Biography of Kogan Paul

There is such accuracy in our days a lyrical retreat from the novel in verses that boys of other centuries will probably cry at night about the time of the Bolsheviks. And they will complain cute that they were not born in those years when it rang and smoked, water collapsing, to the shore. This reddish is amazing, blushes in French - a rifle, a rusty sheet rurses - quiet, juniper will pull - the wilderness.

There is in the habits of its forest and in the coloring of ancient coins so familiar: spinning, and muffled: not for me. Lisonka walks by the stream, the stream is barely sounding. Only Lisonka is a draw, and her red -haired gear is nobody. If you are angry with a hint, you, please, are sorry - he is offended by offending all, he barely rings. Let go in the wind like smoke.

Catch and, like a butterfly, let go of the light of a lonely star. For a small moment, your someone else's warmth will take your palms. Happiness always gets two and never alone. Like a sea, endless infusion water. In November, he left, like Paris in the old days after Elena, a year later I found to lose forever ...

You are standing pale, my golden Elena, a few years later you, like a seagull, are in the distance ... I, your insignificant, I accept you, the universe, from the last star to the conventions of the sinful land. Nothing that I found, it means that it is worth tired and row, and get tired and row again ... For the real love, for the longing of a blue infusion, if you want more, if you can still, forgive me!

Raise the sails! The shores were tightened with sadness ... The dawn flies away, freezing like voices. The silence flies like a seagull ... your name shines on torn sails! .. Music: George Lepsky. When your art ends, the romance of the falling star, according to all canons, is accepted in writing and orally to you. Also, the lines smell of a sucker, and we are also given inspiration, even at night we, as before, dream of a clear one to touch.

Oh, the pathos of the days that did not know the berths, when, having not yet made up fate, we ourselves, not rejected in the principles, performed the fleeting courts! My pain is old. Garle brings trains long, wormwood. From your other people's steppes, where now the beginning of all the principles and days and longing of the berth. How many letters were carried on September, how many bright letters ...

okay - earlier, but although they would hurry now. In the field, the dark, in the field, is autumn over Russia. I go to the windows of dark blue. The old alarm. Teach me to be courage on the road. Teach me always a goal to see through Dali. Satisfy, my star, all my sorrows. Trains Garus carry wormwood. My homeland. Silence is not quieter. The malaria wanders the moon with a red cat on the black roofs.

Ah, to whom she, to hell, needs it, and the dogs did not eat her ... From a snowstorm to wine, from wine to a steep snowstorm, from poems to empty dawn silence, some kind of silence ... Unburpicated lanterns ... unwinded trams ... You walked under this moon, cold ... "Beer - Water". What do you think, tell me that you are leafing through the verses of others, what do you think?

What are you silent? What did the hand tremble again? Very chilly. Such a quiet. I will smoke, perhaps. Do you want to tell you everything? About the snow, as I said that “no”, about grief, as I dreamed in a dream without a limit and the edge of the sea, as I loved, hoping, hoping, hoping, how, having lost love, I found the rest that was given cool. Dear ... dear ...

quiet ... He completely notices the quiet, you see, the room was overwhelmed. We are alone. Very cold. Very very quietly. Again to me, biting my lips, without hope to wait for something, pretend to be funny and rude, cry, beat and yearn. And again, tired of anxiety, smiling dutifully: “let” take for their roads, quiet, fogs, longing and sadness. And again, shutting down the doors, realizing that this is a lie, at least a little, at least a bit to believe that you live somewhere.

And, with a thunder, having rewarded the spring, she rang on the grass, embracing the door into swiftness and steepness. And the wind tired on the bench sat down, and the gentle couples whispered softly, I walked in the evening Leningradskoye Shosse, carrying longing and fatigue with me. I walked, cursing people and a century, and now a man came up to me, his alcohol shook a ridiculous jacket from someone else's shoulder, an old sweater in spots, in the mud, but the sonorous Order threatened, but the loud Order squinted his eyes, as if a thunderstorm, as if his shoulder to the shoulder to the songs to get tired, as if to get tired, as if Again, for the sun and smoke to death, go to the fighters young.

The clouds will be pink and float into the distant lands in the sky. How I envy them! Lovely funny clouds. I will put on a coat. I will go out to see how the sky burned the sunset. And I’ll go curly alleys, smoking a little and dust. It will smell like a rain and rolls, rustling about something poplar, the wind will whistle, and in tone to him a little to hang out. Well, tell me something affectionate, my good girl.

Rustle of poplars. Deaf nights, dust, and crunchy snow, and light of lanterns. And pink and very, very warm and great dawn. Irja, the shadows falling on the ground, the blue snow what a special crunch! And I stand, excited and thoughtful, and I look excitedly back. Clouds fly by me, dark blue stars hang. For a month from behind the cloud he stuck out a face ... And I think, excited and tired, oh, how little, in essence, it is written, oh, how much, in essence, wrote!

Children's years took place in Moscow.Gorky at the poetry department. In the verses written at that time, the geopolitical views of the author were reflected, and not only one of him. In, when the war began, he volunteered for the front. On September 23, he died in battles near Novorossiysk. He was 24 years old. During his lifetime, Kogan did not manage to print his poems.

They began to be published in the periodic press in the second half of x. Later, the “Thunderstorm” collection was drawn up in the collective collection “Through Time” published an unfinished novel in the verses “First third”. Pavel Kogan is the author of the popular song “Brigantine”, which now sounds on the rams of lovers of the author’s song. Russian writers and poets. Brief biographical dictionary.

He left the volunteer to the front, died in battles near Novorossiysk. Kogan was not printed during his lifetime. His poems began to appear in print only in the 2nd half of the xg. In the collective collection “Through the Time”, an unfinished novel was published in the verses of Kogan “The First third” and the memories of the poet. The author of the popular student song "Brigantine".

In the verses of Kogan - the bright poetic confession of the young generation of participants in the Great Patriotic War, "boys of an unprecedented revolution." Kogan Surov’s romance - on her a seal of difficult time on her, with a fire that believes the soul of people, a reflection of an impending military thunderstorm; It is imbued with intransigence to the discrepancy between word and deed.

Kogan verses are translated into many foreign languages. Cardina], M.