Галина Рудь. Стихи пишу с детства. Главные темы творчества – православие, русская литература, кошки. Кошковед и кошкотворец. Многочисленные статьи были опубликованы в московских журналах “Друг кошек” и “Мой друг кошка”.
Член Союза писателей России, член Союза писателей-переводчиков, член Московской Ассоциации гидов-переводчиков. Стихи русскоязычных поэтов начала переводить для своих англоговорящих туристов. Автор книг поэзии, прозы, переводов русскоязычных поэтов на английский язык, а также поэтических книг для детей.
Имею многочисленных литературные награды. Победитель и лауреат литературных конкурсов.
FROM THE AUTHOR
This poetic book “Geese-swans were flying by…” I dedicate to my family – to my parents – Anatoly Rud, Donbass born, and Anna Rud (Yakubovsky), the Kuban Cossack Woman, – former front-line soldiers, participants of the Great Patriotic war of 1941-1945. They were beautiful: kind, talented, generous.
To my sister Irina.
To my step-mother aunt Tonia.
To my husband Sergey.
I loved both of my patents with the same great feelings, and I was afraid always to loose them.
We, my sister and I, were born after the Great Patriotic war and were growing together. In our childhood, it happened, fought, but we were friends and loved each other very much. My sister Irina (two years older than me) – very often only one spectator of my children’s performances, the first listener of my poems –was always my life supporter.
We were born in Donbass. From there are my first impressions of childhood. Our house represented the whole world: with the summer verandah, the attic, the cellar, the apple orchard (in the name of the varieties of apples white filling was something fabulous), with colourful flower beds, swings in the yard, fairy tales at bedtime, Christmas trees, wonderful Easter cakes, our extraordinary games…
Sometimes when our mom put us in a corner for misdemeanors, our dad brought a chair there so that we could sit. He never punished us.
In our house cats have always lived – the equal members of the family. The love for cats has been since my childhood.
I grew up as a “wild” child. The own house was a fortress for me. I did not want to go to school, I was afraid. My mom said: – But, if you don’t study, you will have to tend the cows.
I thought for a long time, then came to the mother and said: – Mom, I better – feed the cows.
But, of course, I was sent to school: we need to be able to count the cows. I always studied well.
When I was eight years old, our family moved to New Kakhovka, a green town on the banks of the Dnieper River. While studying in New Kakhovka secondary school I visited the Crimea for the first time and forever fell in love with this land.
Since 1968 I have lived in Moscow. Dearly love it (more the one I didn’t know – Moscow of the beginning of the last century with its narrow streets, small cozy houses, often surrounded by gardens, the churches at every step) and feel sorry for the changes that have happened to my city for the last time.
In my life I was lucky to meet a lot of close friends.
I got graduated from the Moscow Institute of history and archives.
I worked at the Moscow General post office; taught English in kindergarten; later for several years engaged in the English language with children of Martha and Mary convent of Mercy; worked as a tour guide of the Moscow city tour Desk; then – as a guide-interpreter in the travel company.
For my English-speaking tourists I started to translate Russian poetry into English.
I am the member of the Union of writers of Russia, member of the Union of writers-translators, member of the Moscow Association of guides and interpreters, the author of books of poetry, prose, translations of Russian poets into English, the winner and laureate of literary contests. I have literary awards. The first book was issued in 2005.
THE TOWN OF MY CHILDHOOD
There’s a ravine bottom with the river Luganka,
The black heaven is strewn with bright constellations,
There’s a cupola furnace with red open mouth,
The waste banks are round. It is Donets Basin.
Remember your Fatherland, dear, forever,
The land of your childhood, from it we appear.
Familiar neighbourly cats meow ever:
The purr of cats Basil and Murzic are near.
It often appeared – a grey tabby kitty:
The neighbourly Manya was purring on porch, and
It waited for tomcats, with patience was sitting.
The dahlias blossomed along paths of orchard.
The fruit trees were different, there was a great number.
We had the nice yard with the flowers around.
There’s the shed with coal; on perch fowl slumbered:
Three our hens. And three poplars were stout.
The swing in the yard was between those poplars.
“And where’ve we come from?” – We asked adults always.
We were flying on swing to bottomless heaven.
My sister and I. World was our haven.
“And were we the slumber of Somebody’s level?
If He wakes – would we disappear forever?”
We were very happy. We were sure: one day
We would go along Paris streets. No pity.
I lay on the earth – and the heaven was lowering.
We were even more close to our Deity.
There was overgrowth of bur, nettle and clover.
The devil’s milk grass covered the hill in warm season.
My sister, my parents were still alive. Over
My shoulders the roomy childhood’s world’s risen.
* * *
Irina and I came after the postwar years,
War games in the streets were typical for us.
And my dear faces’re in the photos here.
Looking at them I would drown in the past.
All your sons’re on the front. Anatoly, Shura
And young Genia. That’s why grandma and granddad
Waited for the letters crying: “Foolish bullet,
Save our sons, we pray you. Bullet, fly past”. And
Mortal battle is over; many people were fallen.
Your sons returned back. The joyful motives sound.
Uncle Vania’s looking at the photo lens. He
Was lost being missed. And he was so young.
And we loved to listen to our father’s stories
Of this war; it was so stormy – common one.
He was the lieutenant of connection. He was
Wounded very serious, but he came alive.
He saved our Homeland. There’s tunic, helmet,
Soldier’s sack, the rifle… Damning foe, see,
Warriors are waiting for the coming battle.
Foe’s bullet’s aiming now straight at me…
Elabuga – there’s river Kama,
Grey early transparent bank…
I’d like to return to my mummy,
To our childhood’s Kuban…
We strolled with my sister Irina
Along the ferocious stream…
And earlier, being sad, Marina
Recalled the Oka in her dream…
My fate is prophetical rivers:
Green Dnieper and meadow Lugan…
I сlose my eyes – I am near
The quick rapid river Kuban…