Sad and joyful – near…

06.02.2008 Sad and joyful – near…
Volodymyr is a member of the National Writers ‘ Union of Ukraine, the Ukrainian writer’s major ascetic, a tireless propaganda of the national case, in these days. A man for whom the word has never been divorced with deeds. For many years, he organized the performances of writers to the residents of Ukraine. In the morning mornings and late evenings, in the heat and the wake of the tracks of literary speeches, awakened in human souls shoots good, honour and justice. Ukraine was put from under the oppression of totalitarian pressure, from under the invasion of hostile Communist horde brilliant flashes of the written word, which always stood on the defense of the People’s soul. He was awakened by the people, and his soul… And the time came, and the human conscience was stressful, the very high word, and people came to the Maidan, and threatened eternal justice: the People’s soul called Eternal Revolutionary, which is the “spirit that the body of the rve to fight”. And the writers are those who have been the forerunner of the new Ukrainian state, and then are trading their tracks to human dwellings. And then live the hopes and dreams of folk – they carry in their palms a burning light of the Ukrainian word. And among them – the writer Vladimir is a great, who is tirelessly working on the field of Ukrainian literature. In the days when the world is risen by the large-Dnieper carols, when people are amazed in the light of the Bethlehem star, and the shepherds make up their prayers, the town Shepetovka, that in Khmelnytsky region, congenital thoughts remembers his glorious countryman Vladimir, who was born here. And Lviv is proud of its wise Labour, his tireless feat of written word, is encouraging in sparkling sounds and barwah of his dotheps, in his sparkling living energies, in his tireless love for the world and people. Sad and joyful – near… After reading the book in a single world, “while still lit my candle” (Lviv: Spot, 2003). (Attempted spawning)

Friend… Do you know what I felt this night?

Voice of candles…

She is waiting for her time. Not a warm fire, she was lonely and confused. The cross-winds of the era were fanled. So lonely there was a candle – under the storms, winds, lightning flashes. She could be a lightning herself. Strong and even cruel, but above all loved the silence of his beloved palms, which would have kept her tenderly and gently. And she then would be just burned in these palms. And it is happy that he gives warmth to this one-odshy fingers, tired daily fuss. The fingers are warmed by her… And do not even remention it, hurry to overcome the next summit. does not weigh any… They will triumph and triumph.

Only on the foot-finger, near the nail, will remain dead tears of candles in the form of wax pots. They gently clean the current knife, or large inlaid hunting knife. What is the difference? From that it will hurt no less. Not even oblivion, and Ota indifference. Patronizing.

And the candle has learned to give the Council with his pain. She saw the theatre of human performances, which is close to the sum and joy, triumph and hypocrisy, ululousness and indifference, sincerity and undefensive. “With a magazine of Joy embraced…” Sad and joyful – next. How to death and birth… How to fade and bloom…

Therefore, the candle was desperately stuck with a thin condition behind the metal candlestick. He hurts his fortune–it was uncomfortable and unattractive. How would she want to be the one who lit her, held in his palms gently-prishazhno. As it were then shined. How would she then burned – did not minimize… And instead – This metal, though exquisitely inlaid, candlestick with metal green zigzag. And destiny do not choose. And the era in which you live, and hands that ignite you. Although… “Let them be blessed by the palms that gave me fire, and thus life…”-Mentally born in the heart of the candles.

Tomorrow will say that it was burning not as it was set near the olarya of creativity. As if someone knows how it should be right. Tomorrow will say that she pops up there is something like that… That she burned off by surprise; And it could have long been a long time, if they did not explode such sparks of Fire, from which the heavens were amazed.

But it will be tomorrow. And today – behind the theater of backstage and masks, the word of Poluim is blazing. Tomorrow’s candle will continue to burn. Invisibly. And there shall be those who will feel this fire. And it will be up to him. And some will go with empty eyes and Dube, “What is dreamy smiling with these eccentric passers-by?”

Why do I think for a long time about the image of candles, because it is decorated with the cover of the Book of Vladimir I was still lit my candle. and behind it – human faces in masks of joy and sadness. and Candlestick – Through a whole page. Heavy, massive. As a perst of God or man; And, maybe, own conscience; Who has the highest right to be a judge for each of us. These motifs are an aesthetic credom of the book of writer Vladimir I.

And the book is groundbreaking. by construction. It looks like at first glance, on the salad-olliv \ ‘ is, which has sketched everything that is in the house; To treat guests. It is a sincere, flavored and delicious, presented with a joyful smile.

So I always do when I do not have time to prepare something: I throw everything together – and it turns out cool! But not I speak constantly to my students, that there are common laws that obey the laws of social, philosophical, psychological, moral and… Personal. The writer Vladimir carried out the traditional forms of eclectic and rather unexpected composition. As a kinder feast, here is a solemn harmony of bitter, lean, salty and sweet… I would try to visit the feast, where they were sweet, or – salty… have been, say… But bored and prisno. And we have to do with the scale. Merry! Richer! All sorts, different, Bon Appétit…

Perhaps the moments of the biography of Volodymyr Vvany; When “Fortunately for a long time, a strain of thought of writing the hatch, and when the bald party collar” was “handed out” for the not enough faithful editing of the factory newspapers. ” Thus, perhaps even then the need to protest as a result of the action as a necessity of the case was born. Protesting how to manifest their own thoughts as the need for awareness to “be”.

Thus, the book consists of three most important parts: a political-philosophical poetry, in which the truth in poetic form is glorified today; Satirical poetry, the dominant theme of which was the study of human relationships and poetic portraits of people who are close by the author. The framing of philosophical-political (first part) and satirical (last part) – as a plus and minus, as the diametrically opposites of human being.

And in the middle there is sincere and unfeigned pain of the human heart. Stories about people who are not with us in this world, whose life is passed into the otherworldly dimension of the human being. And then the author takes off a mask – he stands, unsheltered and not hidden, with his pain and a strip, with sincere tears in his eyes. For how to relive the pain of leaving? Do you learn to live with this pain? Because literature doesn’t travel to the wounds of those who stayed. and is it a good word about those who flew into the uncircumcised worlds of white swans, doves, and siphons – the only thing we can do for them and for us. For our understanding and for their purification. Stories about them are the three of our lives.

So combined the pain of the era and the suffering of a particular person. For the age is worthy only and that you will learn to see every man, to feel her soul and heart. That is why such a journalistic stream in poetic works has its future and its philosophical and psychological substantiation.

Today we are. Tomorrow

Only time.

Over US spring,

Autumn and winter.

Over US – Busol

and Bumble Bass

And the World of Love

Eternally unquenched. (S. 102)

The pain of the epoch is a pass-through theme of the book by Volodymyr I. And whatever he wrote – or about funny, or about the tragic – in his words, he lives the fire of candles, which illuminates the epoch, its washing unrinsing, its purity and vanity, its holy accuracy and routine, its eternal movement and routine Zaskostenysh. But over that tomb is holy and eternal right to “be…” For as long as the candle-burning words burn, the people are irresistible.

Mariya Yakubovskaya

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