Ludmila Kolodyazhnaya
Selected poems
Moscow 2012 (January - December)

*** Disciples - the Lord gave strength ...

"Here the draft ripens
Students of running water ... "
Osip Mandelstam

In the night - pours crying from the gutter
pipes, or flutes ... Who will give strength
students of running water -
and tears, and moisture, and ink...

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

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

A break in the heavenly passages,
where the horizon is clear...
Dawn grows. An ode is extended
on the smooth surface of an ashen leaf,

Taking in the splash of running water
and tears, and crying, and ink,
and the song of the gutter flute -
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, silk,
and even a snowflake that fell on a leaf,
encircled by your hand...
I'll bring you a sip
brackish sea water,
and golden sand time
from that quiet coast,
where the waves, like lines,
run into each other - carelessly ...

*** Anna's room

The ceiling above me is sloping,
Someone carved out of aspen,
And in the window there is a starry crumble ...
Apparently time has passed me by.
My life is married with silence
Showing through dark frames
Above me is a log ceiling -
In a distant wooden house.

late,
To the city where the crowns are snow-covered...
And in my window only pines
With ancient evergreen needles -
Knotted branches of the knee,
And through them - a heavenly square,
Star beam from the depths of the universe
Distant light wasted along the way ...

Let this light touch you
You and I are married with a beam ...
The hour is such that calling you -
late…
Above me is a log ceiling ...

*** "Pine reaches the star..."

Close to your house
aspires to the heights, grows
ship masts/wood,
spruce darkens,
the pine reaches the star,
and in the eyes always -
star shine.
In the evenings
you tell fortunes by the fire,
in its petals
looking for an answer...
Save for the kids
save for me
this eternal
Evening light.
Lift up
white keys running shaft -
hammers touch the strings,
and you will remember that
that I played as a child
predawn
Chopin nocturne.
Your horizon is broken
mountain range
in the town
coming home...
I ever
I will come to you again
we are with you
let's go up the hills
we will enter
in the ship's mast
forest,
along the path
that leads to heaven
you show me
point of the night sky,
up to which - the pine reaches ...

***
Lamp shines dimly
I interfere with crying with silence
Along the dry river
I continue my way

Snowy - it's better
The roads of the long former
Where the almond blossoms
On the far coast

But I'll be slow
At every turn
I'll still follow the trail
In the town where they roam

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

On a low wooden
Conifer-covered house
Where is the Pentateuch volume
Revealed in the first chapters...

*** To the Annunciation

Beginning of April
Annunciation, the seventh day ...

Two gazes in space will meet -
yours and mine
at the furthest point
sending us rays...
Two glances will fall on the line,
which sounds like a secret.

The line is strictly defined
every word is the source,
pouring out the Voice of God...
There is the Blessed Flower,
which the archangel holds,
plucked from 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 will say.

I'm still turning the page
in front of you, in the beam,
and melt like a candle melts
but already - I'm not afraid to burn.

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

On the day when you wandered with your eyes,
parsing 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 will say,

Knowing that someday
you come in, we burn with rays,
to that distant Jerusalem
and you will pass - that short path ...

*** Tsaritsyno

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

The palaces are shackled by silence,
glitter of cascades, splash of water,
us Bazhenov with Kazakov
meet, cast in bronze ...

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

A hole grows in the clouds
the blue moon will flash,
whose radiance, like a milestone -
the day we were with you.

And what time of day
we do not know, and around -
silence. Only a flock of ducks
catches bread from our hands.

How did they winter here?
glad any polynya?
How they yearned here
without heat, how are you and I?

The spokes of time sang
the blue train came out
and sped away from Tsaritsyno,
tearing us apart...

*** Monday on Strastnaya

The window opening is flooded with mist...
But I wanted to
distant starry needle
by morning it was darned.

So that a stitch runs to a stitch,
so that the light path
fell into the room ... Snowball
to melt behind the window.

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

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

*** Wednesday on Strastnaya

so that life turns into an epic ...
Passion Wednesday ... Today is broken
Alavastra jug of Magdalene.

As if a stone sin had been broken.
In repentance, in furious weeping
she got rid of the burden of comfort,
washing the feet of the Most Pure.

Soul and flesh transformed...
"Death, where is your sting? .."
And the Lord forgave her sins,
Maria - 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,
for the Word to rule the world.
The scent of eternity is spilled,
fragrant with myrrh.

*** Friday on Strastnaya

Drops snatched from the mist
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 stabbed in the heart,
the veil in the temple was torn down.

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
this April evening
you, like me, go to a distant garden -
by the morning of the only meeting.

*** Holy Saturday night

April rain from transparent crowns
the night blows the wind.
Today the bells are ringing
stands in the white world.

And two thousand years have passed
How did the Messiah come into the world?
Light pours from every church -
we are in the temple of Anastasia

Let's go in, another chapel of deserts,
icons look clear
but the candles are 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

Soul will ever leave
someday, not soon
and above the earth, as the light rises,
becoming an asterisk in the open spaces.

On that night, every person
facing fate...
And the church's little Ark
saves you and me.

*** Sunday Morning

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

On the ground - on a rough road,
wrong, I had to go ...
In that Garden the Gardener will meet me
and show other paths.

I don't recognize him at first
in the predawn mist,
I just note that the look is sadder
I have not met on earth.

Through the branches of spring yarn
I can still make out...
And when He "Mary!" - will say
I will answer: "Teacher! .. You! ..."

This will be the first meeting
on one of the roads...
This will be the last meeting
and fog will hide - God ...

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

I'm going through the transparent forest,
through the morning, blue skies,
through the snow melted remains.

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

All my today's catch -
stanza, and it contains a dozen words
prayers that I did not create ...
I walk through life, barely breathing,
where the soul goes
into the gap once saved

The Angel that carried me -
heavenly fire petal,
so that I would ever be embodied

Here on Earth, here in silence
to sometime about me
in words only - the memory is preserved.

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

Someone above me says
that my train is already standing
and waits in silence, at the half-station...

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

Honoring the great teachers,

Night. Slumbering in silence faceless
a lantern that did not go out.

Like an ancient nameless guard
stands permanently on the corner,
and star gathering manna,
beam disperses the darkness.

What little do I have...
A star that flickered in the distance -
mine will burn when tired
erase me from your land.

I believe in great teachers
I honor loneliness the supreme hour.
The last one will be my loss
a lantern that did not go out.

When I cross the threshold -
doors open to the edge of another -
I will 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 cranes fly to you
above the paper field of the page,
touching the border with the wing.

The path winds a thin line,
but I can't get to you
because the string is short -
but the clouds are growing over it

Above the expanse of paper fields,
where I draw cranes.
The fields are overgrown with words,
do not hear you 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, like the eternal
noon, lasts ... "
Osip Mandelstam

Like a life, I risk a line,
hours of death in the evenings
I'm waiting ... But I draw angels
on transparent sheets, in the morning...

And a patch of heaven is visible to me
in the blue, in the expanse of the window.
Every day I build
the temple of the verse ... Silence lives in it,

What - the second becomes life,
the one where everyone makes a prayer,
the one where the angel enters inaudibly,
the one who opens the royal door,

And the face of the Lord will be revealed,
from candles - a glare of heavenly fire,
The Eucharist lasts noon,
God is watching over me...

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

*** Holy skete

Again, pilgrim, you wander with a knapsack
along the deaf path
monastery...
Like wanderers of ancient descendants
–
in the Skete of Saint Alexander Svirsky.

Only in the wilderness the life of the Saint
get settled -
let the pine, not the tree of Mamra ...
But the Trinity appeared to the saint here,
like the old Abraham.
My wanderer, write about it -
so that the strings will connect us with threads ..
Write - what in the world
there is still a holy place.

After all, the pilgrim is on the way - not in a hurry,
passing through the land of the monastery...
Let the wanderer dream - the Trinity,
as once to St. Svirsky ...

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

Someday my friend
heed my words,
walk with me forever
narrow meadow path,
where the horizon is open
where they wonder in the distance
biblical hills,
"swaddled tightly..." -

That ribbon of roads
what we went through
there, beyond the horizon,
and not given to return -
through lightning bolts of anxiety,
flickering in the distance
like in a dream beyond
where you can't wake up.

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

*** My cupbearing angel
"... I drink the bitterness of tuberose ..." Boris
Parsnip

The reality always consists
from light and shadows
dew bead,
from the cold of snow manna,
from the dampness of the string
in the hazy paper haze,
growing among my
unfinished days,

Which may be
never come true
I drink the bitterness of these days
my cupbearing angel,
we are this story, like pain,
we endure with you forever,
but the truth ... it grows
hills like years.

Before the tablecloth
squat on the edge
my winged companion,
bestowed forever,
ever wing
close my eyelids
to open them again
in some paradise...

You know my days
counted by you
let the result be small -
paper pile of poems
but you will hear in it
the noise of time, like a rustle,
that pours into your distance,
into spaces of silence.

*** Like angels, we walked barefoot
“To me from the Vladimir expanses
I didn’t want to go south…”

Birch branch foggy
draws circles on the water,
as if the old way is deceitful,
leading, perhaps to trouble ..

An echo rolled from the slopes,
like a continuation, like a fright
birds, from Vladimir expanses
flying south.

Following, after the tired traveler
inaudibly my shadow wandered
where the Church flourished
and 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 rustled the sand -
paths clean, straight,
as far away as their source.

We went there, along 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.

*** Walked along the path to Biryulyovo

Fresh and springy at noon
the path went 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 marking with a glance
asterisks of primroses.

Already overgrown pages -
in a deserted notebook in the morning
the words that the birds sang,
and the dots were tapped by a woodpecker.

Blooming walked the alley,
went, regretting nothing,
and left at the end of the walk
on the Lipetsk alley.

Farewell meek words,
puzzle solved for the day...
From the happiness of a short meeting
I was taken away by a tolleybus

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

*** Dream

It must have been a dream...
The deserted hall floated,
in which you washed the windows,
and I helped you.

And the surf rolled to the glass
first green branches
barrier between me and you
barrier between darkness and light.

And the dream repeated again
roamed the hall like shadows...
But it was love
and young branches plexus.

The dream melted in an hour ...
But the branches remained a curl
in the garden that looked down on us
through the freshness of washed windows

*** Love transparent trap

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

We have learned to understand
love obscure science
and this sweet flour,
after parting, to accept,
so that her rite is ancient
hold on for a moment,
in poems, in melodies, in pictures -
love tried to reflect.

Ready to share the whole century
transparent trap with you
whispering words of love in your ear
ready to continue this torment ...

*** Garden labyrinth

Into this garden the blue rushed us
a train...
Why are there no roads from here?
Labyrinth, perhaps - an eternal search
on earth, here - an unearthly miracle.

We walk on threads uninterrupted,
timidly, among 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 flowering mines ...
Clouds of apple trees boil over us,
and the bird cherry is an avalanche.

We circled, passed twice
along the paths and on the grasses,
and flew at us with each explosion
petals transparent fragments.

This thread was untangled 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 way.

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

*** In some Paradise...

The path that has passed today is disastrous,
your bright leave the house
and return to myself and the Bible
randomly open volume.
Let the page light up
the lamp slumbers on the edge
tables - to feel
me in some Paradise.
I will go there without fear
fiddling with the page a bit...
Forever there is the Lord of their dust
creates, Adam, you...
Clay fresh elastic,
moisture is purer than silver,
and me, your friend,
God will recreate from the rib...
Cherry blossoms in that land
and the firmament is covered with grass.
We are still innocent
but death is already creeping.
We are still innocent
but trouble is 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 strong like death.
I will leave Paradise... Eternal Bible
closing the old volume.
Let me come again, disastrous -
to your distant bright house.

*** At this farewell hour

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

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

This house is flooded with a parting dawn at one o'clock,
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 a glass of goodbye ...
But on my scarf you tied a knot,
so that someday I remember you.

At this farewell hour, sometimes in the evening,
you repeat the last words to me in a chant...
I tell you - 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 romance -
about the short meeting in Paris
Akhmatova and Modigliani.

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

He is also an unknown artist
and she is a young poetess...
But already on the canvas carefully
the first drawing shows up.

But love is a rare bird...
They broke up a month later.
But already over her portrait
the first lines took off a flock.

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

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

Let the line fall from the leaf
let the word know no limit,
and I will not put an end
so that the word reaches you.

So that we leave gaps
in fate, and not in a paper field,
where are we boldly with you
entered, as if into water, one day.

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

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

On that, maybe, someone's will,
so we sketched carelessly
on a narrow paper field
fragments of the life of the former.

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

From melting cloudy ice floes
the last squeezed out moisture.
four hundred and fifty one
heat and burning paper.

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

And the world is covered in silence
silence, from end to end.
Burning Bush
The word burns without burning.

And yet - along the riverbeds,
losing the last sounds
some person
wanders, repeating books aloud.

Great lines accounting
leading, because life will be reborn,
and someone will read again -
pages they have saved.

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

*** "The wind died down and the evening died down ..."
Velimir Khlebnikov

Let my verse swing
like a lilac over you, not otherwise ...
For the wind to die down
a brief meeting the term having designated.

To let the evening fade
the starlight of the shadow of the peg,
to the melody
dark branches of lilac on the roof.

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

Let the notebook sheet
opens its wings over you...
We have passed the turn
dilapidated staircase, which has become fate.

*** I live in the village of Troparyovo

I live in the village of Troparyovo,
there - in the window a birch, in the house - the wind ...
Tom Minei, where the lines are even
I read the Troparion at dawn.

Through the pattern of Slavic dark knitting
the image appears - ancient, bright,
as if reconnecting
between the past and this.

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

Bookshelf, Menaion-Cheti...
Martyrs - glory does not burn.
I read Troparion at dawn -
soon will be the day of Peter and Paul.
I linger with my eyes on the lines
even...
The wind, he turns the pages here,
in a house where in the village of Troparyovo
I read ancient troparions ...

*** Instant

Let's be silent - in mid-sentence ...
Let - the arrow pulls a minute,
stop for a moment -
what will be beautiful.

"I'll pull back the curtain..."
you ask... - I don't mind.
The beam will run through, which
transforms things.

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

The distance will grow
a barrier between us
anyway, parting
no need to talk now.

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

Our shadows diverge
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 squeaks,
and luminous face,
glance flying from the icon.

You also have a day
the same rustles, squeaks,
and fragrant shadow
under the blossoming linden.

Days of running lines
frozen in strict lines,
do you remember
the hour 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 rustle of the universe...

*** Silver Kuzmin

Who will answer me for life,
and what is the fault? -
I'm entangled in the web
in silver - Kuzmina ...

Swept away in disgrace
wasted day...
And words are like lakes
will hide the shadows of the clouds.

Let once burned
strings of openwork bridges...
In the ice - hit the trout
silver tails...

Your distant beam will scatter
lines gloomy joint.
I'm going after Orpheus -
on the trail of Eurydice...

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

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

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

Remember the hot whisper - mouth ...
Rays of a star burning bush
light up your threshold.

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

And think about what a pity -
the page is still not a Tablet,
keeping the law,

But only - giving an answer
to the fleeting starlight,
coming from windows...

*** I'm back...

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

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

I returned home to this niche
loneliness, in the old shelter,
where can I hear again
your voice ... Where the tourniquet twists

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

This is the memory of our lump -
those that sometimes torment the soul,
like fast-paced lines
that are now sliding on the leaf.

I returned home... And from the balcony
I inhale the midnight darkness -
under the All-seeing eye - from the icon -
incomprehensible to the earthly mind...

*** Rain

Last night the rain was pounding on the window
and above the page the spirit of heaven hovered,
and moisture turned into wine,
he fed the vines of the strings like ancient juice.
A foreign guest unwittingly became the cause
insomnia... heavenly scale
washed away the earthly silence with an avalanche,
numbing pain from past losses.
Like eternity - rain threads pour
and hover over the notebook as they wish,
and break into pieces every minute,
to fit in between the lines, at random,
and summer comes to life on the page,
and grasses sprout among the lines,
and wrap around objects in the room,
and only a dot stops this
co-creation frantic lesson...

*** To the Transfiguration

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

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

On that day the leaves will be covered
unfading autumn light -
the fact that the words are illuminated
in a page of an old testament,

which we read
stepping after the disciples,
and again we see how from the darkness
rays from the top show through.

That day will begin in silence
unbreakable voices...

In the rays - a heavy ball of the Earth
easy - flies under the sky ...

Everything easier days, everything is finer

But even - on the blooming firmament
the days are getting easier, the days are getting worse,
when at hand - to death,
but far from repentance.

Do not change numbers and dates
in the hour of defeat and resentment...
Where are you, Psalm 50,
creation of the old David?

'Cause I'm still at the beginning
volumes of the Holy Pentateuch...
When - quench sorrows
psalm line that will get closer

of the lost song,
and the days will come silent -
blessed days of repentance,
and tremble over the stream of willow,

Lean over the blooming firmament,
when - a moment before immortality ...

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

Poetry from nothing
desired movement of the mouth...
But it will illuminate the forehead with a beam
and the juniper bush will flare up,

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

Life goes on in a dream
transforming what's here...
An angel comes in silence
and the song brings, like a message.

She sounds - from nothing,
when the beam needle flies,
accidentally illuminating the forehead,
and resin falls from the branches,

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

*** Apple Spas

Is it intertwined, or is it ripe,
remember, under our eyes -
from sweetness, or from ripeness
falling apples into the grass
and on the ground, as on a dish,
blushing a little, lay,
and surprised people
carefully collected

Slow movements
as if spellbound
this vision of paradise
as if transformed.

rustled softly
the wind... the cloud has risen
above the Garden - in the burning edge -
slowly, as if tired.

Is it ripe, or is it intertwined ...
The hour of the night is distant,
The earth was spinning a little on the o's,
substituting the side of the cloud,

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

*** "... swallow in the hall of shadows
will be back..."

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

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

At the holy hour, when you scatter it ...
From already charred particles
a flock of new pages will rise -
you can't put them together.

The swallow will leave, but the Phoenix bird
hovering over you in silence,
because they do not burn in fire -
about you - the poems of my page.

Time will not touch them with fine dust.
Only night. There will be no bright days.
Leave no shadows over you
swallow wings.

*** Genesis Line

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

There - the first tear rolled down,
and maybe the first rain has passed,
Heaven descended on earth
and God exclaimed: Good!

But there was blue in the clouds,
and a space between the lines...
In paradise, perhaps, too, autumn
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 dull life
the line of Genesis sparkles ...

*** Reading the Bible without me

Reading the Bible without me
without you the cold air is empty...
on this day I will not kindle a fire,
that juniper bush glows

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

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

I remember the blue sound
berries cooling in the distance...
I read the Bible - about sleep
the ancient prophet Elijah.

Let the bush bend over you
juniper 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 do not kindle a fire
only the juniper bush glows...
You read the Bible - without me ...

"In an instant to 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 calyx of the flower.

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

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

I guess - on the day when together
we will be fleeting in this life,
to make me feel endless
your eyes are a transparent reservoir.

Your house will be illuminated with light

Your house will be illuminated with light,
and laugh in the fireplace
flame ... Let's sit by the fire,
just don't chase me.

I came to you with confession,
like the other half
like a drop of yours
on the threshold of life.

Waking up from nothingness
and buried in your shoulder,
to continue somehow
talk a long way...

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

Leaves will fly dry
in the autumn garden, as for the first time,
in a pond, in a transparent reservoir -
where we stand together

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

Autumn days interlinear

Under my window steps subside,
R'osy will turn into frost in the morning,
the autumn garden will rustle with verses,
stellar night scattering flashes.

From heaven to earth will stretch the lines
rain... And the garden will squander its leaves
on the carpet ... Autumn days interlinear
will grow in an empty notebook.

A horseshoe is suspended for a month
on the doors of the invisible Paradise,
trying on a new autumn
midnight, already damp from the rain.

The bow is already aging for a month,
lighting up the white page...
Soon they will fly to you, in your ear
caravans of my words, like birds...

For the Nativity of the Virgin

Over the autumn silence
the clouds disperse
I read - about the earth
life of the Virgin.

Cranes fly into the sky
the skies will part...
And the child will appear
on earth - Intercessor.

An angel knocks on the door
a miracle will happen
He will whisper to Anna - “Believe!
Your daughter will be born...

And the words will burn
weeks go by
and bow down in September
mother over the cradle...

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

Over the autumn silence
the light of heaven shines
I read about the earth
life - about the Most Pure.

Do not erase these lines

Do not erase these lines
just cross out the trouble
I will still come to you
only - indicate that edge,

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

There, beyond the edge of a dream
and beyond life
the house where the Master is - you will be,
Margarita - I will become.

On the threshold of a bunch of firewood,
petals of fire in the stove,
just don't chase me
this is my last shelter,

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

Ravine in Kolomenskoye

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

The horizon disappeared without a trace
evening, it seemed bottomless
deep into the ravine ... Bitter quinoa,
a handful of leaves that are crushed into
palms.

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

The bottomless ravine defeated us,
the swan that remained on the slope...
But starry dust burned in the sky,
and burned, approaching, palms.

Autumn glitter five-fingered

The notebook sheet is so clean -
no word comes through...
But - you circle the maple,
a leaf that has become a palm.
I circle the fire -
autumn glitter five-fingered,
as if clinging to yours -
my ice hand...
Autumn's early brilliance
like transparent moisture
will accept, having absorbed, paper -
like a message from heaven.
And - ice palm
will come to life, and the Word will come forth...
I'm like a maple leaf
I circle your fire ...

Under Christmas

You will come to this house at Christmas,
crossed the threshold of life's cold,
silvery rain from spruce branches
subsides... The evening light is narrowed

To a thin beam that through the window
here paves the winter road...
You will remember those who have been here for a long time,
and all that you have lost little by little.

Do you remember the days when you were in darkness
still the native hand accompanied ...
Now you have to be alone
remove the sting of separation from life.

And only a living thread trembles,
you are connected with your former life by this thread,
and to the old question "to be - not to be"
you don't have to answer to anyone.

But the silvery rain is running, rustling,
from a huge spruce in the middle of the universe...
And maybe the soul is preparing
on Christmas day - to the last changes ...

Let a leaf fly to me

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

And around I will draw rays,
so that the light breaks through, dim ...
This will be the outline of the candle -
weightless gift to you.

I know that drops won't erase words...
I'll put the leaf on the doorstep
yours... I'll carry it in the wind -
I still remember the way to you.

Read the words tomorrow morning
to which you will not answer.
Tomorrow will be the day of the Intercession,
and you will meet him without me,
but the rays will not be erased
unearthly, as in the day of creation,
on a piece of paper - the outline of a candle,
like the beginning of a poem...

Reading a book about Gogol

He gives a look today,
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 blood with his friends.
But he wrote two volumes -
about souls... About us.

The soul is looking for a haven
already up to the earth - no matter,
and does not take food
tired body from life.

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 by
let's get away from a carefree life,
let Gogol with a thoughtful look -
talks about eternity.

And the palm touches the universe...

In the night, in the Veil, the window is wide open,

air like cold wine
and the palm touches the universe,

Where the stars are already trembling circle,
leaving a reflection on the icon,
maybe soon Pokrovka snowball
decorate the window sill with stars.

A candle flickers on the table,
before which we bring our faces together,
maybe from a star beam
timid light will flare up stronger,

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

Restored with a chain of words
the thread of speeches lost by us...
It will be at midnight, on Pokrov,
where beams meet beams,

Where the window is dissolved in the night,
the 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 went downhill,
lines - this is the time of wrinkles -
furrow the pages of ancient silk.

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

And the Gospels are four volumes -
the truth that God lived on Earth ...
Just to be in time - to get home
yours - to cross the threshold,

Remove the autumn cobwebs of hair,
do not leave a gap on the sheets,
just to hear the voice again
the one that sang about love to me ...

In your sky - a crane swims

In your sky - a crane floats,
and a tit flew to me ...
The house rocked like a ship
the page became a white sail.

Simply - this chick is frozen,
But I didn't close the window...
He quietly grew into my palm,
for me to warm it up.

Became like the Ark my house,
so that we sail to your shores,
let, while we are together with the chick,
but wings flutter in the palm of your hand.

Rustling through the autumn fields,
we sail in the foggy morning,
so that - breathing with a star bucket,
us to eat heavenly manna.

The house will die like a ship
but in the palm of a bird trembles,
let it be a tit, not a crane,
that in your skies I dream ...

Words sneak into the notebook

Life will turn into a dream
laughter turns to crying
my birch outside the window
will become more transparent
sprigs of thin strands
hoarfrost will dress with smoke,
words sneak into a notebook -
with a blue pencil...

In the room - shadows and light
the lamp will divide,
but the answer to the letter -
has been delayed for a week now.
Droplets break glass
the rain toga trembles...
To the cold of November
my way will fall,

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

Light breaking through the darkness
will separate the day from the night,
but the answer to the letter -
delayed for a week now...

Pilgrim

Linen is pouring a cloak,
touching silk grass,
falls off the shoulder
canvas burden.
You are leaving again
my eternal wanderer -
to the point of danger
hidden in the fog.
There's water beyond
will have to swim
trouble in my house
remains without you...
I'll still wave my handkerchief
I'm like a white flag
let me secretly follow you
walk quietly -
to that eternal Jerusalem -
listen to ancient tales,
where are you going alone
there, in the Holy Land.
This path is familiar to many,
he is called destiny...
let me go stealthily
following you -
where the cloak flows
flax by the silk river,
where falls off the shoulder
canvas load...

"Thought spoken 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
nights,

Long ago interrupted, well,
but today we listen to you
each other, yet understanding:
"thought uttered is a lie..."

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

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

Don't forget the face...

Don't forget the face
yours... But you put an end to it,
as if struck by lead
long way of a notebook line.

It's time to take off the ring
squeezing the nameless...
Let the porch crumble
like ashes, snow manna.

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

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

Don't forget the face
when bending over a leaf,
you draw at the end - a ring ...
It is always brighter than a dot...

Anniversary of the Kazan

I don't know where you are going
along the same transparent alley...
Anniversary of Kazanskaya, rain,
it is heaven pitying us.

Because today apart
you and I are walking around the world...
The last leaf has grown into the sky -
not in a 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
alleys lead to dead ends,
every word is a lie,
a yellow leaf smolders on the asphalt.

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

SILENTIUM

Silence! the sound of latin...
Gotta go back to silence
that freezes over the mouth,
sometimes, in times of despair.

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

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

Silence will continue with dreams
prophecy, promise
what happens to us
at the meeting - after parting ...

Unearthly evening of St. Petersburg winters

"The beginning of 1916, the beginning
last year of the old world...
Sat and read the last verses
on the last skins
at the last fireplaces...» M.
Tsvetaeva. "Eternal 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 -
poetry is read. The lyre does not stop.

Winter of the sixteenth... Dashing times...
The fireplace is on fire. Then - they will pay with death
poets - for the last verses,
where every line leads to immortality.

The unearthly evening lasts until the morning,
the last verses are circling the world,
silence comes again,
Silence is the last weapon...

The last fireplace is kindled in the night,
poetry is read, the lyre does not stop.
Unearthly evening of St. Petersburg winters,
the last year of the former Russia... the world...

Lead, winged god Hermes

Lead me, distant god,
lead the path a little noticeable,
unravel the tangle of lines,
those that remain unanswered.

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

Lead me to where the wind died down
where the sky is the edge - touched the earth,
lead the path of Eurydice,
no one turns around...

Lead me to where the laurel blooms
so good in its cool...
Where it still sings
Orpheus to me about love - in Hellas ...

marble goddess
in Tsaritsyno park

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

We walked among the palace blocks,
above the head - a starry swarm,
we were guarded by century-old lindens
high-barreled dark system.

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

Melodious - girlish binding
crossed forever young hands,
she made the flight
out of existence into the sacred circle.

Together we walked so far
like forgetting everything...

Then - we will remember the reservoir
and the gold of bowed willows...

Khlebnikov Field

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

Overhead there - a swarm flickers
stars... Words lose their shadow,
and a beam - weaves tribute from sighs
and on the Trinity, and on Spirits day.

And the song of the grasshopper rejoices -
with you we read about
how he carelessly wings
line by line - in gold writing.

News comes from the field
intertwined with silence
and the creator's ring flickers,
as on the little finger - the globe of the earth ...

holy water runs

broken windows,
birch leaves,
and dry on the page
falling from the pen, the words...

Memories are mean
I remember the candles burning
I remember how your lips
silently pray.

A look into the dome
clouds are burning on the fresco...
Your gestures are stingy -
the hand that makes the cross...

Holy water runs
well there, somewhere, near,
bucket knocking on the wall
and slips down...

I remember - the candle burns out,
dry leaves fly...
We called Paradise
that abandoned garden...

universe backlight

A strip of snow turns white
the snow will not melt soon -

The saucer of the sun is broken
rays - like the spokes of an umbrella

Strive for a moment to touch
to the horizon line.

Our paths will part
like parallel lines

Our thoughts converge
somewhere in the sky

Where the stars sway
like the backlight of the universe,

Where parallels intertwine
like whitened branches...

Lines of Reiner's letters

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

Rainer is here
throwing off the road cloak ...
And his instructions
I will listen carefully.

The word is a risk zone,
like I'm not breathing
and what is close
in front of me - I write.

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

Here is the attic cabin,
blood, already fragile ...
But one more minute
and the lines will flow...

This is the image of the frosty Russian Paradise

On the road sprinkled with stardust,
on a snowy road, the path is not easy ...
You have space calculated in miles,
Before me is an infinity of birch versts.

These versts go like soldiers in the ranks,
like an image of frosty Russian roads,
their number is equal to the experienced losses,
this is a Russian field, shafts, snowdrift ...

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

This temple is the last one almost destroyed,
from snowflakes weaved by the Mother of God Plath,
at Christmas only angels serve here
by the distant light of star lamps.

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

And the snowflakes are counting the minutes

Nameless manna melts -
the path from heaven to earth is irrevocable.
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 hazy
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, a cold,
and the passer-by runs into the desert,
in the alley of the Christmas cold.

The infinite 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 up the stairs without railings,
I'm walking... Like a soul, the steps are transparent.
Breathing a little, I go through the breath of wings,
there is no shadow on the ground.

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

so that we can know each other
call out.

Thirty letters-pearls are clamped in a handful -
someone's endless speeches are the basis,
and the string hangs like the axis of the universe,
on which, trembling, the word still holds.

We take pearls from a handful,
on the air lines of the letters below.
We just have to write: "I'm sorry ...",
for the last word we put a niche.

There are so few words left on earth
silence above us will stretch the net.
We have so few dreams left with you,
to meet each other in the night expanse

And go up the stairs without railings,
like a soul, its steps are transparent -
breathing a little to hear the breath of the wings -
there is no shadow on the ground...

Handset buzz

pipes,
to break the silence of space,
so that the words fly like a goal / ubki -
any - tenderness, or reproach ...

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

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

Christmas night is almost here

Freezing. The window is overgrown with a pattern.
It is not visible given the one where long ago
you left. They burn above you
those stars that talk to each other.

The forehead of the page - the first wrinkles
lines, broken into words, plow...
Someday you will light them / yat -
a candle, or a lamp, the glow of a fireplace,
or a dim northern sunset.

My words will scatter around the world -
homeless birds have no barriers in the way ...
So that my word catches your eye -
I'm ready to return with the word bird
in any - a blooming, circled Garden,

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

Frost grows in a pattern on glass,
plexus of snow do not unravel the look ...
Christmas night is almost here
and glows like a lamp in the corner,
where it appears through the darkness of the night
elegant Spruce coniferous bulk,

Which this room is small
and there is no place for her in the local everyday life ...
On Christmas night she would have grown
to that Star that waits in the firmament...

House-Museum of Vasnetsov

The last walk got long
frost - space, time - everything shifts ...
Bell city. Dal. Moscow is silent
and Samoteka froze in the silence of Meshchanskaya.

But we have already coped with the frost,
stepping carefully on the crystals,
found a manor lost in dead ends,
old tower of a Russian artist.

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

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

In memory of Rainer Maria Rilke (December 29, 1926)
“I am so alone. No one understands..." Rainer Rilke, 1901

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

Someone gave the poet
in the mountains a flowering wedge of the earth ...
He died? - No, hurry away
to the heights that are always far away

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

His words fly to me -
from That, to This white world ...
And before me is his portrait,
his bottomless bright gaze.

He became one of those peaks
long ago glittering in the distance.
He told me: "I'm so alone ..." -
in pure Russian.

***
If you think strictly
about this sacred story:
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 years

Sounds through the morning chill
through the predawn hour
when eyes meet
when God looks at us...

image. However, putting forward in his heroes some basic ugly trait, Gogol does not turn them into conditionally grotesque figures, preserving all the vitality and fullness of the characters. So, for example, Khlestakov's dandyism, repeatedly noted by Gogol, is a very existing 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 costume, dressing Osip in a 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 ruthlessness 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, 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 of denunciation did not allow Gogol to soften his satirical image, to note in the freaks depicted by him any positive features. He turns out in front of the viewer all the most disgusting, socially harmful, dishonest, which is often hidden under the mask of hypocrisy in these people.

The mayor is a representative of the bureaucratic environment of the old leaven, Khlestakov is a different story, a hero of the new time, a product of the new order. He is a metropolitan thing, a representative of the higher clerical spheres, an educated circle of officials that sets the tone.

In Khlestakov's characterization in Remarks, for G.G. actor Gogol wrote: A young man of about 23, thin, thin, somewhat stupid and, as they say, without a king in his head. One of those people who are called empty in the office. He speaks and acts without any thought. He is not able to stop constant attention on any thought ... .. In this characterization of Khlestakov, those main lines are outlined along which the image should be built in his acting incarnation. Gogol, first of all, emphasizes the mediocrity and stupidity of Khlestakov, the unproductive nature of his actions and deeds. But it was precisely these features that were typical of the vast circle of young nobles from the provincial landowner sons who settled in the metropolitan departments. In the further course of his comedies, Gogol will develop this type in his gigantic vulgarity, selfishness, and spiritual insignificance. Khlestakov is a product of Gogol's contemporary reality, a typical phenomenon of a noble society, clearly indicating its degradation, its ostentatious deceitful essence. Khlestakov is not a caricature - this is a generalized social type, on which his partly genuine, insignificant nature of the noble society is completely exposed.

Khlestakov is a symbol of all-Russian imposture, universal deceit and falsehood, vulgarity, bragging, irresponsibility. There are no definite views, no definite goals, - Herzen wrote about the contemporary leaders of the government clique, - and the eternal type of Khlestakov, repeating from the volost clerk to the king. Wanting to give himself more weight, Khlestakov boasts of his literary acquaintances, and then fashionable works, of which he is allegedly the author.

Tipsy and boasting Khlestakov pats Pushkin on the shoulder, hints at his involvement in literature: Yes, they already know me everywhere. I know pretty actresses. I'm also different vaudeville. For Khlestakov, actresses, vaudeville performers, Pushkin are phenomena of the same kind. I often see writers. With Pushkin on a friendly footing. Sometimes, I often say to him: Well, what, brother Pushkin? A scene from Khlestakov's conversation with the postmaster, who came to greet him upon his arrival in the city:

Khlestakov. What do you need in my opinion? You just need to be respected, loved sincerely, isn't it?

Postmaster. Absolutely fair.

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

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

A particularly illustrative example of the writer's meticulous work on language is Khlestakov's famous monologue in the scene of lies. 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. Every word here is extraordinarily weighty. The writer's skill is revealed in the transfer of the smallest shades of Khlestakov's lies, which acquire a very significant significance for characterizing both Khlestakov himself and the society around him. I confess, I exist by literature. I have the first house in St. Petersburg. So it is known: the house of Ivan Alexandrovich. And then a boastful invitation to my non-existent house. Mention of a watermelon at 700 rubles. Soup delivered in a saucepan from Paris. Entering the role, Khlestakov lies more and more inspiredly, his lie grows like a snowball hyperbole, which has become a kind of find of Khlestakov's inspired lies.

And immediately the courier will say: Ivan Alexandrovich! Get in charge of the ministry. I, I confess, was a little embarrassed: I went out in a dressing gown, well, to refuse, but I think to myself; reaches the sovereign ... unpleasant. Well, I didn't want to ruin my track record.

Gogol also worked hard on finishing the end of Khlestakov's monologue, trying to give it maximum expressiveness. The significant confession of the completely lying Khlestakov that he went to the palace, and even he himself does not know what, in the end, he became. I am also present in the State Council. And to the palace, if sometimes balls happen, they always send for me. They even wanted to make me Vice-Chancellor…. me myself state council fears. What really? I am like that! I will not look at anyone ... I say to everyone: I know myself, myself. I am everywhere, everywhere. I go to the palace every day. Tomorrow they will make me into the field march now ..., (Slips ...)

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

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

Work on the language of the Inspector is an amazing way for playwrights in its artistic penetration and writer's conscientiousness.

Outcome. The struggle for a new, high image of a person, the search for new artistic means satirical images in comedy find support in 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 conquests of the founder of Russian comedy are translated in different ways. Gogol is felt not only in the general satirical idea, but also in the very manner of portraying the characters, humor, and linguistic characteristics.

Gogol's stories.

It can be argued with good reason that the Terrible Vengeance and the Evening on the eve of Ivan Kupala are the most primary stage of Gogol's work. It is no coincidence that the plots of these stories are based on folklore to a lesser extent than the motives of Gogol's contemporary romanticism.

The same touch of a fantastic ballad lies on the episode of the drowned May night, but there the lyrics are more folklorized and included in the context of a cheerful bright dream about the norm of being of healthy people close to nature. Another thing is the dream and poetry of the Terrible Revenge with its hyperbolic images, creating an illusory world in the open.

It goes without saying that it would be strange to be surprised by the hyperbole of the Terrible Revenge, including the famous landscape Wonderful Dnieper in calm weather .... There is no need to be surprised at Gogol's The rare bird will fly to the middle of the Dnieper. For these are also landscapes of the soul, like those of Zhukovsky, 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 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; four-storied walls piled up on both sides, the sound of the horse's hooves, the sound of the wheel resounded with thunder and echoed from four sides, the houses grew and seemed to rise from the ground at every step; bridges trembled; carriages flew; cabbies, postilions shouted; snow whistled under a thousand sleighs flying from all sides; pedestrians huddled and crowded under the houses, humiliated with bowls, and their huge shadows flickered along the walls, reaching the goal.

N.V. Gogol

slide 2

Trails:

Comparison is a figurative expression in which one phenomenon, object, person is likened to another.

Comparisons are expressed in different ways:

• instrumental case (“leaves smoke”);
• various unions (as, as if, exactly, as if, etc.)
• lexically (using words similar, similar)

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TROPES (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 wrapping around a bowl, cunning - a fox, etc.
Hyperbola - a trope based on the excessive exaggeration of certain properties of the depicted object or phenomenon:

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

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

Litotes - a trope opposite to hyperbole, an artistic understatement: Your Spitz, 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 friskyly (A. S. Pushkin).
Epithet - a word that defines an object or phenomenon and emphasizes any of its properties, qualities, signs. Usually, a colorful definition is called an epithet: Your thoughtful nights are transparent dusk (A. S. Pushkin).
paraphrase - 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 that is not directly named: the king of animals is a lion.
Irony - a technique of ridicule, containing an assessment of what is ridiculed. There is always a double meaning in irony, where the true is not what is directly stated, but what is implied: Count Khvostov, a poet beloved by heaven, already sang with immortal verses of the misfortune of the Neva banks (A. S. Pushkin).

Stylistic figures
(based on a special syntactic construction of speech)
Rhetorical address - giving the author's intonation solemnity, pathos, irony, etc.: Oh, you haughty descendants ... (M. Yu. Lermontov)
Rhetorical question - such a construction of speech in which the 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: Will a beautiful dawn finally rise over the fatherland of enlightened freedom? (A. S. Pushkin)
Anaphora - repetition of parts of relatively independent segments, otherwise the anaphora is called monophony: As if you curse the days without a gap, as if the gloomy nights scare you
(A. Apukhtin).

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

Antithesis - a stylistic figure based on the opposition: Both day and hour, both in writing and orally, yes and no for the truth ... (M. Tsvetaeva).
Oxymoron - connection 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 weakening emotional and semantic significance: I do not regret, I do not call, I do not cry (S. Yesenin).
Default - deliberate interruption of speech, counting on the guess of the reader, who must mentally finish the phrase: But listen: if I owe you ... I own a dagger, I was born near the Caucasus (A. S. Pushkin).
Nominative topics (nominative representations) - a word in the nominative case or a phrase with the main word in the nominative case, which is at the beginning of a paragraph or text and in which the topic of further reasoning is declared (the name of the subject is given, which serves as the topic of further reasoning): Letters. Who likes to write them?
Parceling - intentional breaking of one simple or complex sentence into several separate sentences in order to draw the reader's attention to the selected segment, to give it (the segment) additional meaning: One and the same experience has to be repeated many times. And with great care.
Syntax parallelism - the same construction of two or more sentences, lines, stanzas, parts of the text:
AT blue sky the stars are shining,
Waves crash in the blue sea.
(sentences are built according to the scheme: adverb of place with a definition, subject, predicate)
A cloud is moving across the sky, A barrel is floating on the sea. (A. S. Pushkin) (sentences are built according to the scheme: subject, circumstance, predicate)
Inversion - violation of the generally accepted grammatical sequence of speech: The sail of the lonely one in the fog of the blue sea turns white.
(M. Yu. Lermontov) (according to the rules of the Russian language: A lone sail turns white in the blue fog of the sea.)