The silver river flows quietly
In the kingdom of evening green spring.
The sun sets behind the forested mountains,
A golden horn emerges from the moon.
The West is covered with a pink ribbon,
The plowman returned to the hut from the fields,
And beyond the road in the birch thicket
The nightingale sang a song of love.
Listens affectionately to deep songs
From the west the dawn is like a pink ribbon.
Looks tenderly at the distant stars
And the earth smiles at the sky.
Analysis of the poem “Spring Evening” by Yesenin
The poem “Spring Evening” (1912) belongs to Yesenin’s early lyrics. He included it in his first collection of poetry. During this period, the poet loudly declared himself as an ardent patriot of his native land.
At first, Yesenin had a very hard time in Moscow. He understood that only here he could truly reveal his creativity to the public, but his soul constantly returned to his native village images.
“Spring Evening” is a surprisingly touching poem, in which the best qualities of the aspiring poet have already emerged. Yesenin did not idealize the harsh life of the Russian peasantry, but found and emphasized the best moments in it. Usually in poetry the evening is represented as a time of sadness and melancholy, sad reflections. Yesenin has no talk about this. The young poet is full of creative energy and looks to the future with confidence. Moreover, for the former peasant, evening is associated not with decline, but with the end of another working day and the onset of rest. Therefore, the author’s description is imbued with tender affection for beautiful nature.
In general, young Yesenin’s poems often resemble a fragment of some fairy tale heard from his grandmother. All natural phenomena are animated. The work traces the deep roots of folk legends and tales. “Silver river”, “horn of the golden... moon” - such epithets have long been particularly popular in Russian folk tales. Moreover, this takes place in the “evening kingdom.”
Only in the second stanza does a man appear - a tired peasant returning from work. The native “hut” is an unshakable symbol of prosperity and hope for a good harvest. In the same quatrain, Yesenin uses the traditional poetic image of a nightingale in love.
Yesenin is characterized by a feeling of unity and close interaction between nature and man. Moreover, this unity is on a cosmic scale. “The Ribbon of Dawn” tenderly listens to the “songs of the nightingale.” In the final lines, the spring evening already becomes a triumph of world harmony. The night becomes something short-lived and insignificant, because the dawn is already “looking at the distant stars.” The final line sounds very beautiful: “the earth smiles at the sky.”
“Spring Evening” is not just landscape lyrics. The warmth and sincerity of the poem evokes peace and gives hope for a happy next day. In the “kingdom of evening” there is no place for sad thoughts and any worries. It is difficult to imagine how Yesenin managed to create such touching works in an unusually noisy city.
“Spring Evening” Sergei Yesenin
The silver river flows quietly
In the kingdom of evening green spring.
The sun sets behind the forested mountains.
A golden horn emerges from the moon.The West is covered with a pink ribbon,
The plowman returned to the hut from the fields,
And beyond the road in the birch thicket
The nightingale sang a song of love.Listens affectionately to deep songs
From the west the dawn is like a pink ribbon.
Looks tenderly at the distant stars
And the earth smiles at the sky.
Analysis of Yesenin’s poem “Spring Evening”
In 1912, Sergei Yesenin came to conquer Moscow, but luck did not immediately smile on the young poet. Several more years would pass before his first poem was published in a metropolitan magazine. In the meantime, Yesenin works in a butcher shop and recalls with nostalgia his native village of Konstantinovo, where he was truly happy.
It is these memories that give the poet strength to move forward and believe that he will still achieve his goal. Moreover, they inspire Yesenin to write surprisingly pure and bright poems, which will subsequently create a special aura around the poet as a “singer of fields and rivers,” defining the main direction in his work. The poem “Spring Evening” dates back to this period, which was created in 1912 and was included in the debut selection of works by the young author, published in one of the capital’s magazines. It most fully reveals the natural gift of Yesenin the landscape painter, who knew how to see what other people simply did not notice. In addition, the poet’s amazing ability to endow inanimate objects with intelligence and feelings brought special warmth and tenderness to this poem. Every line of this work shows Yesenin’s love for the world in which “the silver river flows quietly” and “the golden horn of the moon floats up.”
Imagery and the ability to capture even the most insignificant nuances allow Yesenin to recreate a picture extraordinary in its simplicity and beauty, familiar to the poet, but opening the doors to inexperienced readers into a completely different reality, where a tired plowman returned home after hard work in the field, enjoying the fact that where “The nightingale sang a song of love.” And from this singing, not only the ordinary peasant, who is able to rejoice in such little things, is transformed, but also the entire world around him. Nightingale trills are a delight for the dawn, which crosses the sky like a “pink ribbon”, forests, plowed fields and deep rivers, which fully feel the onset of spring. The world is filled with harmony, it is perfect and impeccable in its beauty, when “the earth looks with tenderness at the distant stars and smiles at the sky.” This is exactly how a quiet spring evening seems to Yesenin, although the poet is deprived of the opportunity to enjoy its tenderness and warmth. But the memories that all this once happened in his life warm the poet’s soul and fill it with love for his native land.
Great ones about poetry:
Poetry is like painting: some works will captivate you more if you look at them closely, and others if you move further away.
Small cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creaking of unoiled wheels.
The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is what has gone wrong.
Marina Tsvetaeva
Of all the arts, poetry is the most susceptible to the temptation to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen splendors.
Humboldt V.
Poems are successful if they are created with spiritual clarity.
The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is usually believed.
If only you knew from what rubbish poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion on a fence, like burdocks and quinoa.
A. A. Akhmatova
Poetry is not only in verses: it is poured out everywhere, it is all around us. Look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life emanate from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.
I. S. Turgenev
For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.
G. Lichtenberg
A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. The poet makes our thoughts sing within us, not our own. By telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He's a magician. By understanding him, we become poets like him.
Where graceful poetry flows, there is no room for vanity.
Murasaki Shikibu
I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in the Russian language. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. It is through feeling that art certainly emerges. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin
-...Are your poems good, tell me yourself?
- Monstrous! – Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
– Don’t write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"
We all write poetry; poets differ from others only in that they write in their words.
John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"
Every poem is a veil stretched over the edges of a few words. These words shine like stars, and because of them the poem exists.
Alexander Alexandrovich Blok
Ancient poets, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. This is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times there is certainly hidden an entire Universe, filled with miracles - often dangerous for those who carelessly awaken the dozing lines.
Max Fry. "Chatty Dead"
I gave one of my clumsy hippopotamuses this heavenly tail:...
Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea, and not a plague!
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky
Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore, drive away the critics. They are just pathetic sippers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let poetry seem to him like an absurd moo, a chaotic pile-up of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from a boring mind, a glorious song sounding on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.
Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"
Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing more than pure poetry that has rejected the word.
Bent over the tulips on the stems
The spotlights are lit by the moon,
And into our invisible souls
It's like the Gods are silently watching.
And on the tower it's a quarter to nine,
The dial shone with amber;
On the alleys along the clumps of trees
The crimson sunset spread.
In the unsteady haze of foggy coolness
The streets fell silent and the city fell silent,
A languid evening falls on the roofs
A simple touch of illusion.
It's like listening to quiet music
The murmur of the passing day,
In the secret of the spring supper
I, too, was rapturously dissolved.
© Copyright: Angela Polyansky...
The spring evening blows cool on us.
Touching you only makes you stronger
Mimosa clinging to me.
The eyes are closed, as if in a magical dream.
I touch your eyelashes with my lips.
The lemony freshness of the moon is above us
Shines framed by bright stars.
Out of happiness, pearls flow in the form of tears.
Don't be afraid, you are under my protection,
With a feminine soul and so open.
Darling, you are like a talisman,
I'll take it to my family's ark.
-
Sergey Prilutsky, Alatyr, 2013
I am re-reading the chronicles of Gamba,
And the thought draws a castle on the rock,
In the gorges of the great Daryal,
Where the Terek swarms in the semi-darkness.
But with every breath I feel the cemetery,
The ruins of deceit and love;
And the heavens, long-dead kings
In the fire of the dawn.
And spirits along an invisible path,
Like clouds, they float to a wondrous voice
They are met in the tower by a gloomy eunuch,
Yes only...
On a spring evening to say - I love you,
invent happiness and suddenly become younger.
And, having missed the past, February
forgive and forget him. And from the skin
erase (try) moles barcode,
forcing fate to reassess...
And suddenly I see the light.
And, having played the whole scene,
return at least some of the stolen freedoms.
And when I let you go,
don't climb the wall...
The weeds did not burn out in the autumn fires,
The spring fox is looking for a mouse, looping around.
The cold wind strokes the forest's sunken cheeks.
A thick fog hung over the hills.
Solemnly, slowly and strictly
The planet's wheel rotates.
And the forest beckons with an abandoned road.
And Life looks at the scales...
She knows what is important, what is not important...
Old ice lies in the shadow of the valleys.
Thawed butterfly bravely
Set off on its first flight.
Be in the forest in human form.
(The memory of the past is still so sharp...
Spring Pierrot and drops-Columbine
Full of bright love.
The mandolin murmurs lyrically in their soul
The agreement of the waves of happiness.
And they drown in each other in raptures,
In the radiant shine of the eyes.
Sensual honey flows to lovers,
The aroma of warm tenderness of phrases.
The current of magnetism melts in the nerves,
A young spring bubbles in the heart,
Having become the choice - the best and the main, and the first,
Having tasted the sensations of the peak.
The evening will be enveloped in a pink haze
River channel bend.
Their white shoulders will touch
And the lips will merge for a moment...
A warm spring evening enveloped the bustling city.
He embraced the crimson sunset of the tops of the pine trees,
A ray of sunshine, lying on the slate of roofs,
Falling like a waterfall of golden rays from the walls of houses.
Falling onto the asphalt, which is cut by threads of snow.
The city calms down in a sweet half-asleep, falling asleep
To the singing of birds and the music of running streams.
The city calms down to the melody of the cool-warm winds,
Under the quiet rustle of green-young foliage,
What lies like blue shadows on the asphalt...
A warm evening leads into the mystery of dreams,
In the past...
The poem was created when Sergei Yesenin had just moved to Moscow to conquer the capital. The poet succeeded in this with at least one lyrical poem.
There are a lot of epithets in this poem, consisting of three stanzas. The evening is assembled from picturesque pieces, like a puzzle: one is golden, the other is green. The color pink is mentioned twice - it is the glow of dawn. Of course, these pieces convey both sound and feeling... For example, a river flows quietly.
There are also characters in the work. The plowman returned from the fields to rest. The nightingale is just getting down to business - a “song” for love. This is a solemn, somewhat outdated-looking word. There are unusually few dialect words, common vocabulary, and folk motifs for Yesenin. The whole poem, describing a calm summer evening, is somewhat solemn.
Everything here is animated: dawn, earth... and these characters are also in a calm state. Here the dawn smiles relaxedly, here the earth smiles at the sky, looking at the stars.
Yesenin creates the feeling of a fairy tale in his work. The images of the “kingdom of spring” and the plowman’s “hut” help him in this. The nightingale's songs here are deep, as if full of meaning. The highest meaning is often not just in words, but in feelings. And although this descriptive poem cannot be classified as love poetry, but only as landscape poetry, we are, of course, talking about love here.
Analysis of the poem Spring evening according to plan
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