Russian poet Anna Andreevna Akhmatova (real name Gorenko), a prominent representative of the creative intelligentsia, wife of the famous poet Nikolai Gumilyov until 1918. After publishing his first poems in 1912, Akhmatova became a cult figure among the intelligentsia and part of the St. Petersburg literary scene. Her second book, Rosaria (1914), was acclaimed by critics, who praised the virtues of conscious, carefully crafted verse, in contrast to the loose style of the Symbolists who dominated Russian literature of the period.
Anna Azhmatova wrote a lot of lyrical poems, piercing love poetry loved by millions of people of different generations. But her sharp attitude in her work towards the outrages of power led to a conflict. At Soviet power there was an unspoken ban on Akhmatova's poetry from 1925 to 1940. During this time, Akhmatova devoted herself to literary criticism, in particular, to translating Pushkin into other languages.
Changes in the political climate finally allowed Akhmatova to be accepted into the Writers' Union, but after World War II, there was an official decree prohibiting the publication of her poetry. Her son, Lev, was arrested in 1949 and spent in prison until 1956. To try to win his release, Akhmatova wrote poetry praising Stalin and the government, but it was to no avail.
Although Akhmatova often faced official government opposition to her work during her life, she was deeply loved and praised by the Russian people, in part because she did not abandon her country during difficult political times. Her most accomplished works, Requiem (which was not published in full in Russia until 1987) and Poem Without a Hero, are reactions to the horror of Stalin's terror, during which she experienced artistic repression as well as enormous personal loss. Akhmatova died in Leningrad, where she spent most of her life, in 1966.
First of all, one should not confuse Russian Poets with Russian Poets, since the latter include those who worked in the geographical space of Russia within its present borders. That is, Russian poets also include those poets who were deprived of citizenship and, of necessity, emigrated abroad for some subjectively objective social reasons.
The work of Russian poets is imbued with their patriotic responsibility both to the country of their birth and to the Evolution of mankind in general.
Naturally, all the historical turning points that befell Russia in a special, deeply sensual (humane) way were reflected, respectively, in the destinies and creative works of Russian poets.
Additionally, noteworthy is the fact that, taking into account the truly well-deserved successes of the poets of humanity (and therefore, including Russian poets), since 1999 it was decided to celebrate annually (March 21) World Poetry Day.
Chronologically, the work of Russian poets can be conventionally divided into the following stages: the 18th century, the “golden” and “silver” centuries, the Soviet period and the present.
Russian poets of the 18th century (history of the development and formation of Russian poetry) include Gavriil Derzhavin, Nikolai Karamzin, Mikhail Lomonosov, Alexander Radishchev...), and the “golden” age (mainly the period of transition from classicism to romanticism) - Alexey Apukhtin , Evgsheny Baratynsky, Konstantin Batyushchkov, Dmitry Venevitinov, Pyotr Vyazemsky, Alexander Griboyedov, Danis Davydov, Vasily Zhukovsky, Alexey Koltsov, Mikhail Lermontov, Apollo Maykov, Semyon Nadson, Nikolay Nekrasov, Nikolay Ogarev, Alexander Pushkin, Fyodor Tyutchev, Ivan Turgenev, Afanasy Fet and others.
The “silver” age includes such Russian poets (during the period of Russian poetry at the beginning of the 20th century and, including those who worked in the following directions: acmeism, cubo-futurism, symbolism, futurism...), such as Innokenty Annensky, Nikolai Aseev, Anna Akhmatova , Eduard Bagritsky, Konstantin Balmont, Demyan Bedny, Andrei Bely, Alexander Blok, Sergei Yesenin, Nikolai Zabolotsky, Georgy Ivanov, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Vladimir Nabokov, Boris Pasternak, Vsevolod Rozhdestvensky, Igor Severyanin, Alexey Tolstoy, Marina Tsvetaeva, Sasha Cherny and others .
The Soviet period (relatively averaged - poetry of the sixties) includes Russian poets who created their works from 1920 to 1980 and mainly in the territory Soviet Union: Bella Akhmadulina, Anna Akhmatova, Olga Berggolts, Joseph Brodsky, Andrei Voznesensky, Vladimir Vysotsky, Rasul Gamzatov, Andrei Dementyev, Evgeny Evtushenko, Alexander Kushner, Rimma Kazakova, Yuri Levitansky, Bulat Okudzhava, Maria Petrovykh, Robert Rozhdestvensky, Nikolai Rubtsov, David Samoilov, Mikhail Svetlov, Arseny Tarkovsky, Alexander Tvardovsky, Veronika Tushnova, Varlam Shalamov...
And finally, it is socially conventionally accepted to modern poetry include the works of Russian poets of the last twenty to thirty years (as figuratively “the newest”) and among them, out of turn, of course, are Leonid Filatov, Valentin Gaft and Dmitry Bykov.
The current generation now sees everything clearly, marvels at the errors, laughs at the foolishness of its ancestors, it is not in vain that this chronicle is inscribed with heavenly fire, that every letter in it screams, that a piercing finger is directed from everywhere at it, at it, at the current generation; but the current generation laughs and arrogantly, proudly begins a series of new errors, which posterity will also laugh at later. "Dead Souls"
Why? It's like inspiration
Love the given subject!
Like a true poet
Sell your imagination!
I am a slave, a day laborer, I am a tradesman!
I owe you, sinner, for gold,
For your worthless piece of silver
Pay with divine payment!
"Improvisation I"
Literature is a language that expresses everything a country thinks, wants, knows, wants and needs to know.
In the hearts of simple people, the feeling of the beauty and grandeur of nature is stronger, a hundred times more vivid, than in us, enthusiastic storytellers in words and on paper.
"Hero of Our Time"
And everywhere there is sound, and everywhere there is light,
And all the worlds have one beginning,
And there is nothing in nature
Whatever breathes love.
In days of doubt, in days of painful thoughts about the fate of my homeland, you alone are my support and support, oh great, mighty, truthful and free Russian language! Without you, how can one not fall into despair at the sight of everything that is happening at home? But one cannot believe that such a language was not given to a great people!
Poems in prose, "Russian language"
So, I complete my dissolute escape,
Prickly snow flies from the naked fields,
Driven by an early, violent snowstorm,
And, stopping in the wilderness of the forest,
Gathers in silver silence
A deep and cold bed.
Listen: shame on you!
It's time to get up! You know yourself
What time has come;
In whom the sense of duty has not cooled,
Who is incorruptibly straight in heart,
Who has talent, strength, accuracy,
Tom shouldn't sleep now...
"Poet and Citizen"
Is it really possible that even here they will not and will not allow the Russian organism to develop nationally, with its organic strength, and certainly impersonally, servilely imitating Europe? But what should one do with the Russian organism then? Do these gentlemen understand what an organism is? Separation, “disengagement” from their country leads to hatred, these people hate Russia, so to speak, naturally, physically: for the climate, for the fields, for the forests, for the order, for the liberation of the peasant, for Russian history, in a word, for everything, They hate me for everything.
Spring! the first frame is exposed -
And noise burst into the room,
And the good news of the nearby temple,
And the talk of the people, and the sound of the wheel...
Well, what are you afraid of, pray tell! Now every grass, every flower is rejoicing, but we are hiding, afraid, as if some kind of misfortune is coming! The thunderstorm will kill! This is not a thunderstorm, but grace! Yes, grace! It's all stormy! Northern lights lights up, one should admire and marvel at the wisdom: “from the midnight lands the dawn rises”! And you are horrified and come up with ideas: this means war or pestilence. Is there a comet coming? I wouldn’t look away! Beauty! The stars have already taken a closer look, they are all the same, but this is a new thing; Well, I should have looked and admired it! And you are afraid to even look at the sky, you are trembling! Out of everything, you have created a scare for yourself. Eh, people! "Storm"
There is no more enlightening, soul-cleansing feeling than that which a person feels when acquainted with a great work of art.
We know that loaded guns must be handled with care. But we don’t want to know that we must treat words in the same way. The word can kill and make evil worse than death.
There is a well-known trick by an American journalist who, in order to increase subscriptions to his magazine, began to publish in other publications the most harsh, arrogant attacks on himself from fictitious persons: some in print exposed him as a swindler and perjurer, others as a thief and murderer, and still others as a debauchee on a colossal scale. He didn’t skimp on paying for such friendly advertisements until everyone started thinking - it’s obvious he’s a curious and remarkable person when everyone is shouting about him like that! - and they began to buy up his own newspaper.
"Life in a Hundred Years"
I... think that I know the Russian person to his very depths, and I do not take any credit for this. I didn’t study the people from conversations with St. Petersburg cab drivers, but I grew up among the people, on the Gostomel pasture, with a cauldron in my hand, I slept with it on the dewy grass of the night, under a warm sheepskin coat, and on Panin’s fancy crowd behind the circles of dusty habits...
Between these two clashing titans - science and theology - there is a stunned public, quickly losing faith in the immortality of man and in any deity, quickly descending to the level of a purely animal existence. Such is the picture of the hour illuminated by the brilliant noonday sun of the Christian and scientific era!
"Isis Unveiled"
Sit down, I'm glad to see you. Throw away all fear
And you can keep yourself free
I give you permission. You know, the other day
I was elected king by everyone,
But it doesn't matter. They confuse my thoughts
All these honors, greetings, bows...
"Crazy"
- What do you want abroad? - I asked him while in his room, with the help of the servants, his things were being laid out and packed for sending to the Warsaw station.
- Yes, just... to feel it! - he said confusedly and with a kind of dull expression on his face.
"Letters from the Road"
Is the point to get through life in such a way as not to offend anyone? This is not happiness. Touch, break, break, so that life boils. I am not afraid of any accusations, but I am a hundred times more afraid of colorlessness than death.
Poetry is the same music, only combined with words, and it also requires a natural ear, a sense of harmony and rhythm.
You experience a strange feeling when, with a light pressure of your hand, you force such a mass to rise and fall at will. When such a mass obeys you, you feel the power of man...
"Meeting"
The feeling of the Motherland should be strict, restrained in words, not eloquent, not talkative, not “waving your arms” and not running forward (to appear). The feeling of the Motherland should be a great ardent silence.
"Secluded"
And what is the secret of beauty, what is the secret and charm of art: in the conscious, inspired victory over torment or in the unconscious melancholy of the human spirit, which does not see a way out of the circle of vulgarity, squalor or thoughtlessness and is tragically condemned to appear complacent or hopelessly false.
"Sentimental Memory"
Since birth I have lived in Moscow, but by God I don’t know where Moscow came from, what it is for, why, what it needs. In the Duma, at meetings, I, together with others, talk about the city economy, but I don’t know how many miles there are in Moscow, how many people there are, how many are born and die, how much we receive and spend, how much and with whom we trade... Which city is richer: Moscow or London? If London is richer, why? And the jester knows him! And when some issue is raised in the Duma, I shudder and be the first to start shouting: “Pass it over to the commission!” To the commission!
Everything new in an old way:
From a modern poet
In a metaphorical outfit
The speech is poetic.
But others are not an example to me,
And my charter is simple and strict.
My verse is a pioneer boy,
Lightly dressed, barefoot.
1926
Under the influence of Dostoevsky, as well as foreign literature, Baudelaire and Edgar Poe, my fascination began not with decadence, but with symbolism (even then I already understood their difference). I entitled the collection of poems, published at the very beginning of the 90s, “Symbols”. It seems that I was the first to use this word in Russian literature.
The running of changeable phenomena,
Past the howling ones, speed up:
Merge the sunset of accomplishments into one
With the first shine of tender dawns.
From the lower reaches of life to the origins
In a moment, a single overview:
In one face with a smart eye
Collect your doubles.
Unchanging and wonderful
Gift of the Blessed Muse:
In the spirit the form of harmonious songs,
There is life and heat in the heart of the songs.
"Thoughts on Poetry"
I have a lot of news. And all are good. I'm "lucky". It's written to me. I want to live, live, live forever. If you only knew how many new poems I wrote! More than a hundred. It was crazy, a fairy tale, new. Publishing new book, not at all similar to the previous ones. She will surprise many. I changed my understanding of the world. No matter how funny my phrase may sound, I will say: I understand the world. For many years, perhaps forever.
K. Balmont - L. Vilkina
Man - that's the truth! Everything is in man, everything is for man! Only man exists, everything else is the work of his hands and his brain! Human! This is great! It sounds... proud!
"At the Bottom"
I'm sorry to create something useless and no one needs now. A collection, a book of poems at this time is the most useless, unnecessary thing... I do not want to say that poetry is not needed. On the contrary, I maintain that poetry is necessary, even necessary, natural and eternal. There was a time when everyone seemed to need entire books of poetry, when they were read in bulk, understood and accepted by everyone. This time is the past, not ours. The modern reader does not need a collection of poems!
Language is the history of a people. Language is the path of civilization and culture. That is why studying and preserving the Russian language is not an idle activity because there is nothing to do, but an urgent necessity.
What nationalists and patriots these internationalists become when they need it! And with what arrogance they mock the “frightened intellectuals” - as if there is absolutely no reason to be afraid - or at the “frightened ordinary people”, as if they have some great advantages over the “philistines”. And who, exactly, are these ordinary people, the “prosperous townsfolk”? And who and what do revolutionaries care about, in general, if they so despise the average person and his well-being?
"Cursed Days"
In the struggle for their ideal, which is “liberty, equality and fraternity,” citizens must use means that do not contradict this ideal.
"Governor"
“Let your soul be whole or split, let your worldview be mystical, realistic, skeptical, or even idealistic (if you are so unhappy), let creative techniques be impressionistic, realistic, naturalistic, let the content be lyrical or fabulistic, let there be a mood, an impression - whatever you want, but I beg you, be logical - may this cry of the heart be forgiven me! – are logical in concept, in the structure of the work, in syntax.”
Art is born in homelessness. I wrote letters and stories addressed to a distant, unknown friend, but when the friend came, art gave way to life. I'm talking, of course, not about home comfort, but about life, which means more than art.
"You and I. Love Diary"
An artist can do no more than open his soul to others. You cannot present him with pre-made rules. It is a still unknown world, where everything is new. We must forget what captivated others; here it is different. Otherwise, you will listen and not hear, you will look without understanding.
From Valery Bryusov's treatise "On Art"
Well, let her rest, she was exhausted - they tormented her, alarmed her. And as soon as it’s light, the shopkeeper gets up, starts folding her goods, grabs a blanket, goes and pulls out this soft bedding from under the old woman: wakes the old woman up, gets her on her feet: it’s not dawn, please get up. There's nothing you can do about it. In the meantime - grandmother, our Kostroma, our mother, Russia! "
"Whirlwind Rus'"
Art never addresses the crowd, the masses, it speaks to an individual, in the deep and hidden recesses of his soul.
Mikhail Andreevich Osorgin (Ilyin) (1878 - 1942)
How strange /.../ There are so many cheerful and cheerful books, so many brilliant and witty philosophical truths, but there is nothing more comforting than Ecclesiastes.
Babkin was brave, read Seneca
And, whistling carcasses,
Took it to the library
Noting in the margin: “Nonsense!”
Babkin, friend, is a harsh critic,
Have you ever thought
What a legless paralytic
A light chamois is not a decree?..
"Reader"
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The critic's word about the poet must be objectively concrete and creative; the critic, while remaining a scientist, is a poet.
"Poetry of the Word"
Only great things should be thought about, only great tasks should a writer set himself; put it boldly, without being embarrassed by your personal small strengths.
“It’s true that there are goblins and water creatures here,” I thought, looking in front of me, “and maybe some other spirit lives here... A powerful, northern spirit that enjoys this wildness; maybe real northern fauns and healthy, blond women wander in these forests, eat cloudberries and lingonberries, laugh and chase each other.”
"North"
You need to be able to close a boring book...leave a bad movie...and part with people who don't value you!
Out of modesty, I will be careful not to point out the fact that on my birthday the bells were rung and there was general popular rejoicing. Evil tongues connected this rejoicing with some great holiday that coincided with the day of my birth, but I still don’t understand what another holiday has to do with it?
That was the time when love, good and healthy feelings were considered vulgarity and a relic; no one loved, but everyone thirsted and, as if poisoned, fell for everything sharp, tearing apart the insides.
"Walking through torment"
“Well, what’s wrong,” I say to myself, “at least in a short word for now?” After all, exactly the same form of saying goodbye to friends exists in other languages, and there it does not shock anyone. Great poet Walt Whitman, shortly before his death, said goodbye to his readers with a touching poem “So long!”, which means in English - “Bye!”. The French a bientot has the same meaning. There is no rudeness here. On the contrary, this form is filled with the most gracious courtesy, because the following (approximately) meaning is compressed here: be prosperous and happy until we see each other again.
"Alive as Life"
Switzerland? This is a mountain pasture for tourists. I myself have traveled all over the world, but I hate these ruminant bipeds with Badaker for a tail. They devoured all the beauty of nature with their eyes.
"Island of Lost Ships"
Everything that I have written and will write, I consider only mental rubbish and I do not regard my merits as a writer as anything. And I’m surprised and perplexed why in appearance smart people find some meaning and value in my poems. Thousands of poems, whether mine or those of the poets I know in Russia, are not worth one singer from my bright mother.
I am afraid that Russian literature has only one future: its past.
Article "I'm afraid"
We have been looking for a problem similar to lentils for a long time, so that those directed by it to common point the united rays of the labor of artists and the labor of thinkers would meet in general work and could ignite and turn even the cold substance of ice into a fire. Now such a task - the lentil that guides together your stormy courage and the cold mind of thinkers - has been found. This goal is to create a common written language...
"Artists of the World"
He adored poetry and tried to be impartial in his judgments. He was surprisingly young at heart, and perhaps also in mind. He always seemed like a child to me. There was something childish in his buzz cut head, in his bearing, more like a gymnasium than a military one. He liked to pretend to be an adult, like all children. He loved to play “master”, the literary superiors of his “gumilets,” that is, the little poets and poetesses who surrounded him. The poetic children loved him very much.
Khodasevich, "Necropolis"
Me, me, me. What a wild word!
Is that guy over there really me?
Did mom love someone like that?
Yellow-gray, half-gray
And all-knowing, like a snake?
You have lost your Russia.
Did you resist the elements?
Good elements of dark evil?
No? So shut up: you took me away
You are destined for a reason
To the edges of an unkind foreign land.
What's the use of moaning and groaning -
Russia must be earned!
"What you need to know"
I didn't stop writing poetry. For me, they contain my connection with time, with the new life of my people. When I wrote them, I lived by the rhythms that sounded in the heroic history of my country. I am happy that I lived during these years and saw events that had no equal.
All the people sent to us are our reflection. And they were sent so that we, looking at these people, correct our mistakes, and when we correct them, these people either change too or leave our lives.
In the wide field of Russian literature in the USSR, I was the only literary wolf. I was advised to dye the skin. Ridiculous advice. Whether a wolf is dyed or shorn, it still does not look like a poodle. They treated me like a wolf. And for several years they persecuted me according to the rules of a literary cage in a fenced yard. I have no malice, but I am very tired...
From a letter from M.A. Bulgakov to I.V. Stalin, May 30, 1931.
When I die, my descendants will ask my contemporaries: “Did you understand Mandelstam’s poems?” - “No, we didn’t understand his poems.” “Did you feed Mandelstam, did you give him shelter?” - “Yes, we fed Mandelstam, we gave him shelter.” - “Then you are forgiven.”
Maybe go to the House of Press - there is one sandwich with chum caviar and a debate - “about the proletarian choral reading”, or to the Polytechnic Museum - there are no sandwiches there, but twenty-six young poets read their poems about the “locomotive mass”. No, I will sit on the stairs, shiver from the cold and dream that all this is not in vain, that, sitting here on the step, I am preparing the distant sunrise of the Renaissance. I dreamed both simply and in verse, and the results turned out to be rather boring iambics.
"The Extraordinary Adventures of Julio Jurenito and His Students"
