M Tsvetaeva in my huge city. “It’s night in my huge city...” M

Series “Best Poetry. Silver Age"

Compilation and introductory article by Victoria Gorpinko

* * *

Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva(1892–1941) - an outstanding Russian poetess of the Silver Age, prose writer, translator. She wrote poetry from early childhood, and began her career in literature under the influence of the Moscow Symbolists. Her first collection of poetry, “Evening Album” (1910), published at her own expense, received favorable reviews. Maximilian Voloshin believed that before Tsvetaeva, no one had ever been able to write “about childhood from childhood” with such documentary persuasiveness, and noted that the young author “masters not only poetry, but also the clear appearance of internal observation, the impressionistic ability to consolidate the current moment.”

After the revolution, in order to feed herself and her two daughters, for the first and last time in her life, Tsvetaeva served in a number of government agencies. She performed poetry readings and began writing prose and dramatic works. In 1922, the last lifetime collection in Russia, “Versty,” was published. Soon Tsvetaeva and her eldest daughter Alya (the youngest, Irina, died in a shelter from hunger and illness) left for Prague to reunite with her husband, Sergei Efron. Three years later she moved with her family to Paris. She maintained an active correspondence (in particular, with Boris Pasternak and Rainer Maria Rilke), and collaborated in the magazine “Versty”. Most of the new works remained unpublished, although the prose, mainly in the genre of memoir essays, enjoyed some success among the emigrants.

However, even in emigration, as in Soviet Russia, Tsvetaeva’s poetry did not find understanding. She was “not with those, not with these, not with the third, not with the hundredth... with no one, alone, all her life, without books, without readers... without a circle, without an environment, without any protection, involvement, worse than a dog... "(from a letter to Yuri Ivask, 1933). After several years of poverty, instability and lack of readers, Tsvetaeva, following her husband, who, at the instigation of the NKVD, was involved in a contracted political murder, returned to the USSR. She wrote almost no poetry, she made money from translations. After the start of the Great Patriotic War (her husband and daughter had already been arrested by this time), she and her sixteen-year-old son Georgiy went to evacuation.

On August 31, 1941, Marina Tsvetaeva committed suicide. The exact location of the burial in the cemetery in Elabuga (Tatarstan) is unknown.

Tsvetaeva's real return to the reader began in the 1960s and 1970s. Tsvetaeva’s confessionalism, emotional intensity and figurative, impetuous, meaningful language turned out to be in tune with the new era - in the last quarter of the 20th century, finally, “the turn came” for her poems. Tsvetaeva’s original, largely innovative poetics are distinguished by enormous intonation and rhythmic diversity (including the use of folklore motifs), lexical contrasts (from vernacular to biblical imagery), and unusual syntax (abundance of the “dash” sign, often omitted words).

Nobel laureate Joseph Brodsky noted: “Tsvetaeva masterfully masters rhythm, this is her soul, it is not just a form, but an active means of embodying the inner essence of a poem. Tsvetaeva’s “invincible rhythms,” as Andrei Bely defined them, fascinate and captivate. They are unique and therefore unforgettable!”

“Don’t laugh at the younger generation!”

Don't laugh at the younger generation!

You will never understand

How can one live by one aspiration,

Only a thirst for will and goodness...

You won't understand how it burns

With courage the warrior's chest is scolded,

How holy the lad dies,

True to the motto to the end!

So don't call them home

And don’t interfere with their aspirations, -

After all, each of the fighters is a hero!

Be proud of the younger generation!

In Paris

Houses are up to the stars, and the sky is lower,

The land is close to him.

In big and joyful Paris

Still the same secret melancholy.

The evening boulevards are noisy,

The last ray of dawn has faded,

Everywhere, everywhere all the couples, couples,

Trembling lips and daring eyes.

I'm alone here. To the chestnut trunk

It's so sweet to snuggle your head!

And Rostand's verse cries in my heart

How is it there, in abandoned Moscow?

Paris at night is alien and pitiful to me,

The old nonsense is dearer to the heart!

I'm going home, there's the sadness of violets

And someone's affectionate portrait.

There is someone's gaze there, sad and brotherly.

There's a delicate profile on the wall.

Rostand and Martyr of Reichstadt

And Sarah - everyone will come in a dream!

In big and joyful Paris

And the pain is as deep as ever.

Paris, June 1909

Prayer

Christ and God! I long for a miracle

Now, now, at the beginning of the day!

Oh let me die, bye

All life is like a book for me.

You are wise, you will not say strictly:

- “Be patient, the time is not over yet.”

You yourself gave me too much!

I crave all the roads at once!

I want everything: with the soul of a gypsy

Go to robbery while listening to songs,

To suffer for everyone to the sound of an organ

And rush into battle like an Amazon;

Fortune telling by the stars in the black tower,

Lead the children forward, through the shadows...

So that yesterday is a legend,

May it be madness – every day!

I love the cross and silk and helmets,

My soul traces moments...

You gave me a childhood - better than a fairy tale

And give me death - at seventeen years old!

Tarusa, September 26, 1909

In the Luxembourg Gardens

Low flowering branches bend,

The fountain in the pool babbles jets,

In the shady alleys all the children, all the children...

O children in the grass, why not mine?

It's like there's a crown on every head

From the eyes that watch over children, lovingly.

And to every mother who strokes the child,

I want to shout: “You have the whole world!”

Girls' dresses are colorful like butterflies,

There's a quarrel here, there's laughter, there's getting ready to go home...

And mothers whisper like tender sisters:

- “Think, my son”... - “What are you talking about! And mine".

I love women who are not timid in battle,

Those who knew how to hold a sword and a spear -

But I know that only in captivity of the cradle

Ordinary – feminine – my happiness!

Flour and flour

- “Everything will grind, it will be flour!”

People are comforted by this science.

Will it become torment, what was melancholy?

No, better with flour!

People, believe me: we are alive with longing!

Only in melancholy are we victorious over boredom.

Will everything be crushed? Will it be flour?

No, better with flour!

V. Ya. Bryusov

Smile at my window

Or they counted me among the jesters, -

You won't change it, anyway!

“Sharp feelings” and “necessary thoughts”

It was not given to me by God.

We need to sing that everything is dark,

That dreams hang over the world...

- That’s how it is now. –

These feelings and these thoughts

Not given to me by God!

in winter

They're singing behind the walls again

Bells' complaints...

Several streets between us

Few words!

The city falls asleep in the darkness,

A silver sickle appeared

Snow showers with stars

Your collar.

Do calls from the past hurt?

How long do the wounds hurt?

Temptingly new teases,

Brilliant look.

He is (brown or blue?) to the heart

The wise are more important than the pages!

Frost makes white

Arrows of eyelashes...

They fell silent without strength behind the walls

Bells' complaints.

Several streets between us

Few words!

The moon is leaning clear

In the souls of poets and books,

Snow is falling on the fluffy

Your collar.

To mom

How much dark oblivion

It's gone from my heart forever!

We remember sad lips

And lush strands of hair,

Slow sigh over a notebook

And in bright rubies there is a ring,

When over a cozy bed

Your face was smiling.

We remember the wounded birds

Your youthful sadness

And droplets of tears on the eyelashes,

When the piano fell silent.

“You and I are just two echoes...”

You are silent and I will be silent.

We once with the humility of wax

Surrendered to the fatal ray.

This feeling is the sweetest illness

Our souls were tormented and burned.

That's why I feel you as a friend

Sometimes it brings me to tears.

Bitterness will soon become a smile,

And sadness will become fatigue.

It’s a pity, not the words, believe me, and not the look,

Only a pity for the lost secrets!

From you, tired anatomist,

I have known the sweetest evil.

That's why I feel like you as a brother

Sometimes it brings me to tears.

Only girl

I'm only a girl. My debt

Until the wedding crown

Don't forget that there is a wolf everywhere

And remember: I am a sheep.

Dream about a golden castle,

Swing, spin, shake

First the doll, and then

Not a doll, but almost.

There is no sword in my hand,

Don't ring the string.

I'm just a girl, I'm silent.

Oh, if only I could

Looking at the stars to know what is there

And a star lit up for me

And smile to all eyes,

Keep your eyes open!

At fifteen

They ring and sing, interfering with oblivion,

In my soul are the words: “fifteen years.”

Oh, why did I grow up big?

There is no salvation!

Just yesterday in the green birch trees

I ran away, free, in the morning.

Just yesterday I was playing around without my hair,

Just yesterday!

Spring ringing from distant bell towers

He told me: “Run and lie down!”

And every cry of the minx was allowed,

And every step!

What's ahead? What failure?

There is deception in everything and, ah, everything is prohibited!

- So I said goodbye to my sweet childhood, crying,

At fifteen years old.

Soul and name

While the ball laughs with lights,

The soul will not fall asleep in peace.

But God gave me a different name:

It's sea, sea!

In the whirl of a waltz, under a gentle sigh

I can’t forget the melancholy.

God gave me other dreams:

They are sea, sea!

The alluring hall sings with lights,

Sings and calls, sparkling.

But God gave me a different soul:

She is sea, sea!

Old woman

A strange word - old woman!

The meaning is unclear, the sound is gloomy,

Like for pink ear

Dark sink noise.

It contains something that is not understood by everyone,

Who moments screen.

Time breathes in this word

There is an ocean in the shell.

Houses of old Moscow

Glory to the languid great-grandmothers,

Houses of old Moscow,

From modest alleys

You keep disappearing

Like ice palaces

With a wave of the wand.

Where the ceilings are painted,

Mirrors up to the ceilings?

Where are the harpsichord chords?

Dark curtains in flowers,

Gorgeous muzzles

On the centuries-old gates,

Curls inclined towards the hoop

The portraits' gazes point-blank...

It's weird to tap your finger

Oh wooden fence!

Houses with a sign of the breed,

With the look of her guards,

You were replaced by freaks, -

Heavy, six floors.

Homeowners are their right!

And you die

Glory to languid great-grandmothers,

Houses of old Moscow.

“I dedicate these lines...”

I dedicate these lines

To those who will arrange a coffin for me.

They'll open my high

Hateful forehead.

Unnecessarily changed

With a halo on his forehead,

Stranger to my own heart

I'll be in a coffin.

They won't see it on your face:

“I can hear everything! I can see everything!

I'm still sad in my grave

Be like everyone else."

In a snow-white dress - since childhood

Least favorite color! –

Will I lie down with someone next door? –

Until the end of my life.

Listen! - I don’t accept it!

This is a trap!

It’s not me who will be lowered into the ground,

I know! - Everything will burn to the ground!

And the grave will not shelter

Nothing I loved

How did she live?

Moscow, spring 1913

You're coming, looking like me,

Eyes looking down.

I lowered them too!

Passerby, stop!

Read - night blindness

And picking a bouquet of poppies -

That my name was Marina

And how old was I?

Don't think that there is a grave here,

That I will appear, threatening...

I loved myself too much

Laugh when you shouldn't!

And the blood rushed to the skin,

And my curls curled...

I was there too, a passerby!

Passerby, stop!

Pluck yourself a wild stem

And a berry after him:

Cemetery strawberries

It doesn't get any bigger or sweeter.

But just don't stand there sullenly,

He lowered his head onto his chest.

Think about me easily

It's easy to forget about me.

How the beam illuminates you!

You're covered in gold dust...

Koktebel, May 3, 1913

“To my poems, written so early...”

To my poems, written so early,

That I didn’t even know that I was a poet,

Falling off like splashes from a fountain,

Like sparks from rockets

Bursting in like little devils

In the sanctuary, where sleep and incense are,

To my poems about youth and death,

- Unread poems!

Scattered in the dust around the shops,

Where no one took them and no one takes them,

My poems are like precious wines,

Your turn will come.

Koktebel, May 13, 1913

“The veins are filled with the sun - not with blood...”

The veins are filled with the sun - not with blood -

On the hand, which is already brown.

I'm alone with my great love

To my own soul.

I'm waiting for the grasshopper, counting to one hundred,

I pick off the stem and chew it...

– It’s strange to feel so strongly

and so simple

The fleeting nature of life – and your own.

May 15, 1913

"You, walking past me..."

You walking past me

To not my and dubious charms, -

If you knew how much fire there is,

How much wasted life

And what heroic ardor

To a random shadow and a rustle...

- And how he incinerated my heart

This wasted gunpowder!

O trains flying into the night,

Carrying away sleep at the station...

However, I know that even then

You wouldn't know - if you knew -

Why are my speeches cutting

In the eternal smoke of my cigarette, -

How much dark and menacing melancholy

In my head, blonde.

May 17, 1913

“Heart, flames are more capricious...”

Heart, flames more capricious,

In these wild petals

I will find in my poems

Everything that will not happen in life.

Life is like a ship:

A little Spanish castle - just past!

Everything that is impossible

I'll do it myself.

All chances are welcome!

The path - do I care?

Let there be no answer -

I will answer myself!

With a children's song on my lips

I'm going to what homeland?

- Everything that will not happen in life

I will find it in my poems!

Koktebel, May 22, 1913

"A boy running briskly..."

A boy running briskly

I appeared to you.

You chuckled soberly

To my evil words:

“A prank is my life, a name is a prank.

Laugh, who is not stupid!

And they didn’t see the fatigue

Pale lips.

You were attracted to the moons

Two huge eyes.

– Too pink and young

I was there for you!

Melting lighter than snow,

I was like steel.

Running ball

Straight to the piano

The creaking of sand under a tooth, or

Steel on glass...

- Only you didn’t catch it

menacing arrow

My light words and tenderness

Show off anger...

– Stone hopelessness

All my mischief!

May 29, 1913

“I’m lying prone now...”

I'm lying prone now

- Furious! - on the bed.

If you wanted

Be my student

I would become at that very moment

– Do you hear, my student? –

In gold and silver

Salamander and Ondine.

We would sit on the carpet

By the burning fireplace.

Night, fire and moon face...

– Do you hear, my student?

And unrestrained - my horse

Loves a crazy ride! -

I would throw it into the fire

The past - after a pack of packs:

Old roses and old books.

– Do you hear, my student? –

And when would I settle down

This pile of ash, -

Lord, what a miracle

I would make one out of you!

The old man has risen as a youth!

– Do you hear, my student? –

And when would you again

They rushed into the trap of science,

I would remain standing

Wringing my hands with happiness.

Feeling that you are great!

– Do you hear, my student?

June 1, 1913

“Go now! “My voice is mute...”

And all words are in vain.

I know that in front of no one

I won't be right.

I know: in this battle I will fall

Not for me, you adorable coward!

But, dear young man, for power

I don't fight in the world.

And does not challenge you

High-born verse.

You can - because of others -

My eyes can't see

Don't go blind in my fire,

You can’t feel my strength...

What kind of demon is there in me?

You've missed out forever!

But remember that there will be a trial,

Striking like an arrow

When they flash overhead

Two flaming wings.

July 11, 1913

Byron

I think of the morning of your glory,

About the morning of your days,

When you woke up from your sleep as a demon

And a god for people.

I'm thinking about how your eyebrows

Converged above the torches of your eyes,

About how the lava of ancient blood

It spread through your veins.

I think about fingers - very long -

In wavy hair

And about everyone - in the alleys and in the living rooms -

Your thirsty eyes.

And about the hearts that - too young -

You didn't have time to read

Back in the days when the moons rose

And they went out in your honor.

I think about the darkened hall

About velvet, inclined to lace,

About all the poems that would be said

You for me, I for you.

I'm still thinking about a handful of dust,

Remaining from your lips and eyes...

About all the eyes that are in the grave.

About them and us.

Yalta, September 24, 1913

“So many of them have fallen into this abyss...”

So many of them fell into this abyss,

I'll open up in the distance!

The day will come when I too will disappear

From the surface of the earth.

Everything that sang and fought will freeze,

It shone and burst:

And gold hair.

And there will be life with its daily bread,

With the forgetfulness of the day.

And everything will be as if under the sky

And I wasn’t there!

Changeable, like children, in every mine

And so angry for a short time,

Who loved the hour when there was wood in the fireplace

They turn to ash

Cello and cavalcades in the thicket,

And the bell in the village...

- Me, so alive and real

On the gentle earth!

- To all of you - what to me, nothing

who knew no limits,

Strangers and our own?!

I make a demand for faith

And asking for love.

And day and night, and in writing and orally:

For the truth, yes and no,

Because I feel too sad so often

And only twenty years

For the fact that it is a direct inevitability for me -

Forgiveness of grievances

For all my unbridled tenderness,

And look too proud

For the speed of rapid events,

For the truth, for the game...

- Listen! - You still love me

Because I'm going to die.

December 8, 1913

“Be gentle, furious and noisy...”

To be tender, frantic and noisy,

- So eager to live! –

Charming and smart, -

Be lovely!

More tender than everyone who is and was,

Don't know the guilt...

- About the indignation that is in the grave

We are all equal!

Become something that no one likes

- Oh, become like ice! –

Without knowing what happened,

Nothing will come

Forget how my heart broke

And it grew together again

And hair shine.

Antique turquoise bracelet –

On a stalk

On this narrow, this long

My hand...

Like sketching a cloud

From afar,

For the mother-of-pearl handle

The hand was taken

How the legs jumped over

Through the fence

Forget how nearby on the road

A shadow ran.

Forget how fiery it is in the azure,

How quiet the days are...

- All your pranks, all your storms

And all the poems!

My accomplished miracle

Will disperse the laughter.

I, forever pink, will

The palest of all.

And they won’t open up - that’s how it should be -

- Oh, pity! –

Neither for the sunset, nor for the glance,

Neither for fields -

My drooping eyelids.

- Not for a flower! –

My land, forgive me forever,

For all ages.

And the moons will melt the same way

And melt the snow

When this young one rushes by,

A lovely age.

Feodosia, Christmas Eve 1913

Series “Best Poetry. Silver Age"

Compilation and introductory article by Victoria Gorpinko

On August 31, 1941, Marina Tsvetaeva committed suicide. The exact location of the burial in the cemetery in Elabuga (Tatarstan) is unknown.

“Don’t laugh at the younger generation!”

Don't laugh at the younger generation!

You will never understand

How can one live by one aspiration,

Only a thirst for will and goodness...

You won't understand how it burns

With courage the warrior's chest is scolded,

How holy the lad dies,

True to the motto to the end!

So don't call them home

And don’t interfere with their aspirations, -

After all, each of the fighters is a hero!

Be proud of the younger generation!

Houses are up to the stars, and the sky is lower,

The land is close to him.

In big and joyful Paris

Still the same secret melancholy.

The evening boulevards are noisy,

The last ray of dawn has faded,

Everywhere, everywhere all the couples, couples,

Trembling lips and daring eyes.

I'm alone here. To the chestnut trunk

It's so sweet to snuggle your head!

And Rostand's verse cries in my heart

How is it there, in abandoned Moscow?

Paris at night is alien and pitiful to me,

The old nonsense is dearer to the heart!

I'm going home, there's the sadness of violets

And someone's affectionate portrait.

There is someone's gaze there, sad and brotherly.

There's a delicate profile on the wall.

Rostand and Martyr of Reichstadt

And Sarah - everyone will come in a dream!

In big and joyful Paris

And the pain is as deep as ever.

Paris, June 1909

Christ and God! I long for a miracle

Now, now, at the beginning of the day!

Oh let me die, bye

All life is like a book for me.

You are wise, you will not say strictly:

- “Be patient, the time is not over yet.”

You yourself gave me too much!

I crave all the roads at once!

I want everything: with the soul of a gypsy

Go to robbery while listening to songs,

To suffer for everyone to the sound of an organ

It’s night in my huge city.
I'm leaving the sleepy house - away
And people think: wife, daughter, -
But I remembered one thing: night.

The July wind sweeps my way,
And somewhere there is music in the window - a little.
Ah, today the wind blows until dawn
Through the walls of thin breasts - into the chest.

There is a black poplar, and there is light in the window,
And the ringing on the tower, and the color in the hand,
And this step - after no one -
And there’s this shadow, but there’s no me.

The lights are like strings of golden beads,
Night leaf in the mouth - taste.
Free from the bonds of the day,
Friends, understand that you are dreaming of me.

Analysis of the poem “In my huge city there is night” by Tsvetaeva

In the work of M. Tsvetaeva there was a whole cycle of poems dedicated to insomnia. She began creating it after a stormy but short-lived affair with her friend S. Parnok. The poetess returned to her husband, but she was haunted by painful memories. One of the works of the “Insomnia” cycle is the poem “In my huge city there is night...” (1916).

The lyrical heroine just can’t sleep. He leaves the “sleepy house” and goes for a night walk. For Tsvetaeva, who was prone to mysticism, the night was of great importance. This is the borderline state between dream and reality. Sleeping people are carried away to other worlds created by the imagination. A person who is awake at night is immersed in a special state.

Tsvetaeva already had an innate dislike for everyday life. She preferred to be carried away in her dreams away from reality. Although insomnia causes her suffering, it allows her to look at the world around her completely differently and experience new sensations. The lyrical heroine's senses are heightened. She hears the subtle sounds of music, “the ringing of the tower.” Only they maintain the heroine’s fragile connection with the real world. In the night city only her shadow remains. The poetess dissolves in the darkness and, turning to the readers, claims that she is becoming their dream. She herself chose this path, so she asks to be delivered “from the bonds of the day.”

The lyrical heroine is absolutely indifferent to where to go. The “July wind” shows her the way, which at the same time penetrates “through the walls of thin breasts.” She has a presentiment that the night walk will continue until the morning. The first rays of the sun will destroy the illusory world and force you to return to your disgusting everyday life.

Insomnia emphasizes the loneliness of the lyrical heroine. She is simultaneously in the illusory and real worlds, but does not see support or sympathy in either one.

Tsvetaeva’s special technique is the repeated use of dashes. With its help, the poetess “cuts off” each line and highlights the most significant words. The emphasis on these words rhyming with each other creates a feeling of bright flashes.

The work “It’s Night in My Huge City...” testifies to Tsvetaeva’s severe spiritual crisis. The poetess is deeply disappointed in her life. In search of a way out of the impasse, she seeks to break all ties with the real world. During the day she only exists, chained hand and foot. The night brings her freedom and the opportunity to get rid of her tight physical shell. Tsvetaeva is sure that the ideal state for her is to feel like someone’s dream.

It’s night in my huge city.

I'm leaving the sleepy house - away.

And people think: wife, daughter, -

No. 4 And I remembered one thing: night.

The July wind sweeps me - the way,

And somewhere there is music in the window - a little.

Ah, now the wind will blow until dawn

No. 8 Through the walls of thin breasts - into the chest.

There is a black poplar, and there is light in the window,

And the ringing on the tower, and the color in the hand,

And this step follows no one,

No. 12 And this shadow, but not me.

The lights are like strings of golden beads,

Night leaf in the mouth - taste.

Free from the bonds of the day,

No. 16 Friends, understand that you are dreaming of me.

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If you have your own analysis of Marina Tsvetaeva’s poem “In my huge city there is night” - leave a comment with your option! It is necessary to determine the theme, idea and main idea of the poem, as well as describe what literary devices, metaphors, epithets, comparisons, personifications, artistic and figurative means of expression were used.

Comments

Tsvetaeva is a mystery. And this mystery must be solved. If you spend your entire life solving it, don’t say that you wasted your time, because Tsvetaeva is like a huge ocean, and every time you plunge into it, your heart experiences delight and compassion, and your eyes fill with tears.

One of the central motifs in the poetess’s work is the motif of insomnia. The “Insomnia” cycle, which includes the poem “In my huge city there is night,” belongs to the category of so-called “author’s” cycles. It was formed by Tsvetaeva herself and published in her lifetime collection “Psyche,” published in Berlin in 1923. It still remains unclear what so attracted the poetess to insomnia; its true meaning and purpose were known only to Tsvetaeva herself. Insomnia in her poems is an unsteady boundary between sleep and reality, life and death, light and darkness; a world in which Tsvetaeva could see what others did not see, a world in which it was easier for her to create, since it revealed the true picture of what was happening in reality. The poetess’s connection with this world was maintained with the help of her friend, who was also a constant companion. The world of “insomnia” is what Tsvetaeva was striving for in the real world, it is ideal.

The lyrical heroine of the poem walks through the city at night, she seems to be in another world, but at the same time she sees everything that is happening in her city. Thus, she is simultaneously in the real world and in the world of insomnia. She is alone in the city, the space of which is real, but she is also alone in insomnia. The duality of Tsvetaeva’s consciousness emphasizes her uniqueness and ability to see the same thing from different sides. Insomnia is also presented as a state in which a person is invisible; a certain mysticism appears, inherent in many of her poems. It is also important that the lyrical heroine is now running from sleep (“I’m walking away from my sleepy house”). In the last stanza there is a request: she still wants to go into the world of dreams, not to be the dreams of other people (“Free me from the bonds of the day, // Friends, understand that you are dreaming of me”).

Poems are filled with feelings and meaning, they are alive. You can hear the poetry of A.A. Fet in them: the image of a poplar under the window and the motif of the “merging” of the lyrical hero with the night, up to complete dissolution in it, which Tsvetaeva ends with the code word for Fet’s poetry “lights” (Fet’s collection “Evening Lights” ):

There is a black poplar, and there is light in the window,

And there’s this shadow, but there’s no me.

The lights are like strings of golden beads,

The night leaf in the mouth - the taste...

From her family, relatives who lived with Tsvetaeva under the same roof, for whom she would give her life (and gave!), from her loved ones, those closest to her, she always strove to “get away”: “I’m going from a sleepy house - away...”. “Away” is a frequent word in her letters and poems. Away is not from one home to another, it is liberation “from the bonds of the day,” duties and obligations to the family she devotedly served during the day—a freedom that only happens at night.

Night in Tsvetaeva’s poetry is associated with a mystery that not everyone is able to open or unravel. The night can light up and reveal a secret. Night is the time reserved for sleep. This is a period during which a lot can change, this is the line between past, future, present. Thus, M. Tsvetaeva sees the mystical nature of this word, because night is a time of learning about oneself, the secrets of life, an opportunity to listen in silence to a special world, to oneself.

Within the same quatrain, the word “night” has completely different meanings:

It’s night in my huge city.

I’m leaving the sleepy house - away.

And people think: wife, daughter, -

But I remembered one thing: night.

In the first case, the word night is the time of day. In the second, it has an objectively animate meaning and is placed on a par with the nouns wife, daughter.

The dash in Tsvetaeva’s punctuation is the most capacious and meaningful sign; in each poem, the dash acquires its own shade, its own internal subtext. Tsvetaeva uses dashes to create rhyme, rhythm, conveying her emotions and experiences through it, to convey what cannot simply be expressed in words. She puts dashes where she thinks a pause, a sigh, or simply a transition from one part to another is needed. With the help of a dash, she enhances the impression of the entire text, filling it with greater meaning. The dash often plays an even bigger role than the words themselves.

The poem is literally “strewn” with these punctuation marks. We can assume that the purpose of using such a number of dashes is to highlight words, the desire to convey to the reader the true meaning of what is written. Almost every line of the poem contains a word or words highlighted with a dash. If you build a series of these words, you can see what is happening to the heroine. It turns out the following series: night - away - wife, daughter - night - path - slightly - blow - into the chest - light - color - no one - after - no - lights - taste - dreaming. What do these words tell us? Firstly, each of them has a logical emphasis, which highlights the most important thing. Secondly, a picture of the secret world of Tsvetaeva’s “insomnia” is created. This is the path of a lonely man in the night; this is an unusual condition; This is a world of contrasts that is not open to everyone.

The dash before each last word in the poem places emphasis on it. It is this word that makes it stand out. If you remove all the words in the line before the dash, you get a set of fleeting images, flashes: “night”, “away”, “daughter”, “path”, “a little”, “blow”, “in the chest”, “light”, "color", "following". Rhyme and dashes create a clear rhythm. A feeling of lightness and freedom is created, it doesn’t matter “wife”, “daughter”, everything is calm. You disappear, overwhelmed by the sensations of light wind, color, taste... and you no longer need anything. Tsvetaeva asks to let her go and understand that only freedom gives joy: “Friends, understand that you are dreaming about me.” The dash before the word “dream”, as an indication to the exit that all this does not exist, that “I’m just a dream”, went beyond the line, and everything went with it. This is all a fleeting dream, a flash of what was, will be or will never be.

The functional analogy with a period is strengthened by the position of the words “night”, “away”, “daughter” and other last words in each of the lines - after punctuation marks indicating a psychological pause, especially after an obscene dash dividing the syntagmas I go - away; sweeps – path, etc. The final intonation of the lines, enhanced by the monosyllables of the last words in the lines, comes into conflict with the enumerative intonation of the sentences, which is indicated by commas in some lines. Such a contradiction is comparable to the contradiction of rhythm and syntax in the position of poetic transference.

The repetition of the conjunction “And” unites phenomena occurring simultaneously, creates a feeling of some kind of movement, the presence of sounds: “and the ringing on the tower”, “and this step”, “and this shadow”. But the author doesn’t care about all “THIS”. She is outside of earthly life: “I am not.”

To attract our attention and express her feelings, Tsvetaeva uses the address “friends.” Different types of one-part sentences perform different stylistic functions: definitely personal ones (“I’m walking away from my sleepy house”, etc.) give the text liveliness and dynamism of presentation; nominatives (“in my huge city there is night”, etc.) are distinguished by great semantic capacity, clarity, and expressiveness.

The vocabulary of the poem is varied. In first place in terms of frequency are nouns: “wife”, “daughter”, “wind”, “people” and others (31 words in total), thanks to which the reader can clearly imagine the picture of what is happening. The text has 91 words. And only 7 of them are verbs (“I go”, “think”, “remembered”, “sweep”, “blow”, “free”, “understand”). The words “go”, “sweep”, “blow” are verbs of movement. The author uses the pronouns “my”, “I”, “me”, “this”, “this”, “you”; adverbs “away”, “after”, “slightly”; adjectives “huge”, “sleepy”, “July”, “thin”, “black”, “golden”, “night”, “daytime”. The colloquial word “today” shows the mundane, ordinariness of what is happening. The use of the interjection “ah” expresses both a feeling of delight and a feeling of surprise. The use of the same root words “chest - into the chest.” The use of the diminutive suffix “IK” in the word “leaf” draws an analogy with the word “mysticism,” which, as already mentioned, is characteristic of Tsvetaeva’s poems.

The expressiveness of speech is created thanks to epithets (“from the sleepy house”, “black poplar”, “golden beads”, “night leaf”, “daytime bonds”), which express the speaker’s emotional attitude to the subject of speech; the completeness of the picture is achieved. Metaphors help to understand the main idea put in by the author and create a coherent artistic image: “the wind is sweeping,” “free me from the bonds of the day.” A simile contrasts one concept (“lights”) with another (“like strings of golden beads”). The simultaneity of actions is created by sound anaphora:

And the ringing on the tower, and the color in the hand,

And this step - after no one -

And there’s this shadow, but there’s no me.

Each letter (sound) in the poem is a whole piece of music, so it is set to music, there is a very beautiful romance.

In the first two stanzas there is assonance (repetition of the sound “O”), giving the verses insight, breadth, and boundlessness:

IT’S NIGHT IN MY HUGE CITY.

I'm leaving the sleepy house - away.

The presence of the vowels “I”, “U”, “A” speaks of the breadth, strength, impressionability and spirituality of the heroine, and “E” is the color of youth (Tsvetaeva is only 23 years old).

The poem is light, although it describes night. There are only 3 vowels “Y” (“nowadays”, “golden”, “day”), which denote the color black, darkness.

But the sound “G” tells us about the heroine’s melancholy, her sadness: “about the Huge City”, “Breast to Breast”.

The repeated consonant “T” (“wind”, “sweeping”, “path”, “blow”, etc.) creates an atmosphere of coldness, internal restlessness, and alienation.

There is a lot of tenderness in the poem. This is evidenced by the sound “N”: “Night”, “sleepy”, “thin”, “ringing”, “tower”, “shadow”, etc.

Tsvetaevsky’s “In my huge city there is night...” is written in a holiamb meter that is not very common in Russian poetry. The word "holyamb" means "lame iambic" - in the last foot the iambic (ta-TA) is replaced by a trochee (TA-ta).

Aphoristically, short monosyllabic words in spondees (clusters of stressed syllables) following pyrrhics (clusters of unstressed syllables) are perceived as a verbal-rhythmic analogue of a point when reading a poem.

The poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva requires an effort of thought. Her poems and poems cannot be read and recited casually, mindlessly sliding along the lines and pages. Even in the very first, naive, but already talented poems, Tsvetaeva’s best quality as a poet was revealed - the identity between personality, life and word. That is why we say that all her poetry is a confession!

V ogromnom gorode moyem - noch.

Iz home sonnogo idu - proch.

I lyudi dumayut: zhena, doch, -

A ya remember one thing: noch.

Iyulsky veter mne metet - put,

I somewhere muzyka v okne - chut.

Akh, nynche vetru do zari - dut

Skvoz stenki tonkiye grudi - v grud.

Yest black topol, i v okne - svet,

I zvon na bashne, i v ruke - tsvet,

I step vot etot - nikomu - vsled,

I ten vot eta, a menya - net.

Ogni - kak niti zolotykh bus,

Nochnogo listika vo rtu - vkus.

Osvobodite ot dnevnykh uz,

Druzya, understand, why ya vam - snyus.

D juhjvyjv ujhjlt vjtv - yjxm/

Bp ljvf cjyyjuj ble - ghjxm/

B k/lb levf/n: ;tyf, ljxm, -

F z pfgjvybkf jlyj: yjxm/

B/kmcrbq dtnth vyt vtntn - genm,

B ult-nj vepsrf d jryt - xenm/

F[, ysyxt dtnhe lj pfhb - lenm

Crdjpm cntyrb njyrbt uhelb - d uhelm/

Tcnm xthysq njgjkm, b d jryt - cdtn,

B pdjy yf ,fiyt, b d hert - wdtn,

B ifu djn ‘njn - ybrjve - dcktl,

B ntym djn ‘nf, f vtyz - ytn/

Juyb - rfr ybnb pjkjns[ ,ec,

Yjxyjuj kbcnbrf dj hne - drec/

Jcdj,jlbnt jn lytdys[ep,

Lhepmz, gjqvbnt, xnj z dfv - cy/cm/

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