, , Poems about nature.
Biography of Fet A.A.
Fet, Shenshin, Afanasy Afanasyevich, Russian poet. Son of landowner A.N. Shenshin and Caroline Fet; was recorded as the son of Shenshin. However, at the age of 14, the legal illegality of this entry became clear, which deprived Fet of all noble privileges. In 1844, he graduated from the verbal department of the Faculty of Philosophy of Moscow University and, with the goal of receiving a noble title, entered the military service(1845). The first collection of poems is “Lyrical Pantheon” (1840). By the beginning of the 60s, a period of sharp division of social forces associated with revolutionary situation, include Fet’s journalistic speeches in defense of the rights of landowners, which are emphatically retrograde in nature. Shortly before this, Fet retired and took up farming on his estate; I wrote little at this time. Only in his declining years did the poet return to creativity, releasing 4 collections of poems under the general title “Evening Lights” (1883–91).
Fet is a principled supporter of the doctrine of “pure art”, who in his poetic practice avoided addressing social reality and direct response to the burning issues of our time. At the same time, his poetry is more in a broad sense– has a solid living ground. The poet, driven by a spontaneous desire to embody the very “substance of existence” in poetry, managed to masterfully convey the material reality of the world, given to a person in his immediate perception. Feeling life as an omnipotent, exciting force (“Spring and night covered the valley”, 1856?), the poet seems to dissolve his “I” in the elements organic life(“What happiness: both the night and we are alone!”, 1854). Nature evokes unusually sharp lyrical emotions in Fet - “the mysterious power of spring” (“More May night", 1857), "wonderful pictures" of winter ("What sadness! The end of the alley", 1862), evenings and nights ("Whisper, timid breathing", 1850, "On a haystack at night in the south", 1857). Fet’s “Landscape of the Soul” is in motion, full of living details objective world, visual images, rich in auditory and visual sensations. Fet’s taste for picturesque, plastic paintings was especially pronounced in anthological poems (“The Bacchae”, 1843, “Diana”, 1847). The uniqueness of Fet’s psychologism is that, with a specificity hitherto unusual in Russian poetry, he recreated in the lyrics fleeting mental moods and states - this fluid “matter” of any human life. Fet's poetry is musical and melodic. The poet sometimes prefers to deal not with meaning, but with sound - a particularly malleable material for expressing a momentary mood.
Fet is known as a translator of Horace, Ovid, J. V. Goethe and others. ancient and new poets. For the first time he translated into Russian A. Schopenhauer’s treatise “The World as Will and Representation” (1881). Author of the memoirs “My Memories” (parts 1–2, 1890), “ early years my life" (published 1893). Many of Fet's poems are set to music.
Fet's poems about spring are kind and surprisingly understandable. Lev Nikolaevich Tolstoy wrote: “ And where does this good-natured, fat officer get such incomprehensible lyrical audacity, a characteristic of great poets?»
The willow is all fluffy
The willow is all fluffy
Spread out all around;
It's fragrant spring again
She blew her wing.
The clouds are rushing around the village,
Warmly illuminated
And they ask for your soul again
Captivating dreams.
Diverse everywhere
The gaze is occupied by the picture,
The idle crowd makes noise
People are happy about something...
Some secret thirst
The dream is inflamed -
And over every soul
Spring is flying by.
Afanasy Fet is a man with an amazing understanding of poetry, who willingly opens his soul to it. Fet has a subtle sense of nature, the ability to convey nuances and shades in words mental life, noticed by more than one generation of readers.
Fish
Warm in the sun. Spring
Takes his rights;
In some places the depth of the river is clear,
Grass is visible at the bottom.
Pure cold stream
I'm watching the float -
Naughty fish, I see
Plays with a worm.
bluish back,
She's like silver
The eyes are two grains of Burmite,
Crimson feather.
He walks without faltering under the water,
It's time - there's a worm in your mouth!
Alas, a brilliant streak
She slipped into the darkness.
But here comes the evil eye again
It flashed nearby.
Wait, maybe this time
You'll hang on a hook!
Reading Fet, you relax your soul. Nikolai Alekseevich Nekrasov wrote about Fet: “ A person who understands poetry and willingly opens his soul to its sensations will not find in any Russian author, after Pushkin, as much poetic pleasure as Mr. Fet will give him».
It's still spring fragrant bliss
More fragrant spring bliss
She didn’t have time to come down to us,
The ravines are still full of snow,
Even before dawn the cart rattles
On a frozen path.
The sun barely warms at noon,
The linden tree turns red in height,
Through, the birch tree turns a little yellow,
And the nightingale does not dare yet
Sing in a currant bush.
But the news of rebirth is alive
Already in the migratory cranes,
And, following them with my eyes,
The beauty of the steppe is standing
With a bluish blush on her cheeks.
Afanasy Fet comes from the Oryol province. Born and spent his childhood on the Novoselki estate Mtsensk district, owned by his stepfather, landowner A.N. Shenshin. Fet's own father is the Darmstadt official Johann Fet. Until the age of fourteen, Afanasy Afanasyevich was listed as the son of Shenshin. And in 1834, changes were made to metric book. And overnight, from the Russian nobleman Shenshin, the young man turned into a foreigner, “the Hesse-Darmstadt subject Afanasy Fet.” Thus he lost noble rank and rights to own ordinary estate. This fact influenced his entire life.
O first lily of the valley!
O first lily of the valley! From under the snow
You ask for the sun's rays;
What virginal bliss
In your fragrant purity!
How bright is the first ray of spring!
What dreams descend in it!
How captivating you are, gift
Happy spring!
This is how a maiden sighs for the first time -
About what - it is unclear to her -
And a timid sigh smells fragrant
The abundance of young life.
In 1873, according to " the highest command", Fet was again included in the Shenshin family; he received the court rank of chamberlain in 1889. With great difficulty, using all kinds of connections and relationships, Fet again became a nobleman, but in his soul he was not sure of his noble rights.
Spring rain
It’s still light in front of the window,
The sun shines through the gaps in the clouds,
And the sparrow with its wing,
Swimming in the sand, it trembles.
And from heaven to earth,
The curtain moves, swinging,
And as if in gold dust
Behind it stands the edge of the forest.
Two drops splashed onto the glass,
The linden trees smell of fragrant honey,
And something came to the garden,
By fresh leaves drumming.
Until his old age, Afanasy Fet wrote poetry; for a long time he retained the piercing and originality of his poetic talent. Fet also made a great contribution to Russian literature as a translator. He is the author of translations of the Roman poets Ovid, Virgil and others, and Goethe's Faust.
What an evening!
What an evening! And the stream
So it breaks.
Like a nightingale dawning
It's ringing out!
Moon with light from above
I drenched the fields,
And in the ravine the shine of water,
Shadow and willow.
To know that the dam has been leaking for a long time:
The boards are rotten, -
And you can’t help but lie down here
On the railing.
This is how everything lives in the spring!
In the grove, in the field
Everything trembles and sings
Involuntarily.
We'll shut up in the bushes
These choirs -
They will come with a song on their lips
Our children;
And not children, this is how they will pass
With a song grandchildren:
They will come down to them in the spring
Same sounds.
Spring is just around the corner
How the chest breathes freshly and capaciously -
Words cannot express anyone!
As loud as the ravines at noon
Streams spin into foam!
In the ether the song trembles and melts,
The rye is green on the block -
And a gentle voice sings:
“You’ll survive another spring!”
I came to you with greetings
I came to you with greetings,
Tell me that the sun has risen
What is it with hot light
The sheets began to flutter;
Tell me that the forest has woken up,
All woke up, every branch,
Every bird was startled
And full of thirst in spring;
Tell me that with the same passion,
Like yesterday, I came again,
That the soul is still the same happiness
And I’m ready to serve you;
Tell me that from everywhere
It blows over me with joy,
That I myself don’t know what I will
Sing - but only the song is ripening.
To the question: What poems does A. A. Fet have about spring? given by the author Mao the best answer is A. A. FETA'S POEMS ABOUT SPRING *** In the invisibility haze the spring month floated out, The garden flower breathes with Apple and cherry trees. So he clings, kissing Secretly and immodestly. And aren't you sad? And aren't you languid? The Nightingale without a Rose was tormented by the song. The old stone is crying, dropping tears into the pond. The head dropped the braids involuntarily. And aren't you languid? And it doesn't hurt you? SPRING THOUGHTS Again the birds fly from afar To the shores that break the ice, The warm sun walks high and waits for the fragrant lily of the valley. Again, nothing can calm your heart, Until the rising blood touches your cheeks, And with a bribed soul you believe, That, like the world, love is endless. But will we come together again so close Among the soft nature, As the cold sun of winter saw us walking low? SPRING RAIN It’s still light in front of the window, The sun shines through the gaps in the clouds, And a sparrow flutters with its wing, bathing in the sand. And from heaven to earth, the curtain moves, swaying, and as if in golden dust, the edge of the forest stands behind it. Two drops splashed onto the glass, the linden trees smelled like fragrant honey, and something approached the garden, drumming on the fresh leaves. SPRING IS IN THE YARD How the chest breathes freshly and capaciously - Words cannot express anyone! Like streams spinning loudly through the ravines at midday on the foam! On the air, the song trembles and melts. The rye is green on the boulder - And a gentle voice sings: “You will survive spring yet!” *** The fragrant bliss of spring has not yet had time to descend upon us, The ravines are still full of snow, The cart is still rattling at dawn On the frozen path. As soon as the sun warms at noon, the linden tree in the heights turns red, through, the birch tree turns slightly yellow, and the nightingale does not yet dare to sing in the currant bush. But the living news of rebirth is already in the migrating cranes, And, seeing them off with her eyes, stands the beauty of the steppe With a bluish blush on her cheeks. CUCKOO Lush tops bend, Mleya in the spring juice; Somewhere far from the edge of the forest, it’s as if you can hear: peek-a-boo. Heart! - here is the morning - love everything with which you have lived forever; It is heard closer and closer, like a golden cuckoo. Or who remembered the losses, remembered the spring melancholy? And three times are heard Clearly and languidly: cuckoo. *** Learn from them - from the oak, from the birch. It's winter all around. Cruel time! In vain the tears froze on them, And the bark cracked, shrinking. The blizzard is getting angrier and every minute it is vomiting angrily last sheets, And a fierce cold grabs your heart; They stand, silent; shut up too! But trust in spring. A genius will rush past her, again breathing warmth and life. For clear days, for new revelations The grieving soul will recover. *** I came to you with greetings, To tell you that the sun has risen, That it fluttered with hot light across the sheets; Tell me that the forest has woken up, The whole forest has woken up, every branch, every bird has roused itself, And is full of spring thirst; To tell you that with the same passion As yesterday, I came again, That my soul is still happy And ready to serve you; To tell me that joy is blowing at me from everywhere, That I myself don’t know that I will sing - but only the song is ripening.
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 knowing 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.
- Do not write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "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 each poetic work of those times, a whole Universe was certainly hidden, 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.