, RSFSR, USSR
(now Kurgan region)
Anatoly Andreevich Azovsky(December 6, Bolshoy Kabanye, now Kurgan region - November 12, Polevskoy, Sverdlovsk region) - Russian Soviet poet, journalist.
Biography
Anatoly Andreevich Chernoskulov was born on December 6, 1940 in the village of Bolshoe Kabanye, Kabansky village council of the Shadrinsk district of the Chelyabinsk region (since 1943, the Kurgan region). Azovsky took his surname in honor of Mount Azov, located 8 km from the town of Polevskoy, Sverdlovsk Region.
Father, Andrei Ivanovich and mother Evdokia Ivanovna worked at a vocational school at the Polevsk cryolite plant.
In 1956, he entered construction school No. 69 in Sverdlovsk and graduated as a carpenter of the IV category. Served in the Soviet Army.
In 1957 he worked as a carpenter at the construction of the Beloyarsk State District Power Plant, in 1958 at the construction of mill "B" of the Pervouralsky Novotrubny Plant, in 1959 at Mednaya Gora (Gumyoshevsky mine), in 1960-1961 he participated in the construction of the Baikonur cosmodrome. At Baikonur, he fell seriously ill and was commissioned, was treated at the Kamyshlov Hospital for the Invalids of the Patriotic War.
In 1962 he entered the Sverdlovsk Construction College, the Department of Construction Machinery and Equipment. After graduating from a technical school, he worked as a line mechanic at the Omutinskaya PMK.
In 1966-1970 he worked as a foreman at the Sverdlovsk plant of current transformers, as a design engineer at the defense enterprise "mailbox Sverdlovsk-79". He worked in the field newspaper "Seversky Rabochiy".
In 1971-1978 he worked as a correspondent for the newspaper Svetly Put. At the same time, he led the city literary association under the newspaper Znamya Kommuny (in Novocherkassk).
In 1978-1987 he worked as a literary consultant in the youth newspaper Komsomolets.
At the end of December 1987, he returned to Polevskaya, worked in the field of additional education, led the literary association "Rassvet", first at the Palace of Culture of the STZ, then at the House of Pioneers, the Center for the Development of Creativity for Children and Youth. Organizer of the society of amateur poets "Prostor" (DK of the Seversky Pipe Plant).
Anatoly Andreevich Azovsky died on November 12, 2012. He was buried in Polevsky, in the southern cemetery
Creation
The first publication of Anatoly Azovsky's poems was in the city newspaper Rabochaya Pravda. Some poems became songs, for example, "There is a Polevaya river in the world."
A feeling of love for the Urals runs like a bright line through all of Azovsky's poetry. He has his own deep vision of the environment: nature, birds, rivers, human suffering and joy.
Awards, titles and prizes
- Title "Honored Worker of Culture of the Russian Federation" (2003).
- Laureate of the Third Creative Festival of Don Youth (1971)
- Laureate of the competition of the Rostov Regional Peace Council for the book "Date with the Earth" (1981)
- Laureate of the literary prize of Rostov-on-Don (1991)
- Diploma of the literary award of the joint-stock company "Ural-region" for the book "Time of Revelation" (1992)
- Laureate of the N.F. Zyuzev for outstanding work on the preservation of the historical and cultural heritage of the Polevskiy region (2014, posthumously)
Family
Anatoly Andreevich Azovsky was married three times. With the last wife Maria, they raised two sons: Andrei and Evdokim.
Memory
On September 12, 2013, the Central City Library of Polevskoy was named after A.A. Azov. Azov readings are taking place.
Compositions
Poems by Anatoly Andreevich Azovsky were published in the magazines: Don, Ural, Our Contemporary. Released in separate collections.
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Notes
An excerpt characterizing Azovsky, Anatoly Andreevich
- Melion without one! - Winking, a cheerful soldier, passing close in a torn overcoat, said and disappeared; behind him passed another, old soldier.“When he (he is an enemy) starts frying a taperich across the bridge,” the old soldier said gloomily, turning to his comrade, “you will forget to itch.
And the soldier passed. Behind him, another soldier rode on a wagon.
“Where the devil did you put the tucks in?” - said the batman, running after the wagon and groping in the back.
And this one passed with a wagon. This was followed by cheerful and, apparently, drunken soldiers.
“How can he, dear man, blaze with a butt in his very teeth ...” one soldier in a highly tucked overcoat said joyfully, waving his arm wide.
- That's it, that's sweet ham. replied the other with a laugh.
And they passed, so that Nesvitsky did not know who was hit in the teeth and what the ham referred to.
- Ek is in a hurry that he let in a cold one, and you think they will kill everyone. said the non-commissioned officer angrily and reproachfully.
“As it flies past me, uncle, that core,” said a young soldier with a huge mouth, barely restraining himself from laughter, “I just froze. Really, by God, I was so frightened, trouble! - said this soldier, as if boasting that he was frightened. And this one passed. It was followed by a wagon unlike any that had passed before. It was a German fallow steamer, loaded, it seemed, with a whole house; Behind the bowstring, which was carried by a German, a beautiful, motley, with a huge neck, cow was tied. On the feather bed sat a woman with a baby, an old woman and a young, purple-haired, healthy German girl. Apparently, these evicted residents were let through by special permission. The eyes of all the soldiers turned to the women, and as the wagon passed, moving step by step, all the remarks of the soldiers referred only to two women. On all faces there was almost the same smile of obscene thoughts about this woman.
- Look, the sausage is also removed!
“Sell your mother,” another soldier said, striking on the last syllable, addressing the German, who, lowering his eyes, walked angrily and frightened with a long step.
- Ek got away like that! That's the devil!
- If only you could stand by them, Fedotov.
- You see, brother!
- Where are you going? asked an infantry officer who was eating an apple, also half smiling and looking at the beautiful girl.
The German, closing his eyes, showed that he did not understand.
“If you want, take it,” said the officer, giving the girl an apple. The girl smiled and took it. Nesvitsky, like everyone on the bridge, did not take his eyes off the women until they had passed. When they had passed, the same soldiers were walking again, with the same conversations, and, finally, everyone stopped. As is often the case, at the exit of the bridge, the horses in the company's wagon hesitated, and the whole crowd had to wait.
- And what do they become? Order is not! the soldiers said. - Where are you going? Damn! There is no need to wait. Worse than that, he will set fire to the bridge. Look, they’ve locked up the officer, ”the stopped crowds said from different directions, looking at each other, and still huddled forward towards the exit.
Looking under the bridge at the waters of the Enns, Nesvitsky suddenly heard a still new sound for him, rapidly approaching ... something large and something splashed into the water.
- Look where you're going! a soldier standing close said sternly, looking back at the sound.
“It encourages them to pass quickly,” another said restlessly.
The crowd moved again. Nesvitsky realized that it was the nucleus.
- Hey, Cossack, give the horse! - he said. - Well you! stay away! step aside! road!
He got to the horse with great effort. Without ceasing to shout, he moved forward. The soldiers shrugged to let him pass, but again they pressed him so hard that they crushed his leg, and those nearby were not to blame, because they were pressed even harder.
- Nesvitsky! Nesvitsky! You, Mrs.! - a hoarse voice was heard at that time from behind.
Nesvitsky looked around and saw fifteen paces away from him, separated from him by a living mass of moving infantry, red, black, shaggy, with a cap on the back of his head and a cape valiantly draped over his shoulder, Vaska Denisov.
“Tell them, why, to the devils, to give the dog to the og,” he shouted. Denisov, apparently in a fit of vehemence, gleaming and moving his eyes, black as coal, in inflamed whites, and waving his unsheathed saber, which he held with a bare small hand as red as his face.
- E! Vasya! - Nesvitsky answered joyfully. - Yes, what are you?
- Eskadg "on pg" cannot go away, - shouted Vaska Denisov, angrily opening his white teeth, spurring his handsome black, blooded Bedouin, who, blinking his ears from the bayonets he bumped into, snorting, splashing around him with foam from the mouthpiece, ringing, he beat with his hooves on the boards of the bridge and seemed ready to jump over the railing of the bridge if the rider allowed him. - What is it? like a bug "any! exactly like a bug" ana! Pg "ouch ... give the dog" ogu! ... Stay there! you are a wagon, chog "t! I'll kill you with a saber fromg"! he shouted, really drawing his saber and starting to wave it.
Soldiers with frightened faces pressed against each other, and Denisov joined Nesvitsky.
Why aren't you drunk today? - Nesvitsky said to Denisov when he drove up to him.
- And they won’t let you get drunk! - answered Vaska Denisov. - All day long the regiment is being dragged here and there.
- What a dandy you are today! - looking around at his new mentic and saddle cloth, said Nesvitsky.
Denisov smiled, took a handkerchief from the tashka, which diffused the smell of perfume, and thrust it into Nesvitsky's nose.
- I can't, I'm going to work! got out, cleaned his teeth and perfumed himself.
The imposing figure of Nesvitsky, accompanied by a Cossack, and the decisiveness of Denisov, who waved his saber and shouted desperately, had the effect that they squeezed through to the other side of the bridge and stopped the infantry. Nesvitsky found a colonel at the exit, to whom he had to convey the order, and, having fulfilled his order, went back.
Having cleared the road, Denisov stopped at the entrance to the bridge. Carelessly holding back the stallion, which was rushing towards his own and kicking, he looked at the squadron moving towards him.
Transparent sounds of hooves rang out on the boards of the bridge, as if several horses were galloping, and the squadron, with officers in front four people in a row, stretched out along the bridge and began to go out to the other side.
The stopped infantry soldiers, crowding in the mud trampled by the bridge, looked at the clean, dapper hussars, harmoniously passing by them, with that special unfriendly feeling of alienation and mockery with which various branches of the army usually meet.
- Nice guys! If only to Podnovinskoye!
- What good are they! Only for show and drive! another said.
– Infantry, not dust! - the hussar joked, under which the horse, playing, splashed mud at the infantryman.
“I would have driven you away with a knapsack for two transitions, the laces would have been worn out,” the infantryman said, wiping the dirt from his face with his sleeve; - otherwise it’s not a person, but a bird is sitting!
“It would be better to put you on a horse, Zikin, if you were dexterous,” the corporal joked at the thin soldier, twisted from the weight of the knapsack.
“Take a baton between your legs, here’s a horse for you,” the hussar replied.
The rest of the infantry hurried across the bridge, vortexing at the entrance. Finally the wagons all passed, the crush became less, and the last battalion entered the bridge. Some hussars of Denisov's squadron remained on the other side of the bridge against the enemy. The enemy, visible in the distance from the opposite mountain, from below, from the bridge, was not yet visible, since from the hollow along which the river flowed, the horizon ended with the opposite elevation no further than half a verst. Ahead was a desert, along which in some places groups of our traveling Cossacks were moving. Suddenly, on the opposite elevation of the road, troops in blue hoods and artillery appeared. These were the French. The Cossacks' troop moved off downhill at a trot. All the officers and people of Denisov's squadron, although they tried to talk about strangers and look around, did not stop thinking only about what was there, on the mountain, and incessantly peered into the spots that appeared on the horizon, which they recognized as enemy troops. The weather cleared up again in the afternoon, the sun set brightly over the Danube and the dark mountains surrounding it. It was quiet, and from that mountain occasionally came the sounds of horns and cries of the enemy. There was no one between the squadron and the enemy, except for small sidings. An empty space, three hundred fathoms, separated them from him. The enemy stopped firing, and that strict, formidable, impregnable and elusive feature that separates the two enemy troops was felt all the more clearly.
, RSFSR, USSR
(now Kurgan region)
Anatoly Andreevich Azovsky(December 6, Bolshoy Kabanye, now Kurgan region - November 12, Polevskoy, Sverdlovsk region) - Russian Soviet poet, journalist.
Biography
Anatoly Andreevich Chernoskulov was born on December 6, 1940 in the village of Bolshoe Kabanye, Kabansky village council of the Shadrinsk district of the Chelyabinsk region (since 1943, the Kurgan region). Azovsky took his surname in honor of Mount Azov, located 8 km from the town of Polevskoy, Sverdlovsk Region.
Father, Andrei Ivanovich and mother Evdokia Ivanovna worked at a vocational school at the Polevsk cryolite plant.
In 1956, he entered construction school No. 69 in Sverdlovsk and graduated as a carpenter of the IV category. Served in the Soviet Army.
In 1957 he worked as a carpenter at the construction of the Beloyarsk State District Power Plant, in 1958 at the construction of mill "B" of the Pervouralsky Novotrubny Plant, in 1959 at Mednaya Gora (Gumyoshevsky mine), in 1960-1961 he participated in the construction of the Baikonur cosmodrome. At Baikonur, he fell seriously ill and was commissioned, was treated at the Kamyshlov Hospital for the Invalids of the Patriotic War.
In 1962 he entered the Sverdlovsk Construction College, the Department of Construction Machinery and Equipment. After graduating from a technical school, he worked as a line mechanic at the Omutinskaya PMK.
In 1966-1970 he worked as a foreman at the Sverdlovsk plant of current transformers, as a design engineer at the defense enterprise "mailbox Sverdlovsk-79". He worked in the field newspaper "Seversky Rabochiy".
In 1971-1978 he worked as a correspondent for the newspaper Svetly Put. At the same time, he led the city literary association under the newspaper Znamya Kommuny (in Novocherkassk).
In 1978-1987 he worked as a literary consultant in the youth newspaper Komsomolets.
At the end of December 1987, he returned to Polevskaya, worked in the field of additional education, led the literary association "Rassvet", first at the Palace of Culture of the STZ, then at the House of Pioneers, the Center for the Development of Creativity for Children and Youth. Organizer of the society of amateur poets "Prostor" (DK of the Seversky Pipe Plant).
Anatoly Andreevich Azovsky died on November 12, 2012. He was buried in Polevsky, in the southern cemetery
Creation
The first publication of Anatoly Azovsky's poems was in the city newspaper Rabochaya Pravda. Some poems became songs, for example, "There is a Polevaya river in the world."
A feeling of love for the Urals runs like a bright line through all of Azovsky's poetry. He has his own deep vision of the environment: nature, birds, rivers, human suffering and joy.
Awards, titles and prizes
- Title "Honored Worker of Culture of the Russian Federation" (2003).
- Laureate of the Third Creative Festival of Don Youth (1971)
- Laureate of the competition of the Rostov Regional Peace Council for the book "Date with the Earth" (1981)
- Laureate of the literary prize of Rostov-on-Don (1991)
- Diploma of the literary award of the joint-stock company "Ural-region" for the book "Time of Revelation" (1992)
- Laureate of the N.F. Zyuzev for outstanding work on the preservation of the historical and cultural heritage of the Polevskiy region (2014, posthumously)
Family
Anatoly Andreevich Azovsky was married three times. With the last wife Maria, they raised two sons: Andrei and Evdokim.
Memory
On September 12, 2013, the Central City Library of Polevskoy was named after A.A. Azov. Azov readings are taking place.
Compositions
Poems by Anatoly Andreevich Azovsky were published in the magazines: Don, Ural, Our Contemporary. Released in separate collections.
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Notes
An excerpt characterizing Azovsky, Anatoly Andreevich
The old woman looked at me sadly and, shaking her gray head, said quietly:- Mistakes are different, dear ... Not every mistake is atoned for just longing and pain, or even worse - just words. And not everyone who wants to repent should get his chance, because nothing that comes for nothing, due to the great stupidity of a person, is not appreciated by him. And everything that is given to him free of charge does not require effort from him. Therefore, it is very easy for a mistaken person to repent, but it is incredibly difficult to truly change. You wouldn't give a criminal a chance just because you suddenly felt sorry for him, would you? But everyone who insulted, injured or betrayed his loved ones is already a criminal in his soul for some, albeit an insignificant share. Therefore, "give" carefully, girl ...
I sat very still, thinking deeply about what this lovely old woman had just shared with me. Only I, so far, could not agree with all her wisdom ... In me, as in every innocent child, an unshakable faith in goodness was still very strong, and the words of an unusual old woman then seemed to me too harsh and not entirely fair. But that was then...
As if catching the course of my childishly “indignant” thoughts, she gently stroked my hair and said quietly:
“That's what I meant when I said you weren't ready for the right questions yet. Don't worry, honey, it will come very soon, maybe even sooner than you think right now...
Then I accidentally looked into her eyes and I literally got chills... They were absolutely amazing, truly bottomless, omniscient eyes of a person who was supposed to live on Earth for at least a thousand years! .. I have never seen such eye!
She apparently noticed my confusion and whispered soothingly:
– Life is not quite what you think, little one… But you will understand it later, when you start to accept it correctly. Your share is strange... heavy and very light, woven from stars... Many other people's destinies are in your hands. Take care girl...
Again, I didn’t understand what it all meant, but I didn’t have time to ask anything else, because, to my great chagrin, the old woman suddenly disappeared ... and instead of her a vision of stunning beauty appeared - as if a strange transparent door opened and a wonderful the city, as if all carved out of solid crystal ... All sparkling and shining with colored rainbows, shimmering with sparkling facets of incredible palaces or some amazing, unlike buildings, it was a wondrous embodiment of someone's crazy dream ... And there, on a transparent on the step of the carved porch sat a little man, as I later saw - a very fragile and serious red-haired girl who affably waved her hand at me. And I suddenly really wanted to approach her. I thought that this was apparently again some kind of “other” reality and, most likely, as it had happened before, no one would explain anything to me again. But the girl smiled and shook her head.
Up close, she turned out to be quite a "crumb", which could be given at most five years at the most.
- Hi! – cheerfully smiling, she said. - I'm Stella. How do you like my world?..
Hello Stella! I answered cautiously. - It's really beautiful here. Why do you call him yours?
“Because I created it!” - the little girl chirped even more cheerfully.
I opened my mouth dumbfounded, but I couldn’t say anything ... I felt that she was telling the truth, but I couldn’t even imagine how such a thing could be created, especially speaking about it so carelessly and easily ...
Grandma likes it too. - The girl said enough.
And I realized that “grandmother” she calls the same unusual old woman with whom I had just talked so sweetly and who, like her no less unusual granddaughter, shocked me ...
Are you completely alone here? I asked.
“When…” the girl mourned.
Why don't you call your friends?
“I don’t have them ...” the little girl whispered quite sadly.
I did not know what to say, afraid to upset this strange, lonely and so sweet creature even more.
- Do you want to see something else? – as if waking up from sad thoughts, she asked.
I just nodded in response, deciding to leave her to do the talking, because I didn’t know what else could upset her and didn’t want to try it at all.
“Look, it was yesterday,” Stella said more cheerfully.
And the world turned upside down… The crystal city disappeared, and instead of it some kind of “southern” landscape blazed with bright colors… My throat was seized with surprise.
“Is that you, too?” I asked cautiously.
She proudly nodded her curly red head. It was very funny to watch her, as the girl was really seriously proud of what she managed to create. And who wouldn't be proud?! She was a perfect baby, who, laughing, in between times, created new incredible worlds for herself, and immediately replaced the boring ones with others, like gloves ... To be honest, there was something to come in shock. I tried to understand what was happening here?.. Stella was obviously dead, and her essence communicated with me all this time. But where we were and how she created these “worlds” of hers was still a complete mystery to me.
- Is there anything you don't understand? – the girl was surprised.
- To be honest - how! I frankly exclaimed.
But you can do much more, can't you? The little girl was even more surprised.
“More…?” I asked dumbfounded.
She nodded, tilting her red head comically to the side.
Who showed you all this? – cautiously, fearing something inadvertently offend her, I asked.
“Well, of course, grandma. – As if she said something for granted. - At the beginning I was very sad and lonely, and my grandmother was very sorry for me. So she showed me how it's done.
And then I finally realized that this was indeed her world, created only by the power of her thought. This girl didn't even realize what a treasure she was! But my grandmother, I think, just understood this very well ...
As it turned out, Stella died a few months ago in a car accident, in which her entire family also died. Only the grandmother remained, for whom at that time there was simply no room in the car ... And who almost went crazy when she learned about her terrible, irreparable misfortune. But, what was the strangest thing, Stella did not get, as everyone usually did, to the same levels in which her family was. Her body possessed a high essence, which after death went to the highest levels of the Earth. And thus the girl was left completely alone, since her mother, father and older brother were apparently the most ordinary, ordinary people who did not differ in any special talents.
“Why don’t you find someone here where you live now?” I asked carefully again.
- I found ... But they are all kind of old and serious ... not like you and me. The girl whispered thoughtfully.
Suddenly, she suddenly smiled cheerfully and her pretty face immediately shone with a bright bright sun.
“Do you want me to show you how to do it?”
I just nodded in agreement, very afraid that she would change her mind. But the girl was clearly not going to “change her mind” about anything, on the contrary - she was very glad to have found someone who was almost the same age as her, and now, if I understood something, she was not going to let me go so easily ... This " perspective" suited me completely, and I prepared to listen attentively about its incredible wonders ...
I did not visit Anatoly Andreevich Azovsky so often, only when I came to Polevskoy to my parents during my vacation. Ivanovo - Yekaterinburg - Polevskoy - the distance is not close. Previously, I called him that I was going to visit, he was always glad to see me. From the window of his apartment on the fifth floor of a five-story building, Azov Mountain, a geographical landmark of our region, is clearly visible. The real name of Anatoly Andreevich is Chernoskulov. The secret of his pseudonym Azovsky, which later became a surname, I tried to find out from him right away, when we met at the meetings of the Rassvet literary association revived in the late eighties in the city of Polevskoy. The meetings were held in the "Malachite Living Room" of the factory's Palace of Culture. In Polevskaya, in his native land, Anatoly Andreevich returned to live under the pseudonym Azovsky. And when I casually asked: “Didn’t the mountain of Azov call you to your homeland?” - He, smiling, answered: “No, Pasha, I can’t put myself next to the mountain yet, I came up with an alias when I lived in the Rostov region, there is such a city of Azov there.” Azovsky liked my assumption, and many writers from Polevskoy believed that the poet returned to his native land, having wandered and seen a lot in his difficult life. They joked that the prodigal son returned to Mount Azov.
I did not manage to attend creative meetings of the Rassvet literary association every time, since then I lived, worked and created in Yekaterinburg. And soon I had to leave to live in the city of Ivanovo, since then our creative gatherings with Azovsky were once a year. I came to Polevskoy during my vacation, called Azovsky, we agreed on a meeting, he was always happy and friendly. I especially remember our meeting when he decided to record me on his tape recorder, I was with a guitar, and he obviously decided to take the opportunity. It was a little unexpected for me, because I always prepared in advance for any concert or recording. And here Azovsky wanted everything to be as natural as possible, so that our meeting-conversation was captured live on a tape cassette. This recording has been preserved (I won’t talk about the quality), all the words can be heard legibly. He asked questions, I sang my new songs.
And we also visited Azovsky with Nikolai Vakhtin, it was almost every summer. Nikolai and I took a guitar, wine, cake for tea. Anatoly Andreevich did not drink wine, he always welcomed tea. We communicated sincerely, he read us his new poems, listened to us. Everything was the same in the summer of 2012 - the last summer for Anatoly Andreevich. Nikolai Vakhtin and I are visiting Azovsky. August 7. Anatoly Andreevich was in high spirits, he felt cheerful, there was some kind of novelty in his mood, as if he had got rid of some kind of burden on his soul. He asked his son Andrei to bring boxes of new books. He always presented us with his new autographed collections, and this time he made us happy, besides, in the load there were another ten twenty copies each. I tried to be modest and not take too much, but Azovsky insisted: “Pasha, take as much as you can take away, and just give it to those people who have at least something to do with poetry! ..”
I felt some kind of sadness in his words, despair, they say, who needs books now, especially with poems? I did something, my son Andrey also has no time to do this ...
There is such a notion that poets feel the approach of their death, I do not dare to say, but it is quite possible that Anatoly Andreevich had such a premonition. Usually he gave us several books, but this time he was ready to give us a part of the circulation of his latest collections in whole boxes. He always believed and hoped that the word has power, and it should not only be said in time, but also read in time. That summer, Nikolai and I were visiting Azovsky for a short time, we did not abuse hospitality, we talked, had tea. I even managed to take some pictures with my cell phone. No matter how hard Anatoly Andreevich tried to stay cheerful, however, his fatigue was noticeable. From our conversations, I remember: Azovsky spoke about poetry, they say, sometimes it is written so easily, the words themselves fall into lines and add up to quatrains. And when I read the poem, I think that once I already wrote about this ... Maybe this means that I have already said everything I wanted to? ..
Nikolai and I always encouraged Azovsky, write, Anatoly Andreevich, let good and kind poems be repeated, maybe there will be more goodness on Earth. We said goodbye easily, hugging each other, shaking hands. Azovsky, as always, said: “Pasha, say hello to the city of brides!”
The next day, Nikolai and I decided to transfer some of the books donated by Azovsky to the city library of Polevskoy in the northern part of the city. The idea was Nikolai, we were sure that so many new books by the famous poet would definitely find their reader there. After the library, Nikolai invited me to visit him at his home to sing songs, chat, take a steam bath. We continued talking about Anatoly Andreevich, and came to the conclusion that of all our contemporary poets, Azovsky, perhaps, became a pioneer in the field of education. He began to teach children to compose poetry in the poetry club at the Bazhov Center for Children's Creativity, then he taught versification in elementary grades at schools in the city of Polevskoy. He was a wonderful teacher. Through versification, he taught children kindness and morality, brought up in them a love for nature, for everything beautiful in the world around him. Children successfully composed poems, later these poems were published in collections, delighted children, as well as their parents. “Field Bunnies”, “Purse from a Leaf” are wonderful collections, this is the very immediacy of a child, filled with purity and kindness. There were many finds-smiles in children's poems at the lessons of Azovsky. Here, for example, what ditties children compose:
Dima Klepikov
* * *
I have a hedgehog at home
He looks so much like me
That, probably, our entire class,
Can't recognize us.
* * *
Me yesterday for two days
They gave a red puppy,
And when I brought it back
The color of the puppy was incomprehensible.
Katya Luneva
* * *
And we have a kitten
We called him Zhorkoy.
Zhora loves to eat very much,
That's why they gave the name.
Andrey Medvedev
* * *
Cat Emelya on the hunt
Just crazy bold.
They say that in this case
He's not a mouse - he ate a dog!
Artyom Sutyagin
* * *
If Zina did not stare
In the keyhole
That on the forehead would not have
Large-block cone.
* * *
Why does Sasha have soot
On the ears and on the nose?
Because Sasha fried
Sausage on the stove myself.
Paul Kosenko
* * *
Our school is waiting for guests -
Great friends.
Come without a hitch
Dear Czechs!
Edik Marakin
* * *
Even imported friends
We played hockey.
Remembering our victory
Friends don't visit us anymore.
Azovsky was a talented teacher, the children loved him, they were interested in his lessons. Perhaps, for more than 15 years, Azovsky worked with children, and he wanted versification lessons to be introduced in all schools, in elementary grades. Poems help to think faster, develop imagination, find comparisons and images in the surrounding world, develop speech. How to teach children to compose poetry, Azovsky lucidly outlined and shared in his book “Poems begin with a lesson at school. Practical guide".
Azovsky taught creative skills to adult poets, being the head of the Rassvet literary association, and helped in the publishing of their first collections. I carefully keep these collections: L. Pivovarova, N. Vakhtin, D. Sorokova. I remember how Azovsky urged me to bring him a selection of my poems. But for some reason I didn’t hurry in time, I don’t remember for what reasons I then missed the meetings of the Rassvetovites. When I brought a selection of my poems, it was already late, the collections were already in print. I myself was to blame for this. Of course, I was sorry, but it seems that Azovsky regretted this more than I did when we met at his gatherings. And for me he was a teacher, a mentor, and in many ways I am grateful to him. As such, at that time, one might say, I did not write poetry, I mainly composed songs, not respecting the shapes and sizes. But every time I attended Breaking Dawn meetings, I always found something to learn. They learned to write sonnets, acrostics, free verse, etc. And most of the students were good at it.
Azovsky was a wonderful person, a poet, teacher and mentor, he was a healer of our souls, and when we gathered “for a light”, wherever it was, in the “Malachite Living Room” of the Palace of Culture, or at his home, my soul became easier. And Azovsky treated with a sense of kindness. Here are his words:
“...In your declining years, when behind your back are not only the years you have experienced, but also the accumulated experience in the art of survival, you no longer want this art - to dodge, dodge, appease, endure, etc. Still, the soul is closer to what is natural, what is originally inherent in us. How wonderful, for example, the innate sense of kindness. And after all, it depends on us to let it grow in the soul, or, as they say, get out of the field! But how ugly, how ugly such a field looks. Everyone needs kindness! And, as I noticed, most often it manifests itself in human relations when they do not lie (especially for selfish purposes) to each other. That is, when they are sincere. In everything!..”
Azovsky passed away in the autumn of November 12, 2012.
Blessed memory of the poet Anatoly Andreevich Azovsky.
The poet has passed away, but his poems, his hopes, his kindness are alive...
* * *
Oh, to live carelessly
Well, at least one day
So that with promising hope
He could heal all the wounds!
So that for the day for this strength
To catch up in time
And then - even to the grave! -
You can endure the pain.
Then by no means
The days would not go carelessly,
And various nonsense
Ears did not grow into space.
After all, it's time to work-care
Fill the days to the brim
So that Russia from the swamp
We do not drag a hundred years.
So that about our mountainous edge
My descendant (sorry - not me)
I once proudly said:
- This is my home!
* * *
We argue with someone, we are looking for something ...
And in the end
They will take us to the cemetery
Catch up with fathers.
And rest will find their bones
In the darkness of the grave...
Indeed, only guests
We are in this world.
Indeed, no matter how you fight,
But don't turn around
Allotted life rails
On the way back.
And wandered through the darkness
Or lived in light
You will leave everything to your descendants -
Both good and evil...
Here comes my turn
Go there
Where the sun doesn't rise
There is no danger.
And when I'm on the graveyard
I will sleep in silence
You multiply my poems
For the sake of the soul.
ANATOLY ANDREEVICH AZOVSKY
Karpov S.O., 2016
The originality of A. Azovsky is primarily in his desire
reflect life in all its multicolored, full-sounding
and at the same time in the study of the microcosm of human feelings,
in the ability to find spiritual threads that bind
his heroes with the earth that raised them.
In Azovsky's poems, they are extremely firmly connected
instantaneous heartfelt experience and length,
the volume of life covered by it.
They are transparent in language and deep in meaning.
V. Mogilkin
Anatoly Andreevich Azovsky (06.12.1940-12.11.2012) was born in the village of Kabanye, Shadrinsk district, Chelyabinsk region. Since father Andrei Ivanovich Chernoskulov and his mother Evdokia Ivanovna had already lived in Polevskoy before the birth of Anatoly (they moved here in 1937/8), in Pervomaisky village, the future poet always recognized Polevskoy as his homeland. Parents worked in a vocational school at the Cryolite Plant (father worked as a carpenter, mother worked at a stoker, in a laundry room, in a locker room, washed floors). They lived hard, starving. Grandmother Katerina Grigorievna and grandfather Ivan Naumych provided great assistance in raising Tolya with her sister Augusta.
Anatoly studied at school number 1 until the 6th grade. From an early age, he helped his father cut huts, transported firewood and hay on a horse that was available on the farm. In 1956, he entered construction school No. 69 in Sverdlovsk, graduating as a carpenter of the IV category. Since 1962, he has been a student at the Sverdlovsk Construction College of the Department of Construction Machinery and Equipment. Served in the army. He built the Beloyarsk State District Power Plant and the Baikonur Cosmodrome, was a foreman at a current transformer plant, a designer at a secret defense enterprise, which was listed in Sverdlovsk as the “79th mailbox”. In 1966, he entered the M. Gorky Literary Institute in Moscow, graduating from it, studying at the correspondence department. Before moving to the Don (1971), he worked in the field newspaper Seversky Rabochiy, published poems in Rabochaya Pravda. For many years he lived in the village of Bagaevskaya, Rostov region. In 1971-78 he worked as a correspondent for the newspaper "Svetly Put". At the same time, he led a city literary association under the newspaper Znamya Kommuny (in Novocherkassk), taught the Cossack children of the Bagaev elementary school the basics of versification. From 1978 to 1987 - an employee of the Komsomolets newspaper. Published in the magazine "Don".
At the end of December 1987 he returned to Polevskoy, where he worked in the field of additional education. He led the literary association "Dawn" first at the Palace of Culture of the STZ, then at the House of Pioneers, gave lessons in practical versification in elementary grades. In 1991, Anatoly Andreevich was accepted as a member of the Writers' Union of Russia. He organized trips for young poets: to the homeland of D.N. Mamin-Sibiryak (in the village of Visim they took part in the work of the scientific expedition “Chronicle of the Ural villages”), to the homeland of P.P. Bazhov to Sysert, to the regional recreation camp "Youth", to the festivals "May Rainbow" and "Tavdinskaya Vetka". He went on hikes with poets-schoolchildren, from the station he took young tourists to a camp site in the village of Raskuiha. He worked as a teacher at the Center for the Development of Creativity for Children and Youth. Thanks to his talent and efforts, dozens of young poets of Polevsky took place, more than 40 collections of children's poems were published.
Was married three times. With his last wife, Maria, he raised two sons: Andrei and Evdokim. Evdokim graduated from the Perm Academy of Arts and lives in Perm.
Anatoly Andreevich was buried in the city of Polevskoy, in the southern cemetery.
In memory of the outstanding countryman on September 12, 2013, the Central City Library was named after A.A. Azov, Azov readings are taking place. In 2014, two mountains in the vicinity of Polevskoy were named after him. The first - Mount Azov - is located on the road to Bolshaya Lavrovka, in the forest quarter No. 55. The second - Stones of Azovsky - rises not far from the first, in the 79th quarter.
Awards:
1971. Laureate of the Third creative festival of the youth of the Don;
1970-80s. Laureate of the competition of the Rostov Regional Peace Council for the book "Date with the Earth";
1992. Diploma of the literary award "Region-Ural" for the book "Time of Revelation";
2003. Title "Honored Worker of Culture of the Russian Federation";
2014. Laureate of the N.F. Zyuzev for outstanding work on the preservation and enhancement of the historical and cultural heritage of the Polevsk region. He was awarded posthumously for wonderful collections of poems, glorifying the beauty of his native land. (diploma)
POEMS
(from the book "Golden Poems about the Beauty of the Polevskiy Territory")
birch choir This choir, these women's souls And the pouring ring of voices How much I should live - and how much I would listen, Not counting days or hours! , And perhaps not twice, but - in a hundred! Nightingale, pure, hello, Hello forever on our land, So that our souls do not die out from the foolish life Our souls in the impending evil. Let them tingle with kindred melancholy, Let the blue Field songs ignite with sparkling joy, That they do not lie by word or sound. And so it is seen - a willow over the river, So it is heard - the field is noisy, And from the distance, easily and carelessly Through the centuries, the bell rings. A good fellow will bow down to the place, A maiden will pass to the place... Who said that Russia will perish? He won't die if he sings like that. Church of Peter and Paul Hello, Church of Peter and Paul! So I see: over the pond You lift into the sky smoothly The radiance of the heads with the cross. Shadows flee into the twilight... Before the monastery of the saint I kneel, Like my distant ancestor. Again I feel and believe, What I will find here in the morning, Behind this radiant door, The focus of goodness. That they will descend to the soul, rumpled by the mortal life of the wind, Together with winged goodness And joy and peace. And in a burst of insight, Struggling with your thoughts, Here I will find the meaning of the doubts That tormented me so much. And being sure of the most important thing, I will catch in people's hearts: "Hello, the church of Peter and Paul, In our souls and centuries!" sacrificial color All the same, it was not too easy for me This life - as if I had never lived ... I would sit on a Ural stone, So that the wind would refresh my soul. Sit, listen to the tales of the pines, Look at the distant stubble. From him, autumn is about to begin, And a fire will go through the forest. The aspen forests will blaze, and the burning birch forest will silently scream. Will the sky turn gray from the ashes, To give a cold sign to the rains?.. I don't know if this will happen, But when the soul is unbearable, I imagine the field field And the aspen tree in sacrificial color. ***
I haven't been to Polevskoy for a long time. My smoky-dirty little town Wanders barefoot through the puddles When spring roars like a holiday. In the anguish of a cloudy day, In the gusts of drip music He remains for me All the same lullaby song. Years have passed, years will pass, But the memory of the heart will not cool down, And Polevskoy will always be My main shrine! ***
There is a Polevaya river in the world. In spring, the bird-cherry color dresses her so elegantly, That there is no more beautiful bride in the world. A lot of storms and adversities swept over its forest banks, But the river is rich in springs, Through the years it flows clean. Rechenka, Polevaya rivulet, My ringing dove! You lead the melody of your native land, Nothing is concealed in your heart. It does not matter that on a short path You nurse one forest peace - Without you, in the final analysis, the Volga Would not be a great river! ***
I look at the shaggy hills, At the cheerful pine needles ... You are good, dear side! So I feel - now I'll sing. And in winter my land is wonderfully green, And in adversity there is only one consolation - To admire it quietly. Is there such a wonderful view from the window everywhere? Here, under the very prickly cloud, Where the whirling wind lives, The raven is circling from a dense fairy tale And calls to the newest fairy tale. As long as I can remember myself, they have been my support, my hope, These hills-hills from the past and future days. With them, all troubles are bearable - They will not allow you to grieve for a long time: Even the most severe winters Do not they tell you to survive? ***
Flowers are still visible in the grass, It won't be long before autumn starts to rage, And with the click of a crane in the blue, the last hopes of summer will hurt. Let's go for a walk, my dear, To where you and I wandered in the spring, Where the trills of the Zhelezyansky stream Have not cooled down from the previous songs. Listen! How pines are even buzzing, How silky is the language of birch trees around ... The time will come, and they will all die From early or late frosts. In the meantime, the sun is in the blue, And August in any forest glade Will tease us with daisies in the grass And lure us into the shade with smells. ***
Memory wanders through the copses of childhood, Finding the road by fireflies. To places where feet know every stone, And the stars fall to the springs. Where the days pass without counting the grass, And the ringing of the scythe sags in silence, Where the key Polevaya river flows over the pebbles into my soul.
Works of a teacher of the highest category, an excellent student of public education:
- Azovsky A.A. date with the earth: Poems. - Rostov-n / D .: Rostov. book. publishing house, 1980. - 32 p. - Azovsky A.A. There is a Polevaya river in the world: Poems. - M.: Sovremennik, 1983. - 48 p. - Azovsky A.A. Rolls: Poems. - Rostov n / a: Book. publishing house, 1988. - 96 p. - Azovsky A.A. It's time for revelation: Poems. - Sverdlovsk: RIO Uprinformpechi, 1991. - 224 p. Gift: poems of the children of the city of Polevskoy / Comp. Azovsky A.- Sverdlovsk: RIO Uprinformpechi, 1991. - 100 p. - Azovsky A.A. Septembers: Poems. - Ekb.: Ural writer, 1995. - 136 p. The last minutes of childhood: poetry and prose of high school students of the city of Polevskoy / Comp. A. Azovsky. - Ekb.: Ural writer, 1996. - 104 p. Dancing snowflakes: literary work of children from the city of Polevskoy / Comp. A. Azovsky. - Ekb.: Teacher's House, Ural Literary Agency, 1998. - 160 p. - Azovsky A.A. Attraction: Poems and wreaths of sonnets. - Ekb.: Ural writer, 1998. - 160 p. - Azovsky A.A. Family longing: Poems and wreaths of sonnets. - Ekb.: Ural Literary Agency, 1999. - 160 p. - Azovsky A.A. Experienced: lyrics. - Ekb.: Ural. writer, 2000. - 248 p. - Azovsky A.A. Peace be with you, quiet happiness. Book of poems. - Ekb.: Ural. writer, 2003. - 172 p. - Azovsky A.A. My unlucky roads: Fragments from the memory. - Ekb.: Ural. writer, 2004. - 228 p. Visiting the bullfinches: Poems of the children of the city of Polevsky / Ed.-comp. A.A. Azov. - Ekb.: Bank of Cultural Information, 2006. - 144 p. - Azovsky A.A. Call, lungwort! Selected works. - Ekb.: Bank of Cultural Information, 2006. - 408 p. A stream ran along the street ... Poems of children from the city of Polevskoy / Ed.-comp. A.A. Azov. - Ekb.: Bank of Cultural Information, 2007. - 284 p. - Azovsky A.A. Calls are clear. Selected Poems. - Ekb.: Ural. writer, 2008. - 140 p. - Azovsky A.A. In Polevskoy, in a quiet district town. - Ekb., 2011. - 242 p. Mountain Stones of Azov NO PART OF THESE ARTICLES AND PHOTOS CAN BE REPRODUCED ON THE INTERNET(ON OTHER SITES), ON ELECTRONIC MEDIA, IN PRINT AND OTHER EDITIONS WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE COPYRIGHT OWNER (i.e. without the permission of S.O. Karpov).
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