There were and are many poets and poetesses in the world, but undoubtedly one of the greatest of them is Pushkin. He is known not only within Russia, but also in most other countries of the world. We don’t really think about why his poems are considered one of the best and people like them so much. We accept this as a fact. In this regard, I decided to look at his works again and understand what I like about them.
I admire how he knows how to involve me in a situation, because after reading the poem “To Chaadaev” you yourself are ready to rebel along with the Decembrists, and after reading poems about friendship, for example, “Pushchin”, you yourself feel as if that same Pushchin was your friend too, as if you, like Pushkin, studied with him at the Lyceum. You are completely transported into the world that Pushkin created, in which he lived.
I like Pushkin’s poetry because he puts a special meaning into each poem, into each quatrain, because when describing nature, he can actually think about his beloved, and one must be able to understand what is behind these lines. The double meaning that Pushkin puts into poetry. I like to read his poems and analyze, to understand what meaning he put into these lines, what he was thinking about and what he wanted to present to us. He often makes references to his friends from the Lyceum and the Decembrists. Only a thoughtful reader can understand the true meaning of his poems.
Pushkin writes as if these were not words, as if you were reading his feelings. When he writes about a winter morning, he imagines it. This slight cold, the patterns on the window...
Pushkin is a true artist of words. With words, he can paint such a picture that when reading them we are immersed in his time, where he is and what he writes about. Reading these poems, you feel as if you are being transported to another world. For example, in the poem “Winter Morning” you literally ask the “Girlfriend” to get up, wake up, you seem to see this shiny snow outside the window, a room illuminated with an amber shine, you are also attracted by this snowy distance and you think: “Shouldn’t I put a filly in the sleigh ban the brown one?!”
Pushkin is not afraid to promote his view of the world, his opinion. He does not seek to win the love of the crowd. His poems are for those who understand and know how to analyze. Pushkin is not afraid to offend the authorities, he is not ashamed of his opinion and expresses it openly. What’s strange is that it hasn’t been banned in our country yet.
In general, I believe that Pushkin is a true master of his craft, and before him, and even after, no one was so brilliant.
Composition
Boris Pasternak was an interesting person in all respects. He was interesting both in appearance and in conversation. His speech was incredibly meaningful, and therefore his thoughts often circled in intricate, ornate passages with unexpected branches. Then it seemed that he had hopelessly forgotten where he started, having become carried away by random details or incidental discoveries. But no, all the seemingly unnecessary -7- explanations, leaps, and digressions suddenly found their purpose, and in the vast branching tree of reasoning an internal harmony was revealed, transforming the flat scheme of expected logic into a living three-dimensional organism, existing according to its own unwritten laws. This flowing stream of speech carried with it grains of aphorisms that were immediately born.
What for someone could be the topic of scientific research was generously scattered along the way, like sparks from red-hot iron that a blacksmith forges on an anvil. “You cannot be a firebird in art, but a wet chicken in everyday life.” Or: “It’s better to be a talented loaf of black bread than an untalented translator.” The word is his professional tool, and even in random remarks it sparkles and sparkles. But sometimes it’s difficult for him, he hums for a long time, hums, hums, looking for the only thing he needs. Then it seems that one can hear the tight mechanism of original thought creaking in his head, resisting the lawless, soulless lightness of the stamp.
But more often his rich old Moscow modulations are full of free, lordly intonations. He speaks loudly, naturally, he is the master of his speech, she obediently obeys him and imitates him in every possible way. It was as if she set herself the goal of being like her master, of achieving unity with him, and she succeeded perfectly in this. They merged with each other, became indistinguishably similar and, in essence, made up one whole. But this rarely happens in life. Few people have such integrity of nature that there is no distance between a person and his speech, filled with crowds of diverse circumstance. In the process of creative work, not only the material on which the artist works changes, but to a large extent he himself changes. How did Pasternak manifest himself in human communication? His entire appearance and manner of communication were also influenced by his ideological principles. Tolstoy's influence was manifested in the simplicity and unpretentiousness of his clothes and home furnishings, especially in his ascetically empty room, a soldier's iron cot covered with an old faded blanket. A touch of Tolstoy's simplification also lay in his modest, simple and democratic manner of treatment. But his spiritual attitudes towards the interlocutor were even more clearly manifested.
Great love is always a revolution, a breaking of everything, a merciless renewal of the soul and life. But at the same time - such is the dialectic of great love - she does not agree to place herself outside the moral law: out of respect for her purity. Buying her own happiness at the price of the misfortune of another is unbearable for her. This is the tragedy of the conflict between the eternal right of love and the relative “earthly” law of the moral world order; especially if these “others” are not indifferent to you, but, on the contrary, others are worthy of respect and loyalty. The victims of this self-destructive dialectic were Boris Leonidovich Pasternak and Zinaida Nikolaevna Neuhaus, the wife of a man whose talent she admired, whose play she revered, and the mother of his children.
Heinrich Neuhaus also felt himself a victim of this dialectic of moral conflict, as a man who blamed himself for a lot, who recognized himself as guilty before his wife and before another woman, the mother of his young daughter. The trouble is that none of them felt innocent, but called upon to generously sacrifice themselves. That's the kind of people we've got. Pasternak wrote about this woman in his “Safety Certificate”: “I know a face that equally strikes and cuts both in grief and in joy, and becomes the more beautiful the more often you catch it in positions in which other beauty would go out. Is this woman soaring?
Whether she flies upside down or upside down, nothing is done to her frightening charm, and she needs anything on earth much less than the earth itself needs her, because this is femininity itself, a rough piece of unbreakable pride, completely taken out of the quarry of creation. And since the laws of appearance most strongly determine a woman’s make-up and character, the life and passion of such a woman do not depend on the lighting, and she is not so afraid of grief...”
Nothing better, and most importantly, more sublimely precise, could be said about Zinaida Nikolaevna. Pasternak’s attitude towards this woman is evidenced by letters written by him in the 30s: Letter dated June 18, 1931: “You turn out to be so much more perfect than the big one that I think about you, that I feel sad and scared. I’m starting to think that the happiness that swirls and lifts me up is completely complete for me, but for you it’s not completely complete yet. That I don’t embrace you, that no matter how deadly good you are in my adoration, in reality you are even better...
If it is true that the artist creates so that people will love him, and this is hinted at by the line that sets the poet the task of “attracting the love of space,” then Pasternak, not only in literature, but also in life, was all such creativity. Life is only a moment, Only the dissolution of ourselves in all others, as if as a gift to them. There is something in common between the work of his father, the wonderful Russian painter Leonid Pasternak, and his own. The artist Leonid Pasternak captured the moment: he drew everywhere - at concerts, at a party, at home, on the street - making instant sketches. His drawings seemed to stop time. His famous portraits are extraordinarily alive. And after all, in essence, his eldest son Boris Leonidovich Pasternak did the same in poetry - he created a chain of metaphors, as if stopping and observing a phenomenon in its diversity.
But a lot was passed on from my mother: her complete dedication, the ability to live only through art. At the very beginning of his poetic path, in 1912, Pasternak found very succinct words to express his poetry: And, as if in an unheard of faith, I cross this night, Where the poplar has become dilapidated - gray Has hung the lunar boundary. Where labor is like a revealed secret, Where the surf whispers to the apple trees, Where the garden hangs like a piled structure And holds the sky before it. (“Like a brazier with bronze ash”).
To join the poetic life of Moscow, Pasternak joined a group of poets headed by Yulian Anisimov. This group was called "Lyrics". And the first poems published were those included in the collection “Lyrics,” published in 1913. These poems were not included by the author in any of his books and were not reprinted during his lifetime.
I dreamed of autumn in the half-light of glass,
Friends and you are in their buffoonish crowd,
And, like a falcon drawing blood from heaven,
The heart descended onto your hand.
But time passed, and grew old, and became deaf,
And weave silver frames,
The dawn from the garden washed over the glass
Bloody tears of September.
But time passed and grew old.
And loose,
Like ice, the silk of the chairs crackled and melted.
Suddenly, loudly, you faltered and became silent,
And the dream, like the echo of a bell, fell silent.
I woke up.
It was dark like autumn.
Dawn, and the wind, moving away, carried
Like a rain of straws running behind a cart,
A row of birches running across the sky.
(Dream)
If we analyze poetic movements since the 70s of the 20th century, we can distinguish traditionalism and avant-gardeism as two trends in the development and existence of poetic literature. In this essay we will talk about traditional poetry. Traditionalism is a direction in poetry that uses themes and motifs, a figurative system and stylistic means characteristic of the poetry of the 19th and partly 20th centuries. Of course, traditionalism is a very arbitrary name, since it unites the work of poets, each of whom has its own characteristics. Traditionalists can be called such poets as B. Slutsky, D. Samoilov, Yu. Levitansky, A. Mezhirov, B. Okudzhava - artists of words who devoted their pen to depicting the terrible face of war and praising the bright genius of a man who managed to defend his country and freedom - life, peace in the world. They tried to convey a beautiful moment of existence - unique, bright.
B. A. Slutsky (1919 - 1986) created the image of a Soldier, an ordinary war worker who, at the call of his heart, joined the ranks of the defenders of the Fatherland:
Tired of the last fatigue,
Seized with dying indifference,
Large arms spread out sluggishly,
A soldier is lying down.
He could lie differently
He could lie with his wife in his bed,
He could not tear up the blood-soaked moss,
He could…
Could he? As if? Really?
No, he couldn't...
He doesn’t have any subpoenas, he would have gone himself.
And not for fear - for conscience...
(“The last tiredness has left me tired…”)
The duty of a person and a citizen, the desire for goodness, for freedom - these are the defining motives for the behavior of the heroes in Slutsky’s lyrics. This is a poet who, through the power of art, strives to create a Man with a human face, who will become an ideal image for those who are just entering life. This is, according to Slutsky, the purpose and meaning of art - in this case, cinematic, but, perhaps, poetic (it’s not for nothing that the author intersperses the famous lines of A. S. Pushkin into the text!):
Freedom was glorified by images
The plot screamed like a man
And good feelings awakened
In a cruel century, in the twentieth century.
And mercy to the fallen
called up
And arbitrariness was condemned...
(“Battleship Potemkin”)
The simplicity, sometimes a certain roughness inherent in Slutsky’s poems, makes his poetry very expressive, tough, and convincing:
Let's go after the fight
Let's wave our fists:
Not only beer-raki
We ate and lapped, -
This is how the poem “The Voice of a Friend” begins, in which the author formulates his idea of the poet and poetry:
Prepared to be prophets
My comrades.
These lines are given special significance by the mention of the fate of the “prophets”:
In five neighboring countries
Our corpses are buried.
And the marble of lieutenants -
Plywood monument -
The wedding of those talents
The denouement of those legends.
A poet who heroically accepted death and did not spoil “neither the song... nor the verse” is worthy of admiration. It was he, whose “people” were the intelligentsia, whose every action was “corrected by Leo’s feelings - Nikolaich Tolstoy”, for whom “the work of reading and the work of writing was sacred than the Holy Scriptures”, is able, walking “in the general ranks”, to preserve his uniqueness, your free gift. The image of a “chain swallow” that “huddles” in the “sphere of earthly gravity” is a vivid allegorical portrait of the poet.
In Slutsky's poems there are both exact rhymes of different grammatical nature, and colloquial verbal rhymes, as in folklore or in verse of the 17th century. (Sometimes the rhyme disappears, and we read “blank” verse.) Of course, this poet continues the traditions of Russian poetry of his predecessors, but has his own, easily recognizable style of writing.
Why I like Slutsky's Russian poetry
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When your soul is restless, there is nothing better than sitting in a soft chair with a volume of poetry in your hands. Poems help us take our minds off real events and make us think about different topics. In my opinion, three main directions can be distinguished in the poetry of F. Tyutchev and A. Fet. These are love lyrics, poems about nature and poems on the theme of life and death. Of course, these are not all topics, but I want to dwell on them, since they are closest to me. Many compare F. Tyutchev’s poetry with Pushkin’s and find that they are similar. But it seems to me that such an assessment is wrong. In the lyrical works of A.S. Pushkin's words accurately express the thought, clearly and clearly. Because of this, his poems are too realistic. Tyutchev conveys the most subtle experiences, sensations, shades of feelings, without naming them. through surrounding objects. In the poem “Spring Thunderstorm,” the poet, describing the first rain, conveys a mood of joy:
I love the storm in early May,
When the first thunder of spring
As if frolicking and playing,
Rumbling in the blue sky...
There is so much dynamics and life in these lines; movements that the reader can easily imagine the picture and events: the sky, which a few minutes ago was blue, was covered with dark clouds; the wind blew, cool and pleasant; in the ensuing silence - anticipation of a thunderstorm; the air is electrified; suddenly a loud knock came from everywhere; large drops of rain pounded on the roofs and windows of houses and on the streets; the water washed away the dust from everything; the leaves of the trees turned bright green.
From the first words you can feel that we are not talking about boring autumn rain, but about the cheerful rain of May, which everyone is happy about. Both Tyutchev and Fet are extremely tender towards their native nature. Tyutchev writes:
Nature - sphinx.
And the more faithful she is
His temptation destroys a person,
What may happen, no longer
There is no riddle and she never had one.
Nature is a mystery. But people's feelings are also mysterious. A. Fet has a wonderful poem, which has already become a textbook, which just shows how, through the state of the environment, you can feel what a person feels:
Whisper, timid breathing,
The trill of a nightingale,
Silver and sway
Sleepy stream...
In these lines one hears something more than just a description of nature. There is something tender, sensual here. Dawn enters cautiously and slowly, slowly, as if afraid to interfere with something important. Such slowness and uncertainty give rise to the mystery of relationships. This is a poem about love, although this word is not there, it sounds between the lines. I love reading poems about love. Why? Probably because each poet reveals this topic in his own way. I really like how Tyutchev writes about love. It seems that you are not reading the thoughts of a complete stranger, but that your own inner world is displayed on yellow sheets of printing paper: “She was sitting on the floor and sorting through a pile of letters...”, “Oh, how deadly we love...”, “I love your eyes, My friend…". In just a few rhymed lines, the poet managed to express what I cannot say in everyday language. His poems give me the expectation of something beautiful and the unknown. Sometimes I myself want to take a fountain pen, a sheet of white paper and write something that at least vaguely resembles or is slightly similar to what Tyutchev wrote. Both Fet and Tyutchev occupy a significant place in their work with poems about life and death.
The stream has thickened and dimmed,
And hides under the hard ice...
Only immortal life is the key
The all-powerful cold cannot bind...
At the beginning of the poem, all nature and the stream are in an “icy stupor.” Everything slows down almost stops. But by the end we see that the “almighty cold” has been defeated, that the key has not frozen, life didn't stop death, which is identified with ice and cold, is defeated. Victory and triumph of life over death.
Fet's attitude towards death is similar. While he is alive, death is not afraid of him:
While on the earthly chest
Although I will have difficulty breathing,
All the thrill of life is young
I will be able to hear it from everywhere.
I don’t know whether Tyutchev and Fet wanted to live forever, but, undoubtedly, they left a noticeable mark on our literature. I think that in ten or fifteen years I will enjoy reading the poems of these wonderful poets.