Martynov Leonid Nikolaevich (1905-1980) - poet, journalist, prose writer, publicist.
Born on May 9 (22), 1905. Martynov spent his childhood and youth in Omsk. Father, N.I. Martynov, was a communications engineer. Mother, M. G. Zbarskaya, instilled in her son a love of reading and art. In his adolescence, Martynov read a lot of romantic adventure literature - A. Conan Doyle, J. London, A. Green; studied geography and theology, was interested in technology and Siberian folklore. He studied at the Omsk classical gymnasium, but did not graduate. In 1920 he joined the group of Omsk futurists - artists, performers and poets.
In 1921 he began publishing his notes in the Omsk newspaper Rabochy Put. The first publications of his poems in local newspapers date back to the same time. Later they appeared on the pages of the Siberian Lights magazine. Soon Martynov went to Moscow to enroll in VKHUTEMAS, where he fell into the circle of young artists of the Russian avant-garde who were close to him in spirit, but due to illness and hunger he was forced to return home. In Omsk, he educated himself, worked a lot as a journalist, and actively participated in the artistic life of the city.
From the editorial office, he went on business trips around Siberia, Kazakhstan and Central Asia - he wrote about the construction of Turksib and the first giant state farms, searched for mammoth tusks between the Ob and Irtysh, as well as ancient handwritten books in Tobolsk. These impressions were reflected in his first book - a book of essays “Rough food, or an Autumn journey along the Irtysh” (1930). Journalistic experience later affected both the themes and poetics of Martynov.
In 1932, the poet was arrested on charges of counter-revolutionary propaganda. He was credited with participating in a mythical group of writers - the “Siberian Brigade”. Only an accident saved Martynov from death. In 1933 he was sent into administrative exile in Vologda, where he lived until 1935, collaborating in local newspapers. After exile, Martynov returned to Omsk and wrote a number of poems on the topic of Siberian history.
In 1939, the poet published the book “Poems and Poems.” The book brought him fame among readers in Siberia. In 1945, Martynov’s second book, “Lukomorye,” was published in Moscow. She became central to his work. In it, the poet tried, on the basis of legends, to revive the myth of Siberia as a once-existent happy kingdom.
In the late 1940s, in connection with the publication of the book “Ertsinsky Forest,” Martynov was subjected to magazine and newspaper persecution. The poet was accused of being apolitical and stopped publishing. New books by Martynov began to be published only after the death of I.V. Stalin. From the beginning of the “thaw” to 1980, more than 20 books of poetry and prose were published.
The peak of Martynov’s popularity coincided with the release of his collection “Poems” in 1961. At this time, the themes of Martynov’s poetry changed: the share of historicism decreased and poems appeared for anniversaries. The poet is increasingly attracted by the realities of the scientific and technological revolution - transistors, reactors and Tu aircraft. This desire to “keep up with the times” resulted in the fact that Martynov’s lyrics of the 1960s - 1980s are significantly inferior in artistic merit to the work of the 1930s - 1950s. The most notable of the books of the last two decades were the collections Birthright (1965), Hyperboles (1972), The Earthly Burden (1976), Bonds of Storms (1979) and the posthumous collection Gold Reserve (1981). In addition, of interest are Martynov’s translations from A. Mickiewicz, L. Kokhanovsky, S. Petofi, E. Adi and other poets, as well as the book of his memoir short stories “Air Frigates” (1974).
Martynov Leonid Nikolaevich(05/22/1905, Omsk - 06/27/1980, Moscow) - poet, translator, memoirist.
From the family of N.I. Martynov, a railway construction engineer, a descendant of the “philistine Martynovs, who traced their origins back to their ofeni’s grandfather, the Vladimir peddler-bookseller Martyn Loschilin” (“Air Frigates”). M.G. Zbarskaya, the poet’s mother, instilled in her son a love of reading and art. In his adolescence, M. was fond of reading neo-romantic literature (A. Conan Doyle, J. London, A. Green), seriously studied geography and geology, and was interested in “technology in the broadest sense of the word” and the folklore of Siberia. He studied at the Omsk classical gymnasium, but did not complete the course: his studies were interrupted by the revolution.
In 1920, he joined the group of Omsk futurists, “artists, performers and poets,” which was headed by the local “king of writers” A.S. Sorokin. In 1921 he began publishing notes in the Omsk newspaper “Rabochiy Put” and poems in local magazines, and later in the railway. “Siberian Lights”. Soon he went to Moscow to enter VKHUTEMAS, where he fell into a circle of like-minded young avant-garde artists. However, malaria and hunger forced M. to return home. In Omsk, the poet continued to educate himself, returned to journalism and active participation in the artistic life of the city. Carrying out editorial assignments, he traveled around Siberia. He crossed the southern steppes several times along the route of the future Turksib, explored the economic resources of Kazakhstan, visited the construction of the first giant state farms, made a propaganda flight by plane over Baraba, a steppe region, searched for mammoth tusks between the Ob and Irtysh, and ancient handwritten books in Tobolsk. This period of M.’s life is reflected in his book. essays “Rough food, or Autumn journey along the Irtysh” (M., 1930). The experience of the journalist will further determine some themes and elements of M.’s poetics.
In 1932, M. was arrested on charges of counter-revolutionary propaganda. The poet was credited with participating in a mythical group of Siberian writers, in the “case of the Siberian brigade.” An accident saved him from death, but in 1933 M. was sent into administrative exile in Vologda, where he lived until 1935, collaborating in local newspapers. After exile, he returned to Omsk, where he wrote a number of poems with historical Siberian themes and where in 1939 he published a book. “Poems and Poems,” which brought M. fame among readers of Siberia.
In 1945, the second book, “Lukomorye,” was published in Moscow, with which the poet attracted the attention of a wider circle of readers. This book - a milestone in M.’s work. In the 1930s, the poet, in a number of poems and poems, developed, or tried to reconstruct, the Siberian myth about the northern happy land, which appears in M.’s poems in the guise of either a fantastic Hyperborea, or the legendary “gold-boiling Mangazeya,” or almost real - M. looked for historical evidence of this - Lukomorye. The main myth was made up of various legends: about the northern Golden Baba, about the medieval land of Prester John, etc. Both the author’s long-standing passion for the history of Siberia and his youthful passion for neo-romanticism had an impact: in a number of works the poet sang the exoticism of wanderings, revealing the romantic in the everyday and modern. The poems of this period, characterized by the peculiar “romantic realism” of M.’s poetic vision, would later bring the author all-Russian popularity.
At the end of the 1940s, M. was subjected to “acute magazine and newspaper research associated with the publication of the book “Ertsin Forest” (“Air Frigates”). The poet was no longer published. New books M. began to be published only after Stalin’s death (from the beginning of the “thaw” to 1980, more than twenty books of poetry and prose were published).
At the end of the 1950s, the poet truly gained recognition. The peak of M.'s popularity, which strengthened with the publication of his book. “Poems” (M., 1961), coincides with the heightened reader interest in the lyrics of the young “sixties” (Yevtushenko, Voznesensky, Rozhdestvensky, etc.). But the paradox of the situation and the misfortune for M. as a poet is that his civic position during the 1960s did not correspond to the mood of his audience, primarily the young creative intelligentsia. M. the man, M. the citizen did not change, but the era changed - and therefore M. the poet: now his social views had to be expressed more clearly. It was during the “thaw” that M.’s first poems about Lenin appeared, and soon after the “thaw” - poems for anniversaries. Their author's interest in improving poetic technique decreases: M. is looking for new topics. The share of historicism in M.'s lyrical plots is decreasing, there is less romance, but more and more attempts to look modern. The poet is fascinated by new technical, and above all, by the linguistic realities that express them: he readily rushes to place transistors, reactors and TU planes in poetry. The consequence is a gradual decline in reader interest, which the poet himself obviously felt:
“There is a fuss, a fuss/ And a terrible squabble/ Behind my back./ They accuse, they reproach,/ They find no excuses/ And it’s as if they are calling/ Everyone by my name” (“I feel what’s going on...”, 1964) .
M.'s lyrics of the 1960-1980s are significantly inferior in artistic merit to his poetic work of the 1930-1950s. However, in the last period of his life, M. demonstrates his talent as a memoirist, publishing collections. interesting autobiographical short stories “Air Frigates” (M., 1974). But the poetic genius was not lost either: the last decades of M.’s life introduced Russian readers to his wonderful translations from Lithuanian (translated for the first time by E. Mezhelaitis), Polish (A. Mickiewicz, J. Kokhanovsky, J. Tuvim), Hungarian (A. Gidas , D. Iyesh, S. Petofi, E. Adi) and other languages. However, the duality of M., a gifted Poet - and a censored poet, a Thinker - and a cautious citizen, which also manifested itself in his approach to translations, was once revealed to him. From his youth he dreamed of translating A. Rimbaud, P. Verlaine, Swinburne and other Western European classics, but more often he was engaged in translating the lyrics of fellow contemporaries from the countries of the socialist camp into verse. “The problem of translation” M. - in his own honest way - admitted, addressing the imaginary Villon, Verlaine, Rimbaud:
“Let other generations take this responsibility, not us! // No, gentlemen, let my hand not translate your treacherous lines. And in general, what kind of translator am I! Let others translate it one more time, smoothing you slightly.”
Like many, M. began his creative activity with imitations. The “futurism” of the young poet and his comrades was nothing more than a game. But the poems of Mayakovsky the futurist helped M. in mastering the classics. M. recalled, for example, that “he was not interested in Lermontov,” but when he “read from Mayakovsky that “combing one’s hair... is not worth the trouble for a while, but it is impossible to be combed forever,” Lermontov came to life, ceasing to be only a compulsory gymnasium student. literature lesson" (“Air Frigates”). Acquaintance with the lyrics of A. Blok helped to better understand the beloved Mayakovsky, and then led to the simultaneous influence of the work of the two poets on M.’s earliest poems with their urban themes (for example, the poem “Provincial Boulevard”, 1921). In these early poems, the intonations of early Gumilyov (“Grey Hour”, 1922), motives and speech patterns of Yesenin (“Laugh”, 1922) are noticeable. The schoolboy M. tries himself in classical forms (sonnets “Alla”, 1921; “Sonnet”, 1923).
M.’s true voice sounded in 1924: “You have faded. I am a wanderer, all brown./ It will be unpleasant for us to meet now./ Only tenderness, once forgotten here,/ Makes me come back” (“Tenderness”). Since the late 1920s, the poet’s lyrics have once and for all included elements of dialogue - with the reader, with his characters, with himself (“The Chronicler” and “River Silence”, 1929; later - “Trees”, 1934). Another characteristic feature of M.’s manner was a romantic view of history, expressed in the ballad plot of many works (“Ermak”, 1936; “The Captive Swede”, 1938). In poetry, M. begins to develop the myth of “gold-boiling Mangazeya” (“Hyper-Borea”, 1938). The theme of the history of Siberia is presented differently in M.'s poems of the 1920-1930s. The real facts of the history of Omsk and Tobolsk are presented without romantic embellishment; M. strives for accuracy in the transmission of local legends (“The True Story of Uvenkai”, 1935-1936; “The Story of a Russian Engineer”, 1936; “The Tobolsk Chronicler”, 1937). At the same time, he freely conjectures a family legend (“Seeker of Paradise,” 1937, about Ofen Loschilin, the poet’s ancestor), and further fantasizes the story of K. Balmont’s actual visit to Omsk in 1911 (“Poetry as Magic,” 1939).
In the 1940s, M. honed his poetic skills. Psychologism, precision of detail, piercingly lyrical intonation, linguistic plasticity - these features are characteristic of many of the poet’s poems (for example, the poem “Ballerina”, 1968). Close attention to detail, but speculativeness when depicting objects and landscape sketches leave a philosophical imprint on M.’s poems (“Water”, 1946; “Leaves”, 1951). Meanwhile, the hero of M. becomes a person in general, even all of humanity, the time of action is modernity, the space is the globe, the action itself is the reorganization of the world (“Something new in the world...”, 1948-1954). And this is in tune with the enthusiastic mood of society.
M. strives to improve technology and reaches the limit at which poetics subordinates the theme without abolishing it. Martynov’s “untimely” poems of this period are extremely easy to recognize: they are unusually musical with their exquisite selection and construction of rhymes, and the graphic division of the text only emphasizes the internal rhyming of the lines (“Water/ Favored/ To pour!// She/ Shined/ So pure,/ Whatever get drunk,/ Or wash.// And it was not without reason” - verse “Water”). The meaning comes from the music of the verse, the association of phenomena comes from the selection of rhymes. In general, rhyme creation becomes the main area in which M. manifests himself during these years. The poet strives to make do with a minimum number of consonances. Two pairs of rhymes are sought out and passed through any length of text (“It seems to me that I am resurrected...”, 1945; “Both mustache and eyebrow are still black...”, 1946). M. complicates the poetic task - and the alternation of male/female clauses throughout the text space presents the reader with almost continuous rhyme (“Atom”, 1948; “What’s the matter with you, blue sky?..”, 1949). Poems often appear with rare series of dissonant groups of rhymes (“Pond,/ Like an emerald,/ Only the shore is steep.// Grotto,/ But the entrance to this grotto/ is walled up.// So/ At each gate/ Many barriers” - verse "Paradise", 1957).
Poems from 1960 show that there has been a turning point in M.’s work. From this time on, M.’s attempts to keep up with the times, with literary fashion “for the masses” became more and more clearly visible. On the one hand, he publishes poems on officially welcomed topics (“October”, “Teachers”, “Revolutionary Skies”). M. derived for himself a formula for his personal attitude towards the Bolshevik revolution: October was great for the birth of free art (“October broke many bonds, / And, roughly speaking, / The palaces of the muses were ventilated / With the winds of October” - “October”). Subsequently, he continued to exploit this successfully found idea, with which, however, he truly agreed. So, in the poem composed for the anniversary. “Revolution” (1967) M. claims that this “dreamy” time determined the ideas of Tatlin, Chagall, and Konenkov. The same attitude towards Lenin is the same: under M.’s anniversary pen, he turned into a fighter “for the purity of free speech” (“Purity”, 1970). The poems dedicated to Lenin are formulaic: the hero M. is equal to the hero of Voznesensky (cf.: “But Lenin suddenly looks in the window: / -Are all the questions resolved?” from the poem “Lenin”, 1965, - and “Answers all questions Lenin...” from the poem “Lonjumeau”), then on a planetary scale to the hero of the highly revered Mayakovsky (“The thoughts and feelings of Vladimir Lenin, / Some of his reflections, / And are valuable for neighbors in space” - verse. “Lenin and the Universe”, 1968). Under Stalin, M. did not write such “odes”.
On the other hand, M. also strives for fashion for various kinds of “relevance.” In the pursuit of fashion, he is still ahead of others: for example, in verse. “Tokhu-vo-bokhu” (1960) is an anticipation of many features of Voznesensky’s poetics. M.’s experience as a journalist also came in handy: from now on, poems reminiscent of problematic articles appear more and more often, in which there are elements of an interview, an analyst’s position, and a journalistic focus on the issue (which, however, is “about nothing”). This is the verse. 1960 “I talked to a doctor...”, “I saw off a secondary school teacher...”, etc.
The poet appears in strange “critical” poems, in which - completely in the spirit of Soviet satire - moralizing banality is intended to camouflage the optionality, even the randomness, of the critical object (“Somewhere there a reactor has gone bad...”, 1960; “My comrades, poets...” .”, 1963; “Radioactive Island”, 1963). And banality leads to nonsense. Yes, in verse. “Leninsky Prospekt” (1960), conceived as anti-war, the meaning melts from line to line: “Good world, / Which I love, / You recently came out of the trenches. / I’ll buy you something / In the isotope store.” Nonsense, in turn, leads to a loss of taste: “Mine girls, chimney girls, / Dark quarry girls” (“Girls”, 1963), sounds the poet’s straightforward, enthusiastic phrase, not equal to Oleinikov’s ironic: “For whom are you lady, for me it’s a factory.”
M. persistently strives to look journalistic and relevant, but also wants to connect relevance with his characteristic search for new means of enriching his poetic technique - but this is what happens: “And the night. And again it’s windy and damp. / And the whirlwinds collide with the foliage, / As if right above your head / It’s not a liner floating in a stormy abyss, / But rushing about like a dark-skinned angel of peace, / Indira Gandhi in a fur coat” (“Newspaper Topic” , 1971). And attempts to return to the path of form-creation, to the use of the previous composition of rhymes (“It smelled of summer, smelled of light...”, 1960; “It was as if thunder had struck in the yard...”, 1967; “Reasonable Connection”, 1970) are almost ineffective. ). Such a verse. the late 1960s, like the alliterative “Among the thinning forest...” and “Devil Bagryanych,” like “The Chronicler’s Cell” with pairs of rhymes ringing each verse (“In the cell, the old man is barely visible./ -Father, what are you dreaming of in bowels of the night?”), “technical” experiments with the transformation of prose into poetry (“Mother Mathematics”, 1964; “Yesenin’s Prose”, 1966) - they are exceptions rather than the rule. The necessary harmonic balance between the music of a verse and the sublime lyricism that is present, for example, in verse, rarely arises. “Languish” (1962). The reason for this is M.’s tossing between purely “problematic” epic lines and “technical” lyrics. One day they lead to an epiphany: it is impossible to keep up with the younger generation of Russian poets (“And everything else / I want to say, from them I hear...” - verse. “I recognize my own poems...”, 1970).
The theme of art appears isolated in M.’s lyrics of the 1960s and 1970s, represented by works that are every bit interesting. Their author’s reflection was evoked both by poetic creativity as such (the sonnet “Poetry”, the poems “Rhyme” and “When a Poem Doesn’t Come Out” of 1967), and by the figures of masters of Russian art (“The Cross of Didelot”, 1968; “ballads” of the end of 1960 -x - early 1970s about the poet's fellow countryman and comrade composer V. Shebalin, about the artists I. Repin, N. Roerich), and the importance of the activities of Russian writers (“The Apparition of Tyutchev”, 1970; “Sighs of Antioch” and “Laws of Taste” ”, 1972).
Such is the unusual creative fate of M., a poet whose best lyrics were written in times that called for heroic epic, and whose worst poems were written during the period of a new poetic boom in Russia.
Do you know what it means to be free?
After all, this means being responsible for everything!
L. Martynov
Marvelous.
Flipping through the pages of the book: “History of Russian Literature”, with the desire to find information about the poet Leonid Martynov, on page 331 I came across Nikolai Solomonovich Martynov (1815 - 1875), who allegedly was supposed to shoot M.Yu. Lermontov. Nikolai Martynov - studied at the same school of guards warrant officers with Mikhail Lermontov, they were friends and fencing partners. In his youth, N. Martynov wrote poetry. He is also the author of the memoirs: “My Confession.” The murder of M.Yu. Lermontov, see in the blog: “How much can you mock history,” Aug. 7. 2016
Everyone knows about Nikolai Solomonovich Martynov. Only a few know about the poet Leonid Nikolaevich Martynov (1905 - 1980): “There is a lot in the world that is very incomprehensible to the mind...”
The great Soviet poet Leonid Martynov had the gift of foresight. Half a century before world globalization, he said:
Moreover, in order to humble poverty, they explained
That the world is a pestilence;
That the number of poor people has been reduced,
There is peace and space on earth
Provide cholera and typhus,
Ibomir in general is a shooting gallery
For shooting at a live target... (1953)
And in 1954, the poet already knew that the post-Christian West had excluded the remnants of its morality from the value of human life:
Fire is coming to a person!
He has outgrown all the hardships, -
So they shoot at a person,
To turn him into a cripple,
In the stump, if not in the manure.
In 1960, the poet, with reporter’s accuracy, predicted the largest tragedy on a global scale - Chernobyl. Journalists, like monkeys, repeated that “a peaceful atom will enter every home”; L. Martynov warned:
“Somewhere, / A reactor has deteriorated, / And released some particles. / One editor informed about it, / But the other did not. / And some announcer shouted something, / And the other didn’t say a word about it. / However, even if no one made a sound, / I still cannot remain silent!”
Leonid Martynov is a poet of clearly verified thought!
In almost every one of his poems, you can find lines like aphorisms, sayings, epigraphs, quotes:
“events are approaching / Faster than you can expect!”;
“The calendars are confused in our heads...”;
“And even though there is taste and color and there is no law / Think: who is deaf to anything!”;
“Sonnets, / Like ancient coins / Short legends, cast / Made of silver, or even gold...”;
“There are books / Look into some of them / And you will shudder: / Are they not / Reading us / They!” and many, many etc.
In Russian literature there is an analogue of “Woe from Wit” by A.S. Griboyedov, where many lines of the poem were used as aphorisms: “Taste, father, excellent manner,” etc.
In 1927, the poet wrote:
“After all, our days the cinema is crackling,
After all, GEPEU is our thoughtful biographer -
And he is not able to keep track of everything...”
However, in 1932, Leonid Martynov was arrested in the case of “Siberian poets” accused of counter-revolutionary propaganda. Many writers were involved in this case, including the poet Pavel Vasiliev (1910 - 1937). The wonderful poet Pavel Vasiliev passed away at the age of M.Yu. Lermontov. According to our contemporary, the poet Nikolai Melnikov (1966 - 2007), who also predicted his death:
Poets were brazenly killed
in all ages, and every time
murderers were released -
for show to other poets !
In 1934, three years before his death, P. Vasiliev would create several inspired poems dedicated to Natalya Konchalovskaya, whom he courted:
“... Just don’t forget that you’re next to us,
Breaking with sharp noses
Moisture for the standing emerald
Along "Moscow" under evil sails
Your grandfather’s planes are floating.”
In 1945, Leonid Martynov’s second book will be published, where a wonderful poem will be presented: “Lukomorye”, and this romantic realism will bring the poet all-Russian popularity. “Have you noticed - / A passerby is walking around the city? / ...And he always starts a conversation about one thing: / - Calm down, take comfort - I’ll be leaving soon!”
The poem revealed both an epic form and an intimate intonation in its description of the communal life of Moscow during the pre-war years...
And here we are asked to remember again Nikolai Melnikov, and his poem “Moscow”, 1982.
Moscow didn’t understand me
Moscow didn’t accept me!...
And if you, darlings,
came into the world with open eyes,
then you will not be flattered by Moscow / “bazaar and store”...
And for me, hungry,
it will forever remain / “a table-and-sandwich.”
Here is a roll call of poets: Leonid Martynov wrote the communal life of Muscovites with lyrical irony, Nikolai Melnikov wrote a condemning protest...
For a provincial, Moscow, of course, is a cruel city. And, after all, N.A. Melnikov graduated from GITIS named after. Lunacharsky. Actor and director. Member of the Union of Writers of Russia, laureate of the Literary Prize named after. Fatyanova.
In this regard, how can one not recall the film: “Come Tomorrow”, with the beautiful actress Ekaterina Savinova (1926 - 1970)…
Leonid Martynov has a poem: “To the death of Picasso” -
“...In the spring, forest fires that broke out in the south of France / Marked Picasso’s death hour?
Mourn Lermontov's death
In the Caucasus mountains
It began to rain.
And a total solar eclipse
Gorky's death was noted...
On the day of Leonid Martynov’s funeral at Vostryakovsky cemetery, in Moscow,
as his biographer Viktor Utkov writes, the sky was covered in mighty cumulus clouds: “They were like air frigates, accompanying our sad cortege”...
Poem: “Air frigates” was created by the young poet L. Martynov in 1922, in Omsk. Already in those years he turned the city into a “fairytale” - “Hyperborea”...
The plot of the poem appeared unexpectedly. “Oh, if only they knew from what rubbish, poems grow without knowing shame...” The poet and the young lady were sitting by the window and having a conversation. The poet saw clouds in the sky, similar to air frigates. The lady looked attentively at the front entrance of the nearby house where the institution was located: "Office for ensuring the safety of navigation, at the mouths of rivers off the coast of Siberia." This was the time when young Soviet employees came up with the names of their organizations, and then practiced creating their funny abbreviations. This is how it appeared in Omsk: “Ubekosibir” is also the fruit of romance, but among fellow employees...
Leonid Martynov will write:
The crimson light of sunset has faded,
A mass of clouds grew in the distance,
When the air frigates
They passed over our city.
At first they walked as if
Bizarre clouds
But then we took a sharp turn,
They were led by a powerful hand...
V. Utkov continues: “and then a squally wind swept over the tops of the birches.
A furious thunderstorm came... It seemed that nature itself was grieving, seeing off the Poet. And at the same time, he welcomed the beginning of his new life...
And here is the ending of the poem on Picasso’s death:
What was that? A coincidence?
Then their number is infinite!
But we must truly rise,
So that sadness would be answered
Not only the sighs of the chronicler!..
The city of Omsk remembers its Poet! In 2001, a three-ton basalt block was installed in the city center, with a granite tablet on which the words were carved:
"To captain of air frigates Leonid Martynov from Omsk."
Instead of a preface
“Poetry as magic” is the title of one of his poems by Leonid Martynov. The same definition applies to the work of L. Martynov himself. Having created his poetic “Lukomorye”, playing his “magic flute”, the poet himself turned into a wizard-creator, without losing the ground under his feet, without straying into empty daydreaming. “An artist comes into the world to see the world anew...” - this is how Martynov defined the poet’s calling. “In poetry, I value more uniqueness, be it the uniqueness of “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign” or the poems of Mayakovsky or Akhmatova, in a word, everything that does not so much follow from tradition as gives rise to it; I love creators, not imitators.”
There were and are imitators of Mayakovsky, Yesenin, Brodsky... But there are no imitators of Martynov!
The poet has not been with us for a quarter of a century, but his “magic flute” sounds as modern as ever. His flute has many timbres and registers: topicality, archaism, philosophy, history...
At the same time, L. Martynov’s poetry is not idle reading. Many of his poems require mental work, reading in the full meaning of the word. You can’t say it more precisely than Martynov himself:
There are books -
Take a look at some of them
And you will shudder:
Isn't it us?
Reading
They!
May 22, 2005 marks one hundred years since the birth of Leonid Nikolaevich Martynov. This publication is dedicated to this event.
M. Orlov
Birth of a poet
L.N. Martynov was born on May 9 (22), 1905 in the city of Omsk into a mixed family. Father Nikolai Ivanovich is a communications technician. Mother Maria Grigorievna (nee Zbarskaya) is the daughter of a military engineer, a teacher.
The poet's early childhood was spent in his father's service car. Only before the First World War, Leonid Martynov’s father finally settled in Omsk and went to serve in the Siberian Railway Administration. The Martynovs lived in the former house of the exiled settler Adam Waltz, on Nikolskaya Street (now Krasny Zori Street).
Here is what V. Dementyev, a researcher of his biography and creativity, wrote about Leonid Martynov’s adolescence: “The paths of an avid book reader led him, even before entering the gymnasium, to city libraries. He entered the men's gymnasium of the city of Omsk as a varied and widely prepared young man. The high school student Martynov was easily taught ancient and modern languages, history, geography, and the humanities in general. However, his spiritual and moral formation was influenced to an even greater extent by the atmosphere of city life, home, family... Nikolskaya and nearby streets, as well as the nearby Cossack Bazaar, allowed the teenager to acutely feel
an amazing mixture of languages, customs, morals, and clothes of the inhabitants of these city quarters, inhabited by artisans, small employees, and homeowners like Adam Waltz. Here the bell of a tiny church sounded and the ringing of a tram was heard, the caps of horseshoes of draymen, and in the market square the fox malakhai of the Kyrgyz, the velvet caps of Kazakh women flashed, Cossack hats and the caps of exiled artisans were visible.” Perhaps even then the idea of proximity, simultaneity on the scale of culture of the most distant concepts, phenomena, and eras was ripening in young Martynov.
The First World War began.
So far away, in the wilderness, in Siberia,
The people looked at the people -
In ideas about the world
A revolution was brewing...
(“No matter how much you move there...”)
Martynov's first poems were written under the influence of the poetry of I. Annensky, V. Bryusov, A. Bely, A. Blok, M. Kuzmin, Y. Baltrushaitis, I. Severyanin and other poets.
According to contemporaries, Martynov greeted October with enthusiasm. Being a direct witness to revolutionary events, the poet repeatedly turned to the events of that era in his work. But enthusiasm did not prevent the poet from seeing revolutionary events in all their diversity and inconsistency.
Protruded chins
Knocked fists...
It was in a workers' settlement
Over the granite side of the river.
__
so with V. Dementiev
Pharaoh captured:
“Come on, let’s get here!”
Now is not the time
Over the granite side of the river.
And the conversation is short -
Without saying a word...
It was in a workers' settlement
In the flames of October...
(“Protruded chins…”)
This poem was written by Martynov when he was fifteen years old!
And at sixteen he writes:
Pentagonal stars
Instead of hearts we have.
A dream of prosperity
We operate on evil
We are waiting so that the fires do not burn
The future has bloomed.
And pretend to be stupid -
Life is more painful for smart people...
(“We are involuntary futurists...”, option)
Late at night the city is deserted
With bertholetta outbreaks of winter.
A gentle girl smells like sheepskin,
And she has mittens and pimas on.
Tender girl of the new faith -
Rough blush on the hollows of the cheeks,
And she has revolvers in her pockets,
And on the hat there is a scarlet badge.
Maybe take a grenade just in case?
Will be remembered for thousands of years
Short fur coat fur is hot, prickly
And a cyclopean maiden trail.
(“Late at night the city is deserted…”)
In Omsk, as we know, Kolchak’s headquarters was located. In 1919, Martynov writes:
Kolchak's vassals are fleeing,
Dressed in animal skins,
And a deserter from a tavern
Looks at the death of the dictatorship.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And the forest was purple, and the snow became pink,
And the night was pink
And from the retreating convoys
Dead bodies fell.
Behind the explosion is an explosion over the battlefield
He took off as a rival to the moon,
And this battle covered the past,
And the day has come
In another country.
A little later (in 1924), Martynov wrote the poem “The Admiral’s Hour,” dedicated to the stay of Kolchak’s army in Omsk.
Since the early twenties, Martynov has worked as an operational journalist for various newspapers in Omsk. At one time he worked with the famous writer Sergei Zalygin, who recalled: “My God, what routine essays I wrote and what extraordinary ones he wrote! Already by the material itself, they are extraordinary, peculiar only to him and no one else.
Here he writes about a lifeguard at a water station on the Irtysh, who, not knowing how to swim himself, but managing the boat well and using the gear he himself invented, has already saved several people.
And they scolded him at editorial meetings: what does he write? Where does it dig? “The lifeguard doesn’t know how to swim, these are comrades, it’s a shame, and our correspondent makes such a person almost a positive hero!” ...We needed an essay about what was “typical” and completely understandable for the reader; criticism of his essays boiled down to this: “The reader will not understand!”...
Martynov recalled about these times:
Buddy, you gave away your youth
You are a gift to editorial idleness.
Newspaper guy you think nonpareil, -
I laughed while reading your article.
Should you touch on departmental topics?
After all, our days the cinema is crackling,
After all, Gepeu is our thoughtful biographer -
And he is not able to keep track of everything.
(“Correspondent”, excerpt, 1927)
The line “after all, Gepeu is our thoughtful biographer” turned out to be prophetic for Martynov. On July 2, 1932, he was convicted by a Special Meeting of the Collegium of the former OGPU under Art. 58-10 of the Criminal Code for deportation for three years to Vologda. And although in Vologda Martynov worked in his specialty - as a chronicler in the newspaper "Red North", he was surrounded by a "thoughtful biographer" until the last days of his life. (The poet was rehabilitated nine years after his death - in 1989.) During this period, Martynov published his poems under the pseudonym Martyn Leonidov. The poet himself called the reason for his exile: “I was persecuted for wearing a fabulous doha.”
In Vologda, L. Martynov met his future wife, Nina Anatolyevna Popova, who at that time worked as a secretary-typist in the editorial office of the newspaper “Red North”.
A host of moths around a household
Fluttered in an impatient round dance,
But, not allowing moths to approach you,
The housekeeper closed the windows,
And to me, the guest bestowed by fate,
He opened the doors also reluctantly.
I realized that night tea
Not organized for me.
I got it.
What was to be done?
I came in.
He sat down at the table without invitation.
Thick blackberry jam
The sugar-coated eye stared;
And the pies puffed, condemning;
And the samovar began to bubble like a Tula one
The police officer, covered in medals for his zeal, -
As if I would drink everything, devour everything!
"She arrived!" - said the artist.
And so I wait: an angel pursing his lips,
Breathing patchouli, rustling cambric,
It will flutter out to the table in an old manner.
But you came in...
I remember clearly
How did you come in - neither an angel nor a devil,
And a warm healthy creature,
An unwitting guest like me.
His wife?
No! This is talk, lies.
Born in the musty darkness of home,
To him, who has dried up like a staff,
Never kiss such a wife!
I got it.
Just one thing only
I couldn’t understand how I knew
Your face, your eyes, and lips,
And the hair falling on your forehead?
I shouted:
"I saw you once,
Although I have never seen you.
But nevertheless I saw you today,
Although I haven’t seen you today!”
And, repeating:
“I saw you somewhere,
Although I haven’t seen...
Tea?
No thanks!"
I got up and left
I went out onto the veranda,
Where moths scurried furiously.
You screamed:
“Come back at once!”
I opened the door to the veranda wide,
And forty thousand burst into the room
Moths dancing in the cool.
Those moths jostled and tumbled,
Knocking pollen off each other's wings,
And they would make you dizzy,
If only I didn't look into your eyes.
(“Sunflower”, excerpt)
In 1935, after the end of their exile, the Martynovs returned to Omsk. I will quote the already mentioned V. Dementyev: “The Martynovs lived, as before, in the same house that once belonged to Adam Waltz, in a room converted from the former hallway. It was here, in this nook, as Leonid Martynov called the room, where there was a bed and a table for work, illuminated even during the day by an electric lamp, that the poem “The True Story of Uvenkai” was written.
In the same years, before the war, Martynov wrote three more poems: “The Tobolsk Chronicler”, “Russian Engineer”, “The Story of Vasily Tyuments”. The main characters of his poems are truth-seekers, ready to make any sacrifices in the name of justice and truth, and the poems themselves are historical chronicles.
By the end of the thirties, Martynov was already known not only in Siberia, but also in both capitals. In 1940, his book “Poems” was published by the Moscow publishing house “Soviet Writer”. A prominent place in Martynov’s work of this period is occupied by the poem “We noticed that a passerby was walking around the city...”.
Noticed -
Is there a passerby walking around the city?
Have you met -
A passerby walks around the city,
Probably a newcomer, not like us?
Sometimes he will appear close, sometimes in the distance,
Either in a cafe or in a post office a department will flash.
He puts a ten-kopeck piece into the slot of the machine,
He twists the shaky circle of the dial with his finger
And he always starts talking about one thing:
“Calm down, take comfort - I’ll be leaving soon!”
It's me!
I turned thirty-three years old.
I entered your apartment from the back door.
I slept on shabby sofas with friends,
Bowing your head on family albums.
In the mornings I left the bathroom.
“This is a guest,” you briefly explained to your neighbor
And along the way they started a conversation with me:
“How long will you be visiting us again?”
- "I will leave soon"
- “Why? Visit. Will you come for dinner?
- "No".
- “There’s no need to rush. Have some tea.
Take a rest and, by the way, play the flute.”
Yes! I had such a magic flute.
I wouldn’t sell that flute for millions of rubles.
I learned only one of the songs on it:
“In the distant Lukomorye there is a wonderful palace!”
This is what I played on the flute in the evenings.
I urged: understand, understand,
Tell your friends, whisper to your neighbor,
But, friends, hurry up, I’ll be leaving soon!
I'll go where the emeralds burn,
Where precious ores lie underground,
Where the balls of amber grow heavy by the sea.
Get ready with me there, to Lukomorye!
ABOUT! You won’t find a more wonderful land anywhere!
And then they appeared, excited by the song,
People. Different people. I've seen a lot of them.
One by one they appeared at the threshold.
I remember a certain builder strictly interrogated:
“Where is the palace? What are the outlines of the palace?
I also remember - a certain history teacher
He kept torturing: “Who was the conqueror of Lukomorye?”
And I couldn’t answer him coherently then...
Another planner appeared, claiming
That the resources of Luckrai are not so great,
To sing songs about them, playing the flute.
And the crested old man flew in the lionfish,
Directly associated with the Book Chamber:
“Lukomorye! Would you like to call me to Lukomorye?
You will find Lukomorye only in folklore!”
And the slacker in his striped pajamas
He laughed: “You are building castles in the air!”
And the neighbors, without participating in the dispute,
Behind the wall they said:
"A?"
- "What?"
- “Lukomorye?”
- “Flour grinder?”
- “What other Fly Agaric?”
- “What are you talking about? What's the story?
- “Washwash? In good order."
- “Don’t pour it on the floor!”
- “Wait - the neighbors are playing the flute!”
Flute, flute!
I willingly took you in my arms.
The children sat at my feet and made bows,
But, frowning, the mothers took them away:
“Your fairy tales, but the children are still ours!
First of all, you will be able to educate your own people,
And then call me on the flute in Lukomorye!”
(“We noticed a passerby walking around the city...”, excerpt)
This poem is included in all lifetime editions of the poet's poems. How good are the everyday phrases in this romantic poem, which is filled with modern realities. And how great the bureaucracy sounds! “Martynov boldly introduces newspaper and everyday vocabulary and intersperses it with regional sayings and ancient words. How gems sparkle with different facets of words in his poems. This creates such volume, as Gogol would say, “graininess” of the language,” the poet Evg enthusiastically commented on this poem. Vinokurov. The poems “Sunflower” and “We noticed a passerby walking around the city...” are the undisputed pearls of Russian poetry, written by an accomplished master. And the poet himself unambiguously states this, clearly drawing the line between the artist and the layman.
L.N. During this period, Martynov worked as an editor at the Omsk regional book publishing house.
Are you a king? Kings!
In the first and most intense months of the war, L. Martynov wrote a lot, wrote
inspired, he wrote with firm confidence in our final victory. His poems were collected in two books - “For the Motherland!” (1941) and "We'll Come!" (1942).
The most striking speech of the war years was his essay “Forward, for our Lukomorye.”
“Siberia came to win. She will win! - this is how the poet Georgy Suvorov clearly defined the meaning of the essay in his letter, which was attached to a separate edition of the essay.
In 1942, the poet was admitted to the Writers' Union of the USSR.
An important milestone for Martynov was the publication of the collection of poems “Lukomorye” (“Soviet Writer”, 1945). The poet Nikolai Starshinov recalled: “...I remember how in 1945 his book “Lukomorye” was passed from hand to hand in the library of the Literary Institute named after A.M. It was impossible for Gorky to take her.
We were captivated by the unusualness of his poems, their free conversational element, wisdom, captivated by the poet’s smile - sometimes kind, sometimes ironic; fabulousness intertwined with the most reliable details of life.”
It was mentioned above that the poet was already “persecuted for wearing a fabulous doha.” When the Omsk publishing house published a book of poems, “The Ertsin Forest,” in 1946, the book was subjected to unbridled and unfair criticism. The circulation has gone under the knife! FOR THE NEXT NINE YEARS MARTYNOV WAS NOT PRINTED.
The world of envious and evil people
More and more viper, more and more dangerous...
Beauty is becoming more and more harmless,
Prettier and more beautiful.
So that they don't dare touch
And kill you from the world,
Show them a sharp claw -
Be sure that this
And it won’t defame you,
And it will puzzle the scoundrels!
And she laughs in response
So sad, it's like she's crying.
("Beauty")
The poet spends a whole decade translating. Hungarians Sándor Petőfi, Attila József, Gyula Iyes, Antal Gidas, Serbian Desanka Maksimovic, Poles Konstanze Galczynski, Adam Mickiewicz, Julian Tuwim, Czechs Jiri Volker and Vitezslav Nezval, Italian Salvatore Quasimodo, Chilean Pablo Neruda - this is not a complete list of poets translated by Martynov . Literary scholars have calculated that in total Martynov translated more than 100,000 poetic lines. This titanic work did not go unnoticed, but... by the government of the Hungarian People's Republic. In 1949 he was awarded the Hungarian Order of the Silver Cross, and in 1970 - the Order of the Golden Star.
The poet is forced to write on the “table”. It should be said that Martynov was neither a dissident nor an anti-Soviet and, of course, could write about “arable lands and construction sites.” The poet-thinker was worried about other, global, universal problems. Responding to his “persecutors,” the poet writes:
I understand!
And clearer and sharper
My life has become clearer
And amazing things
I saw around me.
Saw what he didn't see
Another armed eye
And what he hates to see:
I saw the world without embellishment!
The gaze covered the entire expanse of the earth,
Where it is cramped only for emptiness.
And he penetrated into the thicket of the forest,
Where there is nowhere to hide in the bushes.
I saw how it transformed
Love is a living being.
I saw time running
From those who decided to kill him.
I saw the shape of the wind
I have seen how deceiving calm can be.
I saw the body of a kilometer
Through the path dust.
Oh you who are in a gilded frame
You see the beauty of nature,
To compare meadows with carpets
And dew with diamonds, -
Look at the ground, at the air, at the water
And make sure I'm not lying
And browning nature
I don't want to and I can't.
Not gold - forest opal,
Moss cannot turn into brocade,
You can't put a coat on a poplar tree,
Don’t wrap alder in doha;
Don’t dress up birch trees as duckweeds,
To preserve their maiden honor.
Leave it! No need to worry
See the world as it is!
(“I understand...”, 1947)
Martynov later adds:
Poetry
Desperately complex
And many have struggled with this,
Shouting that only soil is needed,
Meaning only an ear of grain.
But sometimes, rummaging through the verbal rubble,
And where not a grain grows,
We discover it
That is
She's everywhere and it's not her fault
That, hiding equally in the earth and in the sky,
Like Erebus, crowning the South Pole,
Poetry is not a rebus, but it is free
Sound from any white spot,
Like long and medium wave,
And on the wave of short news and story!
(“Poetry is desperately complex…”)
At the end of the forties, Martynov became a resident of Moscow. Together with his wife, he settles in the area of old Sokolniki in a dilapidated wooden house dating back to the end of the nineteenth century. V. Dementyev writes about this period of Martynov’s life: “Here, in Moscow, Leonid Martynov, to an immeasurably greater extent than in his youth, began to be occupied with general ideological issues... The appearance of the gigantic city attracted Martynov both with its cosmism and with its special - accelerated - passage of time , and with its miracles and transformations...”
Martynov was allowed to publish in 1955. His new collection was published under the modest title “Poems”, which received a huge public response.
The reader has been waiting for his “strange” lyrical hero, his complex semantic associations, his metaphorical language.
A. Pushkin in the sonnet “To the Poet” instructed his fellow writers: “You are a king!” And Martynov himself exclaimed in the poem “Tsar of Nature”: “O Tsar! I ask you: kings! And the poet reigned. At his desk, Martynov was the autocrat of the creative process:
Poems are not written out of humility.
And you can’t write them at anyone’s discretion.
They say that they can be written out of contempt.
No!
Only insight dictates them.
Of course, the poet was concerned not only with problems of creativity and attitude. He is the author of many lyrical works.
The day is over.
The blacksmith went home -
An acquaintance, even a distant relative of mine.
I finally stayed in the forge
One.
And so, bending over the anvil,
The key for eyes, for lips and for hearts
I forged it.
It shimmered like crystal
Even though it was steel, that steel was clean,
And your name was on the ring.
I opened my mouth to you first.
But immediately they were bound by dumbness -
They became so close to mine!
Here I opened your heart with a key,
To see what would be in it and was.
But the heart didn't say anything
What would I not know? You loved me.
And I decided to open your eyes
So that they could see everything until the grave.
But after a tear a tear fell...
I say: neither joy nor anger,
And tears clouded my eyes,
So that we both don’t miss anything!
("Key")
* * *
Kind woman,
Elderly,
She told me that she had a dream -
As if he had descended from the sky, blazing,
A ray of sunshine, and she caught it
In bare hands, and ticklishly, prickly
Electric current flowed through him...
She threaded the tip of the beam into a needle -
I decided to embroider some kind of flower,
Like silk...
And with that embroidery
The whole world admired it and was amazed.
A woman with sincere misunderstanding,
Timidly asked: “What is this dream for?”
I explained to her that this dream is in hand!
If I went to embroider in the sun -
This does not promise squabbles or boredom
And there will be no troubles here.
This is inspired by the free air!
After all, it is not capable of tearing or rotting
Even in the eye of this tight needle
Gorgeous light thread.
“Be prepared,” I said, “for luck!
Even the best seamstress would never dream of something like this
In a first-class large studio."
The woman said timidly:
"Yes you!"
("A Woman's Dream")
These poems are characteristic of L. Martynov. The juxtaposition of realities and fantasies (my distant relative is the key to hearts; an elderly woman went to embroider in the sun) creates a unique coloring and decoration, characteristic only of Martynov. Martynov was never a photographer of topicality, remaining an impressionist artist without falling into the abyss of abstraction. The poet made no secret of his method:
I was tormented
Difficult questions
Which I undertook to deliver,
And I flew away from everyday prose
Into poetry, as if into heaven.
But I can’t look at you like I’m a stranger
To this Earth, close in the distance,
And now I descend from the heights of heaven
Into poetry, as if into the depths of the Earth.
And don't blame me for being fickle
Oh, the sky of dreams, from whose formidable cliffs I descended
To the limit of the Earth, which is in space
Nothing short of a bundle of heaven!
("Piece of Heaven")
It would seem that L. Martynov lifted the curtain, forgive the cliché, of his “creative laboratory” - study, adopt! But so far no one has managed to do this!
If you read the poems of, say, S. Yesenin in chronological order, then even a non-literary critic will unmistakably feel the difference between the poems of early Yesenin and the poems of mature Yesenin. L. Martynov stands apart here too. Martynov's poems are chronologically indistinguishable. Having risen to the grandmaster level at the age of fifteen (using chess terminology), the poet never fell to the level of a first-class player. At that age when youths are just mastering rhymes like “blood - love”, “autumn - blue”, the poet created technically perfect,
“adults” on the topic, poetry. This phenomenon of Martynov is difficult to explain, because he grew up poetically in provincial Omsk, far from the poetic elite (and maybe this is the answer?). Apparently, S. Marshak was right when he wrote either jokingly or seriously:
My friend, why talk about youth
Are you telling the reading public?
He who has not started is not a poet,
And whoever has already started is not a beginner.
Not without irony, Martynov wrote to those who tried to use algebra to believe his, Martynov’s harmony:
We create something out of something,
but what do we create from what?
It's not your concern, smart guys.
And this is the triumph of art!
(How can one not recall Akhmatova’s: “If only you knew from what kind of rubbish...”)
A few words about L.N.’s technique. Martynov.
A talented composer accurately determines the tonality of his future work, which allows him to reveal a particular musical theme. The same “feeling” was characteristic of Martynov. In his work we find almost all established forms and sizes: from couplets to poems, from iambic to hexameter, from metrical prose to free verse. Achieving perfection of one form or another, Martynov, however, never belonged to the camp of the “Acmeists” with their strictly set task of “poetic mastery.” Often, Martynov’s Muse left the iron cage of dogma and “rules” of versification. In this sense, the poem “Silence” (excerpt) is characteristic:
– Would you like to return to the Silence River?
- I would like to. On the night of freezing.
- But will you find a boat, at least one?
And is it possible to cross?
Through the dark Silence?
In the snowy twilight, on the night of freezing,
Won't you drown?
- I won’t drown!
I know a house in that city.
If I knock on the window, they will come out to meet me.
One acquaintance. She's not pretty.
I never loved her.
- Do not lie!
Did you love her!
- No! We are neither friends nor enemies.
I forgot about it.
So. I will say: although it seems to me,
That the crossing has been disrupted,
But I want to sail along the Silence River again
In the snowy twilight, on the night of freezing...
Poet Evg. Vinokurov wrote: “Or this is the River Silence.” In a mysterious poem, written in a nervous, somehow breathless rhythm, there is such everyday, modern dialogue included, which gives this poem even more anxiety and mystery. I will express my own opinion: creating such a “nervous and breathless” rhythm is much more difficult than fitting into, say, Onegin’s stanza.
And the poet introduced elements of novelty into traditional forms. Back in 1921, he wrote the sonnet “Alla” (the poet was 16 years old):
You'll be leaving soon. At the station platform
The blizzard will beat into the locomotive chest.
As it flies away, the melted dregs will swirl.
I will return back, stumbling over the sleepers.
Red-eyed girl, white Alla,
Do not forget, when finishing the intended path,
Bend your waist through the carriage window,
Amazing how quickly Siberia ran away.
And, taking off on the black back of the Urals
And descending into the valley of starvation deaths,
Remember how we said goodbye wearily
We are with the sick smiles of smart children,
To meet again in the bustle of the carnival
Under the cheerful masks of old devils.
It is easy to notice that the sonnet is written not in iambic, traditional for a sonnet, but in anapest.
The following poem is typical for Martynov:
When Pompeii was excavated,
A number of voids were discovered in the ashes,
And people were at a loss, unable to
Some method, this or that,
Use it here to solve the riddle.
But they finally figured it out
Prepare a tub with gypsum solution,
Pour plaster into the hole like you would pour lead into a mold.
And this plaster, filling the void,
Frozen and took on the outline of a body,
Which has long since decayed
In the arms of ashes, and not beauty
That cast showed, and the death throes
An inexpressibly clear picture -
The unfortunate Pompeii child,
Without taking your hands away from your eyes.
I saw this creepy statue
Reminding me of trouble.
And if I hear an empty sermon,
Anyone, no matter where,
And if I listen to empty stanzas,
And in front of the pointless canvas, -
I only think about one thing:
What is the cause of the disaster?
The first line of the poem is more like prose. Martynov often used a similar “zatak” (so often found in music). But here's a paradox: try to forget the first two lines of this poem. It won't work! Here we come into contact with the real secrets of the creator (“The work smells like art,” Martynov’s line).
The poet is not afraid to insert “non-poetic” words into the poem: tub, hole, mold. The combination of “high calm” and “prose of life” is Martynov’s favorite technique. Later this technique was widely used by I. Brodsky. But Brodsky’s level of “prose of life” sometimes dropped to naturalism, which gave a clearly expressed shade of cynicism and, in some cases, snobbery. Martynov always remained an intellectual and an optimist.
Martynov's language is rich: from folklore to scientific terms. And here Martynov is out of the ordinary. He managed to avoid stylization “like folklore” (which even N. Klyuev could not avoid). On the other hand, the poet never boasted of his learning, did not turn poetry into a rebus or a treatise (and this is already a “sin” of many modern authors). Martynov's poems are read without an encyclopedic dictionary. Verbal balancing act was alien to him: he did not write acrostics, palindromes, or other poems “for sight.” Martynov did not “scalp” word forms, as Khlebnikov did.
In Martynov’s poems there is no moralizing, no instructions, but some kind of unobtrusive moral string is constantly felt. The poet did not hide his opinion about some event or phenomenon and, at times, was categorical:
And the snake casually threw at me:
“Everyone has their own destiny!”
But I knew that this was impossible -
Live twisting and sliding.
The poet had the right to be so categorical - he lived his life exactly like this: without “twisting” or “sliding.”
In his poems, L. Martynov often resorted to extra-long meters with internal rhymes.
It is known that in the steppe region, in one ancient city,
lived Balmont - a justice of the peace.
Balmont had a family.
All people remember this house, which is next to the magistrate's court
stood on the river bank, in an ancient steppe city...
(Beginning of the poem “Poetry as Magic”)
____
– It is known that S. Yesenin wrote some poems in two stages. At the first stage, the poet created a perfect sketch, from the point of view of the “rules” of versification. At the second stage, the poet deliberately “spoilt” the poems: he introduced interruptions in the rhythm and even worsened the rhyme. It seems to me that L. Martynov also used this technique.
In modern poetry, long and extra-long meters are not a rare guest, but authors do not bother looking for internal rhymes, while the rhyming of line endings becomes almost invisible - the length of the lines is large (however, this technique has a right to exist).
Leonid Martynov was distinguished by an amazing sensitivity to the hidden possibilities of language and an unusually active, authoritative attitude towards the word. Martynov could add the most unexpected inflections to one verbal root - and then a miracle of verse arose:
Zhukhni,
Damn Bagryanych,
And one prophecy:
“There will be a moon, a sleigh! Everything else away!”
(“Devil Bagryanych”)
The instrumentation of some verses is amazing:
What I am writing?
Oh, I'm good at understanding what I'm writing,
Again and again transforming into a restless youth,
With students leaning towards the honey-brewed ladle
Much before drinking boiling punch with the Burshas.
("Much Before")
Are there many similar examples in Russian poetry? And again a piece of prose: “What am I writing? Oh, I understand well what I’m writing...”, and again “the beat”, and again these lines are not forgotten...
Prophecy in Martynov’s poetry is a topic for a separate study. Let's limit ourselves to a poem written a quarter of a century before Chernobyl:
Somewhere
The reactor has gone bad
And he released some particles.
One editor informed about this,
But the other one didn’t notify.
And some announcer shouted something,
And the other one doesn’t talk about it.
However, even if no one made a sound,
I still can’t remain silent!
("Somewhere…)
We will return everything back to eternity
In the seventies, several books by L. Martynov were published. He is a recognized poet. In 1971, Martynov was awarded the Order of the Red Banner of Labor. In 1974, the poet was awarded the USSR State Prize and was awarded another Order of the Red Banner of Labor, and in 1976 - the Bulgarian Order of Cyril and Methodius.
The time has come to reflect on the path traveled and take stock.
At the end of his life, Martynov writes to his wife:
It's patched up
My shaggy sail
But it serves the ship well.
I love you.
What does old age have to do with it?
If I love you!
May be,
It remains for both
In fact, this is all we need,
I love you so much that you worry
The sea is quiet at times...
Leonid Martynov in his book “The Knot of Storms” noted that the best poems are those that are written “in spite of everything.” V. Dementyev writes: “This “in spite of everything” was and remained his pathos and his spiritual support until the last days of his life, when adversity befell him one after another: his wife and faithful friend N.A. passed away. Martynova-Popova, illness and loneliness, it would seem, completely overpowered the poet. True, close friends helped Leonid Martynov with everything they could, but he provided incomparably greater help to himself, continuing to write “no matter what”! His life was the life of an ascetic...” A year before his death, the poet writes:
The time has come to assure
That I have no equal in strength,
It's time to moderate
Your mighty efforts.
It's time to clean up
A network of cobwebs in my father's house,
It's time to die
But it also passes, however!
("The Time Comes")
The poet's last prophecy:
We will return everything back to eternity -
Life, borrowed only and for nothing,
But let me, heaven, end with her during the day -
Strike once with sunstroke!
And the heavens heeded the poet’s prayers: L.M. Martynov died of a stroke (stroke) on June 21, 1980, and was buried at the Vostryakovsky cemetery.
A step has been taken.
Hasn't crunched yet
There is trampled dust under the soles,
And during this time the Earth flew by
More than a dozen miles...
Many some ancient stages,
Russian versts, Chinese versts -
All this is left somewhere behind
And you can’t turn the Earth back.
And don’t run ahead,
And you can’t squeeze her in your arms;
Begging or threatening
Still can't stop her -
This Earth
The land on which
The slag crunched under the micropores,
The earth that served as a support
To do
Next
Step!
APPLICATIONS
In a hundred years,
Or even after two hundred,
And even after almost a thousand,
Poets who are not missing
Once again we will be honored.
We will be resurrected, studied, interpreted,
Sometimes I sin with anachronisms...
But something is not particularly rejoicing
From this the immortal soul.
And we will not burst with delight, for
Consider us and take into account our experience
And earlier, of course, they could!
But in general -
Thank you for the honor!
Leonid Martynov
L. Martynov
The window looks out onto white trees.
The professor looks at the trees for a long time
and looks at the trees for a very long time
and the chalk crumbles in his hand for a very long time.
After all, it's simple -
division rules!
Forgot - to think -
division rules.
Error!
Yes!
Error on the board!
We all sit differently today,
and listen and look differently,
Yes, and now it’s impossible not to,
and we don’t need a hint on this.
The professor's wife left home.
We don't know
where did you leave home?
we don't know
why did you leave home?
but we only know that she left.
In a suit, both unfashionable and not new, -
as always, unfashionable and not new,
yes, as always, unfashionable and not new, -
The professor goes down to the wardrobe.
He searches his pockets for a long time for the number:
“Well, what is it?
Where is this number?
Maybe,
Didn't I take your number?
Where did he go? –
He rubs his forehead with his hand. –
Ah, here he is!..
Well,
as you can see, I'm getting old,
Don't argue, Aunt Masha,
I'm getting old.
And what can you do here -
I'm getting old..."
We hear -
the door below creaks behind him.
The window looks out onto white trees,
into big and beautiful trees,
but we are not looking at the trees now,
We look at the professor in silence.
He leaves
stooped,
unskillful,
some defenselessly inept
under the snow,
falling softly into silence.
Already he himself
like trees
white,
Yes,
like trees
completely white,
a bit more -
and so white
what among them
you can't see him.
Evgeniy Yevtushenko
Night conversation
Have you slept in flower beds?
Have you slept in flower beds? –
I'm asking.
L. Martynov
Yesterday I dreamed about Martynov...
I asked him without any fuss:
– How can I fill poetry with meaning?
Should I prefer iambic or trochee?
– The set of questions is exhausted
back in the era of reading huts.
We act very strangely:
when we shake the air,
then we shake all the foundations
with what we shake the air with.
Always rummaging through the verbal rubble,
we find him. Word. That is
the word we need.
No, we are not fooling our heads,
and we trample on falsehood, trample on, trample on.
I repeat: we trample on falsehood.
And we sing the praises of Lukomorye,
and not rotten fly agaric.
We are not dying, but we are soaring on yards,
where the boreas rage
off the coast of Hyperborea.
Or maybe into the Silence River
we dive straight into the rapids.
And you keep saying, they are trochees...
Maxim Orlov
M. ORLOV
LEONID MARTYNOV
(on the centenary of his birth)
BRATSK 2005
M. ORLOV
LEONID MARTYNOV
Martynov Leonid Nikolaevich (1905 - 1980), poet, translator.
Born in Omsk into the family of a railway technician, he spent his childhood on the Great Siberian Railway, in his father’s service car. Graduated from the 4th grade of a gymnasium in Omsk. He began writing poetry as a high school student. First publication in 1921 (“We are involuntary futurists...” - in the Omsk magazine “Art”). He was a rural bookseller, participated in geological and geodetic expeditions, and traveled a lot around Siberia, Semirechye, and Turkestan.
Martynov’s “dangerous” interest in the past of Siberia served in the 30s as the basis for exile (and his friend, the poet S. Markov) to the North, to Vologda (the image of a “passerby” in the poem “Have you noticed - / A passerby is walking around the city?..” ( 1935, 1945) - autobiographical).
Upon his return to Omsk, Martynov wrote poems (the first poems: “Old Omsk”, “Admiral’s Hour”, both 1924): “The True Story of Uvenkai, a Pupil of the Asian Interpreter School in the City of Omsk” (1935-36), “The Story of the Russian Engineer" (1936), "The Tobolsk Chronicler" (1937), "Homespun Venus" (1939), "Poetry as Magic" (1939), etc. In the poem-stories, there is a plot of fiction with the historical authenticity of the story, a deep knowledge of folklore, ethnography, historical and everyday material, polyphony, the scale of the historical and philosophical background. Siberia in Martynov’s epic is a country of civilization created by people of different classes, which arose at the crossroads of cultures of many nations; Siberia in poems is a land that gives birth to and takes under its protection strong, bright and free souls. Original poetic style: the classic meter is conveyed in a long, prosaic line.
Martynov’s first book, “Poems and Poems” (1939), was published in Omsk. In 1940, 2 collections entitled “Poems” appeared in Moscow and Omsk. In the collections “Lukomorye” and “Ertsinsky Forest” (both - 1945), the fairy-tale-fantastic theme of Lukomorye, characteristic of the lyrics of the 30s, finds its completion.
Accused by post-war criticism of the apoliticality and timelessness of his poetry, the singer of Lukomorye was deprived of the opportunity to publish for almost a decade. Martynov’s wide popularity began with the release of the collection “Poems” (1955), consonant with the time of social renewal, the emancipation of man, his liberation from fears: “... Leaves are born on the trees, / Brushes are born from the bristles, / The canvas cracks with a crunch, / And every mold... / It smells like art. / Humanity wants songs” (“Something new in the world...”, 1948, 1954); The basic tone of Martynov’s poetry is determined by the books of poems “Degree of Heat”, “Poems are not written out of humility”, “Trace”, “Voices”, etc.
In the collections “New Book” (1962), “Birthright” (1965), “Voice of Nature” (1966), “Human Names” (1969), “Hyperboles” (1972) - the appearance of a lyric poet who claims to build - in verse - “his own state”, where he “creates everything anew.” Martynov is a chronicler of spiritual shifts in the consciousness of people of the twentieth century; the lyrics are a diary of the states in which humanity has been and will continue to be (Martynov's far-sighted poems). The poet’s emotional reaction to what is happening in the world is born in Martynov’s lyrics as a direct consequence of knowledge of this world (the reader of the poems becomes involved in the very process of knowledge - from the point of view of an archaeologist, astronomer, mathematician, biophysicist, etc.). Martynov’s lyrics strongly express the revivalist principle, the idea of man’s responsibility for everything that happens, for the fate of the Earth (“Daedalus”, “People”, “It seems to me that I have been resurrected...”, “King of Nature”, etc.).
In the collections “Knot of Storms” (1979), “Golden Reserve” (publ. 1981) - the lyrics of the results (“... having made all the sharp attacks, / You slowly draw conclusions”), to which the poet comes before the abyss of eternity.