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Interviews from the journal "rain" (September, 2004)
We all know that tendency toward the writing it is verse - phenomenon in many respects age-qualification. We are still poets in 16 years: at this age otherwise simply it is not obtained. This enthusiasm without leaving a trace is passed after a certain time. However, there are such people, whose stikhotvorchestvo does not conclude with the age for one simple reason - because they so think - by verses. For them the poetry is age-qualification phenomenon, but the method of thinking and attitude. And differently they not can.
Mary KHAMZINA arrived to Tyumen' in 1995 for the entering in TGU from the northern town Of lyantor. In 2003 it left to the permanent residence to Novosibirsk. Eight years of Tyumen' life contained much: children's romantic verses about the locks, draconic, princesses and chocolate queens. There was well-known Tyumen' writer Constantine yakovlevich's patronage Lagunova. Status of the "pride of university" and numerous appearances on the Pushkin's evenings. Poetic glory and wandering on different komnatushkam and apartments, hungry faintings and the attempt to earn to the life by tutorship. Role games and the absence of civilization in the poetry. The production of collection is verse the "splinters of stained-glass panel", thus far only. Death Of k.Ya.Lagunova. Writer seminars in lower Tagile and Moscow, the entrance into the union of Russian writers.

As it was already said above, now Mary lives in Novosibirsk. It listens to groups "corridor", "cabins behave like a beast", "night snipers", "ADA". From the poets as before loves block, Tsvetayevu, Gumileva, Mayakovskiy, Pushkin, Garcia Lorca, Brodskogo, Taneda Of santoka, Base, Li BO, to Larissa Bocharov, Ekaterina gorbovska... And this is only half of list. Tyumen' Mary does not forget and from time to time visits in guests.

Masha, it passed sufficiently years from that moment, as about you they addressed as about the poet. What did change since then?

I became older, it is calmer, it can be - it is more evil. It got rid of the pink romantic gloss, learned to defend its own opinion... Furthermore, it left marry, was obtained work, it determined for itself social niche... Strictly, all these changes, proceeding next or inside me, could not but affect my verses. In them, to serpent to hope, increasingly less than "chocolate queens", some unripe advances with death, intentional nature, beauty... Husk irreversibly flies around.

You frequently was and are at the poetic seminars. What does nowadays present by itself the writer- poetic medium and are such today's tendencies in the creation of contemporary young poets?

Writer- poetic medium for me somehow nowhere seen could not be. Soul requires the coffee houses Of mormartra, and are obtained the evenings of "young writers and poets". I do not love as far as tendencies are concerned, very much people walks with the table on the breast "I want to be as Brodskiy". Well, or as Mayakovskiy. Or as Anna akhmatova. But here when tables are rejected, and man timidly says "4 - VA of pupkin", then he becomes interesting. Tendencies, as a whole, completely in the spirit of "mechanical bird" by Muracs - game, game, and again game. In a word, by means, by rhythm, by thought, by action - it is unimportant. True, someone plays organically, and someone tries "as all". The second is boring, but it is especially frequently. Well, about the flowers, about the unhappy love, bird- butterflies they also write, but these are the old school, is there predominantly those "young", by which after... to dtsat'. But if man writes, as yue dyshit, it is organic, sincerely - to me it is completely unimportant, from the innovators it, or it goes along the feet of Yevtushenko, who it, and is how much to it years. The main thing - verses, but they falsity do not pardon.

Your verses occur frank. Actually whether poet must be to a certain degree eksgibitsionistom?

Poet no one nothing must. Once it seemed me that true face of poet - these are black coat, black coffee, mouthpiece and wide-brimmed hat. Glory to god, languid prisheptyvaniy and rolling of eyes it did not reach. It is not possible to push its soul into the framework, it is not possible it to reverse to the public. To eksgibitsionistam exactly is much simpler in the light to live - the object of demonstration always with itself, walk to itself yes present. But this number does not pass with the soul. By it must - it will be turned inside out, and entire you to public it will turn inside out, and to the asphalt it will apply by snout. But although in by something of sovri, embellish, advance posoblaznitel'ney - and everything, there is no verse, so, the rifmovannyy collection of beauty. It is not added in single whole. Poet is not obligated to bare. Poet is obligated not to lie.

Cycle is verse "songs of Miriam" was noted as critical stage in your creation...

To me somehow said "well all, Khamzina, now can die," songs of Miriam "you already wrote". To die 4 I do not be going, but I be proud of cycle. But it appeared thus: after completion of university I was arranged to work in small gazetku with the Jewish charitable center - more anywhere they did not take. Then it began to edit it. Then I always loved "canto by song", me casts a spell, hypnotizes this thing, warm, thick, spicy, honey, grape, which reeks by the blood and the sun... And 4 for itself it unexpectedly caught wave, it fell into this system of means, furthermore, it were introduced nearer to Jewish mifologichnost'yu, to their history... And it began. To otherwise write generally nothing it could approximately one year 4, it attempted, but nevertheless fell back into the bible. Then wave flowed, and "songs" remained. 4 so more no longer I will write. Yes even unnecessarily...

Mary khamzina not will be never the mouthpiece of epoch, not it will dissidentstvovat' and leave over the area, because it does not love publicity and journalistic writing. He indicates that from this it always perceptibly smells a little by hysterics. Because the verses of Mary - matter intimate, not for the crowd, but confidentially.
In the poetry Mary nepriyemlet intentional nature, falsity, hysteria, arbitrariness, stupidity and bragging. And still - hypocrisy. Although, in the essence, all enumerated qualities Mary does not transfer not only in the poetry, also in the people.
However, so that does inspire l4ntorsko-Tyumen'- Novosibirsk poet Masha khamzinu?

Autumn, rain, music... Are hotter fault, fire, kisses. Wind, speed, solitude. My man and my cat. My friends. And the book, the book, the book...

"rain" №9 (41), September, 2004 © of Natalie sergeyev
  From the cycle "songs of Miriam"
* * *
But the blood is my - amber grapes, that it was assembled by moon for the madman, from the hands of my you cup took, my brother, in the tent my today you took off shoes... Is bitter, bitter, but in the bitterness of my that bitterness of tears, that became i reward for the life your, for the memory, Moisey, for this cluster of dry grapes... In the hands of my the timbrel thought, and the strand of hair lay on bed-head, I'm - Miriam is the broken tulip, that it was living by you and God's love, sorry me, I'm breach in your fate, possibly, we damned we will not avoid, not me, but night is inclined to you intoxicating rod by the refined flight...
And day after the day in the sand your tracks of evil rays me by shadow I conceal, it is necessary for me not food, not water, me yesm' the vessel, filled to the edge... far the rest of the Earth Obetovannoy, I see above itself the palms of God, conduct me according to the wanderings and the countries, my strange sleep...
- you know, and I'm on you I be bored...
It is difficult to become accustomed not to live with the winged.
Yakhve does not love my griefs,
My of patch is placed on the heart,
It is wise lichen me the temptation
To select once your road...
Listen to, say to me - indeed you it is agreeable -
Of apple do smell the palms of god?
You do fly away?
- A as otherwise?
Too strong it is boring to be grazed in the tree...
Dear, in my opinion, someone cries!
- I hear, loved. This is Eva...
  From the the new
... on the street rain, and umbrella remained house,
I'm small angel, which sank in the following puddle,
I'm greatly got tired, and it is desirable to sleep moreover...
My corpses subdivided the keg of rum,
And drink its insolently, and circles stuchat in the back of the head,
And counter people mow themselves, after hearing this,
Do not to fear me. The syndrome of poet aggravated,
It wants me the words, lighthearted, sick, and ardent,
Me it is desirable to eat them, to choke, and to move throat,
Towards the rain to move on the white wings...
My corpses all to the drop already saw,
And they will leave any minute now into this gloomy gray city.
And city will open by them windows, and even door,
People entirely voluntarily to the street will leave,
They will bring to me on the thick polished dish
Its upovan'ya, as it is accepted, and loss,
But there is no - kolbaski, and can, the piece of cheese,
Let this will be flouting all traditions...
To the ides in the rain, and I look under the umbrellas at the persons,
I'm small angel, to whom it is very damp...
In more detail with Mary khamzinoy's creation it is possible to become acquainted on the site  The arena of the elegant literature
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