Born on 6th May, 1967 in Lviv, Ukraine, is a poet and translator who writes in English, Ukrainian, and Russian.
He lives the United States. Iouri is the author of many books: “Drops of the Universe” (2008, Ternopol), “An Umbrella for your Fate” (2009, Ternopol), Seventh-Stringed Capriccio (2010, New York), Signposts (2011, New York), “Edges of the Thirsty Wind” (2011, New York), “Catching Gossamers, 2011, a trilingual book published together with Ihor Pavlyuk).
Currently he works on three other publications.
One of them will be his first prose book “Sincerely Yours Catalina”.
Ne! Nikako ne! Već pokušaj uobličavanja sopstvene snage mimo samog...vjetra. Koji, možda, jeste inicijacija, ali nije uslovljenost pjesničke namjere. Poezija Jurijeva i nije nista drugo do jos jedna potraga za smislom umnih težnji da pojasni sebi, ali i drugima, razloge sopstvenog raison d'etre.
Da bi ostavio trag znalačkih, suptilnih izjava što poetikom se zovu.
Jeste, moram priznati. Učinio je to.
Njegov dah miomirisom suštine vabi. Njegova pjesma nenametljivo gradi slike unutar mozaika duhovne nadgradnje.
I tiho, tiho, opstaje u nadi da će pjesmom poruku ostaviti.
Ili je to već učinio?
No! Not at all! But attempt to formulate his own power by... the wind. Which, perhaps, is the initiation, but not causality of poet intentions. Iouri's (Yuri's) poetry is nothing but another quest for the meaning of mental intent to clarify to himself, and others, the reasons of its own raison d'etre.
To make his mark of scholar's, subtle statements which are called poetry.
Yes, I have to admit. He did it.
His breath of sweet odor of the essence is wooing. His poem unobtrusively builds images within the mosaic of spiritual superstructure.
And softly, softly, survives in the hope that he will leave the message through the poem.
Or he has already done it?
"Світлою пам'яттю – радість тобі!"
янголу ясно і усно трубі.
Чуйність і вірш, як зап'ястя і цвях.
Іній клітинний. Лягає – мовчи.
хай поласує думками твій жах.
посмішка сонця втікає з меча.
з долонь перону мені на спину.
вона у ранах мене зупинить.
і він розжалить її осудно.
Луни не стало, каміння в студні.
та пекло – скроням... за Батьківщину.
сей бій всі вузлики роз`яже.
Не сій же куль – а відступи.
ні дихати мені, ні вмерти.
свій біль і серцю попустило.
а решта – тиша обійме.
Ій би не дав п`ятнадцять літ.
І від людей сльозу тамує.
В норі готельній, номер "Три"
Нехай вона з нутра струмує.
І спазми біль з тебе малюють.
А тут бракує не тепла.
Лягає сніг і тиша з губ.
поки не всохли – живемо.
Хто то мандрує проділом кудлатим?
підмайстер ліпки на небесній стелі.
і громи припідносять серцю плинність.
Твоя Високосте, не мри в болоті!
зірки ще не позбирані в канопи.
rips them off for trimness and soot.
I look up to Heaven, it leaks.
and thunders heart-lifting my muse.
Your Highness, don’t die in the mud!
collects in canopic jars stars.
"Rest in peace, my joyful chord!"
rays reflected in the sword.
jungle crowds had swallowed them.
weakness in a trembled mind.
Skies beneath the blade are mine.
nothing stands behind a word.
for the rays slid down the sword.
Dogs quested and the presence missed a soul.
They scared away the rigor out of air.
the reasons found in the acutest grin.
in wounds of winds I’m destined to reside.
and walked alone-wise through crowded stations.
All echoes die soon, to-well-dropped pebbles.
I’m scarce now, painted o’er by December.
raised hell in temples… home to remember.
The gaze stays wild and empty, half-and-half.
Sharpshooters’ distance milks a golden calf.
You could become a friend, my adversary.
Get knotted! I untie the muzzle’s staring.
Retreat, so blood could rest in bullets’ chaff.
When iron burns in pain, a hush is deaf.
Nor do I breathe or die, nor… care or teary.
The sky’s a stripped off soul by hara-kiri.
It gapes. The kings of winds deliver treats.
The gifts are needles for my pain to knit.
Can’t wash away the trembling of a palate.
To call me nearly down from heroes’ clique.
Until I dot the last and shell-less ‘i’.
The other – falls while hopes deteriorating.
Don’t cover fast the field of uniform.
and hold it back when clenching dirt with teeth.
I’ll live this moment, gating endless bliss.
When Goodness stops to beat, goes off Inferno.
The rest is sightless and exactly right.
Don`t say, for God’s sake, that I died.
The journey to deep-self spreads roots in heavens.
The soul has windows, those are eyes of ravens.
nocturnal tars and, seen in daylight, scars.
I am a stigma of forgotten battles.
My heart is pounding in the rainy rattles.
The gaze is fixed and empty now.
to keep an eye on you, a rival.
and claps a sound of body bow.
When metal burns the pain is dull.
for stripped off souls are skies in stillness.
pokes deeply through a pallid hull.
along with shivers, doubts, and guilt.
and choosing type of blood to spill.
for notches on a priceless blade.
on flowered uniforms by redness.
Eyes muddle up red cells and sand.
The end of hell is in a fist.
the strength. It shall be greatly missed.
since grinding teeth and eating grass.
or cease the lease of lungs at last.
Your silence is the best cantata.
will dry and cry resembling sighs.
For carrying God and growing jut.
She’s Mary. You might know her. Do you?
In her maternal strife is Hallelujah.
Internal light, it might subdue you.
Composing notes for tender Hallelujah.
And spasms are painting pain, a new “you”.
When Heaven’s washed away with Hallelujah?
When there’s nothing left to cure you.
The little star in edgeless Hallelujah.
But holds the key, her tongue, and breath.
A dumpster is your crib, oh new “you”.
In mindless state and wordless pain.
Oh God, forgive her madness, Hallelujah.
Adore their chance to feel the true “you”.
The silence’s seen through snow and lips.
It’s Christmas time. Forgive me. Hallelujah!
with vibes, fresh and salty.
in a buckshee chantry .
and nerves for the country.
the last of your seasons.