Sergey Glovyuk was born in 1958 in the city of Dresden, Germany into a family of a serviceman .. He graduated from the Literary Institute. Maxim Gorky in Moscow. He began to write poetry after graduating from high school. He was published in the Literary Newspaper, in the magazines Moscow, Yunost and other Russian and foreign publications. The first book of poems, “Gulp,” was published in Moscow in 1991, and the second book, “Point of Return,” was published in Moscow in 1997. The third book of poems “Old Coin” was published in Moscow in 2008. The fourth book was released The March Blizzard was published in Baku in 2008. The fifth book “Open Window” was published in Moscow in 2018. The poems are translated into several languages, among which are: Macedonian, Serbian, Slovak, Romanian, Czech and others. In 1997, Macedonia published his book entitled “Coals” in translations by Ghana Todorovsky, in 2002 the book “Point of Return” was published in Romania in translations by Dumitru M. Iona, in 2005 his book of poems in Serbia was published under the title
“Through quarters” in translations of Zlata Kocic, in 2009 in Macedonia the book of poems “Old Coin” in translations of Ghana Todorovsky, in 2010, a book of poems in Serbia in translations of Vera Horvat. In 2012, a book was published in Warsaw in Poland in translations by Alexander Navrotsky. Sergey Glovyuk is engaged in translations a lot and fruitfully. Dozens of famous poets from Macedonia, Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Croatia, Montenegro, Czech Republic, Poland were published in his translations.
In 1997, for translations from Macedonian, he was awarded the Golden Writer Prize of the Union of Writers of Macedonia, and in 2002 in Romania, the highest prize of the Orient Ossident International Academy; in 2003, he won the Privele Morava Prize of the Union of Writers and the Ministry of Culture of Serbia. For many years Sergey Glovyuk worked as a special correspondent and columnist for Literaturnaya Gazeta. He was a parliamentary columnist for Literaturnaya Gazeta and editor-in-chief of the supplement to LG: Towards a Culture of Power, Through the Power of Culture, together with the Committee on Culture of the State Duma of the Russian Federation. He was the initiator and editor-in-chief of the national annexes to Literaturnaya Gazeta: Multilingual Lyre of Russia and Eurasian Muse, devoted to the literature of the peoples of Russia and the CIS countries.
In recent years, Sergey Glovyuk has initiated and authored a series of bilingual anthologies “Slavic poetry XX-XXI FROM AGE TO AGE”. Nine volumes were published in this bilingual series – Macedonian, Serbian, Belarusian, Ukrainian, Bulgarian, Czech, Slovak, Croatian, Slovenian, Polish poetry. In addition to the Slavic series, Sergey Glovyuk became the initiator and author of the series of bilingual anthologies – “Poetry of the Cyrillic alphabet of peoples of the XX-XXI CENTURY TO CENTURY”. In recent years, the following volumes have been published as part of this series: Poetry of the Khanty, Mansi and Nentsev, Bashkir poetry, Yakut poetry , Tatar poetry, preparing to publish a volume of poetic anthologies of other peoples of Eurasia. The publication of this series is an unprecedented phenomenon in the history of the writing of the Slavic and Cyrillic peoples. This set of anthologies shows the richness of modern poetry of close peoples with previously unprecedented solidity and completeness. He is a member of the Union of Writers of Russia and an Honorary Member of the Union of Writers of Macedonia, Serbia, Montenegro. Honored Worker of Culture of the Republic of Poland. Currently, he is the editor-in-chief of the cultural almanac “Literary Commonwealth FROM CENTURY TO CENTURY” lives and works in Moscow.
These trees are showered with snow like ash,
to be more precise, sprinkled with ashes.
March, what turned out to be a cold, evil one,
everything strives harder to wind.
I’d like to dive into the house,
so that the window fenced off – it saved.
Among the trash, probably in the house
somewhere flint and an armchair are lying.
Striking flint on the stone
carving a spark from rubbing stones –
if I still imagine myself alive,
only it remains for me to smoke.
There’s time for crawling
and thoughts are heaps of stones or foliage.
As if from the ceiling did not hit the crown of the head,
something up there a suspicious rustle.
What kind of era, and who is in it?
All the orbits cry in the prophets.
Is it time to pick up stones
then scatter them, what a deadline !?
It seems that the foundation is intact,
and there is a roof, but slightly rides.
You can, for example, take chalk
and write on the wall proudly Petya!
Only now Petya once took the Reichstag,
immediately drove there in a tank,
and now you can quickly learn guten tag,
or buy American aerosleds.
And what a convenient thing – gas, brakes
and push, ram, tear snowdrifts,
don’t even have to open your eyes
so rush and grinning to the very grave.
Sit, dream, because there are two glasses in the window,
and there’s a continuous vacuum between them.
You can take a beer, chew on your sleeves,
go to a friend and have fun with relish.
Or take to declare yourself a crown
alpha, omega, the gamut of the whole creation,
and then, exacerbated by a little screw,
go out and bark at all the cities and villages.
It has long been indicated – the way is siliceous!
Only in places slippery cobblestone lies
after all, the pristine snow that covered them was clear,
I think any skier knows about this.
Oh, these windows, windows – gloss, chic look,
better than the view from the porch or threshold,
there is only darkness and dirt, but the star burns,
silently burns, for this Star is from God.
This life, which is not like life,
I see on the screen – in the cinema.
Here is some tramp passerby
He looked into the empty window.
Something behind an upturned curtain
It seemed familiar to him
Here I have a spacious screen
Something seems that – I do not understand?
Everything seemed so obvious
And quite understandable and clear,
What did he see there,
In a non-transparent, not washed window?
Silent empty boulevards
Silent flows of cars.
Bridges, sidewalks disappear
Light streams from the heights of heaven.
He only touches the mirror of the windows,
The darkness parted before him.
Still not so lonely in the world
Even if empty at home.
Do not defile silence with empty, unnecessary conversation,
While I lie down and fall asleep, so that in the morning close watch
Cast a gray country covered in sheer disgrace
Coy you blamed, what served as her pattern,
Antique painted, stolen by an overseas thief,
And sold beyond the hillside, at the auction price.
Swift, sharp, lively
You are my gentle knife wound …
I opened your portrait on the Internet, –
It was in July, and your trace got cold.
Why go !? I do not fully know?
I go to the edge and retreat.
But I know one answer to seven troubles,
And just open my mouth like a fish, –
I can’t get anywhere without you.
And I don’t know how to breathe without you
Only the air in my mouth desperately swallows.
And you forgot to tell me a secret.
We play a game with you
in a cruel life wind.
You will leave!? Nothing – I will not die …
I will leave – you will continue the game!
What a funny game !?
Every day from morning to morning.
Who imposed it on us
didn’t tell us any rules.
So just odd, not even live.
Lost in the net together!
Walk the deserted autumn boulevard
bread salt to you at the round table.
I understood, I understood everything – we are not a couple with you,
and the wind is cool with raw and fumes,
heaves foliage on gray sidewalks,
whipping under the spoon com.
Why would he touch the decayed leaves,
what for? Voroshba is not a Volzhba.
How long to such a simple truth
fate let me down.
And yet in the coffee shop through the smoke of a cigarette,
drove the hops out of my head
scratched your easy reciprocator so painfully
a nod and a sudden “you.”
And the rain is wooded forest and forest –
well, I’ll brew strong coffee,
and black, burning, bitter thick
I pour the coals of hope.
His cheekbones are smiled
trembling in the fingers.
Devastation, misfire, mistake
you can’t name it.
And calmly in the squint of the sight
pupils are looking in the mirror.
The bullet shot up, the bullet sang
the bullet has long been waiting.
A wolf flashes between the trees
a chick will fly from a branch.
The world splits and doubles –
in flight blind lead.
How bright, how angry the fire
ashes are light and light.
Wing hurt pain
a furious wind roars.
And turning dust to dust
already noisy life
bonfire dancing flowers
on a long night feast.
The tongues of fire are sharp
shameless and frank.
Where are you taking me
are my dense genes?
To the antediluvian hell
to caves, stones and screams,
where the dancing plague masquerade
the shaman calls with a boom.
Oh how you cunning fire
as dexterous and incomprehensible.
A moan comes out of the hell
and glare of obscure spots.
Omega and Alpha are you –
you were created before