Doesn't require a poet yet
To the sacred sacrifice Apollo,
In the cares of the vain world
He is cowardly immersed;
His holy lyre is silent;
The soul tastes a cold sleep,
And among the insignificant children of the world,
Perhaps he is the most insignificant of all.
But only a divine verb
It will touch sensitive ears,
The poet's soul will stir,
Like an awakened eagle.
He yearns for the amusements of the world,
Human rumors are shunned,
At the feet of the people's idol
Doesn't hang his proud head;
He runs, wild and harsh,
And full of sounds and confusion,
On the shores of desert waves,
In the noisy oak forests...
Analysis of the poem “Poet” by Pushkin
Throughout his life, A. S. Pushkin was interested in the topic of the purpose and meaning of the poet’s activity. He devoted more than one poem to this issue. In 1827, Pushkin again returned to this topic in his work “The Poet”. It is traditionally believed that the immediate reason for writing was the poet’s visit to Mikhailovskoye. Pushkin exchanged the noisy social life in Moscow for rural solitude, immediately feeling a powerful surge of inspiration.
The work does not contain Pushkin’s traditional calls to fulfill civic duty and pompous words about the poet’s great mission. He simply reflects on the various states of a creative person. Accordingly, the poem is clearly divided into two parts.
The first part describes the poet in a state of mental peace. Until he felt the divine touch of the Muse, secular laws ruled over him. The poet is “cravenly immersed” in the traditional entertainment of his society: balls and masquerades. Pushkin is quite self-critical in assessing this state. He believes that during this period the poet is “the most insignificant of all,” since he was born for something completely different. By becoming like the empty people around him, the poet goes against his nature.
The second part is devoted to the poet’s transformation under the influence of the “divine verb” he heard, symbolizing inspiration. It completely embraces the poet’s soul, turning it into an “awakened eagle.” Secular entertainments instantly become useless vanity for him. He rises above the crowd, looking indifferently at the “people's idol” revered by everyone. Contempt for stupid society forces the poet to seek solitude in wild and deserted places. In the lap of virgin nature, he can calmly pick up his “holy lyre” and express the creative ideas overwhelming him in words and sounds.
Despite criticism of the poet's calm state, Pushkin admits that inspiration cannot be caused artificially. The “Divine verb” visits a person arbitrarily; it can happen at any moment. The poet can only not miss this state of mind. Trying to stifle your inspiration will be a real crime.
It is worth noting that the poem “Poet” very accurately conveys the peculiarity of Pushkin’s creative activity. During periods when the poet was in secular society, he was more interested in having fun and courting women. Pushkin's creative activity declined significantly. Moving to the village (suffice it to mention the famous Boldino autumns), the great poet created his best works with incredible speed.
Chapter 4. Three poems
Doesn't require a poet yet
To the sacred sacrifice Apollo,
In the cares of the vain world
He is cowardly immersed;
His holy lyre is silent;
The soul tastes a cold sleep,
And among the insignificant children of the world,
Perhaps he is the most insignificant of all.
But only a divine verb
It will touch sensitive ears,
The poet's soul will stir,
Like an awakened eagle.
He yearns for the amusements of the world,
Human rumors are shunned,
At the feet of the people's idol
Doesn't hang his proud head;
He runs, wild and harsh,
And full of sounds and confusion,
On the shores of desert waves,
In the noisy oak forests...
A.S. Pushkin (1827)
The cabman's yard and rising from the waters
On the ledges is the criminal and cloudy Tower,
And the ringing of horseshoes, and the ringing of a cold
Westminster, a block wrapped in mourning.
And cramped streets; walls like hops
Accumulating dampness in overgrown logs,
Gloomy as soot and as fervent as ale,
Like London, cold as footsteps, uneven.
The snow falls in spirals, heapily,
They were already locking him up when he, flabby,
Like a slipped belly, he walked away half asleep
Leave, filling up the sleeping wasteland.
Window and grains of purple mica
In lead rims - “Depends on the weather.
But by the way... But by the way, we’ll sleep in freedom.
But by the way - onto the barrel! Barber, water!”
And while shaving, he cackles, holding his sides
To the words of a wit who is not tired from the feast
Strain through the rooted mouthpiece of the shank
Deadly nonsense.
Meanwhile, Shakespeare
The desire to make jokes disappears. Sonnet,
Written at night with fire, without blots,
At that table over there where the sour ranet
Dives, hugging a lobster claw,
The sonnet tells him:
“I admit
Your abilities, but, genius and master,
It seems like you, and the one on the edge
Barrel, with a soapy muzzle, that suit
I'm all lightning, that is, I'm higher in caste,
Than people - in short, what I pour over
Is your knaster like fire, like my sense of smell?
Forgive me, my father, for my skepticism
Filial, but sir, but, my lord, we are in a tavern.
What do I need in your circle? What are your chicks
Before the splashing mob? I want some bread!
Read this. Sir, why?
In the name of all guilds and bills! Five yards
- And you and him in the billiard room, and there - I don’t understand,
Why is popularity in the billiard room not a success for you?
- To him?! Are you mad? - And calls the servant,
And nervously playing with a malaga branch,
Counts: half a pint, French stew -
And at the door, throwing a napkin at the ghost.
B.L. Pasternak (1919)
The third verse will be a little lower, but for now, conduct an experiment: read Pushkin’s poem, then Pasternak’s.
If Pasternak’s verse is incomprehensible, then re-read Pushkin’s verse, but with the consciousness that Pushkin will explain Pasternak to us, for with classical clarity he speaks about the same thing.
More than once I have been able to help those for whom poetry is an important part of life, using Pushkin’s transparent verse, to understand Pasternak’s incredibly complex verse in style.
And every time a miracle happens: Pasternak’s verse suddenly acquires transparency and completely classical clarity. And the more we read into Pasternak’s verse, the more we will feel the stylistics of not only this particular verse, but also of Pasternak’s poetry, and of modern poetry in general.
Moreover, I want to express a thought that may seem strange at first:
Pasternak’s verse is Pushkin’s verse a hundred years later. And it was written as a reminiscence of Pushkin. The only thing that I do not dare to determine is conscious or subconscious reminiscence in Pasternak.
I will commit
one terrible one
experiment:
I will prosaically convey the content of both poems in a simultaneous story.
Why is this terrible?
Yes, because I myself violate my convinced agreement with Osip Mandelstam’s brilliant statement that genuine poetry is incompatible with retelling. And where it is compatible, “there the sheets are not rumpled, poetry did not spend the night there.” The only thing that can justify me is my exercise - not a retelling, but an even more unusual experiment.
What if Osip Emilievich liked him?
Seven troubles - one answer
(But maybe... there is something in this?)
So, closing my eyes, I throw myself into the abyss.
An episode from the life of W. Shakespeare.
(Here I highlight phrases and images borrowed from Pasternak's verse, and italics the same - from a poem by Pushkin.)
Shakespeare was sitting at a table in a dirty tavern in a slum area of London, where cramped streets, where even gloomy smoky walls smelled drunk, among the drunken vagabonds, drank intoxicating beer and told them obscene jokes.
The tramps laughed loudly, and most of all one with a soapy face, who, having heard witty-Shakespeare, I couldn’t figure it out and at the same time decide, Where he and the rest of the tramps will sleep tonight. Sleeping on the street (or as they usually call it, "at large").
Or maybe on a bench in a pub.
Depending on the weather.
If this baggy, flabby snow falls, you will have to neglect freedom and stay in this smoky pub.
And Shakespeare smokes incessantly, so much so that it seems that the cigarette holder is attached to his mouth forever.
But what is Shakespeare doing here, in this tavern, among people who have no idea that before them is the greatest creator who has ever existed?
Why is he spouting this meaningless nonsense?
The fact is that his contact with Apollo ended. The result was a sonnet, written at night with fire without blots at the far table.
And then his holy lyre fell silent.
Moreover, after contact with heaven, Shakespeare was immensely tired (after all, God demands the poet to the sacred sacrifice ).
And Shakespeare wanted to relax among the tramps.
And here is our genius became faint-hearted , he not only approached the tramps, but for some reason he suddenly needed to be the center of their attention.
After all his lyre was silent, and he felt himself in a state of cold sleep , that is, the same state in which London tramps often find themselves.
They don't care about the problems of the universe, and they are happy about it.
They would have a drink, a cackle, a good night's sleep, and then a good hangover.
And Shakespeare seemed to become one of them. To an outsider it might even seem that Among the insignificant children of the world, he is perhaps the most insignificant of all .
And suddenly, in the midst of cackling sensitive hearing Shakespeare was caught by a sound that came from the corner of the far table, where he, apart from everyone, just a few hours ago was creating his sonnet.
Then he heard neither cackling nor dirty curses, but only the divine verb that touched his ear .
And now Shakespeare hears this sound again!
Poet yearned for fun– he felt uneasy.
And Shakespeare immediately lost the desire to make jokes.
The next moment he rushed to the far table.
And I was dumbfounded!
Sonnet tells him!!! It was you who wrote me at night, with fire,
without blots, but, Genius and master!
Why are you here?
What are you doing here?
What do I need in your circle?
Shakespeare seemed to wake up from a dream.
What is he, the Poet, doing here and this Is he a tramp? on the edge of a barrel, with a soapy muzzle, his friend?
How can he, Shakespeare, communicate with those to whom he does not dare read his sonnet?
How can his mouth spew words that are as dirty and stinking as this sour ranet in an embrace with the claw of a half-eaten lobster.
And in addition to everything else - stinking knaster(that disgusting cheap tobacco!)
But the sonnet has an unusual and very strange sentence. Maybe Shakespeare should take a chance should I go with this one, who has a soapy face, to the billiard room and try to read him a sonnet?
Maybe this one will understand the heavenly origin of poetry? (the sonnet is covered in lightning, that is, higher in caste than people)
- To him?
Madness!!!
Pure madness!!!
Shakespeare suddenly instantly felt how he yearns for the amusements of the world , How this is alien to him primitive rumor . He feverishly calculates how much he must pay, and, like a madman, jumps out the door.
He runs, wild and harsh,
Full of sounds and confusion.
For the divine word touched sensitive ears .
AND on the way launched stuck to my hands napkin some drunken time ghost –
the last obstacle in the form of one of the insignificant children of this insignificant world , standing in his way to the shores of desert waves, into the noisy oak groves ...
This is such a strange experiment.
But it's time for the third poem.
It will greatly complicate our already seemingly clear picture. Although it is on the same topic as the previous two.
This is a poem Alexander Blok, like Pasternak’s “Shakespeare”, Same grew out of Pushkin’s “Until the poet demands it.”
And from several of his lines.
But it was precisely this poem, written eleven years before Pasternak’s verse, that in turn influenced him.
We have to understand that Pasternak’s verse is a reminiscence of both Pushkin’s and Blok’s poems, that all three verses are vitally connected with each other.
So, Blok's poem
A deserted quarter has grown up outside the city
On swampy and unsteady soil.
Poets lived there, and everyone met
Another arrogant smile.
In vain the bright day rose
Above this sad swamp:
Its inhabitant devoted his day
Wine and hard work.
When they got drunk, they swore friendship
They chatted cynically and spicyly.
In the morning they vomited. Then they locked themselves
They worked stupidly and zealously.
Then they crawled out of the kennels like dogs,
We watched the sea burn,
And the gold of every passing braid
They were captivated with knowledge of the matter.
Having relaxed, we dreamed of a golden age,
They scolded the publishers together,
And they cried bitterly over the little flower,
Above a small pearl cloud...
This is how poets lived. Reader and friend!
Do you think it might be worse?
Your daily powerless attempts,
Your philistine puddle?
No, dear reader, my critic is blind!
At least the poet has
And braids, and clouds, and a golden age,
All this is inaccessible to you!..
You will be pleased with yourself and your wife,
With its scant constitution,
But the poet has a worldwide binge,
And constitutions are not enough for him!
Let me die under the fence like a dog
Let life trample me into the ground, -
I believe that God covered me with snow,
The blizzard kissed me!
A. Blok (1908)
After reading this verse, we can conclude that its author, the poet Alexander Blok (or his lyrical hero), is a homeless drunkard, who also believes that real life is not for the one who is “satisfied with himself and his wife,” but for the person free from all the conventions of the world and therefore lonely.
That he lives in a booth like a dog.
That he only swears friendship when he gets drunk.
Instead of food - wine.
In the morning, instead of joyfully going to work, as if it were a feat, he locks himself in his booth!
He vomits in the morning!
Great life!
And the prospect at the end of it is “to die under the fence like a dog.”
Isn't it a terrible poem? And this drunkard, misanthrope, hypocrite is read as a great poet of the state? An excellent role model and education.
And connoisseurs and lovers of Blok’s poetry, with good reason, will be angry with me: after all, I could have chosen completely different motives from hundreds of his poems. The textbook “The girl sang in the church choir” alone is worth it.
“Oh, I want to live crazy.”
Or remember that when dying, Blok did not crawl towards the fence like a dog, but went to say goodbye to the Pushkin House:
“That’s why, in the hours of sunset,
Leaving into the darkness of the night,
From the white Senate Square...
I bow to him quietly.”
I chose a very special verse that was not at all characteristic of Blok. Moreover, I invite all readers of this book to pay special attention to it.
Is he worth such attention?
So, firstly, you couldn’t help but notice that the theme of Blok’s poem echoes Pushkin’s verse and, of course, influenced Pasternak’s poem. And here, in this verse, the principles of what Mandelstam calls instrumentality are brought to perfection.
To such perfection that the verse hides the exact opposite meaning.
Its very first line leads directly to Pushkin.
“A deserted quarter has grown up outside the city.”
What is Pushkin's here?
All! But not directly.
For example, the word “desert” is a very common word in Pushkin. And it means “lonely.”
Remember this - “freedom sower of the desert”?
Or “desert star”?
Or “on the shore of desert waves”?
After Pushkin, no one used this word in poetry. And suddenly Blok does this, and even a hundred years after Pushkin.
But it’s clear why!
This is nothing more than a secret dedication to Pushkin, a hint of continuity not only in poetry in general, but also in a specific poem.
After all, Blok writes in his dying address to Pushkin:
“Pushkin, secret freedom
We sang after you!
Give us your hand in bad weather,
Help the silent struggle!”
That is why the dedication to Pushkin in the poem “Poets” is hidden in one word! For we are talking about “secret freedom”, and the struggle is “silent”.
But why is the block in Blok’s poem lonely, and, moreover, “grew up outside the city”? After all, the poets lived not outside the city, but in the city. In addition, from the second line it becomes clear which city we are talking about.
“The block has grown
On swampy and unsteady soil.”
It is clear that we are talking about St. Petersburg. And here again is a secret connection with Pushkin, and specifically with his poem (or, as Pushkin himself calls it, “The Petersburg Tale”) “The Bronze Horseman.”
And the first line of this story, as you know, sounds like this:
“On the shore of deserted (!!!) waves...” (and further Peter’s thought about the creation of the city).
“A hundred years have passed, and the young city, (Petersburg was built)
Full countries beauty and wonder
From the darkness of the forests, from topi blat
He ascended magnificently, proudly...”
Blok says “the soil is swampy and unsteady,
in Pushkin - “mossy, muddy banks” and “swamp blat”.
Pushkin has “desert waves”
and Blok has a “deserted quarter”.
But again the same question: why did the quarter grow “outside the city”?
And here again - a metaphor,
for “outside the city” is not a geographical location where the poets lived, but a spiritual one.
The poets did not live where everyone else did, not in the city, but in their own world, “outside the city.”
“Poets lived there, and everyone met
Another arrogant smile.”
This is completely incomprehensible: why do poets, brothers in spirit, treat each other so strangely?
In the line about the “arrogant smile,” Blok encrypted one of the most interesting phenomena of art: a poet, artist, composer, writer creates his own world, so deep that he is often unable to perceive other worlds, other possible forms of genius.
Thus, Tchaikovsky did not like Brahms’ music, Mussorgsky laughed at Debussy, and called Tchaikovsky’s music “quern,” “saccharin,” “treacle.” Leo Tolstoy believed that Shakespeare was a nonentity.
In turn, the greatest violin professor and one of the world's greatest violinists, Leopold Auer, did not understand Tchaikovsky's violin concerto dedicated to him and never played it. (This is hard to believe, because after a short time this concerto is still the most performed of all violin concertos.)
The two greatest poets of Russia, Blok and Bely, hated each other, and it almost came to a duel.
When the premiere of Georges Bizet’s opera “Carmen” took place, which turned out to be the worst failure in the history of music, which brought its creator to the grave (Bizet died three months after the fiasco) and the newspapers attacked its author, neither Camille Saint-Saëns nor Charles Gounod stood up for their colleague, did not write a single word in the newspapers to support their friend.
In all these (and many other) cases, what Blok calls an “arrogant smile” is not the result of envy or ill will of one creator towards another. Here, rather, it is simply the elementary impossibility of one to go beyond the limits of the unprecedented depth that he has created, and to realize the equally great depth of the other.
I am inclined to call this behavior the PROTECTIVE FIELD OF GENIUS.
After all, the most important condition for the existence of a genius is, first of all, his deep belief in his own rightness.
And then in the poem there is an amazing provocation: a description of the poet’s life from a layman's point of view- an incredible poetic device, the purpose of which is to present rumors as truth, to shock the tradesman, to contrast him with the creator. But there is another dimension here, which can be formulated as follows:
LET'S SUPPOSE THAT ALL THIS IS TRUE: drunkenness, vagrancy, and the absurdity of the poets' life, BUT EVEN IN THIS CASE THE POET IS RIGHT,
FOR HIS GOAL IS TO SAVE HUMANITY FROM THE CONSTITUTION OF LIES, FALSE, PRETENDING, FROM PETISH CONTENT, FROM SELF-CONTENT.
Because instead of well-being and everyday comforts, the poet has “braids, clouds, and a golden age,” the poet has contact with the world (“worldwide binge”),
with clouds,
By the way, do you know what it is? WORLDWIDE BINGE BINGE? I think I will be the first to reveal this Blok secret.
The phrase “global binge drinking” has two meanings.
The first is what is read at the everyday level of the tradesman: an alcoholic on a global scale.
But the second one (and actually the main one) comes from the phrase poet-singer.
The poet sings to the whole world. And in this case, BINGE is a phenomenal creation of Blok’s poetry. (Just like Blok’s genius - “to the beautiful lake,” where the lake suddenly loses its neuter gender, which is how this word is designated in Russian, and becomes a woman).
And if we return to the first meaning of the verse, not from the point of view of the average person, then in the verse we can very clearly trace the appeal to yet another poet.
To the great Persian Hafiz, whose poetry glorifies love and wine. This is where the short poem talks about the braid twice.
“And the gold of every passing braid
We were captivated with knowledge of the matter”
“At least the poet has
And braids, and clouds, and a golden age.”
But what are these clouds? Remember Lermontov?
“Heavenly clouds are eternal wanderers
You rush as if you were exiles like me.”
“The golden cloud spent the night
On the chest of a giant rock.”
Look what happens: |
Blok’s poem is not only about abstract poets, but about very specific ones, including Lermontov, Hafiz, Pushkin.
This is Lermontov crying over a cloud.
This is Hafiz chanting and drinking wine.
This is Pushkin, “captivated with knowledge of the matter” by “the gold of every passing braid.”
And finally,
Blok’s entire verse is a paraphrase of the first eight lines from Pushkin’s poem.
The poet differs from the rest of the world “only” in one thing:
He has contact with God.
This text is an introductory fragment. From the book of Literature, the crafty face, or Images of seductive deception author Mironov AlexanderAn exhaustive semantic and logical analysis of the poem “Prophet” by A.S.
From the book Critical Mass, 2006, No. 1 author Magazine "Critical Mass"Georgy Obolduev. Poems. Poem. Danila Davydov Comp. A. D. Blaginina; prepared text by I. A. Akhmetyev; entry Art. V. Glotser. M.: Virtual Gallery, 2005. 608 p. Circulation: 1000 copies. This publication is the third and most complete collection of poems by Georgy Nikolaevich Obolduev
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From the book Historical Tales author Nalbandyan Karen EduardovichThe story of one poem The story of Leander Starr Jameson's raid into the Transvaal strongly resembles the story of the New Year's assault on Grozny, which, by the way, took place on the same day 98 years later. So, 1895. The English are being oppressed in the Transvaal. They oppress for a reason, but according to principle
From the book Sexual Life in Ancient Greece by Licht HansIII. Poems of the "Anthology" We have so often had to quote as evidence excerpts from thousands of epigrams of the Palatine Codex that in this sketch of homosexual literature it is necessary to cite only those epigrams that convey something special
Chapter 2 From the book Life will fade away, but I will remain: Collected Works author Glinka Gleb Alexandrovich
From the book Seven Pillars of Wisdom author Lawrence Thomas EdwardPOEMS ORIGINS I know a lot about poetry, But I am not a judge of my creations. In the jungle of words, the old wolf finds inspiration with his instinct. Whether to fly into the abyss or up - the point, of course, is not that. Neither an acrobat nor a poet can do without skill. In verses out of rhythm
From the book Dead "Yes" author Steiger Anatoly Sergeevich From the book History and Narration author Zorin Andrey Leonidovich From the author's bookInvisible frame Some poems, 1985-2012 “When death approaches like the wind...” When death approaches like the wind With the bitter taste of grass, Suddenly, forgetting everything in the world, You will remember the lace of foliage, You will see: leafy shadows Living light pierces... Ask about
ZhukovskyWhen, to the dreamy world
Striving with an exalted soul,
You hold the lyre on your lap
With an impatient hand;
When visions change
In front of you in the magical darkness,
And a quick chill of inspiration
Vlasa rises on his forehead, -
You're right, you're doing it for the few,
Not for envious judges,
Not for the poor collectors
Other people's judgments and news,
But for the strict friends of talent,
Sacred truth friends.
Not everyone will love happiness,
Not everyone was born to be crowned.
Blessed is he who knows voluptuousness
High thoughts and poems!
Who enjoys the beautiful
I received a wonderful destiny
And I understood your delight
With fiery and clear delight!
And then we went - and fear embraced me.
The imp, tucking his hoof under himself,
Twisted the moneylender by the fire of hell.
Hot fat dripped into the smoked trough,
And the moneylender ate the roast on the fire.
And I: “Tell me: what is hidden in this execution?”
Virgil to me: “My son, this execution has great meaning:
Always having one acquisition in the subject,
This evil old man sucked the fat of his debtors
And he mercilessly spun them around in your light."
Here the fried sinner cried out protractedly:
“Oh, if I were now drowning in cold Summer!
Oh, if only the winter rain could cool my skin!
One hundred percent I can tolerate it: the percentage is incredible!” –
Then he loudly burst - I lowered my gaze.
Then I heard (oh wonder!) a foul smell,
It's like a rotten egg has broken,
Or the quarantine guard smoked with a sulfur brazier.
I held my nose and turned my face away.
But the wise leader dragged me far and far -
And, lifting the stone by the copper ring,
We went downstairs and I saw myself in the basement.
Then I saw a black swarm of demons,
Similar from afar to a gang of ants -
And the demons amused themselves with the damned game:
The top touched the vault of hell
The glass mountain is sharp, like Ararat -
And spread out over the dark plain.
And the demons, having heated up the cast iron cores like heat,
They let him down with stinking claws;
The cannonball jumped - and the smooth mountain
Ringing, it cracked like prickly stars.
Then there is an impatient swarm of other devils
He rushed after the victim with terrible words.
They grabbed my wife and her sister by the arms,
And they stripped them and pushed them down with a scream -
And both sat down and went down like an arrow...
I heard the impulse of despair in their wild cry;
The glass cut them, dug into their body -
And the demons jumped in great joy.
I looked from afar - we were tormented by embarrassment.
Gorgeous
Everything in it is harmony, everything is marvelous,
Everything is above the world and passions;
She rests bashfully
In its solemn beauty;
She looks around herself:
She has no rivals, no friends;
Our pale circle of beauties
Disappears in its radiance.
Wherever you hurry,
At least for a love date,
Whatever I harbor in my heart
You are a secret dream, -
But when you meet her, embarrassed, you
Suddenly you stop involuntarily,
Reverently
In front of the shrine of beauty.
TO***
No, no, I shouldn't, I don't dare, I can't
It is crazy to indulge in the excitement of love;
I strictly protect my peace of mind
And I don’t let my heart burn and forget;
No, I have enough love; but why sometimes
I will not plunge into a momentary daydream,
When someone accidentally passes in front of me
Young, pure, heavenly creature,
Will he pass and hide?.. Is it really not possible for me,
Admiring the maiden in sad voluptuousness,
Follow her with your eyes and in silence
Bless her with joy and happiness,
And with her heart she wishes all the blessings of this life,
Cheerful peace of mind, carefree leisure,
Everything - even the happiness of the one who is chosen by her,
Who will give the sweet maiden the name of his wife?
Autumn
(Excerpt)
Why doesn’t my mind then enter into my slumber?
Derzhavin.
October has already arrived - the grove is already shaking off
The last leaves from their naked branches;
The autumn chill has blown in - the road is freezing.
The stream still runs babbling behind the mill,
But the pond was already frozen; my neighbor is in a hurry
To the departing fields with my desire,
And the winter ones suffer from mad fun,
And the barking of dogs wakes up the sleeping oak forests.
Now is my time: I don’t like spring;
The thaw is boring to me; stench, dirt - in the spring I am sick;
The blood is fermenting; feelings and mind are constrained by melancholy.
I'm happier in the harsh winter
I love her snow; in the presence of the moon
How easy the running of a sleigh with a friend is fast and free,
When under the sable, warm and fresh,
She shakes your hand, glowing and trembling!
How fun it is to put sharp iron on your feet,
Slide along the mirror of standing, smooth rivers!
And the brilliant worries of the winter holidays?..
But you also need to know honor; six months of snow and snow,
After all, this is finally true for the inhabitant of the den,
The bear will get bored. You can't take a whole century
We'll ride in a sleigh with the young Armids,
Or sour by the stoves behind double glass.
Oh, summer is red! I would love you
If only it weren't for the heat, the dust, the mosquitoes, and the flies.
You, ruining all your spiritual abilities,
You torture us; like the fields we suffer from drought;
Just to get something to drink and refresh yourself -
We have no other thought, and it’s a pity for the old woman’s winter,
And, having seen her off with pancakes and wine,
We are celebrating her funeral with ice cream and ice.
The days of late autumn are usually scolded,
But she’s sweet to me, dear reader,
Quiet beauty, shining humbly.
So unloved child in the family
It attracts me to itself. To tell you frankly,
Of the annual times, I am glad only for her,
There is a lot of good in her; a lover is not vain,
I found something in her like a wayward dream.
How to explain this? I like her
Like you probably are a consumptive maiden
Sometimes I like it. Condemned to death
The poor thing bows down without a murmur, without anger.
A smile is visible on faded lips;
She does not hear the gaping of the grave abyss;
The color of his face is still purple.
She is still alive today, gone tomorrow.
It's a sad time! charm of the eyes!
I am pleased with your farewell beauty -
I love the lush decay of nature,
Forests dressed in scarlet and gold,
In their canopy there is noise and fresh breath,
And the skies are covered with wavy darkness,
And a rare ray of sunshine, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats.
And every autumn I bloom again;
The Russian cold is good for my health;
I feel love again for the habits of life:
One by one sleep flies away, one by one hunger comes;
The blood plays easily and joyfully in the heart,
Desires are boiling - I’m happy, young again,
I’m full of life again - that’s my body
(Please forgive me the unnecessary prosaicism).
They lead the horse to me; in the open expanse,
Waving his mane, he carries the rider,
And loudly under his shining hoof
The frozen valley rings and the ice cracks.
But the short day goes out, and in the forgotten fireplace
The fire is burning again - then the bright light is pouring,
It smolders slowly - and I read in front of it,
Or I harbor long thoughts in my soul.
And I forget the world - and in sweet silence
I'm sweetly lulled to sleep by my imagination,
And poetry awakens in me:
The soul is embarrassed by lyrical excitement,
It trembles and sounds and searches, as in a dream,
To finally pour out with free manifestation -
And then an invisible swarm of guests comes towards me,
Old acquaintances, fruits of my dreams.
And the thoughts in my head are agitated in courage,
And light rhymes run towards them,
And fingers ask for pen, pen for paper,
A minute - and the poems will flow freely.
So the ship slumbers motionless in the motionless moisture,
But choo! - the sailors suddenly rush and crawl
Up, down - and the sails are inflated, the winds are full;
The mass has moved and is cutting through the waves.
Floating. Where should we sail?....
...............................
God forbid I go crazy.
No, the staff and bag are easier;
No, easier work and smoother.
Not that with my mind
I treasured; not so much with him
I was not happy to part:
When would you leave me
In freedom, no matter how frisky I am
Set off into the dark forest!
I would sing in a fiery delirium,
I would forget myself in a daze
Discordant, wonderful dreams.
And I would listen to the waves
And I would look, full of happiness,
To empty skies;
And if I were strong, if I were free,
Like a whirlwind digging through fields,
Breaking forests.
Yes, here's the problem: go crazy,
And you will be terrible as the plague,
They'll just lock you up
They'll put a fool on a chain
And through the bars like an animal
They will come to tease you.
In a pure field it turns silver
The snow is wavy and pockmarked,
The moon is shining, the troika is rushing
Along the road is a public road.
Sing: in hours of road boredom,
On the road, in the darkness of the night
My dear sounds are sweet to me
A daring sonorous song.
Sing, coachman! I am silent, greedy
I will listen to your voice.
The clear moon shines coldly,
The distant howl of the wind is sad.
Sing: "Luchinushka, luchina,
Why aren’t you burning brightly?”
. . . . . . . . . . . .
It's time, my friend, it's time! asks for peace of heart -
Days fly by, and every hour carries away
A piece of existence, and you and I together
We assume to live, and lo and behold, we will die.
There is no happiness in the world, but there is peace and will.
I have long dreamed of an enviable share -
Long ago, a tired slave, I planned to escape
To a distant monastery of labors and pure bliss.
He lived between us
Among a tribe alien to him, malice
He didn’t care for us in his soul, and we
He was loved. Peaceful, supportive,
He attended our conversations. With him
We shared pure dreams
And songs (he was inspired from above
And he looked down on life). Often
He spoke of times to come,
When peoples, having forgotten their strife,
They will unite into a great family.
We listened eagerly to the poet. He
Gone to the west - and blessing
We carried it out. But now
Our peaceful guest has become our enemy - and poison
Your poems, for the sake of the riotous mob,
He'll get you drunk. Published before us
The voice of an evil poet comes,
A familiar voice!.. God! sanctify
In it is the heart of your truth and peace
And return it to him...
I grew to manhood amid sad storms,
And the stream of my days, so long muddy,
Now I've subsided into a momentary drowsiness
And reflected the blue sky.
For how long?.. but it seems they’ve passed
Days of dark storms, days of bitter temptations...
Wanderer
Once wandering among the wild valley,
I was suddenly overcome with great sorrow
And crushed and bent with a heavy burden,
Like someone who is convicted of murder at trial.
Hanging my head, wringing my hands in anguish,
I poured out my souls of pierced torment in screams
And he repeated bitterly, tossing about like a sick person:
"What will I do? What will become of me?"
And so I came back to my house, complaining.
My despondency was incomprehensible to everyone.
At first I was quiet in front of my children and wife.
And I wanted to hide dark thoughts from them;
But grief oppressed me more and more from hour to hour;
And I finally opened my heart against my will.
"Oh woe, woe to us! You children, you wife! -
I said, know: my soul is full
Anguish and horror, a painful burden
It weighs me down. It's coming! the time is near, the time is near:
Our city is doomed to flames and winds;
He will suddenly be turned into coals and ash,
And we will all die if we don’t make it soon
Find refuge; and where? oh woe, woe!"
My family was confused
And the sound mind in me was considered upset.
But they thought that night and sleep were healing peace
The hostile heat of illness will cool me down.
I lay down, but all night I kept crying and sighing
And he didn’t close his heavy eyes for a moment.
In the morning I sat alone, leaving my bed.
They came to me; to their question, I do the same,
What before, he said. My neighbors are here,
Not trusting me, they took it for granted
Resort to rigor. They are fierce
Me on the right path and abuse and contempt
They tried to convert. But I, not heeding them,
We cried and sighed, we were pressed by despondency.
And finally they got tired of screaming
And they abandoned me, waving their hand.
Like a madman whose speech and wild crying
They are annoying, and whoever is stern needs a doctor.
I went to wander again - languishing in despondency
And turning his gaze around himself with fear,
Like a prisoner planning to escape from prison,
Or a traveler, hurrying to spend the night before the rain,
Spiritual worker - dragging his chain,
I met a young man reading a book.
He quietly looked up and asked me,
Why, wandering alone, am I crying so bitterly?
And I answered him: “Know my evil lot:
I am condemned to death and summoned to the afterlife court -
And this is what I’m sad about: I’m not ready for trial,
And death scares me."
- "If this is your lot, -
He objected, “and you really are so pathetic.”
What are you waiting for? Why don’t you run away from here?”
And I: “Where should I run? Which path should I choose?”
Then: “Don’t you see, tell me something” -
The young man told me, pointing into the distance with his finger.
I began to look with painfully open eyes,
Like a blind man freed from a thorn by a doctor.
“I see some light,” I finally said.
“Go,” he continued: “stick to this light;
Let him be your only meta,
Until you have reached the narrow gates of salvation,
Go!” And I started running at that very moment.
My escape caused alarm in my family,
Both the children and the wife shouted to me from the doorway,
May I come back soon. Screams them
My friends were attracted to the square;
One scolded me, the other scolded my wife
He gave advice, others regretted each other,
Who reviled me, who made me laugh,
Who suggested turning back the neighbors by force;
Others were already chasing me; but I'm even more
I hurried to cross the city field,
In order to see quickly - leaving those places,
Salvation is the right path and the narrow gate.
...I visited again
That corner of the earth where I spent
An exile for two years unnoticed.
Ten years have passed since then - and a lot
Changed my life
And myself, obedient to the general law,
I have changed - but here again
The past embraces me vividly,
And it seems the evening was still wandering
I'm in these groves.
Here is the disgraced house
Where I lived with my poor nanny.
The old lady is no longer there - already behind the wall
I don’t hear her heavy steps,
Not her painstaking watch.
Here is a wooded hill, above which
I sat motionless and looked
To the lake, remembering with sadness
Other shores, other waves...
Between golden fields and green pastures
It spreads wide, blue;
Through its unknown waters
A fisherman swims and pulls along
Poor net. We'll slop along the banks
The villages are scattered - there behind them
The mill crooked, its wings were struggling
Tossing and turning in the wind...
On the border
Grandfather's possessions, in that place,
Where the road goes up the mountain,
Rugged by rain, three pines
They stand - one at a distance, the other two
Close to each other, here when they pass
I rode on horseback in the moonlight,
The rustling of their peaks is a familiar sound
I was greeted. Along that road
Now I have gone, and in front of me
I saw them again. They're still the same
Still the same rustle, familiar to the ear -
But near the roots they are outdated
(Where once everything was empty, bare)
Now the young grove has grown,
Green Family; the bushes are crowding
Under their canopy they are like children. And in the distance
One of their sullen comrades stands
Like an old bachelor, and around him
Everything is still empty.
Hello tribe
Young, unfamiliar! not me
I will see your mighty late age,
When you outgrow my friends
And you will cover their old head
From the eyes of a passerby. But let my grandson
Hears your welcoming noise when,
Returning from a friendly conversation,
Full of cheerful and pleasant thoughts,
He will pass by you in the darkness of the night
And he will remember me.
I thought my heart had forgotten
The ability to suffer lightly,
I said: to what happened,
It won't happen! it won't happen!
Delights and sorrows are gone,
And gullible dreams...
But then they trembled again
Before the powerful power of beauty.
O poverty! I finally confirmed
Your lesson is bitter! What did I deserve
Your persecution, hostile ruler,
The enemy of contentment, the harsh disturber of sleep?..
What did I do when I was rich?
I don't intend to mention this:
In silence, good must happen,
But there is nothing to talk about this.
Here I will find food for my thoughts,
I feel like I'm not completely dead
I am with my fate.
Worldly power
When the great celebration took place
And in agony on the cross the Divinity ended,
Then on the sides of the life-giving tree
Mary the Sinner and the Blessed Virgin
Two wives stood
They are immersed in immeasurable sadness.
But at the foot of the honorable cross now,
As if at the porch of the ruler of the city,
We see the wives of the saints put in place
In the gun and shako of two formidable sentries.
Why, tell me, the guardian guard?
Or a crucifix is government luggage,
And are you afraid of thieves or mice?
Or do you think it is important to give the king of kings?
Or through the protection of the mighty you save
Lord, crowned with prickly thorns,
Christ, who obediently gave up his flesh
Tormentors' scourges, nails and a copy?
Or are you afraid that the mob will offend
The one whose execution redeemed the entire race of Adam,
And, so as not to crowd out the walking gentlemen,
Are ordinary people not ordered to come here?
Like a traitorous student fell from a tree,
The devil flew in and touched his face,
Breathed life into it, soared with its stinking prey
And he threw the living corpse into the throat of hellish hell...
There are demons, rejoicing and splashing, on their horns
Received with laughter the world enemy
And they noisily carried it to the damned ruler,
And Satan, standing up, with joy on his face
With his kiss he burned through his lips,
On the treacherous night those who kissed Christ.
Desert fathers and blameless wives,
To fly with your heart into the field of correspondence,
To strengthen it in the midst of long storms and battles,
They composed many divine prayers;
But none of them touches me,
Like the one the priest repeats
During the sad days of Lent;
More and more often it comes to my lips
And he strengthens the fallen with an unknown force:
Lord of my days! sad spirit of idleness,
Lust of power, this hidden serpent,
And do not give idle talk to my soul.
But let me see my sins, O God,
Yes, my brother will not accept condemnation from me,
And the spirit of humility, patience, love
And revive chastity in my heart.
When outside the city, thoughtfully, I wander
And I go to a public cemetery,
Grilles, pillars, elegant tombs,
Under which all the dead of the capital rot,
In the swamp, somehow cramped in a row,
Like greedy guests at a beggarly table,
Merchants, officials, deceased mausoleums,
A cheap cutter is a ridiculous idea,
Above them are inscriptions both in prose and verse
About virtues, about service and ranks;
For the old stag, the widow's cry is amorous,
Urns unscrewed from poles by thieves,
The graves are slimy, which are also here
Yawningly waiting for the tenants to come home in the morning, -
Everything gives me such vague thoughts,
That an evil despondency comes over me.
At least spit and run...
But how I love it
Sometimes in autumn, in the evening silence,
In the village, visit the family cemetery,
Where the dead slumber in solemn peace.
There is room for undecorated graves;
The pale thief does not approach them in the dark at night;
Near the age-old stones covered with yellow moss,
A villager passes with a prayer and a sigh;
In place of idle urns and small pyramids,
Noseless geniuses, disheveled charites
The oak tree stands wide over important coffins,
Hesitating and noisy...
Exegi monumentum
I erected a monument to myself, not made by hands,
The people's path to him will not be overgrown,
He ascended higher with his rebellious head
Alexandrian Pillar.
No, all of me will not die - the soul is in the treasured lyre
My ashes will survive and decay will escape -
And I will be glorious as long as I am in the sublunary world
At least one piit will be alive.
Rumors about me will spread throughout Great Rus',
And every tongue that is in it will call me,
And the proud grandson of the Slavs, and the Finn, and now wild
Tunguz, and friend of the steppes Kalmyk.
And for a long time I will be so kind to the people,
That I awakened good feelings with my lyre,
That in my cruel age I glorified Freedom
And he called for mercy for the fallen.
By the command of God, O muse, be obedient,
Without fear of insult, without demanding a crown,
Praise and slander were accepted indifferently,
And don't argue with a fool.
Pushkin's priorities were not determined until about the age of thirty. Reading the poem “Poet” by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin means immersing yourself with him in thinking about finding yourself and your destiny.
The poem was written in 1827. Researchers of Alexander Sergeevich’s work believe that it is based on the facts of his biography. Pushkin spent the winter-spring period in Moscow, diving headlong into the secular life of the capital. Holidays and receptions took up a lot of his time, and he practically never took up his pen. But already in June, Pushkin moved to his native Mikhailovskoye, where he began to create again. The work “The Poet,” which is taught in a literature lesson in the 5th grade, appeared in the first letter he sent from the village. Soon it was published by Moskovsky Vestnik.
The main theme of the poem is the historical purpose of the poet. A person endowed with the gift of poetry, according to Pushkin, does not have the right to live for himself. Being to some extent a prophet, a teacher, he must convey his point of view to people, bring them the light of truth. Poetry is a sacred sacrifice for him, the literary gift is a holy lyre. The poet is not the ruler of thoughts, he is the servant of the patron of art, Apollo. And the poet who does not use his gift is worthless. He, according to Pushkin, is more insignificant than all the “insignificant children of the world.” Later, the theme of “sacred creativity” was raised by N. Gumilev in his “Magic Violin”.
The text of Pushkin’s poem “The Poet” can be called passionate. The second part of the work is dedicated to the euphoria caused by creativity. It completely transforms the hero, raising him above worldly amusements and empty vanity.
Learning a poem is quite simple. You can download it in full or read it online on our website.
Doesn't require a poet yet
To the sacred sacrifice Apollo,
In the cares of the vain world
He is cowardly immersed;
His holy lyre is silent;
The soul tastes a cold sleep,
And among the insignificant children of the world,
Perhaps he is the most insignificant of all.
But only a divine verb
It will touch sensitive ears,
The poet's soul will stir,
Like an awakened eagle.
He yearns for the amusements of the world,
Human rumors are shunned,
At the feet of the people's idol
Doesn't hang his proud head;
He runs, wild and harsh,
And full of sounds and confusion,
On the shores of desert waves,
In the noisy oak forests...
Poet! do not value people's love.
There will be a momentary noise of enthusiastic praise;
You will hear the judgment of a fool and the laughter of a cold crowd,
But you remain firm, calm and gloomy.
You are the king: live alone. On the road to freedom
Go where your free mind takes you,
Improving the fruits of your favorite thoughts,
Without demanding rewards for a noble deed.
They are in you. You are your own highest court;
You know how to evaluate your work more strictly than anyone else.
Are you satisfied with it, discerning artist?
Are you satisfied? So let the crowd scold him
And spits on the altar where your fire burns,
And your tripod shakes in childish playfulness.
Analysis of the poem “To the Poet” by Pushkin
Pushkin repeatedly turned in his work to the role of the poet in society. Early poems were characterized by recognition of the poet's leading role, his civic vocation. The poet acted as an angry speaker, castigating social vices and calling for justice. After the suppression of the Decembrist uprising, Pushkin experienced great disappointment in society. He realized that the majority were unable to understand high ideals. The poet acutely feels his loneliness. This feeling intensified after the attacks of reactionary critics, who had previously given loud praise to Pushkin. The poet had a particularly heated debate with Bulgarin (editor of the Northern Bee). Pushkin’s response to critical remarks was the poem “To the Poet” (1830).
The author addresses his fellow writer. This appeal can be considered a conversation between Pushkin and himself. In it he expresses his main views on the fate of the poet. From the very beginning, the author declares the fickleness of people's love. Stormy delight and glory can suddenly give way to misunderstanding and ridicule. Moreover, the poet himself will not be to blame for this. The “Court of the Fool”, which is respected in society, can dramatically influence the fickle human opinion. By calling the crowd “cold,” Pushkin means that it cannot have any strong convictions. The masses of people are not characterized by independent judgment; they obey the call of their leaders, who are most often guided by their own interests. The poet is given a free character by nature. He should be indifferent to negative statements and follow only his convictions (“stay firm, calm”).
Pushkin compares the poet with a king who controls the whole world. All paths and roads are open to him. A poet should not expect a decent reward for his work. His reward is his own creativity, which can only be appreciated by the poet himself. If he himself is satisfied with his work, then the crowd can react in any way, even “spit on the altar” of the poet.
In the poem “To the Poet,” Pushkin was one of the first in Russian literature to assert the intrinsic value of creativity. A poet or writer, creating another work, spends a huge amount of effort and puts his own soul into it. Therefore, the result in any case is of significant value. Only the creator himself knows about its size, but not the reader. Any opinion will be subjective and far from the true meaning.
