Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin
There was a noise; field pipe
My solitude has been announced,
And with the image of a mistress draga
The last dream has flown away.
The shadow of the night has already rolled down from the sky.
The dawn has risen, the pale day is shining -
And all around me there is desolation...
She’s no longer there... I was off the coast,
Where my dear went on a clear evening;
On the shore, in the green meadows
I almost didn't find it visible traces,
Left behind by her beautiful foot.
Wandering thoughtfully in the depths of the forests,
I pronounced the name of the incomparable;
I called her - and a solitary voice
Empty valleys called her into the distance.
He came to the stream, attracted by dreams;
Its streams flowed slowly,
The unforgettable image did not tremble in them.
She's gone!.. Until sweet spring
I said goodbye to bliss and to my soul.
Already autumn's cold hand
The heads of birch and linden trees are bare,
She rustles in the deserted oak groves;
Day and night are spinning there yellow leaf,
There is fog on the chilled waves,
And an instant whistling of the wind is heard.
Fields, hills, familiar oak forests!
Keepers of sacred silence!
Witnesses of my melancholy, fun!
You are forgotten... until sweet spring!
Elegiac motifs arising in Pushkin's works latest lyceum years, due to autobiographical reasons. Young author was not indifferent to Ekaterina Bakunina, the sister of one of his study comrades, whose family was not for a long time lived in Tsarskoe Selo. The work, dated 1816, reflects the feelings of a young man in love who experienced the Bakunins’ departure to the capital, which occurred in the autumn of that year. This event inspired the poet to create “Separation” (“When the last hour of happiness struck...”), the hero of which cannot get rid of despondency and “destructive boredom.”
Sokolov. Ekaterina Bakunina
Landscape paintings, which abound in the analyzed poem, are endowed with psychological overtones: following the laws of the genre, they are inseparable from internal state subject of speech. Fields and trees devastated" with a cold hand“imperious autumn, thinned forests strewn with “dead” leaves, foggy fields, gusty wind - the natural scene leaves a sad impression.
Important importance is given to the motive of the futile search for the beloved. The hero confidently reports the futility of the event: there are no traces of the “beautiful” on the shore, only the forest echo responds to the sound of her name, metaphorically identified with the “solitary voice”, the “incomparable” face is not reflected in the streams of the stream.
The morning sadness and apathy of the lyrical “I” are explained negative results searches to which the abandoned lover had come the day before. It is interesting that in the beginning the mood of the subject of speech is opposed to animation natural world associated with sunrise. The pale radiance of the day contrasts with the “deaf desolation” that reigns in the soul, merciless reality contrasts with the healing effects of sleep-dreams.
Reflecting on personal experiences, the hero models another antithesis: a sad autumn, symbolizing a depressive present, is contrasted with a promising future associated with the image of a “sweet spring.” The bleak atmosphere of elegiac sadness is diluted with optimistic notes of hope for future changes.
The poetic text ends with an emotional appeal to fields, forests and hills. Having undergone the personifications listed natural images acquire the important status of guardians of silence and witnesses of past happiness. Saying goodbye to them, the hero looks forward to a joyful meeting in the spring, after the long-awaited return of his beloved.
Autumn Morning. The city was enveloped in fog.
Trees wander in white smoke.
The sky is wrapped in a bluish blanket
Through which the sun's rays will leak.
But the chilly wind will disperse
Fogs attack. He will melt
A bluish cover in the sky.
Sprinkling it with Dew on the grass.
The autumn wind will awaken the rays of the sun
And it will spin golden foliage in leaf fall.
And then to the crimson waltz of leaf fall
He will sing the melody of golden October.
I open the autumn morning, throwing away the fog.
Chilled sky, poured into thick puddles.
Forgotten dreams creep back into the screen.
Self-awareness is the answer that you are still needed.
Paint the conversations of empty squares on the foliage,
Footprints on the calluses of the dancing streets.
And pressing yourself to your temple, repeat to yourself: “Thou shalt not kill,”
And tired of the fight, leaving the fight, inevitably slouching.
I open the autumn morning... but the lock is broken....
The ripened sky lifts itself onto its shoulders.
Just one conversation... Only one...
Autumn morning, gray frowns.
It's an autumn morning, it's drizzling.
I'm driving along a narrow and wet street.
Quiet, only the rain knocking on the car.
Autumn morning, rainy morning.
It's cold and damp, but you have to endure it.
A warm heart means a happy one.
And in the rain, I can warm myself with it.
There are all sorts of different days in life.
You can smile and sing even in the rain.
In life, there are beautiful days with rain.
If you know how to burn with your heart.
Boring, too stuffy on a sunny day.
When it rains, he feels cold and very sad...
Autumn, gray morning,
Fogs float over the river,
Birch branches sadly
It will fasten at the edge of the forest.
From the trees last leaves
The wind is trying to break it,
Rain chilling threads
They are trying to penetrate everything.
Now the clouds have cleared, the sun is shining
Everything was illuminated
And it shines joyfully in the window,
And the sky beckons blue.
The night crept up unnoticed,
The stars lit up in the sky,
The moon illuminated everything,
She brought the frost with her.
And in the morning it’s wonderful everywhere,
Everything covered in frost with silver
And sunny heavenly gold...
Autumn in Israel is slowly dragging on,
Like I'm tired of running.
He'll stop, as if he's looking back,
Then suddenly he goes to bed
The morning cooled down with sweaty drops
Will be replaced by the boring heat
And the breeze with soapy foam and flakes
The surf will rinse.
The roofs are covered with palm branches
The stars will illuminate the sukkah
And the baskets are filled with grapes,
The year has been ground into flour.
New shoots will become hopes
For the upcoming mowing
Light colors, light clothes
Only without Russian birches.
Morning cooled by drops...
« Autumn morning" Alexander Pushkin
There was a noise; field pipe
My solitude has been announced,
And with the image of a mistress draga
The last dream has flown away.
The shadow of the night has already rolled down from the sky.
The dawn has risen, the pale day is shining -
And all around me there is desolation...
She’s no longer there... I was off the coast,
Where my dear went on a clear evening;
On the shore, in the green meadows
I didn't find any visible traces
Left behind by her beautiful foot.
Wandering thoughtfully in the depths of the forests,
I pronounced the name of the incomparable;
I called her - and a solitary voice
Empty valleys called her into the distance.
He came to the stream, attracted by dreams;
Its streams flowed slowly,
The unforgettable image did not tremble in them.
She's gone!.. Until sweet spring
I said goodbye to bliss and to my soul.
Already autumn's cold hand
The heads of birch and linden trees are bare,
She rustles in the deserted oak groves;
A yellow leaf spins there day and night,
There is fog on the chilled waves,
And an instant whistling of the wind is heard.
Fields, hills, familiar oak forests!
Keepers of sacred silence!
Witnesses of my melancholy, fun!
You are forgotten... until sweet spring!
Analysis of Pushkin's poem "Autumn Morning"
The elegiac motifs that appear in Pushkin’s work in his last years at the Lyceum are due to autobiographical reasons. The young author was partial to Ekaterina Bakunina, the sister of one of his fellow students, whose family lived for a short time in Tsarskoe Selo. The work, dated 1816, reflects the feelings of a young man in love who experienced the Bakunins’ departure to the capital, which occurred in the autumn of that year. This event inspired the poet to create “Separation” (“When the last hour of happiness struck...”), the hero of which cannot get rid of despondency and “destructive boredom.”
Landscape paintings, which abound in the analyzed poem, are endowed with psychological overtones: following the laws of the genre, they are inseparable from the internal state of the subject of speech. Fields and trees devastated by the “cold hand” of the powerful autumn, thinned forests strewn with “dead” leaves, foggy fields, gusty wind - the natural scene leaves a sad impression.
Important importance is given to the motive of the futile search for the beloved. The hero confidently reports the futility of the event: there are no traces of the “beautiful” on the shore, only the forest echo responds to the sound of her name, metaphorically identified with the “solitary voice”, the “incomparable” face is not reflected in the streams of the stream.
The morning sadness and apathy of the lyrical “I” are explained by the negative results of the search, which the abandoned lover came to the day before. It is interesting that in the beginning the mood of the subject of speech is contrasted with the revival of the natural world associated with the sunrise. The pale radiance of the day contrasts with the “deaf desolation” that reigns in the soul, merciless reality contrasts with the healing effects of sleep-dreams.
Reflecting on personal experiences, the hero models another antithesis: a sad autumn, symbolizing a depressive present, is contrasted with a promising future associated with the image of a “sweet spring.” The bleak atmosphere of elegiac sadness is diluted with optimistic notes of hope for future changes.
The poetic text ends with an emotional appeal to fields, forests and hills. Having undergone personification, the listed natural images acquire the important status of guardians of silence and witnesses of past happiness. Saying goodbye to them, the hero looks forward to a joyful meeting in the spring, after the long-awaited return of his beloved.
Great ones about poetry:
Poetry is like painting: some works will captivate you more if you look at them closely, and others if you move further away.
Small cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creaking of unoiled wheels.
The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is what has gone wrong.
Marina Tsvetaeva
Of all the arts, poetry is the most susceptible to the temptation to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen splendors.
Humboldt V.
Poems are successful if they are created with spiritual clarity.
The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is usually believed.
If only you knew from what rubbish poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion on a fence, like burdocks and quinoa.
A. A. Akhmatova
Poetry is not only in verses: it is poured out everywhere, it is all around us. Look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life emanate from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.
I. S. Turgenev
For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.
G. Lichtenberg
A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. The poet makes our thoughts sing within us, not our own. By telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He's a magician. By understanding him, we become poets like him.
Where graceful poetry flows, there is no room for vanity.
Murasaki Shikibu
I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in the Russian language. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. It is through feeling that art certainly emerges. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin
-...Are your poems good, tell me yourself?
- Monstrous! – Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "Master and Margarita"
We all write poetry; poets differ from others only in that they write in their words.
John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"
Every poem is a veil stretched over the edges of a few words. These words shine like stars, and because of them the poem exists.
Alexander Alexandrovich Blok
Ancient poets, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. This is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind each poetic work of those times, a whole Universe was certainly hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for those who carelessly awaken the dozing lines.
Max Fry. "Chatty Dead"
I gave one of my clumsy hippopotamuses this heavenly tail:...
Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea, and not a plague!
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky
Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore, drive away the critics. They are just pathetic sippers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let poetry seem to him like an absurd moo, a chaotic pile-up of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from a boring mind, a glorious song sounding on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.
Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"
Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing more than pure poetry that has rejected the word.
“How sweet she is!” - Pushkin exclaimed, seeing for the first time the sister of his lyceum friend, Ekaterina Bakunina. The girl who captured the ardent imagination of the young poet was his muse for a long time. It is impossible to read the poem “Autumn Morning” by Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin and not admire the power of the description of first romantic love. The poem was written in 1816. By this time, the nature of the poet's lyrics had seriously changed; he turned to the genre of elegy. With E.P. Pushkin first met Bakunina, A. Bakunin’s sister, at one of the Lyceum balls. According to the memoirs of a fellow poet, S.D. Komovsky, his hobby was platonic. Ekaterina Bakunina, from the height of her twenty years, looked at the seventeen-year-old boy as if he were a child.
The text of Pushkin’s poem “Autumn Morning” includes literary cliches of that time. Young poet, trying to find traces of his muse in the Tsarskoye Selo forests and groves, he laments not only that his feelings do not find a response in the soul of his beloved. He says goodbye to his youth, feels how his soul, which has known bitterness and pain, is fading away in tune with the falling asleep nature. In this work, which is taught in a literature lesson in the 5th grade, philosophical notes are clearly heard. In the deserted oak groves “a dead leaf circles day and night”; on the “yellowed fields” stands thick fog. But if autumn is associated with young Pushkin with death, then “sweet” spring is a symbol of resurrection. Lyrical hero lives in anticipation new meeting with my beloved.
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There was a noise; field pipe
My solitude has been announced,
And with the image of a mistress draga
The last dream has flown away.
The shadow of the night has already rolled down from the sky.
The dawn has risen, the pale day is shining -
And all around me there is desolation...
She's gone... I was off the coast,
Where my dear went on a clear evening;
On the shore, in the green meadows
I didn't find any barely visible traces,
Left by her beautiful foot.
Wandering thoughtfully in the depths of the forests,
I pronounced the name of the incomparable;
I called her - and a solitary voice
Empty valleys called her into the distance.
He came to the stream, attracted by dreams;
Its streams flowed slowly,
The unforgettable image did not tremble in them.
She's gone!.. Until sweet spring
I said goodbye to bliss and to my soul.
Already autumn's cold hand
The heads of birch and linden trees are bare,
She rustles in the deserted oak groves;
There a yellow leaf spins day and night,
There is fog on the chilled waves,
And an instant whistling of the wind is heard.
Fields, hills, familiar oak forests!
Keepers of sacred silence!
Witnesses of my melancholy, fun!
You are forgotten... until sweet spring!