In his young years, N.A. Nekrasov experienced a lot of grief. The fate of his mother, Elena Andreevna, left a noticeable imprint for life. After reaching manhood, he decided to write a poem about his beloved mother. In the laconic title “Mother” Nekrasov tried to reveal in detail eternal themes– mutual understanding in the family and the difficult share of women in the 19th century.
The central image of the poem is Nekrasov’s mother - a dreamy and kind woman, who also passionately loves her husband - the direct opposite of herself. She is a spiritually rich and educated woman, he is an educated, but cruel and rude “bug” who values only fun and drinking. Most of Her husband spends his free time joyfully traveling and hunting hares, not forgetting to get drunk and lose a considerable amount of money at cards.
The poet described the sad image of a woman sitting all day at the piano and singing painful songs about love, hope and kindness. “She was a singer with a beautiful voice,” the poet once said about his mother in one newspaper. Subsequently, these painful songs formed the basis of many of his poems.
In the poem, Nekrasov raises the topic of the lack of rights of the peasants, who were constantly threatened by their drunken husband with cruel reprisals. At such moments, the wife tried to protect the defenseless peasants, calming his anger with forest words. But the kind woman was not always able to calm her husband down, and he unleashed an avalanche of anger on the poor wife, sometimes even leading to beating. Such terrible scenes certainly left a noticeable mark on my son.
Nekrasov loved his mother very much, because it was she who introduced him to world-famous poets. She often talked about the lives of the poets themselves, citing their work. Subsequently, young Nekrasov will begin to write poems in different topics, using as an information base the poems his mother told him.
It is worth noting that few people turned to the image of their mother as often as Nekrasov. Very good poems“Motherland”, “The Knight and the Hour”, “Mother” and others are considered about mother. He defended with all his might the rights of women to their own thinking, to political and equal material rights. His own memories of the frequent suffering of his mother prompted him to fight for comparison in the rights of women and men.
Subsequently, he more than once regretted that at a young age he could not do anything to oppose his tyrant father. And, as time passed, he decided to express all his love and hatred for injustice in a wonderful poem"Mother".
22.From the poem "Mother"
In our mocking and impudent century
Great, holy word: "mother"
Does not awaken feelings in a person.
But I'm used to despising the custom.
I'm not afraid of fashionable ridicule.
Fate gave me this muse:
She sings on a free whim
Or is silent, like a proud slave,
I have been among labor and laziness for many years
He ran away with shameful cowardice
Captivating, long-suffering shadow,
For sacred memory... The hour has come!..
The world loves glitter, rattles and timpani,
The lot of the crowd is not to recognize friends,
She brings praises, crowns and laurels
Only those whose scourge lashed her more painfully;
A crown, twisted by an unthinking crowd,
Burns the forehead of the forgotten sufferer -
I'm not looking for a late crown for her.
But I want the light of the soul to be high
Shined for you in the middle of the deep midnight,
Unfortunate hearts are like her!..
Perhaps I'm acting criminally
Is your sleep disturbing, my mother? sorry!
But all my life I have suffered for a woman.
The path to freedom is denied her;
Shameful captivity, all the horror female share,
Left her little strength to fight,
But you will give her a lesson in iron will...
Bless me, dear: the hour has struck!
Sobbing sounds boil in my chest,
It's time, it's time to entrust my thought to them!
Your love, your holy torment,
Your struggle is an ascetic, I sing!..
I left my father's house as a teenager.
(I was in a hurry to the capital for fame.)
At sixteen I lived by my labor
And meanwhile I studied in fits and starts.
About twenty years old, with a tired head,
Neither alive nor dead (I starved for a long time),
But proudly, I came home.
I visited the village, the fields, the Volga -
You are still the same – both the fields and the people...
And it’s still the same – my native river...
I noticed a new thing: a steamboat!
But only for a moment did life flash.
You were seething like a cogwheel
The dug is a watery road,
And the shores were dozing in a gentle sleep.
Everything was dozing: the barks, the wires,
The barge hauler was dozing at the bottom of the imported boat,
If he wakes up, the Volga will come to life!
I waited for the viscous measured sounds...
Will I come here again to listen to my grandchildren,
Where can I hear you, fathers and sons!
Isn’t that what my life was given to me for?
Suddenly overwhelmed by drowsiness and laziness,
In the midday heat I entered the old garden;
In it, seven keys sparkle and rattle.
Listening to their impetuous singing,
The tops of the linden trees make a mysterious noise.
I love them: under their green canopy,
Quiet as the night and light as a shadow,
You, my mother, wandered every day.
At the slab where you lie, dear,
I remembered, worrying and dreaming,
What else could I see with you?
And I was late! And working life
I was devoted to both passion and adversity,
I was overwhelmed by the Neva wave...
I'm glad you're not under the family vault
Buried - it’s stuffy there, there’s no sun;
Your poet will not lie there either...
…………………………….
…………………………….
…………………………….
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And finally I entered old house,
It has a new gender, and new orders;
But I cared little about that.
I dismantled those kept by my father,
Your works, your papers are leftovers
And I thought about one letter.
It has a coat of arms, it has a narrow border,
The sheet is covered in either Polish or French
Impetuous and passionate language.
I remembered something for a long time, vaguely:
Isn’t it him, sighing every minute,
You read it in my infancy
Alone, in the garden, not knowing anything,
I saw in him then the source of grief
My dear, I was glad to burn him,
And now I hated him.
Dead night! I hurriedly go to the garden...
I’m looking for her, I want to hug her passionately...
Where are you? Please accept my filial greetings!
But only the echo echoes me indifferently...
I burst into tears; Alas! she's gone!
The moon has risen and the garden has turned silver,
I stood motionless under the vault of linden trees,
Whom the dear canopy loved so much.
I waited for her - and I didn’t wait in vain...
She's coming; sometimes slow, sometimes fast
Her steps, the letter in her hand...
She's coming...Attentive gazes
They glide over it in anxiety and melancholy.
“You are with me again!” I involuntarily exclaim.
You are with me again..." My head is spinning...
Chu, quiet crying, Chu, whisper! I'm listening -
The words of the letter are familiar words!
3. Letter
Warsaw, 1824
What a night I spent today!
Oh, my daughter! what did you do to us?
To whom, to whom did you give your fate?
Which native country did you prefer?
I dreamed: hunted by dogs,
You are covered by Russian snows.
It was winter, it was the dead of night,
A fire was burning, lit by savages,
And by the fire with eyes closed
You were lying there, my dear daughter!
The dense forest, turning black in a semicircle,
Roared like an animal... it was a long night,
You moaned like a slave groans at the plow,
And finally she froze - she died!..
Oh, how many dreams... oh, how many black thoughts!
I know that God punishes the disobedient,
I believe in dreams and cry like a child...
Disgrace! disgrace! we are the fable of all Warsaw.
You, whose hands M.M. I was looking for glory,
To whom N.N. fell in love in earnest
You got carried away army officer,
You're infatuated with a handsome savage!
I don't argue, he is decent in manners,
I noticed a natural intelligence in him.
But his character, habits, upbringing...
Can he sign his name?
Sorry! Indignation boils in the chest -
I can't, I shouldn't be silent!
………………………….
Your beauty (nature is harsh there)
Never to fully blossom;
Your braid will be gone for six months,
It has its own motto: “love and beat”... sorry.
………………………………………..
What a life! Linens, talcs, chickens
From unfortunate women; neighbors are savages,
And their wives are illiterate fools...
Today is a feast... hounds, hounds, hounds!
Sing, my daughter! in the midst of it
Your roulades, unable to withstand the blow,
The slave is falling... Laugh! everyone is funny...
…………………………………..
…………………………………..
IN last time I kiss you like a mother -
I shouldn’t encourage the runaway;
Decide for yourself, take any fate:
Return to your family, be true to your homeland -
Or, forever cursed by my father
And forever lost by me,
Remain there as a renegade of the region
And the Muscovite is a despicable slave.
………………………..
I woke up. The keys rattled silently,
And the early birds sang on the old linden trees.
There is a letter in my hand... but my dear one is not there!
Confused, I hung my head sadly.
Nature was still in a light sleep;
The moon looked into the pond; on the fatal stem
The burdocks stood motionless over the pond.
This is how prisoners look out of the casemate windows
……………………………
……………………………
……………………………
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I went through the books I had with me
My family once brought me from afar
I read random notes in the margins:
They had an inquisitive mind that delved deeply.
And again I cried and thought about the letter,
And again I read it carefully from the beginning,
And the meek soul tormented within him,
For the first time, she appeared before me in her beauty...
And you have remained inseparable since then,
O suffering mother! with my sad son,
The eyes were looking for you and your traces everywhere,
My leisure time was devoted to paintings of the past.
That pale hand that caressed me
When by the dying fire
When I was a baby I sat with you,
Filled with melody and caress,
To whom you told me fairy tales
About knights, monks, kings.
Then, when I read Dante and Shakespeare,
It seemed that I encountered familiar features:
Those are images from their living world
You imprinted on my mind.
And I began to understand where your thought wandered,
Where did you live in soul, sufferer,
When violence rejoiced all around,
And a pack of dogs howled in the kennel,
And the blizzard hit and chalked the windows...
……………………………
……………………………
……………………………
……………………………
The invisible staircase from recent times youthful days
I descended to childhood, remembering that life,
When you were still my nanny
And a guardian angel, dear.
In another land, no less unhappy
But born less harsh,
In the gloomy and stormy north
At eighteen you were already alone.
He fell out of love, to whom fate was handed,
With whom I trustingly went to a foreign land, -
He’s not yours, but you haven’t stopped loving him,
You couldn’t stop loving until the grave...
……………………………
……………………………
……………………………
……………………………
……………………………
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……………………………
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You answered the letter with silence,
You went your own way fearlessly.
……………………………
It sounded like the cry of a long-suffering soul,
But you were even and cheerful:
"I am unhappy, tormented by a friend,
But before you, O slave woman!
Before the slave, bent over the plow,
My destiny is an enviable destiny!
You are unhappy, O Motherland! I know:
The whole region is in captivity, all in trepidation,
But the land where I love and die,
More unfortunate, a hundred times more unfortunate!”
Chaos! I'm rushing around in unconsciousness, in delirium!
Chaos! the poet's mind barely flickers,
But youth's sacred vow
If I don’t do it, I won’t go to the grave!
Whether they understand or not, the song will be sung.
I'm late! I'm slow and steady
I am unable to accomplish my cherished work,
But I dare in a picture of few words
Combine your destiny, dear.
And I can!.. Art will help me,
Death will help - she needs me soon!..
A tear is small, but there is an excess of feeling in it...
What a boundless ocean in front of her!..
……………………………
So twenty years of chain asceticism
You dragged on until your hour struck.
And not in vain among the waterless steppe
The spring flowed - it gave water to the thirsty.
And your love did not shine in vain:
No matter how many black clouds there are in the sky,
But if the night began to give in to the morning,
Finally, a ray of sunshine will shine through!
And the day broke out! It's yours: you win!
At your feet is the father of your children,
The family has long forgiven your guilt,
The servant kisses your crown of thorns...
But... twenty years!.. How sweet, dying,
You sighed... how quietly you died!
Oh, how much strength you have shown, dear!
What path did you come to victory!..
Your soul - it burns like a diamond,
Crushed into thousands of grains
In the greatness of deeds, elusive to the eye.
I understood them - I fell on my face before them,
I sing them (give me strength, heaven!..).
Doomed to a modest struggle,
You couldn't give bread to the hungry
You could not give freedom to a slave.
But once again the feeling of fear did not compress
You gave his souls to slaves, -
But once again from trembling and dust
He raised his gaze more cheerfully to the heavens...
Perhaps the gift is poorer than a drop in the sea,
But twenty years! But thousands of hearts
Whose ideal is reduced grief,
The borders of evil are finally open!
Your ruler is hereditary morals
Sometimes he left, sometimes he showed up violently,
But if he's into crazy fun
I didn’t initiate children in bad times,
But if he is unbridled freedom
I didn’t bring it to the fatal line, -
You stood guard over him for years,
While darkness reigned in his soul...
And if I easily shake off the years,
There are noxious traces from my soul
Having trampled everything reasonable with her feet,
Proud of the ignorance of the environment,
And if I filled my life with struggle
For the ideal of goodness and beauty,
And carries the song composed by me,
Living love has deep features -
O my mother, I am moved by you!
You saved the living soul in me!
And I'm happy! you've already left the world,
But you will live in human memory,
As long as my lyre is able to live in it.
Years will pass - my faithful admirer
She will devote solitary leisure time,
He will read the story about your fate;
And, having visited the poet's forgotten dust,
Having sighed for him, he will sigh for you.
23. BURNING LETTERS
They are burning!.. You can’t write them again,
At least write, laughing, you promised...
Doesn't love burn with them?
Which dictated their heart?
Life has not yet called them lies,
I haven’t proven them to be true yet...
But that hand burned them with malice,
Who wrote them with love!
You freely decided your choice,
And not like a slave did I fall to my knees;
But you're walking up the steep stairs
And you boldly burn the steps you have passed!..
A crazy step!.. perhaps fatal...
…………………………..
Move pen, paper, books!
Dear friend! I heard the legend:
The chains fell from the shoulders of the ascetic,
And the ascetic fell dead!
Help me work, Zina!
Work has always given me life.
Here's more beautiful picture -
Write it down before I forget!
Don't cry in secret! Believe in hope
Laugh, sing, as you sang in the spring,
Repeat to my friends, as before,
Every verse you wrote down.
Say that you are happy with your friend:
In the celebration of victories won
Over your tormentor illness
Your poet has forgotten about death!
Love and work are under piles of ruins!
Everywhere you look - betrayal, hostility,
And you stand - inactive and sad
And you slowly burn with shame.
And you send a reproach to heaven for the happy gift:
Why did you crown it with it?
When the soul is dreamily fearful
No determination to fight?..
(February 1877)
26.BAYUSHKI-BAYU
Invincible suffering
Inexorable melancholy...
Draws you in like a sacrifice to the slaughter,
Black hand disease.
Where are you, oh muse! Sing like before!
“There are no more songs, darkness in the eyes;
Say: we will die! end of hope!
I walked on crutches!"
Is it a crutch or a grave spade?
It knocks... it stops... and then it goes quiet...
And she, my omnipotent one, is gone,
And he changed the verse for the poet.
But before the restless night
"It's time to get out of the midday heat!
It's time, it's time to find peace;
Sleep, sleep, my killer whale!
Accept the desired crown of labor,
You are no longer a slave - you are a crowned king;
Nothing has power over you!
The coffin is not scary, I am familiar with it;
Don't be afraid of lightning and thunder,
Don't be afraid of the chain and whip,
Do not be afraid of poison and sword,
Neither lawlessness nor law,
No hurricane, no thunderstorm
Not a human groan
Not a human tear.
Sleep, patient sufferer!
Free, proud and happy
You will see your homeland,
Bye-bye-bye-bye!
Just yesterday human anger
I have offended you;
It's all over, don't be afraid of the grave!
You will no longer know evil!
Do not be afraid of slander, my dear,
You paid her tribute alive,
Do not be afraid of the unbearable cold:
I will bury you in the spring.
Don't be afraid of bitter oblivion:
I already hold in my hand
Crown of love, crown of forgiveness,
A gift from your gentle homeland...
The stubborn darkness will give way to the light,
You will hear your song
Over the Volga, over the Oka, over the Kama,
Bye-bye-bye-bye!.."
Black day! Like a beggar asking for bread,
Death, death I ask the sky,
I ask the doctors for it
From friends, enemies and censors,
I appeal to the Russian people:
If you can, help out!
Dip me in living water,
Or give it to the dead in moderation.
28. YOU ARE NOT FORGOTTEN...
"I was useful yesterday
To my neighbor - now I can’t!
Death alone is desirable and kind -
It’s not for nothing that I’m saving the bullet...”
That's all you bequeathed to us,
And we also found out later,
How long have you been giving to the poor?
What did you manage to obtain through hard work?
The priest is cowardly - he is afraid, he does not bury;
We couldn't convince him.
We are in a ravine where the wind moans bitterly,
The deceased was carried in their arms.
Having buried, we hewed the stone,
Approved right on the coffin
And it was clearly written on the stone
Life and death, and your whole destiny.
And your remains are dear to people,
Both reproach and teaching in them...
We need great graves,
If there is no greatness alive...
Before - a village holiday,
Today, autumn is hungry;
There is no end to a woman's sadness,
No time for beer and wine.
Since Sunday the mail has been raving
Our Orthodox people,
On Saturdays he goes to town,
Walks, asks, finds out:
Who is killed, who is wounded in the summer,
Who was missing, who was found?
According to some infirmaries
Were the survivors transported?
Is it so creepy? vault of heaven
Dark at noon as in the night;
Don't sit in a cramped house,
Does not lie on the stove.
Full, warm, thank God,
Just sleep! No, you're not sleeping,
So it’s drawn to the road,
There's no way you'll lie down.
And we have a good road!
So they carry a lot of crippled people,
What's behind them on the hill,
As the carriages rush by,
Human moans
Clearly audible at dawn.
30. HUSBAND AND WIFE
"Glashenka! Ivashevo Wasteland -
A third of our fortune
Don't sell it, my angel!
Give me the deposit back..."
Tears, nervous laughter, seizure:
“I owe a debt - and the term is behind me...”
- “Glasha, don’t cry! I’m a bad master,
Do whatever you want with me.
My heart, bleeding,
With all-enduring love
That's enough, my friend!"
"Glasha! excites and torments
A jealous feeling in my soul.
This teacher who teaches Petenka..."
- “So! I recognize hubby!
Oh, if you only knew how angry and disgusting you are."
“I know, I’m sorry! I’m a big jealous person!
Do whatever you want with me.
My heart, bleeding,
With all-enduring love
That's enough, my friend!"
“Glasha! how often do you go for walks these days?
Just stay with me today.
A lot of work has accumulated - you know
To overcome it, you need peace!
Tears, nervous laughter, seizure...
“Glasha, go! I’m a madman, I’m disgusting,
I am an egoist, heartless and evil,
Do whatever you want with me.
My heart, bleeding,
With all-enduring love
That's enough, my friend!"
I dreamed: standing on a cliff,
I wanted to throw myself into the sea,
Suddenly an angel of light and peace
He sang a wonderful song to me:
"Wait for spring! I'll come early,
I will say: be a man again!
I will remove the cover of fog from the head
And sleep with heavy eyelids;
And again the blissful hours
You will find by collecting the ear
From your uncompressed lane."
Great feeling! At every door
Whichever direction we go,
We hear children calling their mothers,
Distant, but eager to reach children.
Great feeling! It's all the way
We keep it alive in our souls, -
We love sister, and wife, and father,
But in our torment we remember our mother!
(late 1877)
33. IMITATION OF SCHILLER
1. ESSENCE
If your soul is clear
Types of goodness and love,
All the themes in the world are beautiful,
Call the muse boldly.
The muse visited you:
Your gaze wanders vaguely!
There is power in the first inspiration!
Drop the conversation you started.
2. FORM
Give generous tribute to the form
Time: important in the poem
Style that matches the theme.
A poem is minted like a coin
Strictly, clearly, honestly,
Follow the rule stubbornly:
So that words are cramped,
There is room for thoughts.
(late 1877)
Soon - my signs are good! -
Soon I will leave the abode of sadness:
Eternal companions of the Russian soul -
Hatred, fear - fell silent.
(late 1877)
O muse! I'm at the door of the coffin!
Even though I have a lot to blame
Let it increase a hundred times
My fault is human malice -
Don't cry! our lot is enviable,
They don't mock us:
Between me and honest hearts
You won’t let it break for long
Living, blood union!
Not Russian - will look without love
To this pale one, covered in blood,
A muse cut with a whip...
(December 1877)
In a country where there is neither gold nor silver,
We are talking about the seizure of papers
Can't do any good
But... the lot of the listeners is difficult.
37. O.A.Petrov
(on the day of the 50th anniversary)
Touching a person's heart,
Glorious is the path of the heroic singer.
Do not become weaker under the yoke of old age.
Thousands and thousands of hearts
Loving, deeply touched,
They send their gratitude to you, singer!
Embodying Russian art
In the sounds of life, truth, beauty,
Work, love and creativity
You bring it to the altar...
(December 1875)
38. When Dmitriev left for Kyiv from Yaroslavl
Don't be angry with him
When the speech is bad:
The path is long to Kyiv,
You will forget the game!
(1875(?))
39. TO THE PORTRAIT ***
Your claim to fame is very fragile
And if you subtract from the merits
Mistakes of youth and later years concessions, -
Good luck, dear friend.
<1876>
Calm down, my perky muse,
You don't have the strength to work.
Dear homeland, holy, spacious Rus'
I paid fate again...
Bury me with honor, broken
A serious and evil illness.
My century, anxiously lived,
In a word, don’t remember the dashing.
Believe that in me there is an immense, immeasurable
There was love for the people
And what will freeze in me now is faithful,
Pure, Russian blood.
I know there will be many guardians,
Everyone will scream about me
It’s just a pity that there are few such benefactors,
That they will be sad and remain silent.
They will spend a lot of hot enthusiasm
Everything is over my grave.
Dear homeland, son lying down
Bless, don't hit!..
……………….
……………….
Forget me as a private person,
But judge as a poet...
And I'm not afraid of that strict judgment
I am pure before you, mother.
I'm only guilty of a lot, a lot
Here they didn’t let me say...
(September 1876)
A man alone
Angry - will not forgive mistakes,
The world - "not everything fits in a line"
He says from time immemorial.
Your courage will not die
To fight with lies and malice...
Just a deliberate step
Down the wrong path
Be afraid!.. Proudly raised
Suddenly the head drops,
Your speech will become direct
Fearful and dead.
Courage and determination will bend,
Suspiciousness takes over the heart
And finally leaves
Even the belief in leniency
Human hearts!..
(December 1876)
Not for Yakov Rostovtsev
You pray, not for Milyutin,
…….. you pray
About everyone in the casemates rotting,
About the soldiers spotted in the regiments,
Pray for the hanged.
(late December 1876)
No shame, no compassion,
Curls in small curls,
The body, flexibly agitated,
And on sensual lips
A voluptuous smile.
(1876)
44. TO THE PORTRAIT ***
We have debunked this idol
With his inactive, phrasetic love,
We have become smart: the world believes
Only valor, sealed in blood...
(1876(?))
I asked people
In life, in the nature of my homeland,
In cold books,
In the groans of the people -
I searched in vain for an answer...
(1876(?))
But loving, prepare your heart
Endure incessant thunderstorms:
In our world, child, where is love,
There are tears there.
(1876(?))
Tolstoy, you proved with patience and talent,
That a woman should not "walk"
Neither with the chamber cadet, nor with the aide-de-camp,
When she is a wife and mother.
Nikolai Nekrasov’s childhood was not the easiest and happiest; he experienced a lot of grief. He spent his entire childhood on the family estate, where his tyrant father ruled everything. He was very cruel to both his subordinates and his family. When he needed to hide from beatings, he sought shelter from the peasants; they practically replaced his family. The father unleashed his anger on the unfortunate mother; she left this life very early. And this upset Nekrasov. He was upset that, as a child, he could not resist the cruelty of his own father.
In the poem “Mother,” which was written after the death of her mother, 14 years later. Over the years, the already mature Nekrasov conveys well his love, sadness, and compassion for his poor mother. He also condemns and reproaches his own father, who did not allow this poor, unfortunate woman to live. Nikolai compares his father to an executioner, telling him that “you ruined my mother and deprived us of our childhood.” His mother was very kind and educated. They were with her husband complete opposite, dreamy, loving wife and a mother, she loved her children very much, and at the same time was very worried about their fate. And the head of the family was cruel and rude, he loved to have fun and play cards, while losing all the money.
Nekrasov describes his mother, very sad and sad. A woman who is scared to death and cornered, she doesn't even have own opinion. Only over time did he realize that his mother’s life was like hell, but he could not do anything about it. Her husband was 13 years older than her, and he reproached and was jealous all the time. The father was on the verge of insanity, reproaching her that she would drive him to the grave. She listened to all these reproaches with dignity, although who knows what was in her soul. As a result, he survived her much longer. The image of his mother appears before the poet, and she sits and hums something to herself. According to him, she had a wonderful voice. Always pale and very calm. Since she was an educated woman, she told him a lot about the lives of poets and quoted their work. Thanks to her stories, he was in absentia acquainted with world-famous poets. Nekrasov will begin to write poems, using the information that his mother once gave.
Thinking about sad fate to his mother, Nekrasov learned in childhood compassion and empathy for all defenseless, oppressed and powerless women. He especially sympathized with serf women and serf workers. What a difficult fate befell them. The poet is convinced that it was his mother’s suffering that awakened in him a protest against the oppression of women.
Briefly according to plan
Picture for the poem Mother
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A small, only twelve lines, poem. Venice is a city of lovers and travelers. To visit there at least once in your life is the dream of every person. A city full of romance, standing on the water, where instead of streets there are canals,
- Analysis of Tsvetaeva’s poem Prayer according to plan
Many poets have a certain gift of foresight; from an early age they sensed what awaited them in the future. later life, and in most cases these were the most difficult tests. The Russian poetess Marina Tsvetaeva had the same feeling,
- Analysis of Feta Muse's poem
Before we begin the analysis of Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet’s poem “Muse,” it is necessary to mention that the poet was already sixty years old. Works more late lyric poetry the poet are filled with philosophical reflections, and not joyful
- Analysis of Yesenin's poem I am weaving a wreath for you alone
Yesenin gave this world many literary masterpieces, which to this day evoke unknown admiration among readers and lovers of Russian poetry. He dedicated all his poems to women, the Motherland, his own people,
1
In our mocking and impudent century
Great, holy word: “mother”
Does not awaken feelings in a person.
But I'm used to despising the custom.
I'm not afraid of fashionable ridicule.
Fate gave me this muse:
She sings on a free whim
Or is silent, like a proud slave,
I have been among labor and laziness for many years
He ran away with shameful cowardice
Captivating, long-suffering shadow,
For sacred memory... The hour has come!..
The world loves glitter, rattles and timpani,
The lot of the crowd is not to recognize friends,
She brings praises, crowns and laurels
Only those whose scourge lashed her more painfully;
A crown, twisted by an unthinking crowd,
Burns the forehead of the forgotten sufferer -
I'm not looking for a late crown for her.
But I want the light of the soul to be high
Shined for you in the middle of the deep midnight,
Unfortunate hearts are like her!..
Perhaps I'm acting criminally
Is your sleep disturbing, my mother? sorry!
But all my life I have suffered for a woman.
The path to freedom is denied her;
Shameful captivity, all the horror of a woman’s lot,
Left her little strength to fight,
But you will give her a lesson in iron will...
Bless me, dear: the hour has struck!
Sobbing sounds boil in my chest,
It's time, it's time to entrust my thought to them!
Your love, your holy torment,
Your struggle is an ascetic, I sing!..
2
I left my father's house as a teenager.
(I was in a hurry to the capital for fame.)
At sixteen I lived by my labor
And meanwhile I studied in fits and starts.
About twenty years old, with a tired head,
Neither alive nor dead (I starved for a long time),
But proudly, I came home.
I visited the village, the fields, the Volga -
You are still the same - both the fields and the people...
And it’s still the same - my native river...
I noticed a new thing: a steamboat!
But only for a moment did life flash.
You were seething like a cogwheel
The dug is a water road,
And the shores were dozing in a gentle sleep.
Everything was dozing: the barks, the wires,
The barge hauler was dozing at the bottom of the imported boat,
He will wake up and the Volga will come to life!
I waited for the viscous measured sounds...
Will I come here again to listen to my grandchildren,
Where can I hear you, fathers and sons!
Isn’t that what my life was given to me for?
Suddenly overwhelmed by drowsiness and laziness,
In the midday heat I entered the old garden;
In it, seven keys sparkle and rattle.
Listening to their impetuous singing,
The tops of the linden trees make a mysterious noise.
I love them: under their green canopy,
Quiet as the night and light as a shadow,
You, my mother, wandered every day.
At the slab where you lie, dear,
I remembered, worrying and dreaming,
What else could I see with you?
And I was late! And working life
I was devoted to both passion and adversity,
I was overwhelmed by the Neva wave...
I'm glad you're not under the family vault
Buried - it’s stuffy there, there’s no sun;
Your poet will not lie there either...
And finally I entered the old house,
It has a new gender, and new orders;
But I cared little about that.
I dismantled those kept by my father,
Your works, your papers are leftovers
And I thought about one letter.
It has a coat of arms, it has a narrow border,
The sheet is covered in either Polish or French
Impetuous and passionate language.
I remembered something for a long time, vaguely:
Isn’t it him, sighing every minute,
You read it in my infancy
Alone, in the garden, not knowing anything,
I saw in him then the source of grief
My dear, I was glad to burn it,
And now I hated him.
Dead night! I hurriedly go to the garden...
I’m looking for her, I want to hug her passionately...
Where are you? Please accept my filial greetings!
But only the echo echoes me indifferently...
I burst into tears; Alas! she's gone!
The moon has risen and the garden has turned silver,
I stood motionless under the vault of linden trees,
Whom the dear canopy loved so much.
I waited for her - and I didn’t wait in vain...
She's coming; sometimes slow, sometimes fast
Her steps, the letter in her hand...
She's coming... Attentive gazes
They glide over it in anxiety and melancholy.
“You are with me again! - I involuntarily exclaim. -
You are with me again..." My head is spinning...
Chu, quiet crying, Chu, whisper! I'm listening -
The words of the letter are familiar words!
3. Letter
Warsaw, 1824
What a night I spent today!
Oh, my daughter! what did you do to us?
To whom, to whom did you give your fate?
Which native country did you prefer?
I dreamed: hunted by dogs,
You are covered by Russian snows.
It was winter, it was the dead of night,
A fire was burning, lit by savages,
And by the fire with my eyes closed
You were lying there, my dear daughter!
The dense forest, turning black in a semicircle,
Roared like an animal... it was a long night,
You moaned like a slave groans at the plow,
And finally she froze - she died!..
Oh, how many dreams... oh, how many black thoughts!
I know that God punishes the disobedient,
I believe in dreams and cry like a child...
Disgrace! disgrace! we are the fable of all Warsaw.
You, whose hands M.M. I was looking for glory,
To whom N.N. fell in love in earnest
You're infatuated with an army officer
You're infatuated with a handsome savage!
I don't argue, he is decent in manners,
I noticed a natural intelligence in him.
But his character, habits, upbringing...
Can he sign his name?
Sorry! Indignation boils in the chest -
I can't, I shouldn't be silent!
Your beauty (nature is harsh there)
Never to fully blossom;
Your braid will be gone for six months,
It has its own motto: “love and beat”... sorry.
What a life! Linens, talcs, chickens
From unfortunate women; neighbors are savages,
And their wives are illiterate fools...
Today is a feast... hounds, hounds, hounds!
Sing, my daughter! in the midst of it
Your roulades, unable to withstand the blow,
The slave is falling... Laugh! everyone is funny...
For the last time, I kiss you like a mother -
I shouldn’t encourage the runaway;
Decide for yourself, take any fate:
Return to your family, be true to your homeland -
Or, forever cursed by my father
And forever lost by me,
Remain there as a renegade of the region
And the Muscovite is a despicable slave.
I woke up. The keys rattled silently,
And the early birds sang on the old linden trees.
There is a letter in my hand... but my dear one is not there!
Confused, I hung my head sadly.
Nature was still in a light sleep;
The moon looked into the pond; on the fatal stem
The burdocks stood motionless over the pond.
This is how prisoners look out of the casemate windows
I went through the books I had with me
My family once brought me from afar
I read random notes in the margins:
They had an inquisitive mind that delved deeply.
And again I cried and thought about the letter,
And again I read it carefully from the beginning,
And the meek soul tormented within him,
For the first time, she appeared before me in her beauty...
And you have remained inseparable since then,
O suffering mother! with my sad son,
The eyes were looking for you and your traces everywhere,
My leisure time was devoted to paintings of the past.
That pale hand that caressed me
When by the dying fire
When I was a baby I sat with you,
At dusk I sometimes imagined
And I heard your voice in the darkness,
Filled with melody and caress,
To whom you told me fairy tales
About knights, monks, kings.
Then, when I read Dante and Shakespeare,
It seemed that I encountered familiar features:
Those are images from their living world
You imprinted on my mind.
And I began to understand where your thought wandered,
Where did you live in soul, sufferer,
When violence rejoiced all around,
And a pack of dogs howled in the kennel,
And the blizzard hit and chalked the windows...
By an invisible staircase from recent youthful days
I descended to childhood, remembering that life,
When you were still my nanny
And a guardian angel, dear.
In another land, no less unhappy
But born less harsh,
In the gloomy and stormy north
At eighteen you were already alone.
He fell out of love, to whom fate was handed,
With whom I trustingly went to a foreign land, -
He’s not yours, but you haven’t stopped loving him,
You couldn’t stop loving until the grave...
You answered the letter with silence,
You went your own way fearlessly.
The piano thundered and your voice was sad
It sounded like the cry of a long-suffering soul,
But you were even and cheerful:
“I am unhappy, tormented by a friend,
But before you, O slave woman!
Before the slave, bent over the plow,
My destiny is an enviable destiny!
You are unhappy, O Motherland! I know:
The whole region is in captivity, all in trepidation,
But the land where I love and die,
More unfortunate, a hundred times more unfortunate!”
Chaos! I'm rushing around in unconsciousness, in delirium!
Chaos! the poet's mind barely flickers,
But youth's sacred vow
If I don’t do it, I won’t go to the grave!
Whether they understand or not, the song will be sung.
I'm late! I'm slow and steady
I am unable to accomplish my cherished work,
But I dare in a picture of few words
Combine your destiny, dear.
And I can!.. Art will help me,
Death will help - she needs me soon!..
A tear is small, but there is an excess of feeling in it...
What a boundless ocean in front of her!..
So twenty years of chain asceticism
You dragged on until your hour struck.
And not in vain among the waterless steppe
The spring flowed - it gave water to the thirsty.
And your love did not shine in vain:
No matter how many black clouds there are in the sky,
But if the night began to give in to the morning,
Finally, a ray of sunshine will shine through!
And the day broke out! It's yours: you win!
At your feet is the father of your children,
The family has long forgiven your guilt,
The servant kisses your crown of thorns...
But... twenty years!.. How sweet, dying,
You sighed... how quietly you died!
Oh, how much strength you have shown, dear!
What path did you come to victory!..
Your soul - it burns like a diamond,
Crushed into thousands of grains
In the greatness of deeds, elusive to the eye.
I understood them - I fell on my face before them,
I sing them (give me strength, heaven!..).
Doomed to a modest struggle,
You couldn't give bread to the hungry
You could not give freedom to a slave.
But once again the feeling of fear did not compress
You gave his souls to slaves,
But once again from trembling and dust
He raised his gaze more cheerfully to the heavens...
Perhaps the gift is poorer than a drop in the sea,
But twenty years! But thousands of hearts
Whose ideal is reduced grief,
The borders of evil are finally open!
Your ruler is hereditary morals
Sometimes he left, sometimes he showed up violently,
But if he's into crazy fun
I didn’t initiate children in bad times,
But if he is unbridled freedom
I didn’t bring it to the fatal line, -
You stood guard over him for years,
While darkness reigned in his soul...
And if I easily shake off the years,
There are noxious traces from my soul
Having trampled everything reasonable with her feet,
Proud of the ignorance of the environment,
And if I filled my life with struggle
For the ideal of goodness and beauty,
And carries the song composed by me,
Living love has deep features -
O my mother, I am moved by you!
You saved the living soul in me!
And I'm happy! you've already left the world,
But you will live in human memory,
As long as my lyre is able to live in it.
Years will pass - my faithful admirer
She will devote solitary leisure time,
He will read the story about your fate;
And, having visited the poet's forgotten dust,
Having sighed for him, he will sigh for you.
