Fokina biography brief summary. Olga Fokina: short biography, poetry. Yes, clouds floating randomly

- (b. 1937) Russian poetess. Lyrics of nature, rural life, everyday work. Collections: What's behind the forest? (1965), I Will Be a Stem (1979), Chariot (1983), Behind That Behind Toyma... (1987) ... Big Encyclopedic Dictionary

- (b. 1937), Russian poetess. Lyrics of nature, rural life, everyday work; folklore motives. Collections: “What’s behind the forest?” (1965), “I’ll Be a Stem” (1979), “Chariot” (1983), “Behind That Behind Toyma...” (1987). * * * FOKINA Olga Alexandrovna... ... encyclopedic Dictionary

FOKINA Olga Alexandrovna- (b. 1937), Russian Soviet poetess. Poetic Sat. “River” (1965), “Alyonushka” (1967), “Poppy Day” (1974), “Noon” (1978), “I’ll Be a Stem” (1979), “Sodonga River” (1980), “Chariot” (1983 ) and others. Poems “Thai, snowball” (1966), “Mistress”... ... Literary encyclopedic dictionary

Wikipedia has articles about other people with this surname, see Spesivtsev. Olga Spesivtseva ... Wikipedia

Olga Alexandrovna (born 1937), Russian poetess. Lyrics of nature, rural life, folklore motifs. Collections: What's behind the forest? (1965), I Will Be a Stem (1979), Chariot (1983), Behind That Behind Toyma... (1987). Source: Encyclopedia Fatherland ... Russian history

Olga Alexandrovna (1937, Artemyevskaya village, Arkhangelsk region), Russian poetess. In 1962 she graduated from the Literary Institute named after. M. Gorky, lives and works in Vologda. Fokina is the author of the collections “Syr Bor” (1963), “Rechenka” (1965), “Alyonushka” (1967), ... ... Literary encyclopedia

Fokina- FOKINA Olga Aleksandrovna (b. 1937), Russian. poetess. Lyrics of nature, village. life, folklore motives. Satki: And what’s behind the forest? (1965), I Will Be a Stem (1979), Chariot (1983), Behind That Behind Toyma... (1987) ... Biographical Dictionary

* * *
Simple sounds of my homeland:
Rivers of restless muttering
Yes, the resounding forest cuckoo
Under the rustle of ripening fields.
Simple colors of northern latitudes:
Ruddy clover, bluish flax,
Yes, the sun shines, a little guilty,
Yes, clouds floating randomly.
They float leisurely, as if they are waiting,
That I will rush after them, as I once did...
But now I am no less winged than them,
I don't care where they go.
I don't care which land
They will fall in love with the azure heights,
Which oceans will bewitch
And they will collect their sonorous drops.
I sit alone on a quiet shore,
I cook potatoes on my fireplace,
And joy flows through the soul and splashes,
Like boiling water on cast iron.
I give it to others without regret
Interesting pictures from other lands.
...And merry rains fall
On my happy head.

* * *
...And I had Moscow.
And I had Russia.
And my mother was alive
And she mowed the grass beautifully.
And chopped down birch trunks
Stocking up firewood on the crust,
And the collective farm stood on its feet -
Brotherhood of widowed soldiers.
And they knew how to harness
To rein in the cool stallion,
And a doctor I’ve never seen before
Was an abstract word for them.
And they knew how to plow
And sow... so what?!
And - weave canvases from flax,
And sew new ones from canvases!
Salt, sugar, bread - no.
And - no candles. And - no kerosene.
... We lit the light in the house,
Having cleaved splinters from birch trees.
And read the pages of books,
Rubbing the smoke from my eyes,
Realizing how big the world is
Beyond the borders of my dear hut.
But its beginning is in the hut,
In this - smoky, stove-like, splintered,
Where in the night the cockerel crowed
Without the slightest reason.
We kept the huts warm,
Having pushed the stove valve on time...
Time passed leisurely
Saving us a different life.
And the paths opened up
The ones we were happy with
And, daring to walk along them,
We knocked under the arches of rainbows.
My heart sang. Blood played.
Justice triumphed.
And sublime love,
Like an angel, she hovered between us.
And words accumulated in my soul,
And strength accumulated among the people:
After all, people had Moscow!
After all, people had Russia!

* * *
Siberia - in autumn gold,
There is tire noise in Moscow...
In Moscow, in Siberia, in Vologda
Trembling and breaking in the wire:
"Shukshin... Shukshin..."
To the sobs of an abandoned phone
I'm losing ground.
How is she, how is she?
Blind, death?
What a long time around
She circled - she's lying!
I took this falcon
Hit the air!
(I took it out with a secret knife,
Like those in the movies,
Where he lived and died too
Not so long ago…)
Nothing to him, who has fallen
To the warmth of the earth,
But what about us, but what about us
Didn't save it?
Witnesses and spectators
There are hundreds of us! –
We didn’t think, we didn’t see,
What is it going for?
He who shouldered our burdens
To your ridge...
Flexible?
Depositing
Another
No.

* * *
I am human.
"To live with wolves -
Howl like a wolf?..”
Excuse me!
I am human!
And I should close
From the wolf the door
Allow me.
I am human.
live with wolves
Like a wolf - I don’t want to.
For them I am meat.
"Wolf's Feast"
They to me -
Enemy pack.
Don't get overwhelmed by the nightingale
About equality in the prayer room.
What's wolfish?
That's not mine.
Somehow I
Separately.

* * *
How long has it been since this happened:
A night without darkness, a river without banks,
The sky sleeps under a light blanket
Cirrus cool clouds.
The sky sleeps, but its sleep is not long:
An hour or two, and in the golden dawn
The light canopy will melt without a trace...
Don't fall asleep, don't watch the dawn!
I'm at home. Familiar unfamiliar
White night quiet sadness.
According to unwritten laws
The forest is silent, the waters do not murmur.
According to unrecognized science
Not reflected – absorbed –
At least shout! - sounds disappear without a trace
In the depths of enormous silence.
I am not sleeping. I look. I don’t reflect -
Absorbing... Or absorbed?
I don’t rush around, I don’t rush, I don’t mind.
I forgive everyone - forgiven by everyone.

KOLYA-MIKOLAY
"Kolya, Kolya, Mikolay,
Stay at home, don't go out:
Porridge for my little sister,
Kolya, come on time!” –
Kolya a clear day is not nice!
If Kolya were God,
Clear day on a rainy day
He would gladly change:
If the sky lights up,
Mom will come running from the reaping,
Will replace Kolya near the shaky ground,
Let him make friends with his peers.
But what kind of Mikola is a “god”?
Vanka-Zhokh is just teasing in vain:
Mikola can't make it rain,
Only tears, like peas...
He won’t understand whose fault it is
Is he in captivity all day?
After all, he is hunting with his equal -
Grandma, hide and seek and war...
“Why play war? –
The mother said, getting angry,
The summons came to war -
We need to gather daddy!” –
...Conducted.
Life is the end.
To the former place now – like to heaven!
“Run away, Kolenka, some pieces
Ask, collect!” –
Kolya the collector - none:
On the porch - with an empty bag.
"I can not. I will die - I won’t
Live with an outstretched hand!” –
“Okay, Kolya-Mikolay.
So, harness the horse:
At school I smelled myself with a pen.
Get used to the plow handles.
At the thirteenth year
Stand in the hayfield row,
With native men
Suffer just as much as you suffer.
Kolya, chop some wood!
Kolya, chop some stakes!
Kolya, near the well
Shove away the snow and ice!
Kolya, the roof is leaking!
Kolya, it's blowing from the corner!
Kolya, wire rod for the younger ones
Grind to ashes!
Kolya, throw out the manure!
Kolya, I didn’t bring any firewood!
Kolya, hay - not even senina!” –
Colin's post is irreplaceable.
Someone is playing dominoes.
Someone sat down to watch a movie.
Someone hugs a girl -
Kolya is not given this.
“Kolya-Kolya, Mikolay!
Don't scare our girls
Our girls are spirited,
They'll run away from Kolka!
Don't look at the weather,
Do we, guy, care about people?
Are we wearing ties and suits?
There is a sweatshirt - for the sake of it!”
...On Kolya's attack - smack!
Just a fist under the head
Ali have more felt boots,
The rest are fine.
He's not full - he's fallen and is sleeping!
Tomorrow it will be again:
“Kolya, run away! Kolya, do it!
This is freezing! It’s burning!”

I didn’t have time to look back,
He turned white - he’s ripe!
“Sooo... Have a nice suit
Looks like you've never worn it?
Is there still a need? –
"It's right! It's true!
There is money, no suits...
Duck in suits - where?
Haymaking in the rain?
Al to the stables with the horses?
Show yourself in a suit -
They will drown you, they will not spare you!” –
“Well, what about the holiday?” –
“Would you like to drink vodka?
There's no point in dressing yourself up:
You'll end up in a ditch somewhere -
It's easier to swim without a suit!
Okay, no time to sit:
Unfinished story!
Brothers and sisters - in suits,
So, there’s nothing to regret!”

The grass is mowed towards the bucket,
Three woodpiles contain firewood.
Maybe it's true - everything is all right?
Maybe there is no need for words?
We love - teeth on the goal,
Who is not timid on earth...
And at Kolya-Mikolay
Today there is a holiday on the table.
“Are you celebrating your anniversary? Come on!
Just don’t close your heart -
It stalls!
Full glass
Don't pour it for yourself...
Medicine is far away
Mother is deep in the grave,
If you collapse, who will pick you up?”
“Who will rise? And for what purpose?
There is grace under the birch tree,
It's not time to die,
I will be an orphan of the land
Warm yourself."

* * *
I love Colin's shirt -
I wear it. I wash it. I'm ironing.
And across and along it
Close to me in every cell.
From a staple, not flashy -
Not for banquet halls -
“Not easily soiled and wearable”
As mom would say.
My brother went to the store in it,
Plowed and mowed hay
Chopped and carved wood
In the heat and in the cold.
She survived him
Torn body...
But at his request
Brother - in a coffin - laid - in white?
Orphaned her
I cleaned it up, regretting it,
And she put it on herself, and -
She's the cutest of all the jackets:
Cool, spacious,
Doesn't wrinkle, doesn't fade,
Suitable for any job
Truly dear!

* * *
Buttercups. Daisies. Bells.
The luxury of undisturbed grass.
Walk barefoot - needle chills
Along the body, from head to toe!
Walk barefoot! Don't belt it
Sundress - cheerful swing.
Dance on the sunny tide,
When mowing, blaze with blush!
In the field in the white afternoon from full
From the bucket, after drinking, rinse yourself,
In the sultry, flowing waves
Width, and distance, and height - spread.
And they will pick up the weightless body
Two mighty, quivering wings,
And they will lift the turquoise sky into the sky,
Where have you been before:
Maybe even before birth,
Maybe even in infancy
I allowed you into my possessions
Someone omnipotent and big.
And the bliss of the earthly seas and scatterings
You will see from above...
The world is not empty!
And in delight you will exclaim: Lord!
And thanks! - you exhale from your lips.

* * *
Will manage to be born,
And then you - death!
Don't strive for anything
Have nothing.
No matter how beautiful you are,
Now taking, now giving, -
Everything turns out to be in vain!
Everything is in vain and in vain!
What a grief...
If you don't realize
What's precious
You can give to children:
And to distant descendants,
And to the closest relatives
For bedding
Everything will do just fine.
It's worth it, brothers, to be born,
Create and store
And strive for the heights,
And build others!

* * *
How long has it been since this happened:
A night without darkness, a river without banks,
The sky sleeps under a light blanket
Cirrus cool clouds.
The sky sleeps, but its sleep is not long:
An hour or two, and in the golden dawn
The light canopy will melt without a trace...
Don't fall asleep, don't watch the dawn!
I'm at home. Familiar unfamiliar
White night quiet sadness.
According to unwritten laws
The forest is silent, the waters do not murmur.
According to unrecognized science
Not reflected – absorbed –
At least shout! - sounds disappear without a trace
In the depths of enormous silence.
I am not sleeping. I look. I don’t reflect -
Absorbing... Or absorbed?
I don’t rush around, I don’t rush, I don’t mind.
I forgive everyone - forgiven by everyone.

* * *
Eternal glory! From these words
Smells of smoke and flame.
Eternal glory! Flower pollen
Paints words on stone.
-
Near the grave, bending, they stand
Children bathed in the sun...
Eternal glory to you, soldier,
Sleeping under these slabs!

* * *
...And the state is collapsing
With frightening haste,
And the “democrats” boast
What kind of posts don’t stick.
They shook the tree with fruits,
Then the branches crunched,
Then they crawled to the top of it
With spouses and children.
And to get the last one,
Don't miss out on the rest
And the trunk was cut down -
Now go put it on!
Now the dog is peeing
On the apple-bearing essence,
And I want apples again,
That's why the faces are lean.
“I haven’t lived in a hundred years...” - tired, they say,
Carrying myself from stump to stump,
We don’t value posts, they say,
Let's leave and won't look back.
Ah, anti-creators,
Ah, “rights and freedom” adherents,
Ah, from the Motherland
Her misfortune is refugees!
Let's find, they say, benefactors
With no worse graces...
- Just everything to you, kids, -
With parental curse!

* * *
...And so, with a rope on the horns,
She is being dragged to the slaughter.
Without suddenly realizing that this is a collapse,
She was calm.
The owner walked ahead
Familiarly called Pestrukha, -
Don’t hesitate, just go, -
He salted and promised some crust.
We passed the cattle, we passed
Birch trees, alder...
Where to, master? Really?..
But it scratches behind the ears,
But - strokes and guides along the ridge
With a familiar palm:
Like, don’t worry, I’ll get it!
Nothing, even for slaughter.
But there’s a bridge over the river,
And there are notes of falsehood in the call.
And my heart skipped a beat, and - stop:
Pestrukha can’t go any further.
And – she shook her head!
And - she planted her hooves!
Ten liters per milk yield
Give and get killed?!
Fifteen feed calves
Ours! Yes, how many - master's
Little by little smaller guys!..
Master, don't swear.
For a long journey in the cold
Her nipples were cold.
Don't be angry, master. Somewhere
Is it possible to take a break?
Find a nook from the wind,
Give me an armful of hay,
Pour in a warm sip of swill -
It will thaw gradually.
And, sighing forgivingly,
Like in a barn at home,
Lies down, legs bent,
For fresh straw.
He will fall asleep... and the dream will be more delicious
The first grass of June...
You will solve it in your sleep
A butt from under the bench.
And cut it up and sell it
Her big body.
And there - feast or starve -
It's your business, master.

* * *
We don't pretend to be anything,
Our body contains ordinary blood.
We came from Nekrasov’s “Troikas”,
From unmown Blok ditches.
We are one of those who are both betrayed and sold,
And was buried thousands of times!
But still Mother Nature
She stood up for us and chose us,
Having tried on cold and need
On your own, not strangers, shoulders,
More than the body of those who pity the soul,
Overpowered sadness into song
Hopeless... into a sad song
Inescapable! We live with the song:
About the splinter, about the bitter rowan,
We sing about “It’s raining outside...”.
Orchestras do not ask for these songs:
Just sigh, yes, sigh, draw in -
Joining the chorus of voices
Thousands of blood relatives.
In a growing barrage of songs
Do not separate, do not compare voices,
Don’t hear yourself singing:
The female lobe is one stripe.
Troikas flew with cornets,
A train with windows ran past,
And the man after every drinking session
He took out the excess hops on you.
So what! You endured beatings...
Covering up the stigma of a bruise,
You remained yourself:
You felt sorry for him, man.
You were sorry - and so you held on,
You endured - and that’s how you lived:
After all, I got pity from my mother,
After all, my grandmother was known to be patient.
What can you do! It's not hard, it's not hard
What can you say! To the gut not to the gut -
Get up: in one harness after all.
Not just two, but one for two.
He humiliated, and you rose.
Trampled into the ground - you rose!..
Just damn her, pity,
What love is going to replace!
In all our patient years,
Revive any of the centuries,
I dreamed of the Blue Bird of Freedom,
Golden Firebird of Love!
... How does our century differ from others?
Not in a dream, my God, in reality
Blue Bird - quieter - sits down -
Don’t scare me away -...to your hands...on the grass...

If only one poem, “My Clear Little Star,” had been preserved in Olga Fokina’s poetic legacy, it would have been enough to be included in Russian poetic classics. However, Olga Alexandrovna’s legacy includes 23 collections of poetry, in which literary scholars find an interweaving of folk traditions with the sophistication of the Silver Age, and many of Fokina’s poems, set to music, have become favorite songs of several generations.

The beginning of Olga Fokina's biography is in many ways typical of people of her generation. She was born on September 2, 1937. The Arkhangelsk region and the village of Artemyevskaya (now Timoshinskoye) located in it, Verkhnetoyemsky district, have preserved the traditions of the northern peasantry - not only the habit of work, but also wonderful folk songs. The mother of the future poetess, who completed only four classes of a parochial school, knew by heart many poems by Russian classical poets, which she recited to the children in the evenings. Olga Alexandrovna herself calls rural holidays and the performance of ancient songs her poetic school.

A wartime childhood is never easy. Olga Fokina's father

He returned from the war in 1943 (he was drafted into the army, despite tuberculosis) and lived only a short time after his return. The family, which had six children, was starving - they ate grass and potato peels and begged for alms. Until now, the poetess cannot throw away even a small piece of dried bread. After completing seven classes, Olga decided to acquire a respected and sought-after profession as a nurse. However, having graduated with honors from the medical school in Arkhangelsk in 1956, she realized that she would like to devote her life to poetry, and decided to continue her studies not at the medical institute, where she would have been accepted without exams, but at the philological department of the Arkhangelsk Pedagogical Institute. Her poems have already been published

forged in the newspaper "Northern Komsomolets", and Olga went to the local branch of the Writers' Union. However, they refused a recommendation for admission, and the young nurse was sent to manage the first-aid post at the Yagrysh forest site, and later at Novy. When going on a call, she had to cover many kilometers of off-road terrain on foot, and along the way Olga composed poems, and sometimes wrote them down on the back of mustard plasters. In 1957, the girl decided to try her luck again and sent her poems to Moscow, to the Literary Institute. Gorky. To Fokina’s joy, the poet Viktor Bokov answered her, who invited her to study in Moscow.

The selection committee was amazed by the poems of the young northern woman.

The commission secretary even sent her a letter in which she directly asked if she was familiar with the work of Marina Tsvetaeva (whom very few knew about in 1957). The simple-minded girl couldn’t even read the name correctly and replied that she didn’t know anything about “Uveraeva.” Having entered the institute, at the poetry seminar of N. Sidorenko, Olga Fokina met natives of the Vologda region, whose names later became famous - N. Rubtsov, V. Belov, S. Vikulov. Olga married her fellow student A. A. Churbanov, who later wrote the book “The Salty Sea.” They had two children - son Sasha and daughter Inga.

In 1963, Olga Fokina published her first

poetry collection "Syr-boron", and she became a member of the Writers' Union. After completing her studies, the poetess returned to her native North, but not to Arkhangelsk, but to Vologda, where she still lives, being an honorary citizen of this city. Olga Aleksandrovna worked for the newspaper “Vologda Komsomolets” and is currently engaged in creative activities. For the collection of poems "Poppy Day" (1976), the poetess was awarded the State Prize of the RSFSR. Among her awards are the Medal "For Labor Valor" (1967), the Order of the Badge of Honor (1981) and the Order of the Red Banner of Labor (1984). The poetess's latest collection of poems, "Pendulum" (2013), was awarded the All-Russian Literary Prize "Ladoga".

Olga Aleksandrovna Fokina was born on September 2, 1937 in the village of Artemyevskaya, Verkhnetoyemsky district, Arkhangelsk region. A large peasant family was left without a father, who died of wounds in 1943. A difficult childhood during the hungry war and post-war years turned out to be filled with drama and a special feeling of reverence for moments of joy. Olga Fokina graduated from a seven-year school in the village of Kornilovo, Verkhnetoyemsky district, then, after studying at the Arkhangelsk Medical School, she returned to her homeland and worked as a paramedic in the village of Yagrysh.

In the mid-1950s, the first poems of the aspiring poetess were published on the pages of Arkhangelsk newspapers and in the almanac "North". In 1957, Olga Fokina entered the Literary Institute. M. Gorky, to the poetry seminar of Nikolai Sidorenko (later Nikolai Rubtsov began to study in this seminar). There she met not only Rubtsov, but also V. Belov, S. Vikulov, A. Romanov. In 1962, O.A. Fokina graduated from the Literary Institute. A.M. Gorky. Her diploma work was the poetry collection "Cheese and Boron", published in Moscow in 1963. In the 1960-1970s, a large number of collections of poems by Olga Fokina were published. For the collection "Poppy Day", published by the North-Western Book Publishing House in 1963, O. A. Fokina was awarded the State Prize of the RSFSR.

Olga Fokina's work is rooted in the traditional Russian oral poetic tradition, her poems grow from northern epics and tales, from folk songs and ballads. It’s not for nothing that more than a hundred of Olga Fokina’s poems became songs. Some of them - “Hello, Palenga River”, “My Clear Star” - have gained real popular fame and are performed by each new generation of talented performers.

The themes of Olga Fokina's poetic pearls are very different, but whether it be playful dedications to friends or heartfelt childhood memories, love songs or odes to her native northern nature, the poetess's intonation always remains recognizable, unique - and natural, alive. The rhymes themselves seem to add up one to one, the words seem impossible to compose otherwise than in poetic recitative.

A special direction of Olga Fokina’s work is the glorification and chronicle depiction of the fate of a Russian woman, who sometimes personifies the poet’s entire native land, all of Russia. Lyrical, full of love and subtle understanding, sensitivity, the lines are dedicated to women of all eras of Russian history. Olga Fokina creates a poetic hymn to mercy and hard work, tenderness and fortitude, compassion and strength of character of a Russian woman.

Olga Fokina currently lives in Vologda, but almost every year she comes to her native place. In 1997, she was awarded the title of Honorary Citizen of the Verkhnetoyemsky District. Regular creative meetings with the poetess are held in Verkhnyaya Toima, and in 2008 the Fokinsky Festival was held for the first time.

Olga Aleksandrovna Fokina is a Soviet and Russian poetess, laureate of the State Prize of the RSFSR named after M. Gorky and the Great Literary Prize of Russia, honorary citizen of Vologda.

Fans of her talent are sure that if Olga Fokina had written only one poem, “My Clear Little Star,” she would have forever entered the poetic classics of Russia. But Fokina’s legacy is rich: 23 collections of poetry, a fusion of folk traditions with the sophistication of the Silver Age.

Olga Alexandrovna’s poems have become our favorite songs in our lives.

Childhood and youth

The poetess was born in the Arkhangelsk region, washed by three cold seas, in 1937. She grew up in the village of Artemyevskaya in a large family, where several generations earned their living by peasant labor, cultivating the land.

Olga Fokina's childhood was difficult. Soon after her birth, the Great Patriotic War broke out. The father, suffering from tuberculosis, went to the front, leaving six children in the care of his wife. The head of the family returned in 1943 and died the same year.

Olga Alexandrovna, remembering her hungry childhood, retained a careful attitude towards bread throughout her life and the habit of not throwing away even a dried crust. To survive, the little Fokins ate potato peelings and begged around the yards.

However, memories of childhood are not only about hunger, the death of the father and the struggle for survival. Olga Fokina, mentally flipping through the pages of her biography, remembers her kind mother, who awakened her creativity. Having graduated from the 4th grade of a parochial school, the woman knew by heart dozens of poems by Russian poets, which she soulfully recited to children on long winter evenings.

Fokina’s love for poetry was also born thanks to her life in the harsh northern region, whose inhabitants loved ancient folk songs, performing them at festive feasts and in the dumps after a hard day. After graduating from elementary school, the girl went to study at a medical school. Studying was easy for Olga, but her soul lay elsewhere: Fokina composed poetry every free minute.

Having graduated from college with honors and having received the right to enter a medical university without exams, Olga Fokina went to a pedagogical institute. But the Faculty of Philology required a recommendation, which the young poetess did not have. The local branch of the writers' union refused the girl, although her poems were willingly published by the Arkhangelsk newspaper Severny Komsomolets.

A young nurse was entrusted with managing a first-aid post in the Yagrysh forest area, remote from civilization. Overcoming kilometers of off-road terrain to get to patients who required medical attention, Olga composed poetry.

Literature

In 1957, Fokina knocked on the desired door for the second time: she sent her essays to the capital's literary institute. Soon an answer came from Moscow: the poet Viktor Bokov, admiring the work of his young colleague, invited the Siberian woman to the university. The selection committee, having become acquainted with the works of the Arkhangelsk nugget, was delighted. Her writings were compared to poetry, which the 20-year-old Siberian woman from the outback did not know about in those years.

Soon, student Olga Fokina, who attended poetry seminars, met the same nuggets as herself - people from the Vologda region and Sergei Vikulov. Largely thanks to them, Fokina, after graduating from university, went to Vologda, and did not return to her homeland. In Vologda I met a fellow countryman.

She worked in the editorial office of Vologda Komsomolets. In 1963 she published her first collection of poems, “Syr-boron”. After 4 years, the writer was awarded the medal “For Labor Valor.” In 1976, Olga Fokina was awarded the State Prize of the RSFSR for her book “Poppy Day,” and in the 1980s the Order of the Badge of Honor and the Red Banner of Labor were added to the collection of awards.

Fans of the poetess' talent note her poems about the war. Childhood, scorched by the horrors and deprivations of the Great Patriotic War, resulted in heartfelt rhymes. Bitterness and kindness are intertwined in them. A striking example is the poem “Snowdrops”.

A separate chapter of Fokina’s work is poetry for children, telling young readers about their homeland and nature. “Spring”, “Spring”, “Meeting” - the rhymed lines flow easily and find their way to young hearts. The last collection that Olga Fokina pleased poetry lovers with was published in 2013 and called “Pendulum”. For him, the poetess was awarded the All-Russian Literary Prize. A. Prokofiev “Ladoga”.

Dozens of Olga Alexandrovna’s poems have become lyrics for popular songs that are known and loved by millions of music lovers. At the music festival “Song-77” she performed a composition based on Fokina’s poems “Cheremukha”. And the song “My Clear Star,” which begins with the line “People have different songs, but mine is the same for centuries,” is a hit by the vocal-instrumental ensemble “Flowers.”

Compositions based on the poetess's poems were included in the repertoires of.

Personal life

Olga Fokina met her future husband in the capital, at the literary institute. Alexander Churbanov is a colleague, writer. Soon both received membership of the Writers' Union.

The couple lived under the same roof for 10 years. The marriage produced children - son Alexander and daughter Inga. But creative unions in which two ambitious and talented people plow the same field are rarely happy.

The male pride of Fokina’s husband, who wrote the novel “The Salty Sea,” suffered from the fact that his wife’s popularity exceeded his own. The writers separated, but did not file an official divorce.

The daughter of writers, Inga Churbanova, also writes poetry, she is a member of the Writers' Union. The son chose a different path: he graduated from physics and mathematics and works as a software engineer. The children gave their mother six grandchildren.

Olga Fokina now

In 2017, the poetess celebrated her 80th birthday. She still works hard and fruitfully, meets with readers, communicates with journalists.

After the release of the series about the poets of the sixties, Fokina, who was personally acquainted with, expressed her opinion about the film. She didn’t like that the creators of the project cast a shadow on the reputation of writers: a riotous life with a lot of alcohol, according to Olga Fokina, is the author’s invention.

Bibliography (collections of poems)

• 1963 – “Syr-boron”
• 1965 – “Rechenka”
• 1965 – “What’s behind the forest?”
• 1967 – “Alyonushka”
• 1969 – “Poems”
• 1969 – “Island”
• 1971 – “The Brightest House”
• 1971 – “Poems. Library of selected lyrics"
• 1973 – “Kameshnik”
• 1974 – “Poppy Day”
• 1976 – “On behalf of the sickle”
• 1978 – “Noonday”
• 1979 – “I’ll be a stem”
• 1983 – “Memo”
• 1983 – “Chariot”
• 1983 – “Three Lights”
• 1997 – “Smell it, cherry tree”
• 1998 – “Raznoberezhye”
• 2003 – Selected works, in 2 volumes
• 2013 – “Pendulum”