moscow, in the All-Russian poetic and music competition “Inevitable Vertograd”, the All-Russian poetic competition “Heights” Pskov.

She became the laureate of the All -Russian literary contest “Your, Russia, sons! The author of the books “My village on Kosogora”, “White on the shoulders is good towards” and “On the edge of autumn”, publications in collective collections and magazines “Literal” and “Moscow Bulletin”, almanac “Parade of Literators” and “The Parade” Moscow, “Memory of Generations” Pskov, “Word of Love” Barnaul, “Vyatka Literary” and “Rotonda” Kirov.

In the summer of the year, in the year of the anniversary of the Kirov Regional Writing Organization, he was admitted to the Union of Writers of Russia. Quiet and gentle, like the rustle of foliage, on other people's, unrealistic faces, he will not leave his traces. Night wind sighs-sulfates and the sky of the stellar scope. But I will look at the field, house and forest completely differently.

And in the far crane, I will hear the cry of heaven. I can’t find the path in the thickets of aspen with Ivo, and I won’t hear a hasty cuckoo “ku-ku”. And I will shake it off -road, wine, not wine drunk.

We rely on the mercy of God with you, a beloved country. An hour after an hour, a day away. By what paths were dusting, trying to overcome the pain? Pink Dali dreamed, and sometimes dreams came off from sadness to sadness, from spring to spring. Bird - years, spark - stars, head with white snow. And in the hearts, as in bird nests, unexplored words. That is why, meeting everyone dawn, I see the sky merciful light.

Both love and faith are not wasting, I am walking with a green street. A rusty wind, the leaves are disheveled, will not extinguish the blue star. In her window there are the eyes of someone else's house, and a brushwood for the vain roses of burgundy roses, a nagging languor. Light flowed from your window, you turned on the lamp above the table early. And the tired silhouette over a new unfinished novel was hunching.

Once the world swung by chance, and the disk of the moon became unbearably bright. You invited a woman to tea from bergamot, linden and violets. She entered, having a chin with her hand taking a porcelain bowl from you, and a century hesitated, fell in peace, and heated his soul, and yours. The autumn was hurried to burn the bridges, repeating its ritual casually. And inevitably switch to "you", erasing the boundaries of all conventions.

Having absorbed the lights of sunset and dawn, and the chirping of birds, and the smells of the earth, the beating of hearts, the insomnia of the poet - everything that verses could not be born without. They grow in you, overcoming obstacles, and in a bustle, suddenly froze for a moment, the words will collapse in a silent snowfall so that a new young verse from silence arises.

Winter Station is cold at the winter station, the sky is snow-fan-colored, but the birds chirped crazy, with songs, hugging the summer. There will be fine days, and on the wounds of the grassroots conflagrations, noticeable frying will bloom, having felt the sun as soon as possible. It is cold at the station of winter, I am in its inexplicable power, together with the bird Homon myself for the first time I am crazy with happiness!

And winter will remain in the winter on a sultry day and in the dance of Listopad. She probably likes the name of the frosty coolness itself. The century is unhurried. The earth, where he was born and grew up, does not meet with bread and a song, but with a heart filled with tears. But in mournful, the extinct faces brighten from meeting you. And the tired bird is circling over the orphaned hut.

And a clean field and a river, an overgrowing slope with a fishing line - everything will take the last son with a burning candle. But life is endless, you are running around the stubble again and you will remember every word in the line living with love. Herzen, when using materials posted on this Web Site, the link to the source is required.