TROPES (based on the lexical meaning of the word)

Allegory - a trope based on replacing an abstract concept or phenomenon with a specific 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 a figurative sense 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, which is 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 entire French army) (M. Yu. Lermontov).

Litotes - a trope opposite to hyperbole, an artistic understatement: Your Pomeranian, lovely Pomeranian, 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 corpse, dead souls, etc.
gradation - grouping homogeneous members of a sentence 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 - deliberate splitting 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: 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:
The stars are shining in the blue sky
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.)

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
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 home.

*** 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 is easier days, everything is more cursed

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 the old house stands...

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 space

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...

I have been thinking about this text for a long time. I want as many people as possible to use figures of speech in their texts.

We have been taught by thousands of words pouring from TV screens, on the front pages of newspapers - but all these are patterns, hackneyed and familiar, which we no longer think about. And therefore, the usual text is dead pieces of stereotypes torn out with meat, which we are trying to connect.
To write more interestingly, you need to learn how to use trails.

I keep writing about how to develop my own style.
This skill is more suitable for creating journalistic texts, for expert articles.
Selling texts are rare, because you cannot say metaphorically “after this training you will sing like a nightingale or “sing like a nightingale”. Not every target audience will positively perceive such a turn.

But if you work with a word, then you definitely need to know all the figures of speech and use them as clearly as possible.

Sometimes you write - and a feeling of triumph and perfection inside. It's like you're in a place like the photo below or above. Most often this happens when you have chosen the right words and figures of speech. That's what I want to talk about today.

What are tropes and figures of speech?

A trope, in short, is a decoration of the text.
Today there are 3 main tropes, and all the rest are derivatives: metaphor, metonymy and synecdoche.
Metaphor the transfer of meaning from one object to another.
Metonymy- metonymy is based on the replacement of the words “by adjacency” (part instead of the whole or vice versa, class representative instead of the whole class or vice versa, receptacle instead of content or vice versa, etc.)
Synecdoche- trope, a stylistic device, consisting in the fact that the name of the general is transferred to the private (“The whole school poured out into the street”; “Russia lost to Wales: 0-3”)

However, most often we use the metaphor and its derivatives:
- comparison
- hyperbole
- litote
- personification

Millions of people write today, but what a poor use of the wealth of language.

In short, what gives the use of different figures of speech:

2. Your thoughts are rich, like food rich in minerals and vitamins.

3. Clarity of understanding. Your texts are easily understood by the reader and they are remembered.

And now specifically for each trail. Go:

What is a metaphor and how to use it?

Metaphor literally translates as "transfer". (from other Greek μεταφορά - “transfer”, “figurative meaning”)

Thanks to the metaphor, the text becomes lively and juicy.

Metaphor is a comparison by characteristic.
For example, by color (the moon is cheese in the sky), by the quality of taste, by the similarity of feelings
A lone sail turns white. (the sail is lonely and the man alone is also lonely)

Using metaphor in copywriting

For example, we will sell a course for HR directors
“Want to have a lot of free time to develop yourself and your business. Then…". In this example, "Free Time Car" is a metaphor.

Here are more examples:

• Faithful helper, good dog
• Round dance of clients
• Roy of musicians

But unlike literary texts, such options will work worse in business texts, since the beauty of the syllable is not appreciated here. And it's more like a joke.

Comparison

This figure of speech is most often used in copywriting.

Comparison is a trope in which one object or phenomenon is likened to another according to some common feature for them. The purpose of the comparison is to reveal new, important properties that are advantageous for the subject of the statement in the object of comparison.

Crazy years faded fun

It's hard for me like a vague hangover.

But, like wine, sadness of bygone days

In my soul, the older, the stronger.

Comparisons are widely used in the description of nature:

At the bottom, like a steel mirror,

Jet lakes turn blue,

And from the stones, shining in the heat,

Jets rush into the native depths. (F. Tyutchev)

Metonymy

Metonymy- a literary trope based on adjacent, adjacent, close, easily understood connections of objects and phenomena.

The whole city was asleep (the city replaces the inhabitants)
It was a happy day (day replaces feelings during the day)
We went there in a cab (the cab replaces the means of transport)

Synecdoche

Synecdoche- this is an artistic trope, which is created by transferring the name of an object from its part to the whole and vice versa.

All flags will visit us. (A.S. Pushkin)
In this context, flags (part) means countries (whole) that will establish ties with Russia.
We read from N.V. Gogol in the novel Dead Souls:
"Hey beard! And how to get from here to Plyushkin?
The writer called the man a beard according to one characteristic feature in his appearance. And a visible image of this man with a thick beard appeared before the reader. This is the artistic trope - the synecdoche.

In Charles Perrault's fairy tale, a little girl is called Little Red Riding Hood because of one headdress that stands out in her outfit - a red riding hood that her mother gave her for her birthday.

• The old red-haired head with sideburns again appeared from behind the door, looked and entered the office along with its rather ugly body. (I.S. Turgenev)
• Only the hewn back of his head, sighing noisily, whispered. (A.M. Gorky)
  Synecdoche can occur when the singular of a noun is used as a plural.
• And it was heard until dawn how the Frenchman rejoiced. (M.Yu. Lermontov)
• Swede, Russian stabs, cuts, cuts. (A.S. Pushkin)

Hyperbola

Hyperbole is an exaggeration (for example: a sea of ​​​​tears, fast as lightning, we haven’t seen each other for a hundred years, I’m talking for the hundredth time, etc.)
rivers of blood, you are always late, mountains of corpses, haven’t seen each other for a hundred years, scare you to death, said a hundred times, a million apologies, a sea of ​​ripened wheat, I’ve been waiting for ages, I’ve stood all day, at least fill up, a house a thousand kilometers away, constantly late.

And the pine reaches the stars. (O. Mandelstam)
In the dream, the janitor became as heavy as a chest of drawers. (I. Ilf and E. Petrov)
Perhaps, admiring them, you gave him the darkness of your qualities; he is not sinful in anything, you are a hundred times more sinful. (A.S. Griboyedov)
A rare bird will fly to the middle of the Dnieper. (N.V. Gogol)
A decent person is ready to run away from you far away. (F. Dostoevsky)
A million torments (A.S. Griboyedov "Woe from Wit").

Litotes

Litota is the opposite of hyperbole. This is an understatement.

Litota is often found in works of art. Examples from the literature are very diverse. Gogol is one of the lovers of this stylistic device. Basically, the litote is used by the author in an ironic context. So, in the story "Nevsky Prospekt" the writer uses the litote as follows:
“…waist, no thicker than a bottle neck…”
Litota in literature is an artistic technique that is used both in poetry and in works of art by various authors. It is used both for a detailed description of the character of the hero, and for an ironic attitude to the situation, and for the beauty of expressing feelings.

For example, litotes are found in Mayakovsky's poems:
“Where does the body have such a large:
must be small
humble darling."

Litota is also found in Pushkin's poems:
“I do not value high-profile rights,
From which not one is dizzy. "

In the famous "Eugene Onegin" this stylistic device was also not without:
“Here is a yard boy running,
Planting a bug in a sled,
Transform yourself into a horse.
The scoundrel already froze his finger.
It hurts and it's funny .... "

personification

Personification is the transfer of human properties to inanimate objects and abstract concepts.
the forest woke up (compare: the child woke up),
the reed whispers (the girl whispers),
darkness crept up (the scout crept up).

How to work with figures of speech

The most important thing is to come up with 10 options.

Take a sheet of paper and write the necessary text, and then start coming up with at least 10 figures of speech.

The task. Work with the expression "White as..."

Just don't write "White as snow." I promise you, by the 10th option you will have fresh ideas.

Use figures of speech and enrich your texts

Knowing the main tropes helps, rather, to understand better how to think in order to enrich the text. It is the direction of thought that is often needed, not the ideas themselves. Everyone, I'm sure, can write interestingly, for this you need only concentrated work on your text.

Shortly about myself: Entrepreneur, internet marketer, commercial writer, Christian. The author of two blogs (and Words of Encouragement), the head of the studio of texts "Word". I have been writing consciously since 2001, in newspaper journalism since 2007, and I have been earning money exclusively with texts since 2013. I love writing and sharing what helps me in training. Became a father since 2017.
You can order training or texts by mail or by writing in a personal message on a social network convenient for you.

1922 - 1938 years.

Poems "I returned to my city, familiar to tears ..." 1930,

"For the explosive valor of the coming centuries..." 1931, 1935.

OptionI.

Read the poemI returned to my city, familiar to tears ... "and complete tasks B8 - B12; C3 - C4.

AT 8. The ominous atmosphere of St. Petersburg in the poem is created by using a special kind of phrases ("pulled out with meat", "all night long"). What are their names?

AT 9. What is the name of the appeal to an inanimate object ("Petersburg, I still have addresses")?

AT 10 O'CLOCK. What stylistic figures are used in the poem to enhance the emotional expressiveness in the following lines: "... so swallow quickly//... Find out soon ..."?

AT 11. What means of artistic expression does the poet use in the line: "And all night long I wait for dear guests"?

AT 12. What is the size of the poem?

C3. What images of the poem embody the idea of ​​the lyrical hero about St. Petersburg in the 30s?

C4. What poetic works of Russian poets are addressed to St. Petersburg, and what motives bring them closer to O.E. Mandelstam's poem "I returned to my city, familiar to tears"?

C4. What poems of Russian poets touch upon the theme of individual freedom, and what motives bring them closer to O.E. Mandelstam's poem "I returned to my city, familiar to tears"?

OptionI.

Read the poemFor the explosive prowess of the coming ages..." and complete tasks B8 - B12; C3 - C4.

AT 8. What artistic means, based on the transfer of the properties of one phenomenon to another by their similarity, does the author use in the line of the poem: "The age-wolfhound throws itself on my shoulders ..."?

AT 9. What is the technique of artistic expression, which is used by the author in the poem to create a vivid picture: "And the pine reaches the star ...".

AT 10 O'CLOCK. What is the name of the figurative and expressive means used in the poem: "shove me better, like a hat in a sleeve"?

AT 11. The solemn tone of the first verse in the poem is created with the help of sound writing: "For the explosive valor of the coming centuries ...". What is this type of sound recording called?

AT 12. What type of rhyme is used in the poem?

C3. In what images of the poem is the idea of ​​the lyrical hero about his time embodied?

C4. In what poems of Russian poets does the theme of the appointment of the poet and poetry sound, and how are they close to O.E. Mandelstam's poem "For the explosive valor of the coming centuries ..."?

Answers to control materials.

OptionI.

B8 phraseological units

B9 rhetorical

B10 parallelism, repetition

B11 irony

B12 anapaest

C4 A.S. Pushkin "The Bronze Horseman"; A.A. Akhmatova "Requiem"

C4 A.S. Pushkin "Anchar", "To Chaadaev"; M.Yu. Lermontov "Mtsyri"

OptionII.

B8 metaphor

B9 hyperbole

B10 comparison

B11 alliteration

B12 cross

С4 AS Pushkin "Prophet", "I erected a monument to myself not made by hands..."; M.Yu. Lermontov "The Death of a Poet"; A.A. Blok "Stranger", etc.

Poetics Mandelstam beautiful in that frozen words and sentences, under the influence of his pen, turn into lively and enchanting visual images filled with music. It was said about him that in his poetry "concert descents of Chopin's mazurkas" and "parks with curtains of Mozart", "Schubert's musical vineyard" and "undersized bushes of Beethoven's sonatas", Handel's "tortoises" and "warlike pages of Bach" come to life, and violin musicians the orchestra got mixed up with "branches, roots and bows".

Graceful combinations of sounds and harmonies are woven into an elegant and subtle melody, invisibly shimmering in the air. Mandelstam is characterized by a cult of creative impulse and an amazing manner of writing. "I alone write from the voice," the poet said about himself. It was the visual images that initially arose in Mandelstam's head, and he began to pronounce them silently. The movement of the lips gave rise to spontaneous metrics, which grew into clusters of words. Many of Mandelstam's poems were written "from the voice."

Iosif Emilievich Mandelstam was born on January 15, 1891 in Warsaw into a Jewish family of a merchant, glove maker, Emil Mandelstam, and a musician, Flora Verblovskaya. 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 Tenishevsky 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. In parallel, Osip attended lectures at Heidelberg University. Arriving in St. Petersburg, he attended lectures on versification in the famous "tower" of Vyacheslav Ivanov. However, the Mandelstam family gradually began to go bankrupt, and in 1911 he had to leave his studies in Europe and enter St. Petersburg University. For Jews at that time there was a quota for admission, so they had to be baptized by a Methodist pastor. On September 10, 1911, Osip Mandelstam became a student of the Romano-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 in 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 the name of this was - Poetry. Returning to St. Petersburg, Gumilyov constantly invited the young man to visit, where in 1911 he met Anna Akhmatova. Friendship with a poetic couple became "one of the main successes" in the life of a young poet, according to his memoirs. Later he met other poets: Marina Tsvetaeva. In 1912, Mandelstam joined the group of acmeists, regularly attended meetings of the Workshop of Poets.

The first known publication took place in 1910 in the Apollo magazine, when the aspiring poet was 19 years old. Later he was published in the journals "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 haunt of the creative bohemia of those years, the Stray Dog art cafe, and communicated with many poets and writers. However, the beautiful and mysterious veil of that era of "timelessness" was soon to be dispelled, with the outbreak of the First World War, and then with the advent of the October Revolution. After her, Mandelstam's life was unpredictable: he could no longer feel safe. There were periods when he lived on the rise: at the beginning of the revolutionary era, he worked in newspapers, in the People's Commissariat for Education, traveled around the country, published, and 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 poems reflect the anxiety of this disturbing and unstable time, when the civil war was raging, 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. In 1923, "The Noise of Time" was published, in 1927 - "Egyptian stamp", and in 1928 - a collection of articles "On Poetry". Then, in 1928, the collection "Poems" was released, which became the last lifetime poetry collection. Hard years lay ahead of 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 the Journey to Armenia published in 1933 based on the trip was met with devastating articles in Literaturnaya Gazeta, Pravda and Zvezda.

"The Beginning of the End" begins after the writing by the desperate Mandelstam in 1933 of the anti-Stalinist epigram "We live, not smelling the country under us ...", which he reads to the public. Among them is someone who denounces the poet. An act called by B. Pasternak "suicide" leads to the arrest and exile of the poet and his wife to Cherdyn (Perm Territory), where Mandelstam, brought to an extreme degree of emotional exhaustion, is thrown out of the window, but he is rescued in time. Only thanks to the desperate attempts of Nadezhda Mandelstam to achieve justice, 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 spouses are bleak: 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, the theater and the feasible help of true friends, including Akhmatova, make it possible to somehow put up with the hardships. In Voronezh, Mandelstam writes a lot, but no one intends to publish it. "Voronezh notebooks", published after his death, are one of the pinnacles of his poetic work.

However, representatives of the Soviet Union of 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 freedom" in Moscow in 1937, was again arrested and sent to hard labor in a camp in the Far East. There, the poet's health, shattered by mental trauma, finally deteriorated, and on December 27, 1938, he died of typhus in the camp point Second River in Vladivostok.

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

When I fall down 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. I imperceptibly blend into the shadows.
And the dogs will pity me, kissing 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 denied Soviet Russia any right to publish Mandelstam's poems. This refusal sounded like a curse to the Soviet state. Only with the beginning of perestroika, Mandelstam began to gradually print.

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

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

For the quiet joy to breathe and live
Who, tell me, should I thank?

I am the gardener, I am the flower,
In the darkness of the world, I am not alone.

On the glass of eternity has already fallen
My breath, my warmth.

The pattern will be imprinted on it,
Recently unrecognizable.

Let the dregs flow for a moment -
Do not cross out the cute pattern.
<1909>

***
The thin ashes are thinning -
purple tapestry,

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

indecisive hand
These brought out the clouds.

And the sad meets the gaze
Their misty pattern.

I stand dissatisfied and 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 branches raised
And imperceptibly evening.

The pattern is sharp and fine,
Frozen thin mesh
Like on a porcelain plate
Drawing, drawn aptly -

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

***
Unspeakable sadness
Opened two huge eyes
Flower woke up vase
And threw out her crystal.

The whole room is drunk
Tiredness is sweet medicine!
Such a small kingdom
So much sleep has been consumed.

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.

The seas of the chest breathe calmly,
But, like crazy, the day is bright.
And pale lilac foam
In a cloudy-azure vessel.

May my lips find
Initial dumbness -
Like a crystal note
What is pure from birth!

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

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

And what is the confession for?
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
Don't dare to stop
I contemplate the gloss
Girlish cheeks.
<1911>

***
I'm shivering from the cold -
I want to be dumb!
And gold dances in the sky -
Tells me to sing.

Tomis, an anxious musician,
Love, remember and cry
And, abandoned from a dim planet,
Pick up an easy ball!

So this is the real one
Connection with the mysterious world!
What an aching longing
What a disaster!

What if, shuddering wrong,
shimmering always,
With your pin rusty
Will a star get me?
<1912>

***
No, not the moon, but a light dial
It shines on me - and why am I to blame,
What faint stars I feel the milkiness?

And Batyushkov'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 dust
And boards instead of images,
Where in chalk - Sebastian Bach
Only numbers appear psalms.

High wrangler, is it?
Playing their chorale to grandchildren,
The support of the spirit indeed
Are you looking for proof?

What's the sound? sixteenths,
Organ polysyllabic cry -
Only your grumbling, no more,
Oh, intractable old man!

And a Lutheran preacher
On his black pulpit
With yours, angry interlocutor,
Interferes with the sound of his speeches.
<1913>

***
"Ice cream!" The sun. Air biscuit.
Transparent glass with ice water.
And into the world of chocolate with a ruddy dawn,
In the milky Alps, dreaming flies.

But, clinking with a spoon, it is touching to look -
And in a cramped arbor, among dusty acacias,
Accept favorably from the bakery graces
Fragile food in an intricate cup...

A hurdy-gurdy friend will suddenly appear
Wandering glacier motley cover -
And the boy looks with eager attention
In a wonderful cold chest full.

And the gods do not know what he will take:
Diamond cream or stuffed waffle?
But 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 over Hellas once rose.

Like a crane wedge in foreign borders, -
Divine foam on the heads of kings, -
Where are you sailing? Whenever not Elena,
What is Troy to you alone, Achaean men?

Both the sea and Homer - everything is moved by love.
Who should I listen to? And here Homer is silent,
And the black sea, ornate, rustles
And with a heavy roar, he approaches the headboard.
<1915>

***
I don't know since when
This song started
Isn't a thief rustling over her,
Mosquito ringing Prince?

I would like about anything
Talk again
Rustling a match, shoulder
Push the night, wake up;

Scatter a haystack around the table
A cap of air that torments;
Rip open the bag
In which cumin is sewn up.

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

***
I returned to my city, familiar to tears,
To veins, to children's swollen glands.

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

Get to know the December day,
Where the yolk is mixed with the sinister tar.

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

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

I live on a black staircase, and in the temple
A bell torn with meat strikes me,

And all night long waiting for dear guests,
Moving the shackles of door chains.

<декабрь 1930>

***
For the explosive valor of the coming centuries,
For the high tribe of people
I lost the cup at the feast of the fathers,
And fun, and his honor.
A wolfhound age throws itself on my shoulders,
But I'm not a wolf by my blood,
Stuff me better, like a hat, in a sleeve
Hot fur coat of the Siberian steppes.

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

Take me to the night where the Yenisei flows
And the pine reaches the star
Because I'm not a wolf by my blood
And only an equal will kill me.

<март 1931>

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

Still resentment pulls from the saucer
sleepy child,
And I have no one to pout
And I am alone in all ways.

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