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My poem “Stopped Among Oak trees” is published in the poetry magazine South 47. “Walked in from the Cold” is in South 48. “And Yet” is in South 49. “Three Ages of Water” appeared in Weyfarers 115. “Genesis of Frost” and “Promise” appeared in the 21 issue of The Seventh Quarry poetry magazine, winter-spring 2015. “Lips” and “The Way Through Tomsk” are in The Seventh Quarry’s 24th issue.
My haiku appeared in Convorbiri Literare, a Romanian literary magazine.
I had my poem “Is this Wise?” published in an anthology “Reflections: A Collection of Poetry” by Young Writers in January 2012. “The Real Thing” was published in Aspects Of Love, and “Tomsk in the 1980s and now” in Inspired in autumn 2012. “Todmorden Market Close on a Saturday Afternoon” is in The Great British Write Off – No Place Like Home, out in October 2014.
I have performed my poetry at festivals in Manchester and Halifax, as well as in the Three Minute Theatre. I perform at spoken word events in Calderdale and beyond.
John Darwin, a Manchester-based poet was kind enough to give my performance at January 2014 Spoken Weird this review: ”I was fascinated by the second guest Oxana Poberejnaia. Speaking fluently in a second language is hard enough but to write coherent and thought provoking poetry in one is astonishing. Her words were delightful, her mannerisms and delivery even more so. Unusual. She sticks in my head.”
I read at Puzzle Hall Poets in Sowerby Bridge and this is what the organiser Gaia Holmes said: “a BIG daffodil yellow thank you to you for being our guest at ‘The Puzzle’. You were wonderful…poems of poignancy, power and variety.”
For my high school yearbook my Mom found a poem I wrote when I was five years old. It was about a “burning” grass of nettles. Since then, I have written poems about things and people I love: winter and Sean Connery among others.
You can find examples of my poetry in the Category “Poems” on the right side menu bar and two are here:
Taking on the mantle of the public’s voice.
Who am I to make generalisations?
Not everyone likes the Parrot Sketch
And not all delight in rhyme clashes.
With poetry, it’s always a royal «We»
And a poetic «I», which includes
The whole world, olive oil through to ghee
In a line resolves all disputes.
By the right of this keyboard
And by the power given to me by
Stephen Fry I pronounce this dross
My Grandmother during the Battle of Stalingrad
The door’s brush
On the wooden floor
Smell of unwashed men
Smoke and spits
A young voice
Not from our village speaks:
“Take us in for a day,
She’s my Mother,
She’s giving them
She is laying my dowry
On the floor as their beds
I hug the calf
Nestled against the oven
Part of their bodies
They’re going to stop the cannons
My Mother says
I think I was about twenty when my friend asked me what I wanted as a birthday present. I said, ‘A haiku collection’. My love for Japan and everything Japanese might have started with haiku. Or it could be the film Rising Sun with Sean Connery. I remember the feeling of amazement as reading three short lines reduced me to tears. Most probably it was a Basho haiku. Maybe the one about a frog. I could not understand that. I still don’t understand. You can find examples of haiku written by me in the Category “Haiku” at the right side menu bar.
Millions of my unborn babies
Travel down the pipes.
My flash fiction “Warrior Monk” is published in Orbis 162.
I have contributed a short story Waking Up to a collection Daughters Across Borders. The book is published by Indigo Dreams in June 2014. There are eight of us – women who have written about their relationships with their Fathers. You can find more details and photos here. Buy our book from Indigo Dreams website.
I attended “Creative Writing” course taught by Anna Turner.
Currently, I write short stories, plan a non-fiction book about the last years of the Soviet Union, and honestly – honestly! – have no plan or intention of writing a novel.
You can find samples of my writing by clicking the Category “Prose” on the right side menu bar.
My first books were tiny mini children books – as my Mom says, the proof is in the teeth marks on them. I remember my brother and I play “Bookshop”. We would put a throw over a table of our secretaire, secure it with heavy objects such as granite pen holders. Under the table one of us would play a Bookshop owner and the other one would order and receive books through a narrow slot created by the table on top and the opened lower door of the secretaire below. We rated books and out the mark on them. One of the highest-rated were the one with three-dimensional, even better -with movable illustrations.
Over the course of the years I have been obsessed with Alexandre Dumas’ Musketeer trilogy, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle‘s Sherlock Holmes stories, Stephen King’s horror and fantasy novels (I suspect I first got interested in studying Politics while reading The Dead Zone. J.R.R. Tolkien‘s Middle Earth was, is and always will be a very real part of my life. Honestly, I will never know the passport names of some of the dwarves and dark elves from Tomsk’s legendary role playing game club.
My Desert Island book is Master and Margaret by Mikhail Bulgakov. My favourite contemporary Russian author is Viktor Pelevin. His books are my trusted companions in everyday, creative and spiritual life. The books that surprised me with their sheer power are Magus by John Fowles and The Museum of Innocence by Orhan Pamuk.
Free Writing 13 December 2010
Free wiring. Writing free. Free as a wind in front of which no one built a wall the height of the whole earth’s atmosphere or stuck it into the aerodynamic tunnel and forced to swirl around in order to test some new car that no one would be able to buy, but some people would be able to rent in order to able to race around race tracks on Saturdays. And Sundays. And after work. All the time when they are not in work, in fact. Anything to avoid seeing their wives and children. If only they knew that their wives and children would do anything in order to avoid seeing them. And their children and their mothers respectively. The problem is women and children have fewer opportunities to earn free time in this world. Unless wives prostitute themselves to their husbands’ business associates, and their children become the stars of the new Harry Potter-like franchise.
Otherwise, the weak of the this world are locked into their kitchens, their lounges, their schools, their schools yards, their backyards, their community college rooms, their knitting and reading groups. Forever cold, forever dark, forever having to be with people they don’t like but lean towards in order to borrow some warmth. In order to remember how to speak. In order to stop themselves crashing their heads in their television sets. While their respective Fathers and husbands gain one lap after another on a racetrack in the moonlight, their car that no one can afford forcing the wind around it in unthinkable trajectories.
My Mom tells me I laughed when she was reading Nikolai Gogol’s The Government Inspector when I was only five. I still don’t know if I got the humour or whether I just got into Gogol’s style immediately and loved the language.
My favourite playwrights are Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, Oscar Wilde and Tom Stoppard. I like Shakespeare, but not as sitting alone reading his plays, but as in going with friends to an outdoor summer performance of The Merchant of Venice in Heaton Park, with three actors changing frantically and playing all the roles. Or as in seeing Kevin Spacey in Richard II.
I write short plays, some of them for The Three Minute Theatre, Manchester.
You can find examples of my writing by clicking the Category “Plays” in the right side manu bar.
Two humans of the age of consent enter from different sides of stage; sit on two benches or chairs, with their backs to each other. They wear winter scarves and gloves.
The recording of their voices.
|I mean, what is it all about anyway?|
|Hot and sweaty. In the middle of December!|
|I’m all wet.|
|There is nothing more black than Christmas in Manchester|
|Can’t bear looking at reflections of the lights in puddles.|
|The most stressful time of the year, and everybody knows it.|
|Bashing each other with shopping bags|
|Spending money we don’t have|
|What are we celebrating?|
|Celebrating being stressed?|
|No person, living or dead, needs twenty boxes under a tree|
|I gave all my gifts to a charity shop last year|
|I sold all of my gifts on e-bay last year|
|Can’t drink enough in order to forget the rest of my life, like everyone else|
|And I’m definitely not buying that ginger bread heart for £4|
|Going to the Christmas Market just to be able to feel connected to people|
|Getting elbowed and stepped on feet|
|Nauseating smell of mulled wine|
|And that psychedelic singing moose head!|
|That spooky singing moose!|
|Just give me a break|
|Can’t I just get some silence?|
|Simply doing nothing|
|Not worrying about getting the right gift for Auntie Jane|
|Not having to look happy when I open Mom’s gifts|
|Don’t really need to watch snowflakes glide slowly through the air, although|
|It would be nice if it snowed|
|Just give me a break!|
Person 2 Speaks Did you say something?
Person 1 Speaks No, I didn’t.
Person 2 Sorry.
Person 1 It’s OK.
They stand up and walk out their respective side of stage.
Person 2 peeps back in.
Person 2 Excuse me?
Person 1 peeps back in.
Person 1 Yes?
Person 2 I was wondering if you perhaps might fancy some mulled wine?
Person 1 No.
Person 2 Uh.
Person 1 But I’m up for hot chocolate. Only all cafes will be packed…
Person 2 There are tables by the singing moose?
Person 1 Sure.
They leave together.