In 2016/17 academic year in the "Alcora Creative Workshop" we will study the means of artistic expression that are used in poetry, and we will even conduct a new educational competition series on this topic under common name TRAILS.

TROP is a word or expression used in figurative meaning for creating artistic image and achieving greater expressiveness.

Tropes include such artistic devices as epithet, comparison, personification, metaphor, metonymy, sometimes they include hyperbole and litotes and a number of others. expressive means. No work of art is complete without tropes. A poetic word is polysemantic; the poet creates images, playing with meanings and combinations of words, using the environment of the word in the text and its sound - all this constitutes the artistic possibilities of the word, which is the only tool of the poet or writer.

When creating TROP, the word is ALWAYS USED IN A FIGUREABLE MEANING.

Let's get acquainted with the most famous types of trails.

1. EPITHET

An epithet is one of the tropes, which is an artistic, figurative DEFINITION.
An epithet can be:

Adjectives:
gentle face (S. Yesenin);
these poor villages, this meager nature... (F. Tyutchev);
transparent maiden (A. Blok);

Participles:
abandoned land (S. Yesenin);
frantic dragon (A. Blok);
shining takeoff (M. Tsvetaeva);

Nouns, sometimes together with their surrounding context:
Here he is, a leader without squads (M. Tsvetaeva);
My youth! My little dove is dark! (M. Tsvetaeva).

Any epithet reflects the uniqueness of the author’s perception of the world, therefore it necessarily expresses some kind of assessment and has a subjective meaning: a wooden shelf is not an epithet, since there is no artistic definition here, a wooden face is an epithet expressing the speaker’s impression of the interlocutor’s facial expression, that is, creating an image .

IN work of art an epithet can perform various functions:
- figuratively characterize the object: shining eyes, diamond eyes;
- create an atmosphere, mood: gloomy morning;
- convey the attitude of the author (storyteller, lyrical hero) to the subject being characterized: “Where will our prankster ride?” (A. Pushkin);
- combine all previous functions (as happens in most cases of using an epithet).

2. COMPARISON

Comparison is artistic technique(trope), in which an image is created by comparing one object with another.

Comparison differs from other artistic comparisons, for example, likenings, in that it always has a strict formal sign: a comparative construction or turnover with comparative conjunctions AS, AS, WORD, EXACTLY, AS AS IF and the like. Expressions like HE WAS LIKE... cannot be considered a comparison as a trope.

“And slender reapers with short hems, LIKE FLAGS ON A HOLIDAY, fly with the wind” (A. Akhmatova)

“Thus, the images of changeable fantasies, running LIKE CLOUDS IN THE SKY, petrified, live for centuries in a sharpened and completed phrase.” (V. Bryusov)

3. PERSONALIZATION

Personification is an artistic technique (trope) in which HUMAN PROPERTIES are given to an inanimate object, phenomenon or concept.

Personification can be used narrowly, in one line, in a small fragment, but it can be a technique on which the entire work is built (“You are my abandoned land” by S. Yesenin, “Mother and the evening killed by the Germans”, “The violin and a little nervously” by V. Mayakovsky, etc.). Personification is considered one of the types of metaphor (see below).

The task of personification is to correlate the depicted object with a person, to make it closer to the reader, to figuratively comprehend the inner essence of the object, hidden from everyday life. Personification is one of the oldest figurative means of art.

4. HYPERBOLE

Hyperbole (exaggeration) is a technique in which an image is created through artistic exaggeration. Hyperbole is not always included in the set of tropes, but by the nature of the use of the word in a figurative meaning to create an image, hyperbole is very close to tropes.

“My love, like an apostle in time, I will destroy roads over a THOUSAND THOUSANDS..” (V. Mayakovsky)

"And the pine tree reaches the STARS." (O. Mandelstam)

The technique opposite to hyperbole in content is LITOTA (simplicity) - artistic understatement. Litota is also the definition of a concept or object by negating the opposite: “he’s not stupid” instead of “he’s smart”, “it’s well written” instead of “it’s well written”

"Your Pomeranian is a lovely Pomeranian, NO MORE THAN A THIMBLE! I stroked him all over; like silken fur!" (A. Griboyedov)

“And walking importantly, in decorous calm, the horse is led by the bridle by a man in big boots, in a short sheepskin coat, in big mittens... AND HIMSELF!” (A. Nekrasov)

Hyperbole and litotes allow the author to show the reader in an exaggerated form the most characteristic features of the depicted object. Often hyperbole and litotes are used by the author in an ironic way, revealing not just characteristic, but negative, from the author’s point of view, aspects of the subject.

5. METAPHOR

Metaphor (transfer) is a type of so-called complex trope, a speech turn in which the properties of one phenomenon (object, concept) are transferred to another. A metaphor contains a hidden comparison, a figurative likening of phenomena using the figurative meaning of words; what the object is compared to is only implied by the author. No wonder Aristotle said that “to compose good metaphors means to notice similarities.”

“I don’t feel sorry for the years wasted in vain, I don’t feel sorry for the SOUL OF THE LILAC FLOWER. A RED ROWAN BIRE BURNING IN THE GARDEN, but it can’t warm anyone.” (S. Yesenin)

"(...) The sleepy firmament disappeared, and again the WHOLE FROZY WORLD WAS DRESSED WITH THE BLUE SILK OF THE SKY, PERFORMED BY THE BLACK AND DESTRUCTIVE TRUNK OF THE WEAPON." (M. Bulgakov)

6. METONYMY

Metonymy (rename) - a type of trope: a figurative designation of an object according to one of its characteristics, for example: drink two cups of coffee; joyful whisper; the bucket spilled.

"Here the lordship is wild, without feeling, without law, APPROACHED to itself by a violent vine
And labor, and property, and the time of the FARMER..." (A. Pushkin)

"Here you WILL MEET SIDE BARDODS, the only ones, worn with extraordinary and amazing art under a tie (...) Here YOU WILL MEET a wonderful MUSTACHE, not depicted by any pen, no brush (...) Here you will MEET LADIES' SLEEVES on Nevsky Prospekt! (. ..) Here you will MEET the only SMILE, a smile at the height of art, sometimes such that you can melt with pleasure (...)" (N. Gogol)

“I read APULEY willingly (instead of: Apuleius’s book “The Golden Ass”), but did not read Cicero.” (A. Pushkin)

" Giray sat with downcast eyes, AMBER smoked in his mouth (instead of “amber pipe”) (A. Pushkin)

7. SYNECDOCHE

SynEcdoche (correlation, literally “co-understanding”) is a trope, a type of metonymy, a stylistic device in which the name of the general is transferred to the particular. Less often - on the contrary, from the particular to the general.

“The whole school poured out onto the street”; "Russia lost to Wales: 0-3",

The expressiveness of speech in an excerpt from A.T. Tvardovsky’s poem “Vasily Terkin” is built on the use of synecdoche: “To the east, through everyday life and soot // From one deaf prison // Europe goes home // The down of a feather bed over it like a blizzard // And at the Russian soldier //French brother, British brother // Pole brother and everything in a row // With friendship as if guilty // But they look with heart..." - here the generalized name Europe is used instead of the name of the peoples inhabiting European countries ; The singular number of the nouns "soldier", "French brother" and others replaces their plural. Synecdoche enhances the expression of speech and gives it a deep generalizing meaning.

“And it was heard until dawn how the Frenchman rejoiced” (M. Lermontov) - the word “Frenchman” is used as the name of the whole - “Frenchmen” (a noun in singular used instead of a plural noun)

"All flags will visit us (instead of “ships” (A. Pushkin).

Definitions of some tropes are controversial among literary scholars because the boundaries between them are blurred. Thus, metaphor, in essence, is almost indistinguishable from hyperbole (exaggeration), from synecdoche, from simple comparison or personification and likening. In all cases there is a transfer of meaning from one word to another.

There is no generally accepted classification of tropes. An approximate set of the most famous tropes includes such techniques for creating expressive means as:

Epithet
Comparison
Personification
Metaphor
Metonymy
Synecdoche
Hyperbola
Litotes
Allegory
Irony
Pun
Pathos
Sarcasm
Periphrase
Dysphemism
Euphemism

We will talk about some of them in more detail during the process of participating in individual competitions of the educational series “Paths”, but for now let’s just remember the new term:

TROP (turnover) is a rhetorical figure, word or expression used in a figurative meaning in order to enhance the figurativeness of the language, artistic expressiveness speech. Tropes, in addition to poetry, are widely used in literary prose works, in oratory and in everyday speech.

skoe image. However, while putting forward some basic ugly trait in his heroes, Gogol does not turn them into conventionally grotesque figures, preserving all the vitality and completeness of their characters. So, for example, Khlestakov’s dandyism, repeatedly noted by Gogol, is a very significant detail in his appearance, emphasizing frivolity, fanfare, and claims to secularism. No wonder he dreams of coming home to the village, in a St. Petersburg suit, dressing Osip in livery, ordering a carriage from the fashionable carriage maker Joachim!

The most important feature of Gogol’s comedies is their satirical orientation, which was reflected both in the hyperbolic emphasis and comic sharpness of his artistic colors, and in the mercilessness with which he exposed the crowd of freaks of bureaucratic and feudal Russia. In his depiction of the freaks of this society, Gogol is not afraid of exaggeration, hyperbolic relief, or satirical exaggeration. He is merciless in his exposure of the anti-nationality, inertia and vulgarity of his heroes, does not try to soften his harsh sentence on Skvoznik-Dmukhanovsky, Khlestakov, Podkolesin. A. Grigoriev saw passionate, hyperbolic humor in Gogol’s work.

This passion for denunciation did not allow Gogol to soften his satirical image, to note any positive features. He brings out in front of the viewer all the most disgusting, socially harmful, dishonest things that are often hidden under the mask of hypocrisy in these people.

The mayor is a representative of the bureaucratic environment of the old leaven, but Khlestakov is a different matter - a hero of the new time, the product of a new order. He is a metropolitan creature, a representative of the highest clerical spheres, the educated circle of bureaucrats who set the tone.

In Khlestakov’s characterization in the Notes, for G.G. actors Gogol wrote: A young man of about 23 years old, thin, skinny, somewhat stupid and, as they say, without a king in his head. One of those people who in the office are called empty-headed. He speaks and acts without any consideration. He is not able to stop constant attention on any thought..... In this characteristic of Khlestakov, those main lines are outlined along which the image in his acting incarnation should be built. Gogol, first of all, emphasizes the mediocrity and stupidity of Khlestakov, the unproductivity of his actions and actions. But it was precisely these features that were typical of the vast circle of noble youth from the provincial sons of landowners who settled in the capital’s departments. In the further course of his comedies, Gogol will reveal this type in his gigantic vulgarity, selfishness, and spiritual insignificance. Khlestakov is a product of Gogol’s contemporary reality, a typical phenomenon of noble society, clearly indicating its degradation, its ostentatious deceitful essence. Khlestakov is not a caricature - he is a generalized social type, in which his partly genuine, insignificant nature of the noble society is completely exposed. Khlestakov’s character….is fully developed,” notes Belinsky, “revealed to the last semblance of its microscopic pettiness and gigantic vulgarity.

Khlestakov is a symbol of all-Russian imposture, general deceit and falsehood, vulgarity, bragging, irresponsibility. There are no definite views, no definite goals,” Herzen wrote about modern government clique figures, “and the eternal type of Khlestakov, repeated from the volost clerk to the tsar. Wanting to give himself more weight, Khlestakov boasts of his literary acquaintances, and then of fashionable works, of which he is supposedly the author.

The tipsy and boastful Khlestakov pats Pushkin on the shoulder and hints at his involvement in literature: Yes, they already know me everywhere. I know pretty actresses. I, too, are different vaudevillians. For Khlestakov, actresses, vaudeville actors, and Pushkin are phenomena of the same kind. I often see writers. On friendly terms with Pushkin. It used to be, I often say to him: Well, what, brother Pushkin?.... “Yes, so, brother,” he used to answer. A sketch of Khlestakov’s conversation with the postmaster who came to greet him on his arrival in the city:

Khlestakov. In my opinion, what is needed? You just need to be respected and loved sincerely, right?

Postmaster. Quite fair.

In this small scene, the whole of Khlestakov is fully revealed - with his hyperbolic aplomb. He believes that everyone should respect and love him, that everyone should bow to his charm.

The grotesqueness and hyperbolic emphasis of many plot points in Gogol's comedies do not violate their realism. Gogol does not abandon external methods of comic characterization of his characters. He willingly puts them in funny situations, gives them a comic appearance, and resorts to exaggeration.

A particularly illustrative example of the writer’s careful work on language is Khlestakov’s famous monologue in the scene of lying. In this monologue, Khlestakov becomes more and more carried away by his lies and creates a broad picture of the morals and moral insignificance of the entire noble society. Literally every word here has extraordinary weight. The writer's skill is revealed in conveying the smallest shades of Khlestakov's lies, which acquire very significant significance for the characterization of both Khlestakov himself and the society around him. I admit, I exist through literature. This is my first house in St. Petersburg. It’s so well known: the house of Ivan Alexandrovich. And then a boastful invitation to a non-existent house. Mention of a watermelon costing 700 rubles. Soup delivered in a saucepan from Paris. Entering the role, Khlestakov lies more and more inspired, his lie grows like a snowball - hyperbole, which has become a kind of discovery of Khlestakov's inspired lies.

And immediately the courier will say: Ivan Alexandrovich! Go run the ministry. I admit, I was a little embarrassed: I came out in a dressing gown, well, I’ll refuse, but I think to myself; will reach the sovereign... unpleasant. Well, I didn’t want to spoil my track record

Gogol also worked hard on finishing the end of Khlestakov’s monologue, trying to give it maximum expressiveness. A significant admission by the completely deceived Khlestakov that he went to the palace, and even he himself does not know what, in the end, he became. I am also present on the State Council. And to the palace, if sometimes there are balls, they always send for me. They even wanted to make me vice-chancellor... me myself state council fears. What really? That's who I am! I won’t look at anyone...I tell everyone: I know myself, myself. I'm everywhere, everywhere. I go to the palace every day. Tomorrow I will be promoted to field marshal now..., (Slips...)

Khlestakov's hyperbolic lie reaches its climax, its apogee. He lies selflessly, self-confidently, piling up more and more details about his greatness.

The play also included new shades and verbal colors, enriching its language and deepening the vitality and truthfulness of the images. Gogol sought from the play maximum verbal sound, absolute linguistic accuracy, complete correspondence of verbal means to the realistic essence of the image.

Working on the language of the Inspector General is amazing in its artistic insight and literary integrity, an image for playwrights.

Bottom line. The struggle for a new, high image of man, the search for new artistic means satirical images in comedy are supported by Gogol’s dramatic experience. In his comedies, he turned to the life around him, selecting from it the most significant, typical phenomena. Playwrights continue this wonderful tradition. The achievements of the founder of Russian comedy are implemented in different ways. Gogol's spirit is felt not only in the general satirical concept, but also in the very manner of depicting the characters, humor, and linguistic characteristics.

Gogol's stories.

May with with good reason assert that the Terrible Vengeance and the Evening on the Eve of Ivan Kupala represent the most primary stage of Gogol’s creativity. It is no coincidence that the plots of these stories are based less on folklore than on the motives of Gogol’s contemporary romanticism.

The same touch of a fantastic ballad lies in the episode of the drowned woman on the May Night, but there the lyrics are more folklorized and included in the context of a cheerful, bright dream about the norm of life of healthy people close to nature. The dream and poetry of Terrible Revenge with its hyperbolic images that bring the illusory world into the open are a different matter.

It goes without saying that it would be strange to be surprised by the hyperboles of the Terrible Revenge, including the famous landscape of the Wonderful Dnieper in calm weather... There is no need to be surprised by Gogol's Rare bird will fly to the middle of the Dnieper. For these are also landscapes of the soul, like Zhukovsky’s, and his task is not at all to recreate an objective picture of the river. And it is difficult to be symphonic emotions, a pathetic introduction to what follows.

The theme of a fantastic, unnatural vision of St. Petersburg at night is already close to the idea and style of the city landscapes of Nevsky Prospekt given in The Night Before Christmas: My God! Knock, thunder, shine; on both sides are piled four-story walls, the clatter of horse hooves, the sound of the wheel echoed with thunder and reverberated from four sides, houses grew and seemed to rise from the ground at every step; the bridges trembled; the carriages flew; the cabbies and postilions shouted; the snow whistled under a thousand sleighs flying from all sides; pedestrians huddled and crowded under houses strewn with bowls, and their huge shadows flashed along the walls, reaching

Lyudmila Kolodyazhnaya
Selected Poems
Moscow 2012 (January – December)

*** To the disciples - the Lord gave strength...

“Here the draft is ripening
Students of running water..."
Osip Mandelstam

Into the night - crying flows from the drain
trumpets, or flutes... Who will give strength
running water for students -
and tears, and moisture, and ink...

Rays born of the sunrise
running, the notebook is still blank,
but slate lines - odes -
grow and branch on leaves.

Deep meaning in transparent
rhymes
swirls... Where is its source?
Involuntarily, the stylus will leave a mark,
slightly broken at the line junctions.

The break of heavenly transitions,
where the horizon is clear...
The dawn is growing. Prostrate ode
on the surface of an ashen leaf,

Absorbing the splash of running water
and tears, and crying, and ink,
and the song of the drainage flute -
to the disciples - the Lord gave strength...

*** Eugene 2012

You know what I'll take with me
into the distance, where the surf is always noisy -
the thread of your voice, a silken thread,
and even a snowflake that fell on a leaf,
surrounded by your hand...
I'll bring you a sip
brackish sea water,
and golden sand time
from that quiet coast,
where are the waves, like lines,
running at each other - carelessly...

*** Anna's room

The ceiling above me is sloping,
Someone carved it out of aspen,
And in the window there is starry crumble...
Apparently time has taken its toll on me -
My life is married to silence,
Appearing in dark frames,
Above me there is a log ceiling -
In a distant wooden house.

late,
To the City where the snow-covered crowns...
And in my window there are only pine trees
With ancient evergreen needles -
Knotty branches of the knee,
And through them - a square of heaven,
A star ray from the depths of the universe
I lost the high beam along the way...

Let this light touch you -
You and I are crowned with a ray...
The time is right to call you -
late…
Above me is a log ceiling...

*** “The pine tree reaches the star...”

Near your home
strives to heights, grows
ship mast/scaffolding,
the spruce is darkening,
the pine tree reaches the star,
and in the look always -
star shine.
In the evenings
you tell fortunes by the fire,
in its petals
looking for an answer...
Save it for the children
save it for me
this eternal
Evening light.
Lift up
white keys running shaft –
the hammers touch the strings,
and you will remember
that I played as a child,
predawn
Chopin nocturne.
Your horizon is broken
mountain range
in the town
approaches the houses...
Have I ever
I'll come to you again
you and I
let's go over the hills
we'll go in
in a ship's mast
forest,
along the path,
what leads to the sky
you show me
point of the night sky,
to which the pine tree reaches...

***
The lamp shines dimly
Crying with silence interferes
Along a dry riverbed
I continue my path

Snowy is better
Long old road
Where the almond blossoms
On the far coast

But I'll still hesitate
At every turn
I'll still follow the trail
In the town where they wander

Obedient deer
Along street slopes
Where shadows play during the day
In the rays flying obliquely

On a low wooden
House covered with pine needles
Where is the Pentateuch volume
Revealed in the first chapters...

*** Towards the Annunciation

The beginning of the month of April,
Annunciation, seventh day...

Two glances will meet in space -
yours and mine -–
at the farthest point
sending us rays...
Two glances will fall on the line,
which still sounds secret.

The line is strictly outlined,
every word is a source,
flowing with the Voice of God...
There is the Blessed Flower,
which the Archangel holds,
pulled out of the darkness by light..
There - Virgo reads the same
the words we read...

*** Palm Sunday

I'll bring you a willow branch,
remembering that on this day,

I “Hosanna...” - I’ll say.

I'll swing another page
in front of you, in the beam strip,
and I will melt like a candle melts,
but now I’m not afraid of getting burned.

I'll whisper to you: “Believe me,
only the Word sounds hot..."
I'll make it in time with a spring ray
open the door in your house,

On the day when your gaze wandered,
sorting out the patterns of lines...
There are no more terrible roads on earth,
except where God passed.

I'll bring you a willow branch,
remembering that on this day,
before disappearing like a shadow,
I “Hosanna...” - I’ll say,

Knowing that someday
you come in, we’ll fire our rays,
to that distant Jerusalem
and you will walk that short path...

*** Tsaritsyno

The spokes of time sang,
the blue train sailed out,
and rushed me off to Tsaritsino -
on a date with you.

The palaces are shrouded in silence,
the sparkle of the cascades, the splash of water,
us Bazhenov and Kazakov
will meet you, cast in bronze...

Disputes will fall silent in silence...
The surf will cling to the clouds
to the horizon. In those spaces
let's get lost with you.

There's a hole growing in the clouds,
the blue month will flash,
whose radiance is like a milestone -
the day where you and I were.

And what time of day -
we don’t know, and around -
silence. Just a flock of ducks
snatches bread from our hands.

How did they spend the winter here?
Are you happy about wormwood anyone?
How they missed here
without warmth, like you and me?

The spokes of time sang,
the blue train sailed
and rushed away from Tsaritsino,
separating you and me...

*** Monday on Strastnaya

The window opening is flooded with darkness...
But I wanted it to
distant star needle
by morning it was mended.

So that a stitch runs to a stitch,
so that there is a bright path
flowed into the room... Snowball
to melt outside the window.

So that from the hot ray
ran through the snow
the first stream path...
So that the willow comes to life.

So that, continuing the long journey,
glowing spoke
from the yarn of words spun the essence -
Universe - on the pages...

*** Wednesday on Strastnaya

so that life turns into an epic...
Holy Wednesday... Broken today
Alavastra Magdalene jug.

As if a stone sin had been broken.
In repentance, in furious crying
she overcame the burden of pleasures,
washing the feet of the Most Pure Ones.

Soul and flesh were transformed...
“Death, where is your sting?..”
And the Lord forgave her sins,
Maria was transformed.

The maiden entered the chamber of eternity
from the April Palm Garden...
And the soul became transparent,
as from the first communion.

The line of being grows into everyday life,
so that the Word rules the world.
The aroma spills out into eternity,
smells like myrrh.

*** Friday on Holy Day

Drops snatched from the darkness
timid evening light -
lanterns covering the corners
streets...The drops are still heavy
thin birch branches.

This Friday, this cry -
like a participant in a drama...
Jesus - the executioner pierced his heart,
the veil in the temple fell apart.

There is a hole in the world, darkness comes,
there is no light in the world...
A drop, like a tear, is heavy
thin birch branches.

But I know through the first rain
on this April evening,
you, like me, are going to a distant garden -
by the morning of the only meeting.

*** Night of Holy Saturday

April rain from transparent crowns
the night wind blows away.
Today - bell ringing
stands in the white world.

And two thousand years have passed,
how the Messiah came into the world...
Light pours from every church -
we are going to the temple of Anastasia

Let's go in, the aisle is still deserted,
the icons look clear,
but the candles make it so hot...
And gold paint

Crosses are burning on the domes,
like beacons of the universe.
The bells tell us
that “There is no Death...” - from captivity

The soul will someday leave,
someday, not soon,
and above the earth, as the light rises,
becoming a star in the open spaces.

On this night every person
facing fate...
And the church is a small Ark
saves you and me.

*** Sunday Morning

Like Mary, I will enter at dawn
to that distant spring Garden.
the wind of eternity will meet me,
as the last of the obstacles.

On the ground - along a rough road,
making a mistake, I had to go...
The Gardener will meet me in that Garden
and will point out other paths.

I don't recognize Him at first
in the pre-dawn fog-darkness,
I’ll just note that the look is sadder
I have never met on earth.

Through the branches of spring yarn
I can still discern the features...
And when He “Mary!” - he will say,
I will answer: “Teacher!.. You!...”

This will be the first meeting
on the only road...
This will be the last meeting
and will be covered in fog - God...

*** I walk through life, barely breathing...

I'm walking through a transparent forest,
through the morning, the blue of the sky,
through the snow melted remains.

I'm walking, random pedestrian,
to where my train does not wait -
through the silence at the stop.

All my catch today -
stanza, and there are ten words in it
a prayer not created by me...
I walk through life, barely breathing,
to where the soul flies away
into the gap once preserved

That Angel that carried me -
heavenly petal of fire,
so that I might someday be incarnated

Here on Earth, here in silence,
so that someday about me
in words only the memory is preserved.

April. The forest is still transparent,
I'm walking through the blue skies,
the remains of the snow melted.

Someone from above tells me
that my train is already standing
and waits in silence, at the stop...

*** "Blessed<...>
You are the supreme hour of loneliness!”
Marina Tsvetaeva

Honoring the great teachers,

Night. Dozing in faceless silence
a lantern that didn't go out.

Like an ancient nameless guard
always stands on the corner,
and collecting starry manna,
a ray dispels the darkness.

What little is left for me...
A star flashing in the distance -
mine - it burns out when you're tired
will erase me from Your land.

I believe in great teachers
I honor the supreme hour of loneliness.
The last one will be my loss
a lantern that didn't go out.

When I cross the threshold -
doors opened to the edge of the other -–
I’ll answer: it was the most expensive
the light of lonely lanterns...

*** Cranes
"And here you are again, a tributary
cranes..."
Velimir Khlebnikov

You live somewhere far away,
but the cranes are flying towards you
above the paper margin of the page,
touching the border with its wing.

The path winds with a thin line,
but I can’t get to you,
because the line is short -
but the clouds are growing above it

Above the expanse of paper fields,
where I draw cranes.
The fields are overgrown with words,
you won't hear the crane,

What sings in your silence -
about me, about me, about me...
Only - someday this page
will fly to you like a tit,

But - you will see cranes
over the expanse of paper fields...

***
"And the Eucharist, as eternal
noon, lasts...”
Osip Mandelstam

It's like I'm risking my life,
death hour in the evenings
I'm waiting... But I draw angels
on transparent sheets, in the morning...

And I can see a patch of heaven
in the blue, in the open space of the window.
Every day I build Ordinary
temple of verse... Silence lives in it,

What - the second becomes life,
the one where everyone says a prayer,
the one where the angel enters silently,
the one who opens the Royal Door,

And the Face of the Lord will be revealed,
from the candles - the glare of heavenly fire,
The Eucharist lasts noon,
The living God is looking at me...

You will enter this temple one day
and, shrouded in silence,
and, tormented by spiritual thirst,
stand quietly next to me...

*** Holy Skete

Once again, pilgrim, wandering with a knapsack
along a remote path
monastery...
Like descendants of ancient wanderers
–
to the monastery of Saint Alexander of Svir.

Only in the wilderness is the life of a Saint
get settled -
let it be a pine tree, not a tree of Mamra...
But the Trinity appeared to the saint here,
like Old Abraham.
My wanderer, write about this -
so that the strings connect us...
Write - what in this world
there is also a holy monastery.

After all, a pilgrim on his way is in no hurry,
passing through the monastic land...
Let the wanderer dream about the Trinity,
as once upon Saint Svirsky...

*** That meadow path
"hills swaddled tightly"
Mandelstam, 1920

Someday, my friend,
listen to my words,
walk with me forever
the path of a narrow meadow,
where the horizon is open,
where they seem in the distance
biblical hills,
"swaddled tightly..." -

That ribbon of roads
what you and I have been through
there, beyond the horizon,
and it’s not possible to return -
through the lightning of anxiety,
flickering in the distance
like in a transcendental dream,
where you can't wake up.

Someday, my friend,
heed my words
walk with me forever
that meadow path,
where the horizon is given,
like in the Bible, the hills,
and where the Earth is shaking
over every blade of grass...

*** My Angel Cupbearer
“...I drink the bitterness of tuberoses...” Boris
Parsnip

The truth is always
of light and shadows,
from dew beads,
from the cold of snowy manna,
from the dampness of the line
in the foggy paper darkness,
growing among my
unfinished days

Which maybe
will never come true
I drink the bitterness of these days,
my angel cupbearer,
we this reality is like pain,
we will endure with you forever,
and the truth... it grows
hills like years.

Good riddance
let's sit on the edge,
my winged companion,
given forever,
ever wing
close my eyelids,
to open them again
in some Paradise...

You know my days
are counted by you,
let the result be small -
a pile of paper poems,
but you will hear it
the sound of time is like a rustle,
what flows into your distance,
into the vastness of silence.

*** Like angels, we walked barefoot
“To me from the Vladimir expanses
I really didn’t want to go to the South..."

Birch with a foggy branch
draws circles on the water,
as if the old path is deceptive,
leading, perhaps, to trouble..

The echo rolled from the slopes,
like a continuation, like a fright
birds, from the Vladimir expanses
flying to the South.

Following the tired traveler
silently my shadow wandered
where the Church flourished
and the domes floated in the stars.

The sulfur match warmed us
and a candle with a drop of wax,
the one that burned in your hands,
but the beam remained golden.

Like angels we walked barefoot
and time the sand rustled -
paths pure, straight,
distant as their source.

We walked there, to the edge of the World,
through waters, mountains and forests,
we went there, in the Lord's Summer,
to the call, to the voices of birds.

*** We walked along the path to Biryulyovo

At noon fresh and spring
we walked along the path to Biryulyovo,
cherry blossom branch
deprived us of the gift of speech.

Palm in palm - walked side by side,
as if on the edge of the world,
in the grass, noting with his gaze
primrose stars.

The pages are already overgrown -
in a notebook deserted in the morning
the words that the birds sang,
and the woodpecker was tapping out the dots.

We walked along the blossoming alley,
walked without regretting anything,
and left at the end of the walk
on Lipetsk Alley.

Meek words of farewell,
puzzle solved today...
From the happiness of a short meeting
I was taken away by a bus

Somewhere, at the edge of the world,
where eyes don't meet
and primroses do not grow,
to where you are not around.

*** Dream

It was probably a dream...
The deserted hall floated,
where you washed the windows,
and I helped you.

And the surf rolled towards the windows
the first green branches -
a barrier between you and me,
a barrier between darkness and light.

And the dream repeated itself again,
wandered around the hall like shadows...
But it was love
and a tangle of young branches.

The dream melted away in an hour...
But the branches remained a curl
in the Garden, looking at us
through the freshness, washed the windows

*** Love is a transparent trap

Love led us like children
through life rooms and halls
and reflected us in the mirrors,
woven silk nets
a transparent trap for us,
which I share with you,
when I whisper in your ear
that I love you.

We have learned to comprehend
love is an obscure science
and this sweet flour,
having gone through separation, accept,
so that her ritual is ancient
to hold on even for a moment -
in poetry, in melodies, in paintings -
they tried to reflect love.

Ready to share a whole century
a transparent trap with you,
whispering words of love in your ear,
I’m ready to continue this torment...

*** Garden-labyrinth

The blue one rushed us into this Garden
train...
Why are there no roads from here?
A labyrinth, perhaps an eternal search
on earth, here - an unearthly miracle.

We follow continuous threads,
timidly, among the paths, grasses
secluded,
stopped by every explosion
white apple trees, cherries and bird cherry trees.

Still, we are looking for a way out, we are stubborn -
from the fields of these blooming mines...
Apple tree clouds boil above us,
and the bird cherry goes like an avalanche.

We circled, passed twice
along the paths and through the thorny grasses,
and flew at us during each explosion
petals are transparent fragments.

This thread was unraveled in the evening,
hearing a call from a distant bell tower -
went to the temple of the white Forerunner,
along the ravine, finding a roundabout path.

The same blue train took us away,
and in the crowd, in its elegant midst,
mentally we continued the search -
eternal - in that blooming labyrinth.

*** In some Paradise...

Having walked a disastrous path today,
your bright one I will leave home
and return to myself and the Bible
I'll open the volume at random.
Let the page light up
the lamp sleeps on the edge
table - to find yourself
me in some kind of Paradise.
I will go there without fear,
fingering the page a little...
Forever there the Lord of their ashes
Adam creates you...
The clay is fresh and elastic,
moisture is purer than silver,
and me, your friend,
God will recreate from a rib...
Cherries are blooming in that region
and the firmament is covered with grass.
We are still sinless
but death is already creeping in.
We're still innocent
but trouble is already near -
we keep half
golden fruit.

Let's burn each other with affection
the very first - for centuries...
You and I are still beautiful
and love is as strong as death..
I will leave Paradise... Eternal Bible
closing the old volume.
Let me come again, disastrous -
to your distant bright home.

*** In this farewell hour

you tell me that my words are dry,
I tell you - at the last dawn,
look, the tops of the birch trees are burning...

You go alone, there, to the North, into the distance,
novice... Maybe to a desert monastery.
What remains for me are the stars of high steel,
whose ray guards the wasteland here at night.

At the hour of farewell dawn this house is flooded,
I pronounce the words of my love like a toast...
You leave alone for the feat of prayers,
leaving me the path of the line - it is straight and simple.

You go alone to the ghost station,
hurriedly sipping the glass of farewell...
But you tied a knot on my handkerchief,
so that someday I will remember you.

At this farewell hour, in the evening,
you repeat the last words to me...
I tell you - at the last dawn,
look, the tops of the birch trees are burning...

*** Anna and Amedeo

I forget your words
I'm reading about an old novel -
about the short meeting in Paris
Akhmatova and Modigliani.

They read Verlaine aloud,
by heart, in unison, in French...
He drew on the walls with charcoal
her strange profile is non-Russian.

He is still an unknown artist,
and she is a young poetess...
But already on the canvas carefully
the first drawing appears.

But love is a rare bird...
A month later they broke up.
But already above her portrait
The first lines took off in a flock.

A century ago... The same blue twilight,
I'm reading about an old romance,
a line darkens on the page -
Anna's profile - by Modigliani's hand.

*** “And you have to leave spaces
in fate, and not among papers..."
Boris Pasternak

Let the line fall from the leaf,
let the word know no limits,
and I won't put an end to it
so that the word reaches you.

So that we leave spaces
in fate, and not in a paper field,
where are we going with confidence?
entered, as if into water, one day.

Let the branches intertwine lines,
grow like a transparent thicket...
My poems are just notes
about time passing.

Let the lines of life not be smooth
and somewhere they converge to a point -
fate of an unfinished chapter
will remain in broken lines.

It may be someone's will,
so that we sketch it carelessly
on a narrow paper field
fragments about the former life.

*** Fahrenheit 451 (in memory of Ray
Bradbury)

From melting cloud floes
the last moisture is squeezed out.
Four hundred fifty one
It's hot and the paper is burning.

The notebook turns to dust,
life is all in the palm of your hand,
the words melt the light in the eyes,
words falling into the abyss.

And the world is covered in silence,
silence, from edge to edge.
Burning Bush
The word burns without being consumed.

And yet - along the river beds,
losing the last sounds,
some person
wanders, repeating books out loud.

Great lines account
leading, because life will be reborn,
and someone will read it again -
the pages he has saved.

Four hundred and fifty, hot...
About 200 Celsius.
The paper is burning, it's time -
walk along the lines like on a blade...

*** “The wind died down and the evening died away...”
Velimir Khlebnikov

Let my verse sway
like a lilac above you, nothing less...
So that the wind calms down,
short meeting, setting a deadline.

So that the evening fades away,
the starlight of the shadow of the peg,
to the melody-knock
dark lilac branches on the roof.

For you to come
the veil of the summer curtain fell...
For you to leave
when the sun rises over the forest.

Let the notebook sheet
opens its wing over you...
We have passed a revolution
a dilapidated staircase that became fate.

*** I live in the village of Troparevo

I live in the village of Troparevo,
there is a birch tree in the window, there is wind in the house...
Tom Minea, where in equal lines
I read the Troparion at dawn.

Through the pattern of Slavic dark ligature
The Image appears - ancient, bright,
as if restoring connections
between past time and this.

Every day is dedicated to someone,
I read the Troparion at sunrise,
and in these short minutes
holy life passes before me.

Bookshelf, Menaion-Cheti...
Martyrs - glory does not burn out.
I read the Troparion at dawn -
Soon it will be the day of Peter and Paul.
With my gaze I hesitate on the lines
smooth...
The wind, he turns the pages here,
in the house where in the village of Troparevo
I read the ancient troparia...

*** Moment

Let's stop talking mid-sentence...
Let the arrow wait a minute,
let's stop for a moment -
what will become beautiful.

“I’ll pull back the curtain...” –
you ask... - I don’t mind.
The ray will run through
transforms things.

The room will light up
hands join...
Let this hour repeat itself -
in memory, during the years of separation.

The distance will increase
a barrier between us -
anyway, about parting
There's no need to talk now.

Let's remember the past...
At this endless hour
the arrow grows like an arrow,
denoting eternity.

Our shadows disperse
The beam, having escaped, will go out.
The arrow will freeze for a moment -
that was wonderful...

*** Light rustle of the Universe

My catch is small -
balcony door creaks,
and luminous face,
glance flying from the icon.

It’s your day too
the same rustles, creaks,
and fragrant shadow
under a blooming linden tree.

Days running features
frozen in strict lines,
do you remember
the hour where we were together...

Likewise, the linden blossomed,
somewhere a bird sang,
and the path led us
beyond earthly limits.

Networks of subtle words -
fabric of habitual captivity,
my catch is small -
light rustling of the Universe...

*** Silver Kuzmina

Who will answer for my life,
and what guilt? –
I'm entangled in the Internet
in silver - Kuzmina...

Swept away in shame
wasted day...
And words are like lakes
the shadow will hide the clouds.

May they burn out someday
rows of openwork bridges...
In the ice - trout will be hit
silver tails...

Your distant ray will scatter
stitches gloomy joint.
I'm following Orpheus -
along the Eurydice path...

I'm counting the minutes
here is the clearing of the line...
Entangled in this network
my Orpheus, even you...

***
A star flashes overhead
into the gap that trembles above the foliage,
as a future source,

When an overheard speech
stars - trying to save
in nightly streams of lines.

Will you remember the hot whisper - the mouth...
Star rays burning bush
will illuminate your threshold.

By morning it's still growing
like a talking bush, like the one
in which God is hidden...

And you think that it’s a pity -
the page is still not a Tablet,
keeping the Law,

But only - giving an answer
to the fleeting light of the stars,
coming from the windows...

*** I'm back...

I'm back... The birches are still the same
grow high behind the transparent window.
I returned home... The wind is fresh
these rooms seem familiar,

In this house he is like the owner,
brother of the thin birch peaks,
arriving from the outskirts of the air -
became the guardian of the local silence.

I returned home to this niche
loneliness, to the old shelter,
where perhaps I'll hear again
your voice... Where the tourniquet is twisted

Into the infinity of stretched threads,
called our destiny...
Nodules are days and events -
were created by me and you.

This is in memory of our little lump -
those who sometimes tug at your soul,
like fast running lines,
that now they are sliding along the leaf.

I returned home... And from the balcony
I breathe in the midnight darkness -
under the All-Seeing Eye - from the icon -
incomprehensible to the earthly mind...

*** Rain

Last night the rain was knocking on the window,
and the spirit of heaven hovered over the page,
and moisture turned into wine,
he fed the vines of the rows like ancient juice.
A foreign guest unwittingly became the cause
insomnia... Heavenly scale
washed away the earthly silence with an avalanche,
drowning out the pain from past losses.
Like eternity - the rain threads are pouring
and hover over the notebook as they please,
and are constantly torn into pieces,
to fit between the lines, at random,
and summer comes to life on the page,
and grass sprouts among the rows,
and wrap themselves around objects in the room,
and only the point stops this
co-creation is a frantic lesson...

*** Towards the Transfiguration

Already growing in the earthly night,
always arguing with ordinary light,
those invisible rays
that they shone on Tabor.

And again, waiting for the day,
according to the old - the number of the sixth -
the soul is like a petal of fire,
ready for transformation.

On that day the leaves will be covered
unfading autumn light -
by the fact that the words are illuminated
in the page of the ancient Testament,

which we read
following the disciples,
and again we see, as if from the darkness
rays appear from the top.

That day will begin in silence,
unbreakable voices...

In the rays there is a heavy globe of the Earth
easy - flies under the skies...

All simpler days, everything is getting worse

But even - on the blooming firmament
The days are getting simpler, the days are getting worse,
when it's a stone's throw to death,
but far from repentance.

Do not change numbers and dates
in a time of defeat and resentment...
Where are you, Psalm fiftieth,
creation of the old David?

After all, I'm still at the beginning
volumes of the Holy Pentateuch...
When will the sadness be quenched?
line of the psalm that will become closer

Of the lost chant,
and the days will come silent -
days of repentance are more blessed,
and tremble over the willow stream,

They will bend over the blooming firmament,
when - a moment before immortality...

*** “May God forgive you,
juniper bush..."
N. Zabolotsky

Poetry - out of nothing
the desired movement of the mouth...
But it will illuminate the brow with a ray
and the juniper bush will burst into flames,

Which God has already forgiven...
An autumn leaf spins in the night,
frozen in a deserted garden
cold amethyst berries.

Life goes on in a dream
transforming what is here...
An angel comes in silence
and the song brings like news.

It sounds out of nowhere
when the beam needle flies,
accidentally illuminating the brow,
and resin falls from the branches,

And the drops glow through the dream...
Frozen in a deserted garden
cold berries blue ringing -
from the bush that God forgave...

*** Apple Spas

Is it woven together, or sung,
Do you remember, under our gaze -
from sweetness, or from ripeness
apples fell into the grass
and on the ground, as on a platter,
blushing a little, they lay there,
and surprised people
they were collected carefully

Slow movements
as if spellbound
this heavenly vision
as if transformed.

Rusted quietly
wind... The cloud has risen
above the Garden - in the burning edge -
slowly, as if tired.

Was it sung, or was it intertwined...
The hour of the night is moving away,
The earth was spinning slightly on axis,
putting your side to the cloud,

As if under our gaze
time has changed...
The apple fell slowly
the cloud in the sky glowed.

*** “...a swallow into the palace of shadows
will return..."

You see, your swallow has gone blind,
returns to the palace of shadows.
Only night. There will be no more days
and in your palm there is a handful of ashes.

But she was my page
and birds of words flew along it,
overcoming the boundaries of dreams...
Let these ashes turn silver

At the holy hour, when you dispel it...
From already charred particles
a flock of new pages will arise -
you won't be able to put them together.

The swallow will leave, but the Phoenix bird
will circle above you in silence,
because they don't burn in fire -
about you - my poems pages.

Time will not touch them with fine dust.
Only night. There will be no bright days.
They won't leave shadows over you -
swallow's cut wings.

*** Line of Genesis

The window was washed by rain in the morning,
and drops fly into the room.
You cross out the line of everyday life,
you read a line from Genesis.

There - the first tear rolled down,
and maybe the first rain has passed,
The sky has fallen to earth,
and God exclaimed: Good!

But a blue light appeared in the clouds,
and there is a space between the lines...
It may also be autumn in paradise
and a leaf fell from the tree of life.

About what else happened there
perhaps there is no trace in the Book,
but the apple was already round,
the first trouble was in a hurry.

But in the room the window is washed
tears of the first rain,
and among the lines of sad everyday life
the line of Genesis sparkles...

*** Read the Bible without me

You read the Bible without me,
without you the cold air is empty...
I won’t light a fire on this day,
that juniper bush is glowing

What is probably still growing
under your open window...
We felt hot in those rays
in those hours where we were together

Hidden by the evening silence
meeting eyes in the sky
the bush burned like an imperishable bush
eternity appeared on the clock.

The blue ringing remains in my memory
berries growing cold in the distance...
I'm reading the Bible - about sleep
ancient prophet Elijah.

Let the bush bend over you
juniper tree where the prophet fell asleep
from your lips let it fly
The word that God will whisper to you

So that the autumn evening is not empty
on the day where I don't light a fire
only the juniper bush glows...
You read the Bible without me...

"In one moment see
eternity..." W. Blake

I am writing to you from afar,
I share water and bread with you.,
so that you can see the sky
in the petal cup of a flower.

According to one of the most ancient Books -
I wonder about you endlessly
so that eternity flies before you
in one short earthly moment.

I am writing to you from afar,
let, sometimes, my line is uneven
so that, like me, you see the huge world
in the smallest grain of sand.

I'm guessing - on the day when the two of us
We will be fleeting in this life,
so that it seems endless to me
your eyes are a transparent pond.

Your house will be illuminated with light

Your house will be illuminated with light,
and the fireplace will begin to swirl
flame... Let's sit by the fire,
just don't drive me away.

I came to you to confess,
like the other half
like a drop of yours
on the threshold of existence.

Waking up from oblivion
and burying myself in your shoulder,
to continue somehow
conversation goes a long way...

A horseshoe will flash on the door
old happiness, new light,
and there will be silence
at the open window.

The leaves will fly dry
into the autumn garden, like for the first time,
into a pond, into a clear body of water -
where we stand together,

Where are the birches, like milestones,
like us, they stand forever,
giving a quiet rustle
us by the end of September...

Autumn days interlinear

Under my window the steps fade away,
In the morning the dew will turn into frost,
The autumn garden will rustle with poetry,
The night scattering of stars will flash.

Stretches lines from heaven to earth
rain... And the garden will waste its leaves
on the carpet... Autumn days interlinear
will grow into an empty notebook.

Moon hanging horseshoe
on the doors of the invisible Paradise,
trying on a new autumn look
It’s midnight, already damp from the rain.

The bow is already a month old,
illuminating the white page...
Soon they will fly to your ear
caravans of my words are like birds...

For the Nativity of the Virgin Mary

Above the autumn silence
the clouds are parting
I'm reading about earthly
life of the Mother of God.

Cranes are flying into the clearing,
the skies will part...
And the Child will appear
on earth - Intercessor.

An angel will knock on the door
a miracle will happen
To Anna He will whisper: “Believe!”
Your daughter will be born...

And the words will burn
weeks will fly by
and bows down in September
mother over the cradle...

And then spring will come,
news will come
to the Virgin that She is
God's Bride...

Above the autumn silence
the light of heaven shines,
I'm reading about earthly
life - about the Most Pure One.

Don't erase these lines

Don't erase these lines,
just cross out the trouble
I'll come to you again
just point out that edge

Where the wall of birches rises
in the grove, autumn rustles,
where is the grass of cheese from growing,
where an old house costs...

There, beyond the edge of dreams
and beyond existence -
home where the Master is - you will be,
I will become Margarita.

There's a bunch of firewood on the threshold,
petals of fire in the stove,
just don't drive me away -
this is my last shelter

This is my distant land
I'll come to you again...
Just cross out the trouble
Don’t erase these lines...

Ravine in Kolomenskoye

The autumn slope is overgrown with quinoa,
the cloud floated like a white swan,
the distance of the ravine threatened disaster,
and there was no reliable rear.

The horizon disappeared without a trace,
it was getting dark, it seemed bottomless
the depths of the ravine... Bitter quinoa,
a handful of leaves that are crushed into
palms.

The autumn fire of Maple went out,
the cloud floated like a black swan,
and the night tent came down,
and there was no reliable rear.

The bottomless ravine defeated us,
quinoa that remained on the slope...
But star dust burned in the sky,
and the palms burned as they came closer.

Autumn shine five-fingered

The notebook sheet is so clean -
no word comes through...
But - you circle the maple one,
a leaf that has become a palm.
I circle the fire -
five-fingered autumn shine,
as if she fell to yours -
my icy palm...
Autumn early shine,
like clear moisture,
will accept, absorb, paper -
like a message from heaven.
And - icy palm
will come to life and the Word will appear...
I'm like a maple leaf -
I circle your fire...

For Christmas

You will come to this house at Christmas time,
having crossed the threshold of everyday cold,
silver rain from spruce branches
subsides... The evening light is narrowed

To the thin ray that comes through the window
here lays a winter road...
You will remember those who were here a long time ago,
and everything that you have lost little by little.

You will remember the days when you were in darkness
my dear hand was still accompanying me...
Now you'll have to be alone
remove the sting of separation from life.

And only a living thread trembles in the ray,
you are connected with this thread to your former life,
and to the old question “to be or not to be”
You don't have to answer anyone.

But the silver rain runs, rustling,
from a huge spruce in the middle of the universe...
And maybe the soul is getting ready
on Christmas Day - to the last changes...

Let a leaf fly to me

Let a leaf fly to me
the purest, as in the hour of creation...
In the corner I’ll draw a circle,
like the beginning of a poem.

And I’ll draw rays around,
for the light to break through, dimly...
This will be the outline of the candle -
a weightless gift for you.

I know that drops will not erase words...
I'll put a piece of paper on the doorstep
to yours... I will convey it on the wind -
I still remember the way to you.

Tomorrow morning you will read the words,
which you won't answer.
Tomorrow will be the Day of the Intercession,
and you will meet him without me,
but the rays will no longer be erased
unearthly, as on the day of creation,
on a piece of paper there is an outline of a candle,
like the beginning of a poem...

Reading a book about Gogol

Today he gives with his glance,
from Eternity, from the pedestal -
house on Nikitsky Boulevard,
where the mortal waited for the moment.

Gogol did not have a home -
and he shared shelter with friends.
But he wrote two volumes -
about souls... About you and me.

The soul is looking for shelter,
no longer cares about earthly things,
and does not take food -
a tired body from life.

There is no more mortal fear,
about the eternal has long been known...
He was a lonely monk
in the heavenly monastery.

Let's go, let's stand next to each other
let's leave a carefree life,
let Gogol with a thoughtful look -
talks about the eternal.

And the palm touches the universe...

On the night of Pokrov, the window is open,

the air is like cold wine,
and the palm touches the universe,

Where the circle of stars is already trembling,
leaving a reflection on the icon,
maybe the Intercession will snow soon
decorate the windowsill with stars.

There is a slightly warm candle on the table,
before which we bring our faces together,
maybe from a star ray
the timid light will flare up stronger,

The night space will enter the room,
like part of a cold universe,
and then the conversation fell silent
will break out of silence, from captivity,

Restored by a chain of words
a thread of speeches that we have lost...
It will be at midnight, on Pokrov,
where rays meet rays,

Where the window is open in the night,
light escapes from the rooms, as if from captivity,
where we drink cold wine,
like a transparent part -
universe.

Maybe life has passed the peaks

Maybe life has passed the peaks,
pass, the path began to decline,
lines are wrinkles of time -
ancient silk furrows the pages.

The burden of the past is still within my power,
the future is like a short moment,
just to have time, to master it -
reread the pages of the Old Books,

And the Gospel four volumes -
the story that God lived on Earth...
Just have time to get home
yours - to cross the threshold,

Remove the autumn cobwebs of hair,
do not leave a space on the sheets,
If only I could hear the voice again
the one who sang to me about love...

A crane is swimming in your sky

A crane is swimming in your sky,
and a tit flew to me...
The house rocked like a ship
the page became a white sail.

It’s just that this little chick is frozen,
but I didn't close the window...
He quietly grew into my palm,
so that I can warm it up.

My house has become like the Ark,
so that we can sail to your shores,
let, while the chick and I are alone,
but wings flutter in the palm of your hand.

Rusting through the autumn fields,
We set sail on a foggy morning,
so that - breathing like a star ladle,
we must feed on heavenly manna.

The house will perish like a ship,
but a bird trembles in the palm of your hand,
let it be a tit and not a crane,
what I dream about in your skies...

Words sneak into the notebook

Life will turn into a dream
laughter gives way to crying,
my birch tree outside the window
will become more transparent
thin strands of twigs
smoke will cover the frost,
words sneak into the notebook -
from a blue pencil...

There are shadows and light in the room
the lamp will separate,
but the answer to the letter is
It's been slow for a week now.
Drops crush glass,
the rain toga is shaking...
To the cold of November
the road will fall out for me,

Where is the Christmas horizon
burns with an invisible line,
words sneak into the notebook -
from a blue pencil,

Light shining through the darkness
will separate day from night,
but the answer to the letter is
it's been slow for a week now...

Pilgrim

Linen flows from the cloak,
touching the silk grass,
the bag falls off your shoulder
a canvas burden.
You're leaving again
my eternal wanderer -
to the dangerous line
hidden in the fog.
There's water beyond the line,
will have to swim across
there is trouble in my house
remains without you...
Still, I’ll wave my handkerchief
I, like a white flag,
let me follow you secretly
walk quietly -
to that eternal Jerusalem -
I listen to ancient tales,
where are you going alone?
there, to the Holy Land.
This path is familiar to many,
he is called fate...
Let me go secretly
following you -
to where the raincoat flows
flax by the silk river,
where it falls off the shoulder
a canvas burden...

“A spoken thought is a lie”
Fedor Tyutchev

Someday we won't have enough candles,
and the shadows on the walls will be erased...
The silver saucer of the moon will rise,
so that we can continue the conversation in
nights,

Long ago interrupted, well,
but today you and I are listening
to each other, yet understanding:
“a thought expressed is a lie...”

What is left to believe on earth?
The glowing distance is already hidden by clouds,
in the open book in the portrait -
Tyutchev
smiling at something in the darkness...

With you, we’ll divide the space in half
and we'll go out into the night, into the open
doors...
Let the lies be told... I still
I believe
your love and maybe words...

The face is not forgotten...

The face is not forgotten
yours... But you put an end to it
as if pierced by lead
a long way of a notebook line.

The time has come to take off the ring,
squeezing nameless...
Let the porch crumble
like ashes, snowy manna.

The path is marked with a chisel,
and life is more mysterious than myth...
The line becomes the crown
above each cross rhyme.

The line changes blue color
to the light that glows at sunset,
not knowing what to say in response,
silence is equal to retribution.

The face is not forgotten
when bending over a leaf,
at the end you draw a ring...
It is always brighter than a point...

Anniversary of Kazan

I don't know where you're going
along the same transparent alley...
Anniversary of Kazan, rain,
This is the heavens pitying us.

Because today we are apart
you and I are walking around the world...
The last leaf has grown into the sky -
is in no hurry to part with the branch.

Above you is a familiar umbrella -
he was a roof for us once...
The horizon runs before me,
the leaf trembles, crucified in heaven.

I don't know where you're going -
The alleys lead to dead ends,
every word contains a lie,
a yellow leaf on the asphalt smolders.

Anniversary of Kazan, Rus'...
I expose my face to moisture,
I will entrust this sadness to paper,
when I return to the house without you.

SILENTIUM

Silencium! - Latin sound...
We must return to silence
that freezes on the lips,
sometimes, in times of despair.

Between silence - between
words and distant music...
There is hope hidden in silence
someone's - to new bonds.

Silence - after speech
a line blurred by space.
Silence is a piece of eternity,
God - forgotten in the soul.

The silence will continue in dreams,
prophecy, promise,
what happens to us
at a meeting - after goodbye...

An alien evening in St. Petersburg winters

"The beginning of 1916, the beginning
last year of the old world...
We sat and read the last poems
on the last skins
at the last fireplaces..." M.
Tsvetaeva. "An alien evening."

And here are the poets, and the fireplace is lit -

The time has come - flying to the sheets
shining words - in the years of the plague feast...
Kuzmin, Yesenin, Mandelstam -
they read poetry. The lyre does not stop speaking.

Winter of the sixteenth... Hard times...
The fireplace is burning. Then they will pay with death
poets - for the last poems,
where every line leads to immortality.

The alien evening lasts until the morning,
the last poems are circling over the world,
it's time for silence again,
silence is the last weapon...

The last fireplace was lit in the night,
they read poetry, the lyre does not stop.
An alien evening of St. Petersburg winters,
the last year of Russia of the former... World...

Lead, winged god Hermes

Lead me, distant god,
lead along a barely noticeable path,
unravel the tangle of lines,
those that remained unanswered.

Lead, winged god Hermes,
beyond the edge of the notebook paper -
from these doomed places -
to a point glowing in the darkness.

Lead me to where the wind has died down,
where the edge of the sky touches the earth,
lead Eurydice along the path,
so that no one turns around...

Lead me to where the laurel blooms,
so good in its coolness...
To where everyone still sings
Orpheus tells me about love - in Hellas...

Marble Goddess
in Tsaritsynsky Park

Through the darkness and frosty smoke
we went so far with you,
where it was already indistinguishable
Moscow bells surf...

We walked among the palace blocks,
overhead is a swarm of stars,
we were protected by hundred-year-old linden trees
tall dark formation.

Ancient grotto - the darkness has disappeared -
illuminated by a lamp beam...
There the Virgin lived in marble,
goddess from another time.

Pevuch – girlish binding
crossed forever young hands,
she made the flight
from existence - into the sacred circle.

We walked this far together,
as if I forgot about everything...

Then we will remember the pond
and the gold of the bowed willows...

Khlebnikov Field

Do you remember? – Khlebnikov Field,
where there is no beginning and end,
and where words grow by will,
their creator.

Overhead there - the swarm flickers
stars... Words lose their shadow,
and a ray - tribute weaves from sighs
both on Trinity and on Spiritual Day.

And the song of the grasshopper rejoices -
you and I are reading about
how he carelessly flaps his wings
line by line - in gold writing.

News comes from the field,
intertwined with silence,
and the creator’s ring flickers,
like on the little finger - the globe...

Holy water is running

open windows,
birch foliage,
and dry on the page,
words falling from the pen...

Memories are stingy,
I remember how the candles burn,
I remember how your lips
quietly say a prayer.

The look into the dome
Clouds are burning on the fresco...
Your gestures are stingy -
hand making the cross...

The holy water is running -
there is a well there, somewhere, nearby,
the bucket is knocking on the wall
and slips down...

I remember the candle is burning out,
dry leaves are flying...
We called it Paradise
that abandoned Garden...

Universe backlight

A strip of snow is white,
the snow won't melt soon -

The sun's saucer is broken,
the rays are like the spokes of an umbrella

They strive to touch for a moment
to the horizon line.

Our paths will diverge
like parallel lines

Our thoughts will converge
somewhere in the sky,

Where the stars sway
like the backlight of the universe,

Where the parallels intertwine
like whitened branches...

Reiner's letter lines

I see early in the morning,
in the hour before dawn,
lines from Rainer's letters -
to the young poet.

Rainer is present here
throwing off the travel cloak...
And his parting words
I will listen carefully.

The word is a risk zone,
It’s like I’m not breathing,
and that which is close,
in front of me - I write.

Here is a cheap notebook,
heavenly light above her,
canvas sheet fabric,
the edge of the table is steep.

Here is the attic cabin,
the shelter is already fragile...
But one more minute -
and the lines come flooding in...

This is the image of a frosty Russian Paradise

Along the road sprinkled with stardust,
The path on a snowy road is not easy...
For you, space is calculated in miles,
There are infinity of birch miles in front of me.

These miles go like soldiers in formation,
like a frosty image of Russian roads,
their number is equal to the losses experienced,
this is a Russian field, a shaft, a snowdrift...

Above you there is a green pine branch,
the pines are so tall that they touch the stars.
In front of me there is a net of birch branches
overshadows a church graveyard in a field.

This temple is the last one almost destroyed,
The Mother of God Plath is woven from snowflakes,
Only angels serve here at Christmas
in the distant light of star lamps.

This is the image of a frosty Russian Paradise,
it is a light in the darkness, like a fire of hope,
and the snowflake flies and burns along the way,
like a star, it burns your palm...

And snowflakes count the minutes

The nameless manna melts -
the path from heaven to earth is irreversible.
Manna beckons like the name Anna -
endless sound - grace.

I count the rays of a snowflake,
leaning towards her carefully.
Each ray is a blue vein,
and impossible to touch.

The future shines dimly,
look back and see the past...
Nameless manna melts
and the earth runs under the soles.

The name A-n-n-a freezes in space,
someone's voice goes out, someone has a cold,
and the passer-by runs into the desert,
to the Christmas Cold Lane.

The endless name melts away
manna beckons a light burden...
And the snowflakes count the minutes
and time swings in the thief/onk...

Easy step on the stairs without railings

A light step along the stairs without railings,
I'm coming... The steps are transparent like a soul.
Breathing a little, I walk through the breath of wings,
there is no shadow from them on earth.

I'm going where evil has disappeared
where I can lean on your shoulder...

so that we can help each other
call out.

Thirty pearl letters squeezed into a handful -
the basis of someone’s endless speeches,
and the line hangs like the axis of the universe,
on which the word still holds, trembling.

We take pearls from a handful,
on the air lines the letters below.
All we have to do is write: “Sorry...”
for the last word we put a niche.

There are so few words left on earth,
the silence above us will stretch the nets.
You and I have so few dreams left,
to meet each other in the night space

And walk along the stairs without railings,
like the soul, its steps are transparent -
breathing a little so that you can hear the breathing of wings -
there is no shadow from them on earth...

The hum of a telephone receiver

tubes,
to break the silence of space,
so that words fly like goals/killers -
any - tenderness, or reproach...

About where he was - in Klin, or in
Ryazan,
I will listen to stories like epics...
For a few minutes we were tied up
words floating transparent
wedge

In the palm of your hand - the surface, the hum of a telephone
tubes,
your voice, interrupted by someone, fades away...
But - Words of a flying dove
on a frosty evening - still
burns...

Christmas night is almost here

Freezing. The window is overgrown with a pattern.
The distance to which long ago is not visible
you left. They're burning above you
those stars that talk to each other.

The brow of the page - the first wrinkles
lines, broken into words, plow...
Someday they will be illuminated for you -
a candle, a lamp, the glow of a fireplace,
or a dim northern sunset.

My words will scatter throughout the world -
homeless birds have no obstacles on their way...
So that your gaze catches my word -
ready bird-word I'm back
in any - a blooming, flying Garden,

At any time of the year - winter, summer,
in any circle you outlined,
unraveling the threads of the roads traveled,
spreading a network of endless lines -
the love that remained unanswered.

Frost grows like a pattern on the glass,
the tangles of snow cannot be unraveled by the glance...
Christmas night is almost here
and the lamp glows in the corner,
where it appears through the darkness of the night
elegant Spruce coniferous mass,

This room is too small
and there is no place for it in everyday life...
On Christmas night she would have grown up
to that Star that waits in the sky...

Vasnetsov House-Museum

The last walk became long,
frost - space, time - shifts everything...
Bell hail. Dahl. Moscow fell silent
and Samoteka froze in the silence of Meshchanskaya.

But we have already dealt with the frost,
stepping carefully on the crystals,
found a manor lost in dead ends,
An ancient mansion of a Russian artist.

Here our childhood froze forever,
and in the workshop, sparingly touched by the beam,
Princess Nesmeyanna was still sad,
Baba Yaga flew in a mortar - into a dome...

For a moment we touched the eternal essence...
But like the ancient knight of Vasnetsov,
We stood at a crossroads in this world
between the old and the terrible fairy tale of the new...

In memory of Rainer Maria Rilke (December 29, 1926)
“I'm so alone. Nobody understands...” Rainer Rilke, 1901

Like everyone else... Passed through mortal fear
and met the wave of eternity.
He died? - No, I quickly fell asleep -
one, in Switzerland, in the mountains.

Someone gave the poet
in the mountains there is a blooming wedge of earth...
He died? - No, he swam away quickly
to the peaks that are always far away

Visible from the house in Muso.
Like everyone else, I crossed the threshold...
He died? - No, I went to the Call,
where God waits.

His words fly to me -
from That to This white light...
And in front of me is his portrait,
his bottomless bright gaze.

He became one of those peaks
sparkling long ago in the distance.
He told me: “I’m so alone...” -
in pure Russian.

***
If you think strictly,
a sacred story about this:
we look to God,
God is looking at us

From that eternal Garden,
what is called - Paradise,
where the reward awaits us,
when we leave the country

This one, lost in the Sky,
flying among the clouds,
where - about daily bread
prayer for hundreds of centuries

Sounds through the morning coolness,
through the pre-dawn hour,
when glances meet,
when God looks at us...

TRAILS (based on the lexical meaning of the word)

Allegory - a trope based on replacing an abstract concept or phenomenon with a concrete image of an object or phenomenon of reality: medicine - a snake wrapped around a bowl, cunning - a fox, etc.
Hyperbola - a trope based on excessive exaggeration of certain properties of the depicted object or phenomenon:

And the pine tree reaches the stars. (O. Mandelstam)

Metaphor - a trope in which words and expressions are used in a figurative meaning based on analogy, similarity, comparison:
And my tired soul is enveloped in darkness and cold (M. Yu. Lermontov).
Comparison - a trope in which one phenomenon or concept is explained by comparing it with another. Usually comparative conjunctions are used: Anchar, like a formidable sentinel, stands alone - in the entire universe (A.S. Pushkin).
Metonymy - a trope based on the replacement of one word with another of similar meaning. In metonymy, a phenomenon or object is designated using other words or concepts, while their connections and characteristics are preserved: The hissing of foamy glasses and punch, a blue flame (A. S. Pushkin).
Synecdoche - one of the types of metonymy, which is based on the transfer of meaning from one object to another based on the quantitative relationship between them: And it was heard until dawn how the Frenchman rejoiced (meaning the whole french army) (M. Yu. Lermontov).

Litotes - a trope opposite to hyperbole, an artistic understatement: Your Spitz, your lovely Spitz, is no more than a thimble (A. Griboyedov).
Personification - a trope based on the transfer of the properties of animate objects to inanimate ones: Silent sadness will be consoled, and joy will reflect playfully (A.S. Pushkin).
Epithet - a word that defines an object or phenomenon and emphasizes any of its properties, qualities, characteristics. Usually the epithet is used to describe a colorful definition: The transparent twilight of your thoughtful nights (A.S. Pushkin).
Periphrase - a trope in which the direct name of an object, person, phenomenon is replaced by a descriptive expression, which indicates the signs of an object, person, phenomenon not directly named: the king of beasts is a lion.
Irony - a technique of ridicule that contains an assessment of what is being ridiculed. There is always a double meaning in irony, where the truth is not what is directly expressed, but what is implied: Count Khvostov, a poet beloved by heaven, already sang in immortal verse the misfortunes of the Neva banks (A.S. Pushkin).

Stylistic figures
(based on a special syntactic structure of speech)
Rhetorical appeal - giving the author’s intonation solemnity, pathos, irony, etc.: O you, arrogant descendants... (M. Yu. Lermontov)
A rhetorical question - a structure of speech in which a statement is expressed in the form of a question. The rhetorical question does not require an answer, but only enhances the emotionality of the statement: And will a beautiful dawn finally rise over the fatherland of enlightened freedom? (A.S. Pushkin)
Anaphora - repetition of parts of relatively independent segments, otherwise anaphora is called unity of beginning: As if you curse the days without light, as if the gloomy nights frighten you
(A. Apukhtin).

Epiphora - repetition at the end of a phrase, sentence, line, stanza.

Antithesis - a stylistic figure based on opposition: And day and hour, both in writing and orally, for the truth, yes and no... (M. Tsvetaeva).
Oxymoron - combination of logically incompatible concepts:
living Dead, dead Souls etc.
Gradation - grouping homogeneous members sentences in a certain order: according to the principle of increasing or decreasing emotional and semantic significance: I don’t regret, I don’t call, I don’t cry (S. Yesenin).
Default - a deliberate interruption of speech in anticipation of the reader’s guess, who must mentally complete the phrase: But listen: if I owe you... I own a dagger, I was born near the Caucasus (A.S. Pushkin).
Nominative topic (nominative presentation) - a word in the nominative case or a phrase with the main word in the nominative case, which stands at the beginning of a paragraph or text and in which the topic of further discussion is stated (the name of the subject is given, which serves as the topic of further discussion): Letters. Who likes to write them?
Parcellation - deliberate breaking of one simple or complex sentence into several separate sentences in order to draw the reader’s attention to the highlighted segment, to give it (the segment) additional meaning: The same experience has to be repeated many times. And with great care.
Syntactic parallelism - identical construction of two or more sentences, lines, stanzas, parts of text:
IN blue sky the stars are shining,
The waves splash in the blue sea.
(sentences are constructed according to the following scheme: adverbial place with attribute, subject, predicate)
A cloud is walking across the sky, a barrel is floating in the sea. (A. S. Pushkin) (sentences are built according to the scheme: subject, adverbial place, predicate)
Inversion - violation of the generally accepted grammatical sequence of speech: The lonely sail turns white in the blue fog of the sea.
(M. Yu. Lermontov) (according to the rules of the Russian language: A lonely sail turns white in the blue fog of the sea.)

Poetics Mandelstam It is beautiful in that frozen words and sentences, under the influence of his pen, turn into living and enchanting visual images filled with music. It was said about him that in his poetry the “concert descents of Chopin’s mazurkas” and “Mozart’s curtained parks”, “Schubert’s musical vineyard” and “low-growing bushes of Beethoven’s sonatas”, Handel’s “turtles” and “Bach’s militant pages” come to life, and violin musicians the orchestra became entangled with “branches, roots and bows.”

Graceful combinations of sounds and consonances are woven into an elegant and subtle melody that shimmers invisibly in the air. Mandelstam is characterized by a cult of creative impulse and an amazing style of writing. “I alone write from my voice,” the poet said about himself. It was the visual images that initially appeared in Mandelstam’s head, and he began to silently pronounce them. The movement of the lips gave birth to a spontaneous metric, overgrown with clusters of words. Many of Mandelstam's poems were written "from the voice."

Joseph Emilievich Mandelstam was born on January 15, 1891 in Warsaw into a Jewish family of a merchant, glove maker, Emilia Mandelstam, and a musician, Flora Werblowska. In 1897, the Mandelstam family moved to St. Petersburg, where little Osip was sent to the Russian forge of “cultural personnel” of the early twentieth century - the Tenishev School. After graduating from college in 1908, the young man went to study at the Sorbonne, where he actively studied French poetry - Villon, Baudelaire, Verlaine. There he met and became friends with Nikolai Gumilyov. At the same time, Osip attended lectures at the University of Heidelberg. Coming to St. Petersburg, he attended lectures on versification in the famous “tower” by Vyacheslav Ivanov. However, the Mandelstam family gradually began to go bankrupt, and in 1911 they had to leave their studies in Europe and enter St. Petersburg University. At that time, there was an admission quota for Jews, so they had to be baptized by a Methodist pastor. On September 10, 1911, Osip Mandelstam became a student in the Romance-Germanic department of the Faculty of History and Philology of St. Petersburg University. However, he was not a diligent student: he missed a lot, took breaks from his studies, and without completing the course, he left the university in 1917.

At this time, Mandelstam was interested in something other than the study of history, and its name was Poetry. Gumilyov, who returned to St. Petersburg, constantly invited the young man to visit, where in 1911 he met Anna Akhmatova. Friendship with the poetic couple became “one of the main successes” in the life of the young poet, according to his memoirs. Later he met other poets: Marina Tsvetaeva. In 1912, Mandelstam joined the Acmeist group and regularly attended meetings of the Workshop of Poets.

The first known publication took place in 1910 in the magazine Apollo, when the aspiring poet was 19 years old. Later he was published in the magazines "Hyperborea", "New Satyricon" and others. Mandelstam's debut book of poems was published in 1913. "Stone", then reprinted in 1916 and 1922. Mandelstam was at the center of the cultural and poetic life of those years, regularly visited the haven of the creative bohemia of those years, the art cafe" homeless dog", communicated with many poets and writers. However, the beautiful and mysterious flair of that era of "timelessness" was soon to dissipate, with the outbreak of the First World War, and then with the advent of the October Revolution. After it, Mandelstam's life was unpredictable: he could no longer feel himself in safety. There were periods when he lived on the rise: at the beginning of the revolutionary period he worked in newspapers, in the People's Commissariat for Education, traveled around the country, published, spoke with poetry. In 1919, in the Kiev cafe "H.L.A.M" he met his future wife, a young artist, Nadezhda Yakovlevna Khazina, with whom he married in 1922. At the same time, a second book of poems was published "Tristia"(“Sorrowful Elegies”) (1922), which included works from the time of the First World War and the Revolution. In 1923 - “The Second Book”, dedicated to his wife. These verses reflect the anxiety of this troubled and unstable time when Civil War, and the poet and his wife wandered around the cities of Russia, Ukraine, Georgia, and his successes were replaced by failures: hunger, poverty, arrests.

To earn a living, Mandelstam was engaged in literary translations. He did not abandon poetry either; moreover, he began to try himself in prose. “The Noise of Time” was published in 1923, “The Egyptian Stamp” in 1927, and a collection of articles “On Poetry” in 1928. At the same time, in 1928, the collection “Poems” was released, which became the last lifetime collection of poetry. Difficult years lay ahead for the writer. At first, Mandelstam was saved by the intercession of Nikolai Bukharin. The politician advocated Mandelstam’s business trip to the Caucasus (Armenia, Sukhum, Tiflis), but “Travel to Armenia,” published in 1933 based on the trip, was met with devastating articles in Literary Gazette, Pravda and Zvezda.

“The Beginning of the End” begins after the desperate Mandelstam wrote in 1933 the anti-Stalin epigram “We live without feeling the country beneath us...”, which he reads out to the public. Among them is someone who denounces the poet. The act, called “suicide” by B. Pasternak, leads to the arrest and exile of the poet and his wife to Cherdyn (Perm region), where Mandelstam, brought to an extreme degree of emotional exhaustion, is thrown out of the window, but is rescued in time. Only thanks to Nadezhda Mandelstam’s desperate attempts to achieve justice and her numerous letters to various authorities, the spouses are allowed to choose a place to settle. The Mandelstams choose Voronezh.

The Voronezh years of the couple are joyless: poverty is their constant friend, Osip Emilievich cannot find a job and feels unnecessary in a new hostile world. Rare earnings in the local newspaper, theater and the feasible help of loyal friends, including Akhmatova, allow him to somehow put up with hardships. Mandelstam writes a lot in Voronezh, but no one intends to publish it. "Voronezh Notebooks", published after his death, are one of the peaks of his poetic creativity.

However, representatives Soviet Union writers had a different opinion on this matter. In one of the statements, the poems of the great poet were called “obscene and slanderous.” Mandelstam, who was unexpectedly released to Moscow in 1937, was again arrested and sent to do hard work in a camp on Far East. There, the poet’s health, shaken by mental trauma, finally deteriorated, and on December 27, 1938, he died of typhus in the Second River camp in Vladivostok.

Buried in a mass grave, forgotten and deprived of all literary merits, he seems to have foreseen his fate back in 1921:

When I fall to die under a fence in some hole,
And there will be nowhere for the soul to escape from the cast-iron cold -
I will politely leave quietly. I'll blend in with the shadows imperceptibly.
And the dogs will take pity on me, kissing me under the dilapidated fence.
There will be no procession. Violets will not decorate me,
And the maidens will not scatter flowers over the black grave...

In her will, Nadezhda Yakovlevna Mandelstam actually refused Soviet Russia in any right to publish Mandelstam's poems. This refusal sounded like a curse on the Soviet state. Only with the beginning of perestroika did Mandelstam gradually begin to be published.

"Evening Moscow" offers a selection of beautiful poems by a wonderful poet:

***
I was given a body - what should I do with it?
So one and so mine?

For the joy of quiet breathing and living
Who, tell me, should I thank?

I am a gardener, I am also a flower,
In the dungeon of the world I am not alone.

Eternity has already fallen on the glass
My breath, my warmth.

A pattern will be imprinted on it,
Unrecognizable recently.

Let the dregs of the moment flow down -
The cute pattern cannot be crossed out.
<1909>

***
Thin decay is thinning -
purple tapestry,

To us - to the waters and forests -
The skies are falling.

Hesitant hand
These brought out the clouds.

And the sad one meets the gaze
Their pattern is blurred.

Dissatisfied, I stand and remain quiet,
I, the creator of my worlds, -

Where the skies are artificial
And the crystal dew sleeps.
<1909>

***
On pale blue enamel,
What is conceivable in April,
Birch trees raised their branches
And it was getting dark unnoticed.

The pattern is sharp and small,
A thin mesh froze,
Like on a porcelain plate
The drawing, drawn accurately, -

When his artist is cute
Displays on the glassy solid,
In the consciousness of momentary power,
In the oblivion of sad death.
<1909>

***
Unspeakable sadness
She opened two huge eyes,
Flower woke up vase
And she threw out her crystal.

The whole room is drunk
Exhaustion is a sweet medicine!
Such a small kingdom
So much was consumed by sleep.

A little red wine
A little sunny May -
And, breaking a thin biscuit,
The thinnest fingers are white.
<1909>

***
Silentium
She hasn't been born yet
She is both music and words.
And therefore all living things
Unbreakable connection.

Seas of breasts breathe calmly,
But the day is bright like crazy.
And pale lilac foam
In a cloudy azure vessel.

May my lips find
Initial muteness -
Like a crystal note
That she was pure from birth!

Remain foam, Aphrodite,
And return the word to music,
And be ashamed of your heart,
Merged from the fundamental principle of life!
< 1910>

***
Don't ask: you know
That tenderness is unaccountable,
And what do you call
My trepidation is all the same;

And why confession?
When irrevocably
My existence
Have you decided?

Give me your hand. What are passions?
Dancing snakes!
And the mystery of their power -
Killer magnet!

And the serpent's disturbing dance
Not daring to stop
I contemplate the gloss
Maiden's cheeks.
<1911>

***
I shiver from the cold -
I want to go numb!
And gold dances in the sky -
Orders me to sing.

Tomish, anxious musician,
Love, remember and cry,
And, thrown from a dim planet,
Pick up the easy ball!

So she's real
Connection with the mysterious world!
What aching melancholy,
What a disaster!

What if, having flinched wrongly,
Always flickering
With your rusty pin
Will the star get me?
<1912>

***
No, not the moon, but a light dial
Shines on me - and what is my fault,
What faint stars do I feel the milkiness?

And Batyushkova’s arrogance disgusts me:
What time is it, he was asked here,
And he answered the curious: eternity!
<1912>

***
Bach
Here the parishioners are children of the dust
And boards instead of images,
Where is the chalk - Sebastian Bach
Only numbers appear in the psalms.

Tall debater, really?
Playing my chorale to my grandchildren,
Support of the spirit indeed
Did you look for proof?

What's the sound? Sixteenths,
Organa polysyllabic cry -
Just your grumbling, nothing more,
Oh, intractable old man!

And a Lutheran preacher
On his black pulpit
With yours, angry interlocutor,
The sound of your speeches interferes.
<1913>

***
"Ice cream!" Sun. Airy sponge cake.
A transparent glass with ice water.
And into the world of chocolate with a ruddy dawn,
To the milky Alps, dreams fly.

But, clinking the spoon, it’s touching to look -
And in a cramped gazebo, among the dusty acacias,
Accept favorably from the bakery graces
In an intricate cup there is fragile food...

The barrel organ's friend will suddenly appear
The wandering glacier's motley cover -
And the boy looks with greedy attention
The chest is full in the wonderful cold.

And the gods do not know what he will take:
Diamond cream or stuffed waffle?
But it will quickly disappear under a thin splinter,
Sparkling in the sun, divine ice.
<1914>

***
Insomnia. Homer. Tight sails.
I read the list of ships to the middle:
This long brood, this crane train,
That once rose above Hellas.

Like a crane's wedge into foreign borders, -
On the heads of kings there is divine foam, -
Where are you going? Whenever Elena
What is Troy alone for you, Achaean men?

Both the sea and Homer - everything moves with love.
Who should I listen to? And now Homer is silent,
And the black sea, swirling, makes noise
And with a heavy roar he approaches the headboard.
<1915>

***
I don't know since when
This song has begun -
Isn't there a thief rustling along it?
Is the mosquito prince ringing?

I would like about nothing
Talk again
Rustle with a match, with your shoulder
To stir up the night, to wake up;

Scatter a haystack at the table,
A cap of air that languishes;
Rip, tear the bag,
In which cumin is sewn.

To the pink blood connection,
These dry herbs are ringing,
The stolen item was found
A century later, a hayloft, a dream.
<1922>

***
I returned to my city, familiar to tears,
To the veins, to the swollen glands of children.

You're back here, so swallow it quickly
Fish oil of Leningrad river lanterns,

Find out soon the December day,
Where the yolk is mixed with the ominous tar.

Petersburg! I don't want to die yet!
You have my phone numbers.

Petersburg! I still have addresses
By which I will find the voices of the dead.

I live on the black stairs, and to my temple
A bell torn out with meat hits me,

And all night long I wait for my dear guests,
Moving the shackles of the door chains.

<декабрь 1930>

***
For the explosive valor of the coming centuries,
For the high tribe of people
I lost even the cup at the feast of my fathers,
And fun, and your honor.
The wolfhound century rushes onto my shoulders,
But I am not a wolf by blood,
You better stuff me like a hat into your sleeve
Hot fur coats of the Siberian steppes.

So as not to see a coward or a flimsy filth,
No bloody blood in the wheel,
So that the blue foxes shine all night
To me in its primeval beauty,

Take me into the night where the Yenisei flows
And the pine tree reaches the star,
Because I am not a wolf by blood
And only my equal will kill me.

<март 1931>

***
Oh how we love to be hypocrites
And we forget easily
The fact that we are closer to death in childhood,
Than in our mature years.

More insults are being pulled from the saucer
Sleepy child
And I have no one to sulk at
And I am alone on all paths.

But I don’t want to fall asleep like a fish,
In the deep swoon of the waters,
And free choice is dear to me
My sufferings and worries.
<февраль 1932>