So my soul follows the path of grain. Poem "by grain" Khodasevich Vladislav Felitsianovich. Weak child in a big family
By way of grain
The sower passes along even furrows. His father and grandfather followed the same paths. The grain sparkles with gold in his hand, But it must fall into the black earth. And where the blind worm makes its way, It will eventually die and grow. So is my soul goes the way grains: Having descended into darkness, she will die - and she will come to life. And you, my country, and you, its people, You will die and live, having passed through this year, - Then, that wisdom alone is given to us: Everything that lives should follow the path of grain.
Tears of Rachel
Peace to the evening and sinful earth! Puddles, railings, glass shine. In the rain I walk slowly Wet shoulders, and the hat is wet. Now we are all homeless As if we were forever vagabonds, And the indefatigable rain sings to us About the ancient tears of Rachel. May the descendants with proud love Legends will be composed about grandfathers - In our heart with sin and blood Every day is marked and lived. Woe to us that by the will of God In a terrible hour this world was visited! On the cheeks of an old woman passerby - Burning tears of Rachel. I will not accept honor or glory, If, last week, She was sent a piece of bloody A hardened soldier's overcoat. Ah, under our heavy burden No matter how many songs we put together - There is only one good chorus: The inconsolable tears of Rachel!
Look how the sun seduces ephemeral stream With its half-day charm, - And he roars and sighs And on the run it becomes impoverished Among the exposed stones. In the evening, a young traveler Comes, singing a song; Laying your staff on the sand, He draws water with his hand And he drinks - in a stream, already at night, Not knowing your fate.
The warm night smells sweet after the rain. The month quickly runs through the gaps in the white clouds. Somewhere in the damp grass, a jerk often screams. Here lips cling to the sly lips for the first time. Here, touching you, my hands tremble ... Only sixteen years have passed since then.
Brenta, red-haired river! How many times have you been sung How many times have they flown to you Inspirational dreams - Just because the name is loud Brenta, red-haired river, A false image of beauty! I used to be in a hurry look into your ebb, Winged and happy Inspiration of love. But the retribution was bitter. Brenta, I looked once In your muddy jets. Since then I love Brent lonely wanderings, Frequent rain dripping Yes on bent shoulders Raincoat made of wet tarpaulin. Since then I love Brent Prose in life and in poetry.
Mill
Forgotten mill Away deaf. The convoy does not reach for her, And the road to the mill Overgrown with grass. Fish don't splash In the blue river On the creaky stairs The old miller is coming down In a red cap. Stand, listen - And threatens with a finger Into the distance, where the smoke from behind the forest Curled with a rope Over human habitation. Stand, listen - And goes back: On the creaky stairs Look how idle The millstones are lying. bothered pebbles For bread and porridge. How much was dumped How much was ground And now the coven! And now at the miller Forest and silence Yes, in the evening a tube, Yes, a drunken charm Yes, the moon is in the window.
Lettering to the silhouette
A rope is stretched from roof to roof. In his hands - a stick, he is all - like scales, And the spectators turned up their noses from below. Pushing, whispering: "Now it will fall!" - And everyone is excitedly waiting for something. To the right - the old woman looks out of the window, To the left is a reveler with a glass of wine. But the sky is transparent, and the rope is strong. The acrobat walks easily and calmly. And if, breaking loose, the buffoon falls And, groaning, the deceitful people will cross themselves, - Poet, pass with a blank face: Don't you yourself live by your craft?
You can't say everything in one verse. Life goes on in a magical, secret way, You are knitting a long scarf for someone, Just waiting for someone, not sad about him. Thoughtful loops are falling, You look at the hook - everything turns yellow bone, And you don't know if he will come or not, And what he will be, the long-awaited guest. Will he knock on the window in the morning Or with an inaudible foot will come out of the darkness And with a smile, a little scary, Everything will dissolve at once that we have tied.
Dispelling a vague dream from weak eyelids, I live all day, disturb and excite, And every night I fall, smitten Tired of the last kiss. But even in a dream there is no rest for the soul: She dreams of reality, disturbing, earthly, And through my own sleep I hear delirium, Day life is hard to remember.
In the worries of every day I live - and the soul is under a bushel By some fiery miracle Lives apart from me. And often, hurrying to the tram Ile bowed my face over a book, Suddenly I hear the murmur of fire - And I close my eyes.
No, there is beauty in me, but I'm ashamed Name it in front of yourself In front of people, even more so: with their offensive The soul is not reconciled with praise. And here I live wonderful image my Hiding under the guise of a low and malicious ... Look, my friend: golden grass A spider with a cruciform mark crawls, Before him, the child will hide behind the mother, And you yourself are in a hurry to drive him away A squeamish hand from a pinkish neck. And he flees from your wrath, Ashamed of myself, not knowing What does the sign of his hairy back mean.
No, you're wrong, I'm not captivated by myself. What good is a tired mercenary? With its wonderful, divine beginning, Looking inward, I am sweetly shocked. When in verse, in a small display My true image is naked to me, - Everything seems to me standing, prone, In the evening hour above the water mirror. And in order to bring my height closer to you, I look into the depths where the stars are engaged. Falling there, calmly fades away The impure gaze of my earthly eyes, But fiery emerges from there A wreath of stars above my head.
So! Finally, we are in our possession! Clothes - on the floor, the body - on the bed. Go, soul, in boundless dreams To languish and suffer! Dear dreams, painful and vague, Delirium, delirious, imperfect spirit. Oh, how else are you in the glimpses of the minute And blind and deaf! Still languishing in my powerless body, Through the rough layer of earthly existence Learn to breathe and live in a different limit, Where are you - not me; Where, detached from the thought of the earth, You are free ... When I wake up in anguish, We will connect with you again Into an unhappy union. Day after day, at the moment of awakening is difficult, I remember your prophetic dream, I look out the window and see gray, meager my sky, All the same courtyard, both misty and harsh, And doves dancing on it... It is only clear to me that a new reflection Lies on everything.
Oh, if at this hour of desired peace Close your eyes, breathe and die! You would cry little Chloe And she would be afraid to look at me. And I would lie on the table for three long days, Mysterious, calm, intimate, Like a golden ark sealed, Containing all the wisdom about the earth. Having come together, my friends (they are few in number!) The secrets of secrets would be talked about. Do not heed them, on roses, on left-handers Confused you would be unliving eyes. So. Frisky - you do not appreciate wisdom. Let it go! But through death I will hear, a living friend, How on my chest you timidly change Ice bag caring hand.
Dear girls, believe it or not: My heart sings only you and spring. But for a long time now I'm tending to death, How it puts you to sleep in the evening. Resting your head on a pink elbow, You are dozing, and there is a nightingale Until dawn, it will not get tired of clicking and clicking About the hopeless trembling of your life. I sleeplessly wander the land between you, I burn invisibly on a sweet fire, I will tell you with the sweetest words About everything that has already begun to dream of me.
Night and day stubbornly over me, The seamstress on the typewriter chirps loudly. Hung to the door in a black frame The inscription is short: "I sew according to the picture." Listening to the knock on my headboard, My friend, how often I wondered without a goal: You bend your face over the widow's mourning Or over a sailor's white flannel? Here, I am weakening, I am fading, I am burning, But you knock - and at the same moment, I think I'm clinging to the sweet earth, I listen to life's native beat - Friend unknown! When will they pass Past the soul all past grievances, Dead hearing will not be touched Waves of the censer, words of a memorial service?
Blizzard, blizzard ... In a glove - like a stranger Frozen hand. Isn't it strange to live, almost touching, How close are you? And yet I wander home with a purchase, And yet I live. How solid everything is! No, he's not fragile at all. A dream in reality! Earthly distances still torment, My hand still hurts But everything is clearer, more confident consciousness, That you are close.
No, I can't watch anymore There, through the window! Oh, this bitter death, - What is it for? In everything one sounds: "Separation You are doomed!" How gentle in our alley Maple is turning yellow! Not a voice around, not a knock, Still the same distance... And yet it's creepy at times Sometimes it's a pity.
In Petrovsky park
He hung without swaying On a narrow strap. Fallen hat She lay on the sand. Fingernails dug into the palm On a clenched hand. And the sun was rising Stirring to noon run, And, in front of this sun Without lowering your eyelids Was lifted high On the air man. And vigilantly, vigilantly, vigilantly He looked to the east. People crowded below In a hushed circle. And was almost invisible That tight strap.
Smolensk market
Smolensk market I pass. Flight of snowflakes I follow, I follow. In the light of day Candles turn yellow; All the same meetings They oppress me. All in the same bowl Fell down - and I drink ... Our neighbors They carry kutya. By the church - blue open coffin, frost falls On a dead face... Oh, the flight of snowflakes Stop! transform Smolensk market!
Along the boulevards
In the dark, suffocating under a fur coat, I go, Like a sick fish on the bottom of the sea. The tram hissed and threw a star In the black mirror of the thaw. I open my swollen mouth I eagerly catch the damp air, - And behind me from the very Nikitsky gate The little ghost of a girl has tagged along.
And me and the waves of the sea surf, dragging stones, Sings with a letey stream, Without consolation. Silence, peace and laziness. But in a clear light Where does the shadow come from On these hands? Don't you still languish, don't you, Deaf body? There - white dust swirled And flew by. Climbing up the steep hill Sheep flock... And me Idesskaya through the heat The cold comes through.
…It was In one of the mornings, dull, winter, blizzard, - One of the mornings of the fifteenth year. Exhausted in that dull languor, Which then tormented me, I was alone in my room. In my, From shoulders and head, to arms, to legs, Some kind of obscure Ran tremulously and continuously - And, running out of fingers, lasted on, It's outside of me. I knew what was needed Stop it, contain it in yourself - but the will She left me ... I looked senselessly On a shelf of books, on yellow wallpaper, On the mask of Pushkin, who closed his eyes. Everything froze in the red light of the morning. Outside, children were screaming. Rumbled Sleigh on the mountain, but these sounds Rushed in me as if through the thickness Deep waters... Plunging into the abyss, diver So hears the running on the deck and the screams Sailors. And suddenly - like a push - but soft, careful - And everything became clear to me again, only In a displaced form. It happens, When we push the boat with the oar From the sand of the coast; another leg Under a strong bottom, he clearly hears the earth. And the green coast seems close And heaps of firewood on it; but it shook us - And the shore recedes; became smaller That grove where we now wandered; Behind the grove rose smoke; and here - above the trees The glade is already visible, and on it The bath is reddening. Himself I saw at that moment how this shore; I suddenly saw from the side, as if Look a little from above, to the left. I sat, Crossing your legs, deep Having gone to the sofa, with an extinct cigarette Between the fingers, very thin and pale. Eyes were open, but what There was an expression in them - I did not see. The me that is in front of me Sitting - I did not feel at all. But to another Watching as if with a disembodied gaze, So it was good, easy, calm. And the man sitting on the couch It seemed to me a simple, old friend, Worn out by years of travel. As if he came to visit me, And, silent in the midst of a peaceful conversation, Suddenly he recoiled, and sighed, and died. The face smoothed out and the bitter smile She got off him. So I saw myself for a short time: probably And quarters of the set circle The second hand did not run around. And as before, not of my own free will Left this shell - just the same And returned to it again. But only It happened painfully, with effort, Which is hard for me to remember. It was difficult for me, cramped, like a snake, Which would be forced again Embedded in shed skin... Again I saw books in front of me Heard voices. I found it difficult Feel the whole body again, arms, legs ... So, throwing the oars and going ashore, We feel suddenly heavier. Exhaustion flowed again in me, As if from a long rowing, - but in the ears An indistinct noise hummed, like a captive echo Lake or sea wind.
Variation
Again these shoulders, these arms I went out to the balcony to warm up. I'm sitting, - but all earthly sounds - As if in a dream or through a dream. And suddenly, full of exhaustion, I swim: where - I don’t know myself, But my world is expanding like waves In scattered circles. Prolong, caressing miracle! I enter the second circle And I listen, already from there, My rocking chair measured knock.
In the mouth - gold, and in the hands - poppy and honey; The last gifts of your earthly cares. But let me not be burned like a Roman: I want to taste the womb sleep in the earth, I want to sprout spring cereal, Spinning along the ancient star path. Poppy and honey decay in the grave twilight, A coin will fall into a dark mouth ... But after many, many dark years An unknown stranger will open my skeleton, And in a black skull that is broken with a spade, A heavy coin will rattle - And gold will sparkle among the bones, Like a small sun, like a trace of my soul.
Look for me in the transparent spring light. I'm all - like a wave of imperceptible wings, I am a sound, I am a sigh, I am a bunny on the floor, I am lighter than a bunny: he is, he is, I was. But, eternal friend, there is no separation between us! Listen, I'm here. touch me Your living, trembling hands, Stretched out in the flowing flames of the day. Slow down like that. Close, as if by chance, Eyes. Another effort for me - And at the ends of trembling fingers, secretly, Maybe I'll flare up with a brush of fire.
Seven days and seven nights Moscow rushed about On fire, on fire. But a rude doctor generously He bled her - and, exhausted, by morning On the eighth day she woke up. People Crawled out of the stone cellars To the streets. So, having waited out the bad weather, To the back yard, to a wide puddle, rats Cautious come out in a string And they run away when close to a stone The last drop falls from the roof ... By noon, heaps began to gather. Gazing at the holes in the houses On the downed tops of the towers; silently Crowded around the smoking ruins And on the walls there are traces of slid bullets Considered. Long tails trailed At the shops. Wire scraps hanging Above the streets Broken glass It crunched underfoot. yellow eye November unheated sun Looked down at older women And unshaven men. And not with blood But this morning smelled of bitter bile. And meanwhile, from end to end, From Presnenskaya Zastava to Rogozhskaya And from Balchug to Lefortovo, wandered, Crowding on the sidewalks, people. Went to visit Relatives, acquaintances, loved ones: are you alive, are you? Other bundles were carried under the arm With poor food: so in the old days At the cemetery, a pious Muscovite Went on Easter - red egg Eat on the grave of a brother or godfather ... I also went to my friends that day. He learned that he was alive, safe, children at home, - What else do you want? Wandered home. Through the lanes the wind, a stray guest, Chased dry dust, cigarette butts, shavings. Houses for five from my house, Through a cloudy window, out of habit I looked into the basement where my friend Carpenter lives. Extraordinary business He was busy. On the workbench, upside down There was an oblong, narrow box With sloping sides. thick brush The carpenter drove through the box, and the boards Crimson under the brush. My friend Finished work: red coffin. I knocked on the window. He turned around. And taking off my hat, I bowed low Pyotr Ivanovich, his work, coffin, And the whole earth, and the sky that is in the glass Reflected by azure. And a carpenter I also nodded and shrugged. And pointed to the coffin. And I left. And in our yard, around the basket With a wicker door, children fussed, Screaming, pushing and pushing each other. Through the sparse, broken bars There were white feathers. But here - With a long creak, the door opened, And a pair of doves flapping their wings Soared and spun: higher, higher, Over the quiet Plyushchikha, over the river... Then falling, then rising, the birds They dived like white rooks In the distance of the sea. Children follow them They whistled, clapped their hands ... Only one, Four years old butuz, in an eared hat, Sat down on a stone, spread his arms, He looked up and smiled softly. But when I looked into his eyes, I realized That he smiles to himself That incomprehensible thought that will be born Under a convex, still eyebrowless forehead, And listens to the beating of the heart, The movement of juices, growth ... Among Moscow, Suffering, torn and fallen, - Like a small idol, he sat, indifferent, With a meaningless, sacred smile. And I bowed to the boy too. At home I drank tea, sorted out papers, What has accumulated on the table for a week, And sat down to work. But, for the first time in my life, Neither "Mozart and Salieri" nor "Gypsies" On that day my thirst was not quenched.
How quiet, clear, sleepy on the boulevard! Caught up in the wind, ran the sand And splashed on the grass with a loose comb ... Now I like to come here And sit like that for a long time, half-forgetting. I like to listen almost without looking Now laughter, then crying of children, then along the path Behind the hoop, their run is distinct. Wonderful! Here is the noise, the same eternal and true, Like the sound of rain, surf or wind. Nobody knows me. Here I am just Passer-by, layman, "master" In a brown coat and a round hat Nothing remarkable. That's next The young lady sat down with an open book. Boy Perched with a bucket and a scoop At my very feet. furrowed my eyebrows, He messes around in the sand and I'm so huge I tell myself from this neighborhood, What I remember As I myself sat at the lion's pillar In Venice. Over this small life Overhead in a green cap, I rise like a heavy stone Centuries-old, survived a lot, People and kingdoms, betrayals and heroes. And the boy busily fills A bucket of sand and, overturning, pours On my feet, on my shoes... Great! And with a light heart I remember How hot was the Venetian afternoon, How above me hovered motionless winged lion with an open book in its paws, And you need a lion, spinning and turning pink, A cloud ran. And higher, higher Dark blue, and in it rolled Invisible but fiery stars. Now they're blazing over the boulevard Over the boy and over me. crazy Their rays fight with the rays of the sun ... Wind Everything rustles with sandy waves Leafing through the young lady's book. And everything I hear Transformed by some miracle So full of weight sinks into the heart, I don't need words or thoughts, And I'm looking backwards Into yourself. And so captivating is the living moisture of the soul, That, like Narcissus, I am from the shore of the earth I break down and fly to where I am alone, In my home, original world, Face to face with myself, once lost - And found again ... And barely intelligible I hear the young lady's voice: "I'm sorry, What time is it now?"
In the morning at Santa Margherita I met her. She stood On the bridge, with your back to the railing. Fingers On a gray stone, like petals, They lay lightly. Compressed knees Under the white dress stood out weakly ... She waited. Whom? At sixteen Who is dreaming of a beautiful Englishwoman In Venice? I don't know and shouldn't I know that. Not for empty guesses I remember that girl today. She stood in the sunshine But the soft brim of a Panama hat They touched the raised shoulders - and the shadow Cool face covered. Blue And a clear look poured out from there, as if Those fresh waters that run through On the stone bed of a mountain river, Melodious and fast ... Then something I saw that gaze inexpressible, Which we poets are destined to See once and then remember forever. For a moment one appears before us He is on earth, divinely indwelling In random azure eyes. But those fiery storms splash in it, But those blue whirlwinds curl in it, Which then sounded to me In the radiance of the sun, in the splash of black gondolas, In the shade of a flying dove and in red A stream of wine. And late at night when I was walking To my home, they whispered the same to me The melodious steps of the Venetians, And my own step seemed louder, Faster and easier. Oh, where Where at that moment my heart fluttered, When a heavy key with a spring ring Did I turn in the castle? And why Having crossed the threshold of the cold canopy, I'm in the dark by the stone cistern Stayed that long? groping climbing Up the stairs, I called love Your excitement. But now I know What strong wine that day tasted - And I felt it in my mouth Its minute taste. And the eternal hop Came later.
Monkey
It was hot. The forests were on fire. boring Time dragged on. At the neighboring cottage The rooster crowed. I went out the gate. There, leaning against the fence, on the bench Dozing vagrant Serb, thin and black. A silver heavy cross hung Half naked on the chest. drops of sweat They rolled over it. Above on the fence Sitting a monkey in a red skirt And dusty lilac sheets She chewed greedily. leather collar, Pulled back by a heavy chain He crushed her throat. Serb, hearing me I woke up, wiped the sweat and asked me to give Water for him. But, sipping a little, - Isn't it cold - a saucer on a bench He put it, and immediately the monkey, Dipping her fingers into the water, she grabbed Saucer with two hands. She drank, standing on all fours, Elbows resting on the bench. The boards almost touched the chin, Above the crown of the balding back Curved high. It should be, Darius once stood, crouching To the road puddle, on the day he ran Before the mighty phalanx of Alexander. Having drunk all the water, the monkey saucer Down brushed off the bench, got up And - when will I forget this moment? - I have a black, callused hand, Still cool from moisture, stretched out ... I shook hands with beauties, poets, The leaders of the people - not a single hand Such nobility of outlines Didn't conclude! Not one hand My hand was not touched so fraternally! And, God knows, no one in my eyes I did not look so wisely and deeply, Truly - to the bottom of my soul. The sweetest legends of deep antiquity That beggarly beast revived in my heart, And in that moment my life was complete, And it seemed - a chorus of luminaries and sea waves, Winds and spheres to me with organ music Burst into the ears, thundered, as before, In other, immemorial days. And the Serb left, tapping his tambourine. Sitting on his left shoulder, The monkey swayed measuredly, Like an Indian Maharaja on an elephant. Huge crimson sun Bereft of rays It hung in opal smoke. poured out Thunderless heat on stunted wheat. On that day, war was declared.
There was a house here. Recently dismantled Top for firewood. Only stone bottom The rough skeleton remained. Rest I often go here in the evenings. Sky And the courtyard green trees So young rise from the ruins, And it is clear that the spans are drawn Wide windows. collapsed beam Looks like a column. musty cold Comes from a pile of rubble and rubble, Sleeping rooms where before People were nesting... Where they quarreled, reconciled, where in a stocking The filthy money was hoarded About a rainy day; where in stuffiness and darkness The couple embraced; where you sweat sick in the heat; where people were born And they died secretly - everything is now It's open to the passer-by. Oh blessed Whose free leg steps briskly On this ashes, whose staff is indifferent Hits abandoned walls! Are the halls of the great Ramesses, A day laborer or an obscure shack - For a wanderer they are equal: all the same He is comforted by the song of time; Rows or columns solemn or holes The doors of yesterday - the traveler is still the same From the emptiness of one lead to another The same… Here is a staircase with a pattern Broken railing goes to the sky, And, breaking off, the upper platform It looks like a high platform to me. But there is no speaker on it. And in the sky The evening star is already burning The driver of proud reflection. Yes, you're good, it's time. Fine To inhale from your terrible expanse. Why hide? human heart Plays like an awakened baby When war, or pestilence, or rebellion Suddenly they fly in and shake the earth; Here open like the sky, times - And a man with an insatiable soul Throws itself into the desired abyss. Like a bird in the air, like a fish in the ocean Like a slippery worm in the damp layers of the earth, Like a salamander in a flame, so is a man In time. semi-wild nomad, By the change of the moons, by the outlines of the constellations Already he is trying to measure this abyss And in the letters of the inexperienced brings Events are like islands on a map... But the son of the father replaces. cities, kingdoms, Laws, truths - pass. to a person Breaking and building are equal delights: He invented history - he is happy! And with horror and secret voluptuousness The madman is watching, as between the past And the future, like clear moisture, Through the fingers of the outgoing - continuously Life is running out. And the heart flutters Like a light flag on a ship's mast, Between memory and hope This memory of the future... But here - Rustling steps. humpbacked old woman With a big sack. wrinkled hand She rips tow from the walls, shingles Pulls out. Silently approach And I help her, and we are in good agreement We work for time. It's getting dark A green moon rises from behind the wall, And its faint light, like a trickle, pours On the tiles of the collapsed furnace.
Today we will find ourselves partly at the turn of the 10s and 20s, because the topic of our conversation will be the poetic work of Vladislav Felitsianovich Khodasevich, who was born in 1886 and died in 1939. Generally speaking, we see that in terms of age he is quite suitable for himself not even as a junior, but as an older post-symbolist, i.e. he is approximately the same age as Nikolai Gumilyov, not so many years younger than Alexander Blok and Andrei Bely.
But it so happened that Khodasevich revealed himself as a poet, as a brilliant poet, rather late. He himself wrote about himself already at the end of his poetic activity, in 1928 (and he finished writing poetry quite early and in last years almost did not write them) ... He wrote a poem that not all Russian poets can afford. By this time Khodasevich was already the main, leading poet of the Russian emigration, and he allowed himself such a poem. This poem is called "Monument", and it continues the Horatian tradition in Russian poetry. It's small, I'll read it.
The end is in me, the beginning is in me. I have done so little! But still I am a strong link: This happiness is given to me.
In a new, but great Russia, My two-faced idol will be set up At the crossroads of two roads, Where time, wind and sand...
And in this poem, perhaps, indeed, two of the most important properties of Khodasevich's poetic personality are noted. In general, in parentheses, it must be said that this is one of the most analytical poets of the Silver Age, and his prose about this era is really ... It’s not even clear what to call it. This is half a memoir, but to the same extent it can be called an analytical essay. Not without reason, almost all researchers of this era refer to Khodasevich's memoirs. So, in this poem, too, he spoke extremely accurately and soberly, well, it’s true, with some self-deprecation about his poetry.
Once again, I would like to draw special attention to two points. First, this is this: “I have perfected so little!” Indeed, Khodasevich did not write very much, and if we take the best part of his work, then very, very little. These are three books - "The Way of Grain", "Heavy Lyre" and a large cycle "European Night". But what he did was indeed forever imprinted, forever preserved in Russian poetry. “But I’m still a strong link,” he says.
And here, perhaps, one thing needs to be said right away. That this self-awareness, self-description - “I have done so little” - makes Khodasevich related to another very great poet, who, nevertheless, also often resorted to such self-deprecation in his poems. This is one of the main poets (but his name, we note, is more likely to be remembered secondarily after the names of Pushkin, Tyutchev, Lermontov), this is Evgeny Abramovich Baratynsky, who said about himself: “My gift is poor and my voice is not loud.”
Weak child in a big family
Khodasevich really develops this theme in his poems: “I have done so little,” he writes. And this was largely due, among other things, to some circumstances of Khodasevich's biography. He was the last son, born very late, in a Polish-Jewish family. Note that the Poles and the Jews were two peoples who were oppressed in imperial Russia, and he had this feeling. And when there were Jewish pogroms in Poland, he said about himself: “Well, we Poles beat us Jews!” He joked so much.
He was an extremely sickly boy. At first he was preparing for ballet, but he was not at all going to become a poet, but just poor health did not allow him to do this. He had been ill with all the childhood diseases that he could. And they remember about his appearance that he was extremely ugly, sickly, weak. Well, if you look at the photos, this is also true. And so this theme of a weak, barely audible child in big family was really relevant to him. And when he read his poems, when not only the readers, but also the audience saw his appearance, they easily superimposed his poetry on his physical component.
But at the same time, one more thing is important here: the lines from the second stanza are very important. “At the crossroads of two roads,” writes Khodasevich. And indeed, this is an extremely accurate and subtle assessment of one's own place, because ... Here it is necessary to say, in fact, what two roads, what are these two roads, at the crossroads of which this poetry arises, these verses arise? One of these roads is a symbolist road, of course. And here Khodasevich again, and in his memoirs, and in articles, and in poetry, too, played this card of being late, the last, the last.
Because, although he, I repeat once again, was the same age as Gumilyov, he did not join acmeism, he did not join futurism, but all his life he felt like a poet who was born too late for symbolism. He was a classmate of Alexander Bryusov, the younger brother of Valery Yakovlevich Bryusov, the chief senior symbolist, and for a long time was under the influence of Bryusov so much that, like Gumilyov, he was even called "underbrusov".
He read the poems of Alexander Blok, he was greatly influenced by Andrei Bely, who for some time was his closest senior friend. And for quite a long time, Khodasevich could not get out of the shadows of these authors. He made his debut in 1905, his first book, Youth, was published in 1908, and his second, The Happy House, in 1914.
So, about his first books, if we read the reviews, if we read the responses of contemporaries, then it will be written softer than about Gumilyov, whom we spoke about already in connection with this, but, in general, also similar words: cultural, smart, with a sense of the word, remarkably seeing the details, but still not coming out of the shadows. Not leaving the shadow of Blok, not leaving the shadow of Bryusov, not leaving the shadow of Andrei Bely. Little poet.
Pushkin
Note that he himself plays this game too. His second collection is called Happy House. It's so idyllic... And here it is necessary to say such a Pushkin definition. Because the second path "at the crossroads of two roads", along which Khodasevich also walked, was, relatively speaking, Pushkin's path.
Khodasevich, as you know, was a great Pushkinist, a real Pushkinist, he wrote articles, studies related to Pushkin, was friends with one of the greatest philosophers who studied Pushkin - Mikhail Osipovich Gershenzon, was friends with the Pushkinist Pavel Alekseevich Shchegolev and made several such serious Pushkin discoveries . And he knew this era by heart, very well. But then again, he himself compared himself, of course, not with Pushkin, although he did write "Monument", but rather with the minor poets of Pushkin's time. Or with those who were considered to be minor poets of Pushkin's time.
This is Baratynsky, whom I have already mentioned, Delvig, Vyazemsky, Rostopchina, an amateur poetess, very interesting. Khodasevich also played this game. And at this crossroads - symbolism and poets of Pushkin's time - in fact, his poetic world is located. On the one hand, of course, he took into account the discoveries of the modernists, the discoveries of the symbolists above all. On the other hand, he defended the Pushkin note, continued the Pushkin note in his poetic texts. And in his first two books, this is very clearly all revealed.
"The Way of the Grain"
However, Khodasevich became such a truly great poet in 1917. And there is also some paradox in this. Because Khodasevich, as I have already said, was an emigrant. Although he left with a Soviet passport and for some time was going to return, but in the end, when he, already abroad, understood what Bolshevism was, he nevertheless preferred to stay and continued to write about the Bolsheviks, about the Communists always very harshly. Therefore, his poems returned to the Soviet reader rather late, only in the late 1980s they began to be published. But at the same time, it was the revolution that made him a great poet, it was the revolution that gave him the theme.
What topic? Let us try to understand this by analyzing in more detail Khodasevich's key poem from his third book. His third book came out with the first edition in 1920, it was called The Way of the Grain. And the first poem in this book was a poem, which is also called "The Way of the Grain." And immediately pay attention to the date of this poem. The poem is dated December 23, 1917. What is this poem? Let's try to read it in more detail.
By way of grain
The sower passes along even furrows. His father and grandfather followed the same paths.
The grain sparkles with gold in his hand, But it must fall into the black earth.
And where the blind worm makes its way, It will die and germinate in the promised time.
So my soul goes along the path of grain: Descending into darkness, it will die - and wait ...
The sower passes along even furrows.
His father and grandfather followed the same paths.
The grain sparkles with gold in his hand,
But it must fall into the black earth.
And where the blind worm makes its way,
It will eventually die and grow.
So my soul goes the way of grain:
When she descends into darkness, she dies, and she comes to life.
And you, my country, and you, its people,
You will die and live, having passed through this year, -
Then, that wisdom alone is given to us:
Everything that lives should follow the path of grain.
More poems:
- My house was built in a forest gorge - And with a smile I gave my house to people. Like a whirlwind, I had a swift horse, But, having met the patient, I gave the horse away. AND...
- One goes straight, the other goes in circles and waits to return to Father's house Waiting for an old girlfriend. And I'm going - I'm in trouble, Not straight and not askew, A...
- The last century goes from century to century. All dust and rumble, as well as during it. - Can't be! - exclaimed the man, Finding the grain in the tomb of the pharaoh. He took...
- The earth is ready to receive the grain. The rains have drunk. The leaves have rotted. The snow has been covered. Glows like an apple, full of sunshine. Warmed up, plowed up by the sun-rain. Oversleep in bags of golden grain. The seeder wheels will rattle. And the girl and the guy will get lost ...
- We walked along the unknown path... We walked along a hidden path, God knows who laid it And almost forgotten!.. In the human heart There are promised Paths closed, Completely nameless! Under the dark branches Long since laid, Trampled without a path,...
- Don't die people! God keeps you! Heart gave - pomegranate, Breast gave - granite. Prosper, people - Solid as a tablet, Hot as a pomegranate, Pure as crystal ....
- From your deep fall Sometimes, by the living power of a dream, You are suddenly carried away into that realm of inspiration, Where you were at home in the old days! It burns then, burns incandescently Your dream is...
- There was no closer and sweeter in the world, There was no more beautiful than my Motherland. Eternal, holy, kind country, You did not know that such times would come. There was a country, my vast Russia. There was a country...
- Let's go, let's go, cheerful friends, The country, like a mother, calls and loves us! Caring hands are needed everywhere And our master's, warm female eye. Come on, girls! Well, beauties! Let him sing about...
- He is no more... Suffering not for himself, for the people, He was ill every moment with a sympathetic soul. And so, in the struggle, in the midst of dashing adversity For the will, he fell a fatal victim. His...
- A person is born, dies, dies and is not born again. What to wish for the past, fear the future? Yesterday has passed and will not come, Can we wait for tomorrow? This day is a gift of fate to us: Who lived with pleasure, ...
- I had a great night's sleep today, It's so easy for me and in my head, I feel, logically and freely A system of rhyming ideas passes. I Well? Take a moment to be inspired. Sing to us progress...
- Those who voiced the loudest of all, Caught fools on a hook, Like Alaska, sold Russia, Divided the money - and silence. And they scream, sniffling and howling, Who - with fear, who - and ...
- When you wake up in the middle of the night, horror and anxiety will seize. What, gypsy night, do you prophesy - scrip, prison or road? What's behind? One loss. And ahead - dark, foggy. Is it easy to hope and believe?
- Prison, like a kind of temple, I remember, in my childhood years Captivated the young mind with its harsh beauty ... Alas! not the king-eagle, not the raven, the son of freedom, Now sometimes they fly to my window, But a flock of doves, ...
