"Autumn" by A. Pushkin: careful reading. Alexander Pushkin - Autumn: Verse
No other season of the year is represented as widely and vividly in Pushkin's work as autumn.
Pushkin has repeatedly said that autumn is his favorite season. In the fall, he wrote the best and most of all, he found “inspiration”, a special state, “a blissful mood, when dreams are clearly drawn in front of you, and you find living unexpected words for the embodiment of your visions, when poems easily fall under your pen, and sonorous rhymes run towards a harmonious thought "(" Egyptian Nights ").
Why is autumn so dear to the poet?
Pushkin in his poem "Autumn" says this about his attitude to this time of year:
The days of late autumn are usually scolded,
But she is sweet to me, dear reader ...
In this poem, wonderful descriptions autumn nature the poet wants to infect the reader with his special love for this time of year, and in the last lines of this unfinished passage, he shows with extraordinary persuasiveness and poetry how inspiration is born in his soul, how his poetic creations appear:
It's a sad time! enchantment of the eyes!
Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me -
I love the lush wilting of nature,
Crimson and gold-clad forests,
There is noise and fresh breath in their canopy,
And the heavens are covered with a wavy haze.
And a rare sunbeam, and the first frosts,
And the distant gray winter threats ...
... And the thoughts in my head are agitated in courage,
And light rhymes run towards them,
And fingers ask to pen, pen to paper,
A minute - and poetry will flow freely.
("Autumn", 1833)
The poet knows how to find poetic features in the wilting of autumn nature: the yellowing foliage of the trees turns into crimson and gold. This is a loving perception of her by a person who really loves and knows how to notice the poetic features of autumn. No wonder the French writer Prosper Mérimée noted that "poetry flourishes in Pushkin from the most sober prose."
We find many descriptions of autumn nature in the novel "Eugene Onegin". Familiar from childhood, the passage "Already the sky breathed in autumn" introduces us to late autumn in the village. In this passage there is a traveler, racing at full speed on a horse, frightened by a wolf, and a shepherd who worked in the summer hardship, and a village girl singing at a spinning wheel, and boys skating on a frozen river.
Already the sky was breathing in autumn,
Less often the sun shone
The day was getting shorter
Mysterious forest canopy
With a sad noise she was naked,
Fog fell on the fields,
Noisy caravan geese
Stretched towards the south: approached
Quite a boring time;
It was November already at the yard.
(Chapter IV, stanza XL)
Another excerpt from the famous novel is imbued with a different mood. It also talks about autumn, but there is no direct, simple image pictures of nature and images of people closely related to the life of nature. In this passage, nature itself is poetically humanized, allegorically presented in the image of a living being.
... Golden autumn has come,
Nature is tremulous, pale,
As a sacrifice, sumptuously removed ...
(Chapter VII, stanza XXIX)
Indeed, in the fall A.S. Pushkin experienced an extraordinary surge of strength. The Boldinskaya autumn of 1830 was marked by an extraordinary rise and scope of the poet's creative genius. In the history of the entire world literature, it is impossible to give another example when in three months a writer would have created so many wonderful works. In this famous "Boldin Autumn" Pushkin finished VIII and IX chapters of the novel "Eugene Onegin", wrote "Belkin's Tales", four "little tragedies" ("The Covetous Knight", "Mozart and Salieri", "The Stone Guest", "Feast in time of the plague ")," The history of the village of Goryukhino "," The tale of the priest and his worker Balda "about 30 poems (including such as" Demons "," Elegy "," Prank "," My pedigree "), several critical articles and notes. The works of one "Boldin Autumn" could immortalize the name of the poet.
Pushkin lived in Boldino this autumn for about three months. Here he summarized the thoughts and ideas of previous years and outlined, especially in prose, new topics.
The poet will visit Boldino two more times (in 1833 and in 1834), also in the fall. And these visits left a noticeable mark on his work. But the famous "Boldin Autumn" of 1830 remained unique in the poet's creative life.
I
October has already come - the grove is already shaking off
The last leaves from their naked branches;
The autumn cold has died - the road is freezing.
The stream is still running behind the mill,
But the pond was already frozen; my neighbor is in a hurry
Into the fields away with desire,
And they suffer from wild amusement,
And the barking of dogs awakens the sleeping oak groves.
II
Now is my time: I do not like spring;
The thaw is boring to me; stench, dirt - I'm sick in the spring;
Blood ferments; feelings, mind cramped by anguish.
I am more pleased with the harsh winter
I love her snow; in the presence of the moon
Like a light sled run with a friend is fast and free,
When under sable, warm and fresh,
She shakes your hand, blazing and trembling!
III
How fun, having shod your feet with sharp iron,
Glide on the mirror of stagnant, even rivers!
And the winter holidays are brilliant alarms? ..
But one must know and honor; six months snow and snow,
After all, it is finally for the inhabitant of the den,
The bear will get bored. It's impossible for a whole century
We ride in a sleigh with the Young Armids
Or sour at the ovens behind double glass.
IV
Oh, summer is red! I would love you
If it weren't for the heat, yes, dust, mosquitoes, and flies.
You, ruining all mental abilities,
You torment us; like fields we suffer from drought;
Just how to drink, but refresh yourself -
There is no other thought in us, and it's a pity for the old woman's winter,
And, having passed her with pancakes and wine,
We make her commemoration with ice cream and ice.
V
The days of late autumn are usually scolded,
But she is sweet to me, dear reader,
With quiet beauty, shining with humility.
So unloved child in a dear family
It attracts me to itself. To tell you frankly,
From the years of the year, I am glad only for her alone,
There is a lot of good in it; lover is not vain
I found something in her a wayward dream.
VI
How can this be explained? I like her,
How likely you are a consumptive maiden
Sometimes I like it. Condemned to death
The poor thing bends down without murmur, without anger.
The smile on the lips of the faded is visible;
She does not hear the mouth of the grave abyss;
The crimson color still plays on the face.
She is still alive today, not tomorrow.
Vii
It's a sad time! enchantment of the eyes!
Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me -
I love the lush wilting of nature,
Crimson and gold-clad forests,
There is noise and fresh breath in their canopy,
And the heavens are covered with a wavy mist,
And a rare sunbeam, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winters are threats.
VIII
And every fall I bloom again;
The Russian cold is good for my health;
I again feel love for the habits of being:
Sleep flies in succession, hunger in succession finds;
Blood plays easily and joyfully in the heart,
Desires are boiling - I'm happy again, young,
I am full of life again - this is my body
(Please allow me to forgive unnecessary prose).
IX
They lead a horse to me; in the open space,
Waving his mane, he carries a rider,
And loudly under his shining hoof
The frozen valley is ringing and the ice is cracking.
But the short day goes out, and in the forgotten fireside
The fire is burning again - then a bright light is pouring,
That smolders slowly - and I read in front of him
Or long thoughts in my soul I feed.
X
And I forget the world - and in sweet silence
I'm sweetly put to sleep by my imagination
And poetry awakens in me:
The soul is embarrassed by lyrical excitement,
Trembles and sounds, and seeks, as in a dream,
Finally pour out free manifestation -
And then an invisible swarm of guests comes to me,
Old acquaintances, the fruits of my dreams.
XI
And the thoughts in my head are agitated in courage,
And light rhymes run towards them,
And fingers ask to pen, pen to paper,
A minute - and poetry will flow freely.
So the immovable ship slumbers in the still moisture,
But chu! - sailors suddenly rush, crawl
Up, down - and the sails are inflated, the wind is full;
The bulk moved and cut through the waves.
XII
Floats. Where are we going to sail?
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Analysis of the poem "Autumn" by Alexander Pushkin
It is widely known which particular time of the year was Pushkin's favorite. The work "Autumn" is one of the most beautiful poems dedicated to autumn in all Russian literature. The poet wrote it in 1833, during his stay in Boldino (the so-called "Boldinskaya Autumn").
Pushkin acts as a talented artist who paints a picture of an autumn landscape with great skill. The lines of the poem are imbued with great tenderness and love for the surrounding nature, which is in the phase of withering. The introduction is the first sketch for the painting: falling foliage, the first frost, hunting for a hound.
Further, Pushkin depicts the rest of the seasons. At the same time, he lists their advantages, but focuses on the disadvantages. The description of spring, summer and winter is rather detailed, the author resorts to playful, rude remarks. Signs of spring - "stench, dirt". Winter seems to be full of many joyful events (walks and fun in nature), but it lasts an unbearably long time and will get bored "and the inhabitant of the den". Everything is fine in hot summer, "yes dust, yes mosquitoes, yes flies."
Having made a general overview, Pushkin, as a contrast, proceeds to a specific description of the beautiful autumn season. The poet admits that he loves autumn with a strange love, similar to the feeling for a "consumptive maiden". It is for his sad look, for the fading beauty, the autumn landscape is infinitely dear to the poet. The phrase, which is an antithesis, - "" has become winged in the characteristics of autumn.
The description of autumn in the poem is an artistic model for the entire Russian poetic society. Pushkin reaches the heights of his talent in using expressive means... These are various epithets ("farewell", "magnificent", "wavy"); metaphors ("in their entryway", "menace winters"); impersonations ("dressed woods").
In the concluding part of the poem, Pushkin proceeds to describe the state lyric hero... He claims that true inspiration comes to him only in the fall. Traditionally, for poets, spring is considered a time of new hopes, awakening of creative powers. But Pushkin removes this limitation. He again makes a small playful digression - "this is my body."
The author devotes a significant part of the poem to the visit of the muse. In describing the creative process, the hand of a great artist is also felt. New thoughts are an "invisible swarm of guests" that completely transforms the poet's loneliness.
In the finale, the poetic work is presented by Pushkin in the form of a ship ready to sail. The poem ends with the rhetorical question "Where are we going to sail?" This indicates an infinite number of themes and images that arise in the mind of the poet, who is absolutely free in his work.
Great about poetry:
Poetry is like painting: another work will captivate you more if you look at it up close, and another if you go further away.
Small cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of greasy wheels.
The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which fell through.
Marina Tsvetaeva
Of all the arts, poetry is the most tempted to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen sparkles.
Humboldt W.
Poems work well if they are created with spiritual clarity.
Writing poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.
If only you knew from what rubbish poetry grows without knowing shame ... Like a dandelion by the fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.
A. A. Akhmatova
Poetry is not in verses alone: it is poured everywhere, it is around us. Look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life blows from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.
I. S. Turgenev
For many people, writing poetry is a mental growth disease.
G. Lichtenberg
A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn along the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing within us. As he tells us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens our love and our sorrow in our souls. He's a magician. By understanding him, we become poets like him.
Where graceful verses flow, there is no room for quibbling.
Murasaki Shikibu
I am turning to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in Russian. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags a stone behind it. Because of the feeling, art certainly peeps out. 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 yourself?
- Monstrous! Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! - asked the visitor pleadingly.
- I promise and I swear! - Ivan said solemnly ...
Mikhail Afanasevich Bulgakov. "Master and Margarita"
We all write poetry; poets differ from others only in that they write them in words.
John Fowles. "The mistress of the French lieutenant"
Every poem is a blanket stretched out over the edges of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.
Alexander Alexandrovich Blok
Poets of antiquity, 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, the whole Universe is invariably hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for the one who inadvertently wakes up the dozing lines.
Max Fry. "Chatty Dead"
One of my clumsy hippopotamuses-verses I attached such a paradise tail: ...
Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not worry, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not the 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 - chase critics. They are just pitiful slips of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Do not let his vulgar palpating hands go there. Let the poems seem to him an absurd hum, a chaotic pile of words. For us, it is a song of freedom from boring reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.
Boris Krieger. "Thousand Lives"
Poems are a thrill of the heart, excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing more than pure poetry that has rejected the word.
