M kuzmin is a distinctive feature. Mikhail Kuzmin: Poems. student ** "*" class
Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin (1875 - 1936) - an outstanding Russian poet, prose writer, translator, composer - was born on September 23 (October 6 n.s.) in Yaroslavl in a noble family. Childhood years were spent in Saratov, in 1884 the family moved to St. Petersburg.
From 1885 he lived in St. Petersburg, studied at the gymnasium, then entered the conservatory in the composition class, was a student of Rimsky-Korsakov, but did not graduate from the conservatory due to illness.
During these years, he travels a lot in Italy, Egypt and other countries. He also travels to the Old Believer villages of the north of Russia. Both those and other impressions will subsequently be reflected in his worldview and creativity.
He began to print in 1905. The first book of poems by Mikhail Kuzmin "Networks" was published in 1908. Already in it, the basic concepts of "acmeism" found a clear expression, which were most tangibly manifested in his later poems of 1913-1914. ("Clay doves").
Kuzmin's early poetry is permeated with the spirit of "charming and airy little things." But soon the motives of "airiness" are replaced by religious ones, despondency, sadness, and the fragility of human existence begin to prevail in his poems ("Autumn Lakes", 1912).
Kuzmin demanded from the poet "beautiful clarity" and appeal to "living feeling". In practice, however, this creed came down to him as a cult of sensuality and life's trifles.
Kuzmin gained fame as a master of stylizations and reincarnations. At the same time, he approached the past and the present as a conditional theatrical reality.
After the revolution, Kuzmin, along with poetic creativity, did a lot of theater criticism and literary translations. His collection of articles "Conventions" (1923) contains a number of interesting observations on the nature of theatrical and operatic art.
In poetry collections of the 1920s (“New Ghoul”, 1924; “Trout Breaks the Ice”, 1929), in a number of prose works, Kyzmin develops the principles of creating artistic images based on the grotesque, emphasized conventionality and stylization.
Kuzmin worked a lot in the genres of prose and dramaturgy. He is also known as a translator of Apuleius, Boccaccio, Shakespeare, as the author of music for his own texts.
Wreath of springs
Whose name will we hear on the spring path?
In the book of the heart, what shall we write on the spring journey?
We are not vases with sweet backgammon in a dark basement:
It is not proper to sleep in niches on the spring journey.
The running of the river, the striving of streams circles faster,
As if everything has become a dervish on the way to spring.
I'm drunk on a bright grove, mountains, valley
And grass on flat roofs on the way in spring!
We won’t calm down, we won’t calm down on the spring path!
Guide the blind to the blind, love is blind
Only you we breathe in the way of spring!
A golden ligature leads the beloved name across the sky.
I whisper, languishing for a long night, my beloved name.
Coming out to the square, I will say loudly, let everyone
Herald of love, I will shout, without shame, my beloved name.
Let me be imprisoned in prison, praise me
The cruel prince cannot forbid the name of his beloved.
I will sow two letters on the ridge with yellow nasturtium,
So that everyone looks, piously marveling at the beloved name.
Let them deprive me of hands and tongue - with languid sighs
I'll tell you how our connection is inseparable, my favorite name!
Who has seen Mecca and Medina - blessed!
Whoever meets death without fear is blessed!
Who knows the secret of hidden treasures, magic,
Who is equal to Aladin in happiness - blessed!
And you, despising the charm of gold, honor
And whoever takes the beggar's basket, blessed!
And the one to whom prayer is easy is sweet,
As in the hour of the evening to the muezzin - blessed!
And I, looking into the eyes of the lake, into the garden neg
And scarlet lips taking raspberries - blessed!
We birth and death - everything is given by the Lord of heaven.
Heat in summer, flowers in spring, ruddy clusters in autumn
And in the mountains of snow an avalanche - everything is given by the Lord of the sky.
And profit, and ruin, a happy path, death
on the road,
The power of kings and the web - everything is given by the Lord of the sky.
Kravchim shine of the eyes of the evil one, the sages of gray hair
reverence,
A slender camp, a hunchback back - everything is given by the Lord
Towers of prisons, running of the Euphrates, walls of rocks, deserts
open spaces,
And wherever I throw my eyes - the Lord of the sky gives everything!
To my share - the captivity of smiles, pipes of meetings,
separation zurny,
I do not curse my fate: everything is given by the Lord of the sky.
What, tell me, is more beautiful than rainbows? Your face.
What is wiser than all riddles? Your face.
What blows like a languid stream in the evening hour,
Like the spirit of jasmine beds? Your face!
What, like lightning, sparkles on a day of summer thunderstorms
Because of heavy, dark folds? Your face.
That death instills in my heart and pale fear,
Sorrowful bitterness sediment? Your face.
That the gate will suddenly open into an unexpected garden,
Where is the peace of ponds so sweet? Your face!
What fate is an open book, golden ligature
All the questions, all the clues? Your face.
Look up at the vault of the sky: all the stars!
Bend down over the bowl of waters: all the stars!
In the black mirror of the pond, an hour of silence
Twisted in a patterned round dance all the luminaries.
The doors of the morning are locked, the guard is reliable,
All the luminaries are correct in their measured course.
Brown eye and peach cheeks, light curl,
Roses alley scarlet mouth - all the stars.
The pond of my eyes is opened straight into the sky,
Reflected your beauties all the stars.
A diligent swarm of light bees in dewy roses,
Honey is collected in a starry honeycomb by all the luminaries.
The kissing hive is sweet: which is more expensive?
Oh, mix up an idle account, all the luminaries!
You are with me and the night is full; morning, slow down!
Sweet to us is the last fruit, all the luminaries!
I am a customer, you are a merchant: we are stuck with the views
You are a passer-by, I am a singer: we are stuck with looks
You swear I am silent; I sing and you listen;
Let the evil fool slander: we are stuck with the views
I, asking for brocade, rings, with the wise secret of amulets,
I will give you a crown of songs: we are stuck with the views of me.
Unfold the charter of love, there the laws shine clearly,
You are the judge, and I am the plaintiff: we are stuck with the views
On the hunt you are a deer: fast legs, sensitive ears,
But I am also a dashing catcher: we are stuck with the views of the exchange.
On the mountain you herd herd: watch, shepherd, do not fall asleep:
I am like a wolf among sheep: we are stuck with the views of the exchange.
Dear miser, keep the treasure: a clever thief to you
sneaking
Take the key slyly, miser, we are stuck with looks
The circle is cordoned off, the cry sounded, come out to the duel,
I am a proven fighter, we are stuck with the views of the exchange.
Bird in a cage, fever in the chest, who is our captive to us
disenchant?
Well, are you flying, my starling? we got stuck
my views.
I have a chamber in my soul: candles melt, incense breathes,
You are a tenant of that upper room: we are stuck with looks
Didn't you know before that in love the seas
I am a swimmer and you are a swimmer? we got eyes
Who laughs - crazy; who reproaches - without
reasoning;
Who did not understand, he is a eunuch: we are stuck with the views
Why are you silent, my dumb guest? what do you mow crafty
My you, my you at last: we are stuck with the views
Leave the languid peace, come down here!
Desired and slow, come here!
The dogs are fed by me, the door is open,
And your vigilant guard sleeps: come down here!
Oh, I couldn't sleep at home: you're all in my mind...
Come down here with a consoling smile!
Leave the beds soft, put on your cloak,
At my touching call, come down here!
By the moon that fourteen nights have passed,
Reveal your dazzling face, come down here!
The silence is broken only by the sound of the waters,
I'm waiting in painful silence, come down here!
I hear the door creak, the fire flickered...
Deadly, life-giving, come down here!
You water everyone without exception, kravchiy,
But not all your hugs, kravchiy!
Eyebrows - a bow, and a look under the eyebrow - arrows,
But I won't hug you, kravchiy!
Stan - a spear, a shiny dagger - teeth,
But I will not kiss, kravchiy!
In the noise of the feast, in the violent whirlwind of dance
I'm waiting for a conditional shake, kravchiy!
Do not pour wine in excess into the cup:
After all, wine is a bad matchmaker, kravchiy!
And in the morning I will reveal the secret,
Only tired brothers will fall asleep, kravchiy!
How tenderly the distance turns golden in spring!
What a dress the almond is dressed in in the spring!
The ringing stream runs from the heights to the valley,
And the sky is pure as enamel in the spring!
Far away are the storms, the wind from the mountains is cold,
And the clouds are transparent shawl in the spring!
Lie down among the carpet of spring flowers:
Finds languid sadness in the spring!
Those who are in love with the mountains are not attracted by the horn of hunts,
Forgotten saber and squeaker in the spring!
Winter separation, leave soon
Love, boat your berth in the spring!
Welcome guest, come, come to the valley
And again sting the heart with an arrow in the spring!
Pistachios bloom in the garden, sing, nightingale!
Sing green ravines, nightingale!
On the slopes of the mountains spring poppies carpet;
Lambs wander in a crowd. Sing, nightingale!
In the meadows flowers are full of flowers, in bright meadows!
And porridge, and chamomile. Sing, nightingale!
Spring spring holiday gives us all,
From check to bug. Sing, nightingale!
Looking at the evil eye, your brown eye,
I lose at chess. Sing, nightingale!
We'll sit on the terrace, we'll sit together...
Smoking coffee in a cup... Sing, nightingale!
But we are waiting for the dark night, we are waiting for the song
Beloved, sweet bird. Sing, nightingale!
Come close to me, come close to me
Like embroidery on a shirt. Sing, nightingale!
Today is a holiday, mint smells, everything is in bloom,
And the grass is not yet crumpled: everything is in bloom!
By the stream with a ringing wave on the mountain
Jumping, frolicking goats. Everything is in bloom!
The rocks enclose my garden, there is no cold,
And the forests! and the fields: everything is in bloom!
In the morning I left the house on the porch -
My heart is trembling: everything is in bloom!
I don't remember why I fell in love
What happens is sacred. Everything is in bloom.
Put aside your sharp sword, filled with languid bliss.
Gently expose your neck, filled with languid bliss.
This is not a fight of warriors, acting in a circle,
Forget your knives, filled with languid bliss!
This is not a dance of drunken knuckleheads, with a sparkle in their eyes
lighter glass,
Do not circle with your eye, languid with bliss!
Love in the kiss of sweet waves slow
Like a swell of ripe rye, languid bliss
captivated!
And in peace shut from the window you look into the garden,
As swifts rush by, languid with bliss.
The evening beam paints your scimitar red on the carpet,
You do not grieve about the battles, languid bliss captivated!
The dear month will delay us, and for a long time, the hour in the morning, -
You do not tell fortunes about the day, languid with bliss!
Until the morning, sorting through the sweet row of passionate rosaries,
Lie on my chest, filled with languid bliss!
I will braid the snakes of my hot hands with a strong net,
How snakes twist, languid with bliss.
You will reach in tender delights, in new
wanderings of passions
To the last to the boundary, languid bliss captivated!
Chains of oaths, garlands of sighs I will put on my heart,
Oh, in love, do not be afraid of lies, filled with languid bliss.
Why, golden time, are you flying?
Like a rider, with your foot in the stirrup, are you flying?
Why, dear hostage, where,
Throwing the burden of love, are you flying?
You, winged sower, why,
Sowing a seed of fire, are you flying?!
Why are you saddened, dear guest?
What kind of burden is heaped on his shoulders, dear guest?
Go your way from us
If grief is not stung, dear guest!
Oh, in a closed hotel - three yards
To those who are looking for is buried, dear guest.
Three critters. The first is white, the name is Death;
The eye is open and the tooth is bared, dear guest.
And the second - Separation name - red cloak,
Like an anvil spark, dear guest.
The third kravchiy, then - Oblivion, he will pour
Washed with black moisture, dear guest.
I hear your cat's step, ghost of betrayal!
Your darkness darkens your eyes again, the ghost of betrayal!
And wherever I go, everywhere I go
On the heels, like a secret enemy, is the ghost of treason.
In the noise of the feast, the dance of neg, the sound of weapons,
In the riot of mad bands - the ghost of treason.
The mountains are bare, the wind is fresh, the doe is swift,
But behind the barking of evil dogs is the ghost of betrayal.
A good night gives sleep to poor sufferers,
But the sleepy poppy, the ghost of treason, has no power.
Where, love, topaz eyes, memory shell?
Why am I weak and naked, ghost of betrayal?
I am smitten to death by the separation of sharper arrows!
The sea is cut sharper by feluca arrows!
The memory of the heart is merciless, go away,
Do not shoot sharper arrows into the pierced chest!
Brown sparkle of your topaz eyes
I was shining with love as a guarantee, sharper arrows.
Kisses that bloom like roses
They burned with divine science, sharper arrows.
I languish during the day, I do not sleep at night:
The silver-bowed moon torments, sharper arrows.
I don't see beauty in passers-by
And feasts blow me boredom, sharper arrows.
What a cripple, I correct my eyes in the sun,
Both legless and armless - sharper arrows.
Oh, sadness, why so cruelly execute
Already wounded by flour, sharper arrows?
Days of love I count the links, repeating the dance of torment,
And I am tormented that not a day I, repeating the dance of torment!
Filling, raising a goblet of dark wine,
I spend my nights of vigil repeating the dance of torment.
Let me hug others, I am far from betrayal, -
I drink only tart oblivion, repeating the dance of torment!
What, neighbors, are you looking reproachfully at me?
I rush in my whirling, repeating the dance of torment.
Separation and merging - in the turns of languid poses;
Colorful stones glisten, repeating the dance of torment.
And helplessly descend to the hyacinth carpets,
Only with eyes when falling, repeating the dance of torment.
Who doesn't love, come look at me
To understand the teachings of love, repeating the dance of torment.
From melancholy I go to the markets: what do I care about them!
Guslars will not dispel my boredom: what do I care about them!
Kiseya, like a cloud of evening dawns, an embroidered barkan...
As if without eyes, I look at the goods: what do I care about them!
Blue bone of people in love, you, turquoise,
From you, fires burn in the hearts: what do I care about them!
And the Damascus blade no longer beckons: time has passed,
That the blows rang with joy: what do I care about them!
You will buy a hundred houris in the market, if there was a purse,
Ah, Zuleika, Fatma and Gulnara: what do I care about them!
Don't call me, merchant friend, am I a dandy?
Good shalvars from Bukhara: what do I care about them!
The redness of gold is the brilliance of pheasants in the slopes of the mountains!
Do not forget your kisses in the slopes of the mountains!
The horn of hunts sounds invitingly in silence.
How to escape your torment in the slopes of the mountains?
The tigress, easy to run, throws a dart faithfully,
Blood will clog from those piercings in the slopes of the mountains.
Let the tongue, ossifying, lick the tip -
Vain is the fury of those licks on the slopes of the mountains.
The cry of eagles in the treeless steeps, the screech of arrows,
Hops of obstinate competitions in the slopes of the mountains!
Where is my captivity? I appeal to you, dear captivity!
What is the sweetness of orders to me on the slopes of the mountains?
Mountain wind, give me muscle strength back
Network to break the love of knitting in the slopes of the mountains.
Night, come down with your coolness on my chest:
The power of love is more inexpressible in the slopes of the mountains!
I lie like a pard pierced by the rock.
Heavy is the burden of punishment in the slopes of the mountains!
In summer, the pool is delightful for us with a splash of splashes!
Each of the hollows sparkles with a splash of spray!
In the languorous afternoon, laziness has come: freshen up -
Like a handful of bright hailstones - a splash of spray!
We will not go to the pond, sprinkle -
Away from mud reptiles - a splash of spray!
Ah, the bed of bliss dried up, oh, when
I'll get drunk, greedy kiss, splash splash?
And when I, a poor wanderer, heal
Heat sick road abrasions splash splash?
Meet the key, jump freely, as in the old days,
(Oh, don't be so merciless!) with a splash of spray!
Unbearable wind, you do not howl in winter:
And without you, I'm not my own in the winter!
I am divorced from summer, divorced with warmth,
Divorced from spring turquoise in winter!
I am dressed in mourning, my turban is loose,
And a cloak with a lilac border in winter.
Crack, a fire of dry wood chips. Oh heart
Is not the sun a reflection of a golden winter?
I can in a chest with a patterned lock
Save spring and half a day of heat in winter.
Seal wax - fragile. kiss key,
Dive into the castle in the carved winter!
Separation does not calm the blood; calm down
Only under the tombstone in winter!
When I hear in the songs of birds: "Again with you!"?
And the voice of the doves will say: “Again with you!”?
And again the hunting horn sounds, a pack of dogs,
And burrows hidden foxes: "Again with you!"
The eagle screams, the stream rustles - all about one thing, -
And the light of the sun, and the sparkle of lightning: "Again with you!"
Flowers bloom variegated in the meadows - the royal carpet -
A crown of love, a wreath of queens - "Again with you!"
Again with me topaz eyes, pink mouth
And arrows - ah! - golden eyelashes! Again with you!!
I call: “Leave the cave darkness, O Jenn! strongly
curse!
In darkness, in fire, dressed or naked! strong curse!
I have removed the seal from the doors of your caves, secret signs;
Crawl at my feet like a bent slave! strongly
curse!
Become a smoke, a fish, a lion, a snake, a wife, a boy
Your game is aimless change. Strong curse!
I can send you wherever I want, you must fly
Otherwise, you will suffer a new captivity. Strong spell!
Do not need a kingdom, treasures and victories; let me see
Face to face with someone who is a stranger to change. Strongly
curse!
O torch of the eye, O camp of the vine, mouth, do I see you?!
Enough, Jenn, your sleep is blessed.
Strong curse!
He came dressed in linen, white in white!
"How milky white, white in white!"
Tomen glance of his eyes, heavy eyelids,
The rose of the cheeks is barely visible: "White in white,
Why do you walk by without smiling?
My life is given to you, white in white!
He replied: “Be quiet, look: the work of God!”
My whiteness is clear: white in white.
White is the body, white is the outfit, my face is pale,
And my fate is pale; white in white!
(* Ghazels 25, 26 and 27 are a free arrangement
poetic passages inserted into "1001 Nights", written, however, not in
gazelle form. Taken from the translation of Mardrus (t. VI. "Aventure du poete
Abou-Nowas", pgs. 68, 69 et 70, nuit 288). )
He came, threats melting, red in red,
And he cried out, embarrassed, here I am: “Red in red!
Before it was paler than the moon, what now
Roses are blooming, with the blood of grief, red in red?
Clothed in a scarlet outfit, a wonderful guest
He smiled, so to speak, red in red:
“Here I am dressed in the flames of the sun. The flame is fierce.
Before, the dawn gave a cloak. Red in red.
Cheeks are flames, my cloak is red, flames are lips,
Will give wine that burning fire, red in red!
Shoulders are hidden by a black robe. Black in black.
And stands, looking without speech, black in black.
I to him: “Look, the envious enemy rejoices,
That I am deprived of the previous meeting, black in black!
I see, I see: the darkness of clothes, black curl -
Black death forerunner, black in black!
What praises you deserve, Iskander!
The great city was founded by Iskander!
Like the wind in the sky, the path went to the east
And Iskander tore the old knot!
Having driven the two lords forever into the cave,
Their bonds in it were bewitched by Iskander!
Attract that the shaft, by the command of the wills of the eternal,
Iskander was firm among women's veils.
You are a free whirlwind, a warrior of the eastern gates,
Cow's eye, the moon's oval, Iskander!
The whole world is in captivity: with love a candle in the right hand
You entered my secret cellar, Iskander.
Your appearance is terrible, your face is silent, oh marvelous!
As an enemy or a leader, did you nod to me, Iskander?
Desires copper, iron will, warrior,
You forged everything in your sword, Iskander.
Light wizard, are you silent? forever
Nobody called you like me, Iskander!
Looking at the dark cypress, shed a tear,
loved!
Be you a day laborer, be Hafiz, shed a tear,
loved!
The trunk of the pillar turns white in the shade, the strict guard of rest,
The ends of the turban went down; shed a tear
loved!
A meek swarm of doves coo, without disturbing peace,
A sacred verse wrapped around the cornice: shed a tear,
loved.
Here the heart, the traveler, sleeps peacefully: it is love
Thus rice feeds the beggar; Shed a tear, love!
Whoever you are, go take a breath; almost love,
passerby,
And, throwing devoutly a narcissus, shed a tear,
loved!
Will anyone come to the grave of neg overgrown path
In the silent sorrow of dark robes? shed a tear
loved.
I put a wreath of springs in the ghazals.
You accept it as a king, a wreath of springs.
You count my songs, you count the years,
What gives you, as of old, a wreath of springs.
Yakhont roses - days of love, separation time -
Yellow crocuses amber - a wreath of springs.
If satisfied - a kiss when it's not enough -
Strike me with your eyes, wreath of springs.
I was wrong, I only counted those terms
Where was I your secretary, a wreath of springs.
Eyebrow do not frown: after all, my box with a double lid,
So that the calendar is longer, the wreath of springs!
1 Like a mother's song over a child's cradle, like a mountain echo, echoing on a shepherd's horn in the morning, like the distant surf of a native sea that has not been seen for a long time, your thrice-blessed name sounds to me: Alexandria! Like the intermittent whisper of love confessions under the oaks, like the mysterious noise of shady sacred groves, like the great Cybele's tambourine, like distant thunder and cooing doves, Your thrice-wise name sounds to me: Alexandria! Like the sound of a trumpet before a battle, the scream of eagles over the abyss, the noise of the wings of flying Nika, your name sounds thrice great to me: Alexandria! 2 When they say to me: "Alexandria", I see the white walls of the house, a small garden with a bed of left-handed flowers, the pale sun of an autumn evening, and I hear the sounds of distant flutes. When they say "Alexandria" to me, I see the stars above the dying city, drunken sailors in the dark quarters, a dancer dancing "wasp", and I hear the sound of a tambourine and cries of quarrel. When they say "Alexandria" to me, I see a pale crimson sunset over the green sea, fluffy twinkling stars and light gray eyes under thick eyebrows, which I see even when they do not say to me: "Alexandria!" 3 Evening twilight over the warm sea, the lights of beacons in the darkened sky, the smell of verbena at the end of the feast, fresh morning after long vigils, a walk in the alleys of the spring garden, the cries and laughter of bathing women, the sacred peacocks at the temple of Juno, sellers of violets, pomegranates and lemons, doves coo, the sun shines when I see you, my dear city!
Alexandrian Songs: Selections
We were four sisters, we were four sisters, we all loved four, but we all had different “becauses”: one loved because her father and mother told her so, the other loved because her lover was rich. the third loved because he was a famous artist, and I loved because I fell in love. We were four sisters, we were four sisters, we all wanted four, but everyone had different desires: one wanted to raise children and cook porridge, another wanted to wear new dresses every day, the third wanted everyone to talk about her, and I wanted to love and to be loved. We were four sisters, we were four sisters, all four of us fell out of love, but all had different reasons: one fell out of love because her husband died, the other fell out of love because her friend went bankrupt, the third fell out of love because the artist abandoned her, and I I fell out of love because I fell out of love. We were four sisters, we were four sisters, or maybe there were not four of us, but five? 2 What is the rain? Our sail is completely smoky, and it is not clear that it is striped. Blush has run down your cheeks, and you are like a Tyrian dyer. With fear we crossed the threshold of the coal miner's low dugout; the owner, with a scar on his forehead, pushed aside the children, dirty in a scab, with sore eyes, and, placing a stump in front of you, brushed off the dust with his apron and, clapping his hand, said: “Won’t the master eat the cakes?” And the old black woman rocked the child and sang: "If I were a pharaoh, I would buy myself two pears: I would give one to my friend, I would eat the other myself ..."
* * *
Ah, lips kissed by so many, So many other lips, You pierce with bitter arrows, Bitter arrows, hundred. Blossom with brisk smiles Bright spring bushes, As if caressing with light fingers, Light cute fingers. Pilgrim, whether impudent robber - Every kiss comes to you. Antinous, whether the abominable Thersites - Everyone finds his own happiness. The kiss that touches you, Lies with a strong seal, Who communes with the lips of his beloved With the past with everyone. The look of prayer, left on the icon, Lies there with strong chains: The ancient face, glorified by prayers, Knits those praying with the chain. So you go in slippery places, Slippery, holy places.- Ah, lips kissed by so many, So many other lips.
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
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There are moments when you do not demand the last caresses, but joyfully sit, embracing tightly, clinging tightly to each other. And then it doesn't matter what will happen, what will be fulfilled, what will not succeed. The heart (not a cheesy, direct, native male heart) beats close, so soothingly, so reliably, like the ticking of a clock in the dark, and says: "everything is fine, everything is calm, everything is in its place." Your hands and chest are tender, because they are young, but strong and reliable; your eyes are trusting, truthful, not deceptive, and I know that my and your kisses are the same, unsweetened, worthy of each other, why kiss then? To sit as shipwrecked, as orphans, as true friends, the only ones who have no one but them in the whole world; sit, embracing tightly, clinging tightly to each other! .. the heart beats close soothingly, like a clock in the dark, and a thick and gentle voice, like the voice of an older brother, whispers: "calm down: everything is fine, calm, reliable when you are together" .
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
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Throwing nets into the slanting brilliance of mirrors, I bowed to the greenish dawn, I follow the pattern of a barely noticeable swell, - Lunatic of golden lakes! As blood oozes under healing cotton wool, The youth on the granite block becomes clearer, And in the languid haze in the honey summer His dove-gray gaze is prophetically drawn. Live, Immovable! my eyelids will tremble, I greedily fall to my tender palms, Let my heavenly companion quench the yearning of insatiable love. I don’t remember and I don’t guess, - The flight of moments, light and beloved, Suddenly you stop forever With the luxury of the youthful cheeks.
* * *
A vision took possession of me: About the golden bird-catcher, About the feathered arrow from the cane, About the languid afterlife grove. Every piece of the body, Every drop of blood, Every crumb of bone - Mileer than the holy relics! May I always curse, Curse, people, curse, Extinguish the fire with bonfires - Ice cannot forge a waterfall. After all, we don't know anything, How these threads stretch From heart to heart themselves... We don't know, and we don't need to know!
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
* * *
Again I found out the sleepless nights Without sleep until dawn, Again the gentle voice whispered: "Die, die." Having finished the book, I take up another, Will I catch up with sleep? Languishing yearning, Something in intolerable captivity. A hundred times the famous "Manon" I finish, But what about me? Of course, from tea This is insomnia at night, evil ... I'm not in love, after all, that's right, I'm unwell. Here is quietly measured To the early Mass distant call. I see you when I close the pages, when I close my eyes; My eyelashes Strange suddenly moistened with a tear. I'm not in love, I'm just sick, Until dawn I lie limp, And a voice whispers: "Die, die!"
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
* * *
All the same dream, alive and old, Stands and does not depart away: The window is closed with dense shutters, Behind the shutters - freezing night. The corners are cracking, the couch is warm, A sleepy dog is barking in the distance... I got up early today And passed a peaceful day. A good-natured day is so sacredly long! Everything is a meek brilliance, and snow, and expanse! You can read here only the Prologue Or Davydov Psalter. And the heat of the stove in the white closet, And the ringing of the night from afar, And with the lamp on the burnt Such a white hand! It spreads and rests, Love blooms simple, magnificent, And the blizzard howls fiercely in the field, Planting vines at the window. Covered by a fluffy blizzard, Live, love, don't die! The fiery-icy, Frosty-hot, Russian paradise has come for us! Oh, only snow, yes, beloved gaze, Yes, gentle colors of icons! Desired, ineradicable, long-time dream of my soul!
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
* * *
Do you think I'm a poet in love? I am nothing more than a geographer... A geographer of a country that you discover every day and which the more famous, the more unexpected and charming. I'm not saying that this country is your soul (even Verlaine compared the soul to the landscape), but it is similar to your soul. There is no sea, forests and alps, there are lakes and rivers (Slavic, not Russian rivers) with cheerful shores and sad songs, white clouds in the sky; there is always April, sun and wind, sails and wells, and a flock of cranes in the blue; there are sad, but not gloomy places, and it seems as if the once carefree and bright country was trampled by the horses of enemies, the heavy wheels of wagons, and now it sometimes recalls the lightning of fires; there are roads lined with birch trees and castles where the mazurkas, driven out to the taverns, rejoiced; there you will know pity and bliss, and a short riot like a spring shower; robins call each other with the girl, and the Virgin Mary looks from the sharp gate. But I am another geographer, not only souls. I am not Columbus, not Przhevalsky, in love with the unknown, doomed nomads - the more I know, the more I am surprised, I find and love. Oh, amber rose, pink amber, topazes, ambergris mixed with honey, slightly tinted with purple, montrachet and chablis, the Smyrna coast on a pink evening, gently round hills above the dusk of sweet valleys, an ancient and eternal paradise! But, hush... and the geographer is not allowed to be indiscreet.
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
* * *
Where can I find a syllable to describe a walk, Chablis on ice, a toasted bun And ripe sweet agate cherries? The sunset is far away, and the splashing of bodies is heard loudly in the sea, whose heat rejoices in the coolness of moisture. Your gentle gaze, sly and alluring, - Like the sweet nonsense of a comedy ringing Il Marivo, a capricious pen. Your Pierro nose and intoxicating lip slit My mind is spinning like "The Marriage of Figaro". The spirit of trifles, charming and airy, Love of the nights, sometimes stinging, sometimes stuffy, Cheerful lightness of a thoughtless life! Oh, I am faithful, far from obedient miracles, Thy flowers, cheerful land!
* * *
The eye of a snake, the coils of a snake, The iridescence of colorful fabrics, The unprecedentedness of sultry poses ... Now shameless, now bashful, Kissing all the ebb, The sweet smell of white roses ... Fading, hugging, Serpentine hands curling And skillful trembling of legs ... And skillful kissing The ease of a close rendezvous And parting through the threshold.
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
geese
Geese fly across the evening sky... Geese goodbye, goodbye! Autumn will pass, winter will pass, fly again by summer! Geese, fly to the lower countries, fly to the warm sea, stretch out flock after flock, geese, with a cry in the crimson dawn, but you can only get away from the cold, but nowhere from melancholy. The sky darkened, the dawn turned pale, a star was reflected in a puddle; the wind subsides, the night falls, the geese are still reaching out with a cry.
Russian poetry of the Silver Age. 1890-1917. Anthology. Ed. M. Gasparov, I. Koretskaya and others. Moscow: Nauka, 1993.
* * *
If they tell me: "You must go to torment", - With joyful singing I will ascend the last fire, - Obedient. If I had to give up singing forever, Silently under the knife I would stretch out my tongue and hands, - Obedient. If they had said: "You are forever deprived of goodbye," - Would endure this separation, strengthening love, - Obedient. If they gave me the last betrayal of suffering, I would take this strait on a long voyage, - Obedient. If they put a ban on love between us, I will not believe the ban and say: "No."
The lines of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Evtushenko. Minsk, Moscow: Polifact, 1995.
* * *
Why the moon, having risen, turns pink, And the wind blows, full of warm bliss. And the boat does not feel the serpentine swell of the waves, When my spirit is all about you? When I don't see your eyes, Love nights of remembrance burn - I lie - and here they jealously guard The charms of cute little things. And the peaceful view of the river in the distant bends And the rare lights of the sleepless windows, And the brilliance of the breaks in the cloudy fibers Will not drive away thoughts, tender and sad. Shady avenues of other gardens - And the false brilliance of the morning dawn ... The lanterns shine with the last fire ... And love affairs of sweet playfulness ... The soul flies to abandoned amusements, There is a strong thread in the poisons of the lungs, And the aroma of roses cannot be drowned out By simple and meek rural , summer herbs.
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
* * *
A dry rose hung sadly from a basket once brought, And they sang to us that aria of Rosina: "Io sono docile, io sono rispettosa." Candles were burning, warm rain was barely audible Flowing from the trees, inducing drowsiness, The Pezar swan, sweet and magnificent, Crowned the slightest note of fun. The story of friends about lived wanderings, Sophisticated dispute, where your mind soars. Meanwhile, in vain expectations My gentle friend wanders alone in the garden. Ah, the sounds of Mozart's kisses are bright, As they gave Raphael's "Parnassus", But they can't drive away the thought that I haven't had a date since four o'clock.
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
Art
Fog and May dew I'll gather into thick cloths, I'll seal it tightly in a vessel, I'll take it to my house until light. The constellations burn blissfully, Indicated in the Zodiac, The planets enter into marriages, Protecting my rite. Here is a bitter and living life I take a decayed plant. A prophetic boil bubbles... Blaze, fire ally! All that is from death, lie down on the bottom. (Are the stars visible in the well, are they in the sky?) The transparent stalk of the former vine I have been given to bring out again. Bark and pinkish color - All restored from the ashes. Who does not know the perishable fear, That there is no destruction. If a violent horse rushes by, - The tops of the light do not shake. Spring unearthly crowns the Head, since the holy fire is alive.
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
* * *
Every evening I look from the cliffs At the surface of the waters shining in the distance; I notice which steamer is running: Kamensky, Volzhsky or Lyubimov. The sun has become very low, And I always look intently, Is there a star above the wheel, When the steamer passes close by. If there is no star, then it is postal, Maybe they can bring me letters. I hasten to go down to the pier, Where the mail cart is already ready. Oh, leather bags with large locks, How huge you are, how heavy you are! And are there really no letters from those that are dear to me, Which they would write with their dear hands? So my heart beats, it whines sweetly, While I wait behind the postman's back, And I don't know if I'll find the letter or not, And this dear riddle torments me. Oh, the road uphill is already under the stars. Alone, without a letter! The road is straight, Rare fires burn, houses in gardens, as in nests. And here is a letter from a friend: "I always remember you, Being with one, being with another." Well, what he is, so I love him and accept him. The steamboats will leave with the waves, And I sadly look after them - Oh, my dear, my friends, When will I see you again?
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
* * *
As girls dream of suitors, We talk about art with you. Oh, mysterious flock of cranes! Live flights slender interruption! Catherine is betrothed to Christ, And one soul beats in two hearts. From the cheeks the blush windy ebbs, And the eyes light up to the bottom. Winged inconsistent babble, Almost unspoken "I love." What an amorous rendezvous With such evenings I compare!
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
* * *
How I love the eternal gods, the beautiful world! How I love the sun, the reeds, and the gleam of the greenish sea through the thin branches of the acacias! How I love books (my friends), the silence of a lonely dwelling and the view from the window to the distant melon gardens! How I love the diversity of the crowd in the square, the shouts, the song and the sun, the merry laughter of the boys playing ball! Returning home after merry walks, late in the evening, at the first stars, past already lit hotels with a distant friend! How I love, the eternal gods, bright sadness, love until tomorrow, death without regret about life, where everything is sweet, which I love, I swear by Dionysus, with all the strength of my heart and sweet flesh!
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
* * *
How strange that your feet walk along some streets, shod in funny shoes, and they should be kissed endlessly. That your hands are writing, fastening gloves, holding a fork and a ridiculous knife, as if they were created for this! .. That your eyes, beloved eyes are reading the Satyricon, and they would look like in a spring puddle! But your heart does the right thing: it beats and loves. There are no boots, no gloves, no "Satyricon" ... Isn't it? It beats and loves... nothing else. What a pity that he cannot be kissed on the forehead like a well-behaved child!
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
* * *
When I leave the house in the morning, I think, looking at the sun: "How it looks like you when you swim in the river or look at distant gardens!" And when I look at the same burning sun at noon, I think about you, my joy: "How it looks like you when you drive along a crowded street!" And when you look at gentle sunsets, you come to my mind when, pale from caresses, you fall asleep and close your darkened eyelids.
Silver Age. Petersburg poetry of the late 19th-early 20th century. Leningrad: Lenizdat, 1991.
* * *
Who has a choice, chooses; Whoever is going on a journey, let him go; Follow the map, who is playing, Fly faster, who - flight. Ah, the choice, free or involuntary, is always more gratifying than three roads! A path without anxiety, a painless path - The path where fate leads us. Why be captivated by a daring collision? You are a peaceful traveler, not a fighter. You think a mistake is a mistake Correct you, funny blind man? Everything that has passed, like an unnecessary load, Leave it at the entrance forever. Go without thoughts pearly dew While your star is burning. Pigeons fly low, The eagle stares at the sun. Everything that happens is holy; Whom you love, he is sweet.
Silver Age. Petersburg poetry of the late 19th-early 20th century. Leningrad: Lenizdat, 1991.
* * *
Oblique correspondences Throw mirror spheres into space, - Crazy parabolas, Ringing, raise the Escape of the stems. The fields are blazing like a zodiacal tribe, the ether is boiling, But all the intersections The drawing displays the motionless letters of your Name!
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
* * *
Spin, spin, hold on tight! The sounds of the sonorous sistra rush, rush, they languidly resound in the groves. Does the Nile fisherman, when he casts his nets into the sea, know what he will catch? does the hunter know what he will meet, whether he will kill the game he is aiming at? does the owner know if the hail will kill his bread and his young grapes? What do we know? What do we know? What to regret? Spin, spin, hold on tight! The sounds of the sonorous sistra rush, rush, they languidly resound in the groves. We know that everything is wrong, that leaves us irrevocably. We know that everything is perishable and only variability is unchanging. We know that a lovely body is given in order to decay later. That's what we know, that's what we love, for being fragile, we kiss three times! Spin, spin, hold on tight! The sounds of the sonorous sistra rush, rush, they languidly resound in the groves.
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
* * *
Lighter than a spring breeze The touch of thin fingers. Louder and sweeter is the silence of my lips, Than the magnificence of ringing choirs. I'm falling, I'm falling, all in burning, Fierce fighting, Wings are low. Let the separated ones be bound together, The oaths have already been said - Forever close. Where is the division? time? smoldering? Our desire is above dust. Let's meet fearlessly the light of the future, Mimoid Alien fear.
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
* * *
Lighter than flame, more tender than milk, Playing the ruddy glow of the dawn, The youth will rush from the golden vestibule. Peals in the curls of Paradise. Wise with courage, blind archer, When you enter the chamber without wings, Belma fall, the crown flickered, You see the unearthly green land. In the noise of the whirlwind, in the shining armor, - All the same messenger of the will of the noble! Sinus memory! Treasure treasure! Swim, smokes of false whim! The king is getting married, the guest remembers, The visitor has fallen asleep, the tabernacles are being built! Burnt offering! the bone rejoices, And the blood sings more and more muffled and thicker.
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
Lermontov
With one dream in a stubborn gaze, In God's world you are not a tenant, You yourself are both a Demon and Pechorin, And a runaway, woeful black. From an early age you stood at the door, saying: "No, no, I'm leaving." Striving for primitive faith, And for a romantic knife. Indifferent to the earth and people, Tied to the chosen fate, Obedient to one longing, You are a stranger to the world, and the world is to you. You dreamed of an extraordinary passion, But oh, how simple the story is about it! You were captivated by the mystery of the Caucasus, - The Caucasus became your grave. And God's joys flashed, Like a dream, like a snowstorm... You choose - what? two bullets Yes, a vulgar duel. Admirer of the demonic heat, You sent a childish challenge to the Creator Russia, dear Tamara, Do not believe the sad singer. In the pale blue he learns That the long journey has only just begun. After all, often a child bites the breast that feeds him.
The lines of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Evtushenko. Minsk, Moscow: Polifact, 1995.
Moon
Moon! Where did you meet! .. Through the hatches You look unhindered, As if a magician is doing tricks, That a mouse is pulling from a cylinder. An urn would be dearer to you, Ruins, a pitiful landscape! And we settled down not bad, Climbing over someone else's luggage! Everything is asleep; reeks of tar, Bast rot from matting... And suddenly, like Renbo's, under the nail Solemn louse clicks. And we are warm, and it is not dark for us, Cozy. Kachki - no trace. According to fantastic laws Food is not remembered... Neighbor snores. The moon freely caresses Him as she likes, And is voluptuous and pure, In all sorts of places. I'm not jealous of such grief: After all, it's worth stretching out your hand, - And I can easily argue with the moon In fact, and not somehow! Suddenly... How? . I'm looking, I'm looking... Stranger features at all... Are you really like that? Both nose and mouth .. He is not the same at all. Why hunger, hold and the sea, Teeth of uncleaned grins? Have I really become an evil phantasmagoria, Moon, a toy? But the breath is so trusting, And the thin chest is so warm, That in the dark, sorrowful kiss I forget everything to ashes.
The lines of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Evtushenko. Minsk, Moscow: Polifact, 1995.
Joy of love
To the story by S. Auslander "Evening with Mr. de Sevirage" Plaisir d "amour ne dure qu" un moment. Chagrin d "amour dure toute la vie. * Love of joy lasts a single moment, Love of suffering lasts a long century. How happy I was with dear Nadina, How eagerly I drank a cup of languid bliss! But ah! that tender love did not last long We gathered sweet fruits: The flow of time, unsatisfied and rebellious, Washed away our favorite footprints in the sand, On that meadow where we frolicked together, The scythe mowed soft grass; Wreaths of love, alas! they developed, I do not see Nadina in reality. called Nadina in delirium Love suffering lasts a long century, Love joy lasts a single moment.
* * *
"I love you," I said not loving - Suddenly, the winged Cupid flew in And, taking his hand, like a counselor, I was led after you. Sweeping away the dream of past and forgotten love from his eyes that have seen, To a bright meadow, washed with dew, He unexpectedly led me out. Wonderful is the morning deception: I see strangely, seeing clearly, Like a scarlet, gently glowing, Blushing a vaguely unsteady camp; I see a slightly open mouth, I see the blush of bashful cheeks And the look of eyes still drowsy And a thin turn of the neck. The stream murmurs to me a new dream, I eagerly drink living streams - And again I love for the first time, Forever again I am in love!
Wonderful Moment. Love lyrics of Russian poets. Moscow: Fiction, 1988.
* * *
People see gardens with houses and the sea, crimson from the sunset, people see seagulls over the sea and women on flat roofs, people see warriors in armor and sellers with pies on the square, people see the sun and stars, streams and bright rivers, and I am everywhere only and I see pale swarthy cheeks, gray eyes under dark brows, and an incomparable slenderness of the body, - so the eyes of those who love see what a wise heart tells them to see.
Silver Age. Petersburg poetry of the late 19th-early 20th century. Leningrad: Lenizdat, 1991.
Mary of Egypt
M. Zamyatina After all, the emptiness did not let the Life-giving Cross touch Mary the Egyptian of a sinful life. And when she went into the desert, forgetting Fornication, simple in soul, Free songs sounded with the glory of the new Christ. Zosima found her, Dividing his mantle, To cover the prepared flesh before death. Not sins, but the power of the Savior, May the purity of the secret life make it easy for you The burden of a free cross. And the care of a close life, Imperceptible and simple, It will be read to you, like a prayer, By the resurrection Christ, And Zosima will not find, Dividing his mantle: Christ Himself, when he comes, will cover the Prepared flesh.
Masquerade
Who sang the joy of summer: Groves, a rainbow, a rocket, Laughing and shouting on the lawn? In the variegation of lights and light Under the motives of the minuet Slender faun head drooped. What turns white at the fountain In the gray tenderness of the fog, Whose whisper is there, whose sigh is there? The hearts of the wound are only deceptions, Those turbans are only for the evening And the moss is artificial in the grotto. The smell of the beds is spicy and sweet, Harlequin is greedy for affection, Columbine is not strict. Let the minute colors of rainbows - Dear, fragile world of riddles, Your arc burns for me!
S.Bavin, I.Semibratova. The fate of the poets of the Silver Age. Russian State Library. Moscow: Book Chamber 1993.
* * *
I can't sleep: my spirit is languishing, My head is spinning, And my bed is empty, - Where are my arms, where are my shoulders, Where are the intermittent speeches And my beloved lips? , dry hands. I can’t drive away the boredom of love, I can’t bear it ... They clung, kissed, Weaved each other with a friend, Like a paladin with a snake ... Mint smelled through the window, And the pillow is all crumpled, And I’m alone, all alone ...
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
My ancestors
Sailors of ancient families, in love with distant horizons, drinking wine in dark ports, embracing cheerful foreign women; dandies of the thirties, imitating d'0rse and Brummel, bringing into the pose of a dandy all the naivety of the young race; important, with stars, generals who were once cute rake, keeping cheerful stories over rum, always the same; cute actors without much talents who brought the school of a foreign land, playing "Mohammed" in Russia and dying with innocent Voltairianism; you are young ladies in a bandeau, playing the waltzes of Marcalho with feeling, embroidering purses for grooms on distant campaigns with beads, fasting in house churches and fortune-telling on cards; economical , smart landowners, and here are all of you: boasting of your reserves, able to forgive and cut off and get close to a person, mocking and pious, getting up before dawn in winter; and charmingly stupid flowers of theater schools, devoted from childhood to the art of dancing, gently depraved, pure vicious, ruining her husband for dresses and seeing their children for half an hour a day; and further, in the distance - the nobles of remote counties, some strict boyars, the French who fled from the revolution, who could not climb the guillotine - all of you, all of you - you were silent for your long century, and now you are shouting with hundreds of voices, dead, but alive, in me: the last, poor, but having a language for you, and every drop of blood is close to you, hears you , loves you; dear, stupid, touching, loved ones, you are blessed by me for your silent blessing.
The lines of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Evtushenko. Minsk, Moscow: Polifact, 1995.
Muse
Throwing a net into the deaf waters, Under the prophetic babble of dark lindens, A pensive maiden looks At the scales of magic fish. Now, in the ecstasy of the animal, Scarlet tails twist, Then they will emerge as aquamarine, Light, transparent and simple. Enthusiastically ignorant of the Fruits of the sealed waters, Everything is waiting for the head of Orpheus to emerge like a golden rose.
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
Music
I embrace you, - And the rainbow to the river, And the clouds are burning On the Divine hand. You laugh, - the rain in the sun, The mignonette grows, The purple star cunning with an eyelash. A shattered comet Figaro Figaro. Mysteriously and distinctly Mozart's Tar about. Letheian bliss Sleeps sweetly in trombones, A tarry skete rings like a violinous copse. What kind of shadows will cast a cute look into space? You do not know? and do not Look, my friend, back. Whose heart shone on the blue, blue Si? The former Debussy listens thoughtfully.
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
* * *
It finds a strange silence At times on us, But in it lies a crown, A calm hour of happiness. Pondering over the steps, Our angel looks down, Where golden smoke hung between the autumn trees. Then again our spurred horse will neigh amiably And along the unbeaten road It will carry us forward. But do not be embarrassed by the stops, My gentle, gentle friend, And awkward explanations Do not break our circle. Everything that is intended will happen, the Leader leads us. For those hours that are lost here, Let's taste the heavenly honey.
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
* * *
Don't I look like an apple tree, an apple tree in bloom, tell me, girlfriends? Isn't my hair as curly as the top of hers? Is not my camp as well built as her trunk? My arms are flexible like branches. My legs are tenacious like roots. Are my kisses sweeter than a sweet apple? But ah! But ah! young men stand in a round dance, eating the fruits from that apple tree, my own fruit, my own fruit can only eat one at a time!
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
* * *
The meaning of your commandments is incomprehensible: Do you command me to pray, to curse, to fight, incomprehensible genius? The spring is scarce, stingy and small, And the runner Benozzo Gozzoli Dozed off in the dense wilds. The hills are dark with a copper cloud. Look: I don't touch slender strings. Your gaze, prophetically volatile, Is closed, does not pour winged jets, Does not beckon on the May road To outstrip the Hermes of years. Harnessed horses do not neigh, Warriors spread out, decrepit... Keep your palms open! Sunday spring is red, But the groves of darkness are not worthy of Jumping up from sleep. The bridegroom does not appoint an hour, Do not be tempted by delay, Catch the calls of the voice through the ice. Your flax is filled with oil, And, having said goodbye to lazy thinking, You will be resurrected, free and in love.
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
* * *
Oh, to be abandoned - what happiness! What an immeasurable light in the past is visible So after summer - winter storms: You all remember the sun, even though it is no longer there. A dry flower, a bunch of love letters, A smile of the eyes, two happy meetings, - Let it be dark and sticky on the way now, But you wandered through the ant in the spring. Ah, there is another lesson for voluptuousness, There is another way - deserted and wide. Oh, to be abandoned is such happiness! To be unloved is the bitterest fate.
Wonderful Moment. Love lyrics of Russian poets. Moscow: Fiction, 1988.
* * *
Oh, mourners of days gone by, Torturers of mute fate, Seekers of drowned treasures, Are you anxiously waiting for the trumpet? In due time, impassively unchanged, Awaken gave that signal. No rebellious and peaceful captive has driven away his fate. The river is still the same, but the drops are different, The distance is silent, the day is clear, The colors of the flowers are always varied, And the light of the sun replaces the shadow. Our eyes are not blind, our ears are not deaf, We listen to the song of spring birds. In the meadows - warm, pre-holiday and dry Do not rush your pages. Get ready to be ready for the trumpet, Do not regret and do not guess, Be wisely simple to the current fetters, Without closing your eyes to May.
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
* * *
Stop here from one to six. I would like to spend a week. Like bunnies of mirrors, The town has risen from the sea, All canals and dams, Meadows with herds, - There are no abysses, no rocks. Only the sea, only the sky. I would like to walk on the ground. Whatever the city - everything is wonderful, Unknown and charming, Just know yourself marvel! - If you love, how can you resist? Will this morning happen again? And the old man's hand is gallant and strong. The block creaked. It smelled of ale, We'll cover up the nonsense now, We won't hear the whistle.
The lines of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Evtushenko. Minsk, Moscow: Polifact, 1995.
* * *
In the evening, go out into the floodplain meadows, On the mowed grass, lie down... What tender and languid Thoughts come in reality! The heavens are streaming with radiance, The ether shimmers with a light sleep, As before a sweet rendezvous, When you already see your father's house. More and more trembling, more and more grateful The simple world meets the heart, And the barking of dogs behind the cheese factory, And the bridge, and the meadow, and the watering place. I see everything: and a garden with cherries, And a table laid with a tablecloth, And a cloud on the paths above Floats like a joyful ambassador. Arkhangelsk plumage The azure firmament is patterned. In such captivating burning Death is easy and imperceptible. The bird will leave its narrow cage, The body will melt... forget everything: And the sweet Russian nature, And your dear painful way. What will I dream, what will I remember In the last brilliance of life? What will my soul look back to, Going to otherworldly lands? For something completely homely, What you don’t remember now: Yesterday’s walk in the garden, The door open in the sun. After all, thoughts have become volatile, And it’s not you who rules them, - Can you keep up with the will of the clouds That are watching from a blue height? But death-shooter aims in vain, I am doomed to a strange fate. What is indivisible is not divisible; I live... live in you.
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
* * *
Whether my love is like the first or the last, I do not know, I only know that it cannot be otherwise. Can the Venus star not rise, although not visible, behind a cloud, every evening? Doesn't the tail of Juno's bird, however folded, bear all the emeralds and sapphires of the East? My love is simple and trusting, it is inevitable and therefore calm. She will not give secret meetings, stairs and lanterns, serenades and fluent conversations at a ball, she is alien to allusions and masks, almost silent; she combines the tenderness of a brother, the fidelity of a friend and the passion of a lover - what language should she speak? Therefore, she is silent. She is not romantic, devoid of pretty embellishments, pretty trinkets, she is poor in her wealth because she is full. I know that this is not the love of a young man, but of a child - a husband (maybe an old man). It's so simple, so small (maybe boring?) but it's all me. Is it possible to praise a person for breathing, moving, looking? From another love, I was left with black jealousy, but it is powerless when I know that nothing, neither she, nor even you yourself, can separate us. It's as easy as drinking when you're thirsty, isn't it?
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
Russian revolution
It's like a hundred years have passed, but only a week! What a week... twenty-four hours! Saturn himself was surprised: never before had his scythe spun like a pinwheel. Yesterday still the people stood in a dark heap, Occasionally shying away and vaguely screaming, And the Anichkov Palace, like a red and deserted cloud, Was sending volley after volley from the corrupt shoulder. The news (such ordinary news!) crawled like snakes: "There are fifty, there are two hundred killed ..." The Cossacks moved. "They refused. They won't shoot!.." - Spies hiss with their collars up. Today... today the sun, having risen, Saw all the gates open in the barracks. No guards, no policemen, no outposts. As if there had never been a guard or a machine gun. Music is playing. Near Kirochnaya battle, But somehow the last shadow of fright disappeared. Troops for Freedom! God, oh my God! Everyone is ready to hug each other. Remember this morning after a black evening, This is the sun and shiny copper, Remember what you did not dream of in the distant evenings, But what made your heart burn! The news is more and more joyful, like a flock of doves... "The Fortress has been taken... The Admiralty has fallen!" The sky is clearer, all doves. As if Easter has arrived in Lent. Only in the evening the attic owls Begin the roll call of shots, With stupid madness, they are ready to suffer to the end Their hired life. Trucks are rushing by, The boys are taking the ministers to the Duma, And to the rapid noise "Hurrah" clings like a column of dust. Laugh? But why lean faces, We are not only burying, we are building a new house. How to accommodate everyone in it, We will think later. Remember this beginning of the Soviet dispatches, Dizzying: "To everyone, to everyone, to everyone!" It's like saying to the hungry: "Eat!" And he, smiling, replies: "I eat." According to the words, a strong emery went through (Renovators of the language, come on!). And the word "citizen" sounds like it was first invented by grammar. The Russian revolution - youthful, chaste, good - Does not repeat, only sees a brother in a Frenchman, And passes along the sidewalks, simple, Like an angel in a working blouse.
S.Bavin, I.Semibratova. The fate of the poets of the Silver Age. Russian State Library. Moscow: Book Chamber 1993.
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The bright room is my cave, Thoughts are tame birds: cranes and storks; My songs are cheerful akathists; Love is my constant faith. Come to me, who is confused, who is cheerful, Who has found, who has lost the wedding ring, So that your burden, bright and sad, I hang like clothes on a carnation. We will smile over grief, weep over happiness. Not difficult akathists easy reading. Itself comes a gratifying cure In a room lit by the sun is not hot. The window is high above love and decay, Passion and sadness, like wax from fire, soften. New roads, always spring, are waiting, Saying goodbye to heavy, dark languor.
S.Bavin, I.Semibratova. The fate of the poets of the Silver Age. Russian State Library. Moscow: Book Chamber 1993.
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Today what: Wednesday, Saturday? Is this a fast day or fasting? Where did care go, That every day is clean and simple. How erased, except for you, all the faces, How smoothly the days run forward! And, I realized: "Solid week" In my love, the turn has come.
S.Bavin, I.Semibratova. The fate of the poets of the Silver Age. Russian State Library. Moscow: Book Chamber 1993.
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I sit, reading fairy tales and there were, I look in the old books of the dead portraits, They say in the old books of the dead portraits: "You have been forgotten, you have been forgotten" ... - Well, what to do, that they forgot me, What will help here, old portraits? - And he asked what would help, old portraits, Are there threats, an oath, or prayers? "Forget your kissing shoulders, Be, like us, an old lover's portrait: You can be a good lover's portrait With a languid look, without any speech." - I'm dying of immeasurable love! Don't you see, dear portraits? - "We see, we see," said the portraits, "What are you - a faithful, faithful and exemplary lover? So I read, sitting, fairy tales were, Looking at the portraits of the dead in old books. And I was not sorry that the portraits whispered: "You have been forgotten, you have been forgotten."
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
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It is sweet to die on the battlefield with the whistle of arrows and spears, when the trumpet sounds and the sun shines, at noon, dying for the glory of the fatherland and hearing around: “Farewell, hero!” It is sweet to die a venerable old man in the same house, on the same bed where grandfathers were born and died, surrounded by children who have already become husbands, and hearing around: “Farewell, father!” But even sweeter, even wiser, having spent all his estate, having sold the last mill for one that he would have forgotten tomorrow, returning after a merry walk to an already sold house, have dinner and, having read the story of Apuleius for the hundred and first time, in a warm fragrant bath, without hearing any farewells, open your veins; and so that the long window near the ceiling smelled of levkoy, the dawn shone, and flutes were heard in the distance.
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
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Sun, sun, divine Ra-Helios, the hearts of kings and heroes rejoice with you, sacred horses neigh for you, hymns are sung to you in Heliopolis; when you shine, the lizards crawl out on the stones and the boys go swimming to the Nile with laughter. Sun, sun, I am a pale scribe, a library recluse, but I love you, sun, no less than a tanned sailor, smelling of fish and salt water, and no less than his usual heart rejoices at your royal rise from the ocean, mine trembles when your dusty but fiery ray slips through a narrow window near the ceiling onto a scribbled sheet and my thin yellowish hand, which brings out the first letter of the hymn to you with cinnabar, O Ra-Helios sun!
* * *
Everyone beats the same way, But everyone lives differently, Heart, heart, you will have to Keep an account with the sky. What does "heartache" mean? What does "love delight" mean? Sounds, sounds, sounds From the air the air was torn out. What kind of genius will put a precise label on the word? Only our hearing in the word "awe" Some kind of awe used to catch. Love itself grows, Like a child, like a sweet flower, And often forgets About a small, muddy source. I did not follow her changes - And suddenly ... oh, my God, Completely different walls, When I came home! Where is the running of a horse without a bridle? Capricious eyebrows hall? As from a cute, children's stove, It blows with native warmth. The streams are wide and calm, Like the navigable Danube! About those, about those kisses Better not remember. I prefer the sun to the Bunny of dim mirrors, Like Saul, I found and know the Kingdom that I was not looking for! Is it calm? Well, yes, calmly. Is it warm? Well, yes, it's warm. A wise heart is worthy, a faithful heart is light. Why am I all cold, When I suddenly see you, And what I dare to express Is only a sound born of air?
M.A. Kuzmin. Collection of poems. M.A.Kuzmin. Gesammelte Gedichte. Munchen: Wilhelm fink Verlag, 1977.
Trout breaks the ice
THE FIRST IMPACT It was cold, and "Tristan" was going on. The wounded sea sang in the orchestra, The green edge behind the blue steam, The wildly stopped heart. No one saw how she entered the theater And found herself already sitting in a box Beauty, like a painting by Bryullov. Such women live in novels, They are also found on the screen... Thefts and crimes are committed for them, Their carriages lie in wait, And they are poisoned in attics. Now she attentively and modestly Followed her deadly love, Without straightening her scarlet handkerchief, That slipped from her pearly shoulder, Not noticing that many binoculars were stubbornly watching her in the theater ... I did not know her, but I kept looking At the twilight empty, it seemed, the box... I was at a seance, Though I do not like spiritists, and it seemed to me a miserable medium - a downtrodden Czech. A bluish chilling light poured freely through the wide window. The moon seemed to be shining from the north: Iceland, Greenland and Thule, The green land behind the blue vapor... And now I remember: my body was shackled by Some kind of drowsiness before the explosion, And expectation, and disgust, The last shame and complete bliss... And the light knocking inside was not interrupted, As if a fish was beating its tail against the ice... I got up, staggering like a blind lunatic I reached the door... Suddenly it opened. A man of about twenty, with green eyes, came out of the front-box; He took me as if for another, He shook my hand and said: "Let's smoke!" How much the fish moved its tail! Lack of will is the threshold of a higher will! The last shame and complete bliss! The green edge behind the blue steam! SECOND IMPACT The horses are fighting, snoring in fright, The blue ribbon is wrapped around the arches, The wolves, the snow, the bells, the shooting! What about terrible as night, retribution? Will your Carpathians waver? Will honey freeze in the old horn? The cavity trembles, marvelous bird; The screech of skids - "gaida, Maritza!" Stop... Hayduk is running with a lantern... This is your house: The light of the Madonna at the head And the horseshoe keeps the threshold, Galleries, a snowdrift on the roof, Mice scratching behind the trellis, Saddlecloths, lace, carpets! Hard from the front bedrooms! And a whole forest is piled into the fireplace, As if incense sizzles resin ... "Why are your lips yellow? You don't know what you went for? Forget about jokes, my friend, forget! Not the Bohemian forests as a vampire - You called yourself a mortal brother in front of the whole world So be a brother! And the laws we have in prison, Oh, they are free and strict: Blood for blood, love for love. We take and give honorably, We do not need bloody revenge: God will untie the vow, Cain condemns himself ..." The young master turned pale, He slashed across the palm of his hand ... Quietly dripping blood into the glasses: A sign of exchange and a sign of protection ... Horses are led to the stable. .. FIFTH IMPACT We spend this May as in the village: We lowered the curtains, took off our jackets, We dragged the billiards into the hall And we knock cues for half a day From breakfast to tea. Early supper, Waking up at dawn, swimming, laziness... Since you left, it seemed necessary to me to live as one should live in separation: A little boring and hygienic. I wasn't even particularly looking forward to the letters And shuddered when I saw the postmark: "Greenock". - We spend this May as if in delirium, The wild rose is mad, the sea is blue, And Ellinor is more beautiful than ever! Forgive me, my friend, but if you saw, How in the morning she goes out into the flower garden In a bluish-gray Amazon, - You would understand that passion is stronger than will, - So here it is - a green country! - Who invented that peaceful landscapes cannot be the scene of disasters? THE TENTH IMPACT The alternation of nice entertainment Sometimes service is more boring. Only a chance can come to the rescue, But you can't lure a chance, like a Beetle The temple of a chance - gambling houses. Describe the excitement of burnt eyes, Dry lips, dead foreheads I will not. Under the croupier's cries I sat all night long. It seemed to me that I was sitting under water. The green cloth reminded me of the Green Land behind the blue steam... But I was not looking for memories, Which I carefully avoided, But I waited for the opportunity. One day a certain man comes up to me with big glasses and says: - As you can see, you are not a player at all, rather an amateur, Or, rather, a sensation seeker. But in essence there is a terrible melancholy: Monotonous and uninteresting. Now it's not too late. Perhaps you won't refuse to walk with me And inspect the small collection of curiosities? Traveled all over Europe I've been from a young age; even in Egypt. A small museum was formed, - Between the trash there are amusing gizmos, And I, like any collector, Appreciate the attention; without division, Like all others, this passion is dead. - I quickly agreed, although, to tell the truth, I did not like this little man: He seemed importunate and stupid. But it was only a quarter to one, And I absolutely did not know what to do. Of course, if you take it apart as a case, this adventure was miserable! We walked for three blocks: an ordinary entrance, An ordinary bourgeois apartment, Ordinary fake scarabs, Muskets, broken telescopes, Moth-eaten wigs Yes, wind-up dolls without keys. A cobweb sat on my brain, I felt nauseous, my head was spinning, And I was already about to leave ... The owner hesitated a little and said: - You don’t seem to like it? Of course, For a connoisseur is far from a commodity. I have one more fun, But it's not quite finished, I'm still looking for the other half. One of these days, I hope, it will be in the bag. Maybe take a look? - Twin! "Twin?!" - Twin. "And a loner?" - Single. We entered the closet: in the middle stood an aquarium, topped with bluish glass, like ice In the water, a trout spun melancholy And melodiously beat against the glass. - She'll punch him, no doubt about it. "Well, where is your twin?" - Now, patience - He opened in the wall, with a grimace, a cupboard And jumped out the door. There, on a chair, On a calico green background, A ragged creature was sleeping (Like lightning flashed - "Caligari!"): Greenery clearly showed through the skin, Lips twisted bitterly and criminally, Light brown rings stuck to the forehead, And a vein beat on a dry temple. I watched with expectation and disgust, looked, without taking my eyes off... And the fish beats softly against the glass... And the light crackle and blue ringing merged... An American coat and tie... And a cap in the color of delicate rose champagne. He grabbed his heart and cried out wildly... - Oh, my God, do you already know each other? And even ... maybe ... I don’t believe in happiness! .. “Open, open your green eyes! I don’t care how the green country sent you back to me! I am your mortal brother. Do you remember there, in the Carpathians? Shakespeare you haven't read it And the words diverge like a rainbow. The last shame and complete bliss! .. "And the fish beats, and beats, and beats, and beats. CONCLUSION Do you know? After all, at first I wanted to portray Twelve months And to come up with an appointment for everyone In the circle of occupations of light and lovers. But what happened! It can be seen that I am not in love, and I have become heavy. Memories flooded in like a crowd, Fragments of novels I read, The dead mingled with the living, And everything got so mixed up that I myself am not glad that I started all this. Twelve months I saved And gave an approximate weather - And that's not bad. And then I believe That it is possible for a trout to break the ice When it is stubborn. That's all.
The lines of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Evtushenko. Minsk, Moscow: Polifact, 1995.
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A. S. Roslavlev I know you firsthand, Oh, the upper Volga city! Kremlin scaly towers, I will never forget you! And I know how long the nights are, How bright and short the winter day is, I myself was born on the Volga, Where laziness made friends with prowess, Where the ancients are pious And quick-witted, where the conversation is cool, Where the fields run merrily To the river, where they pray and lie Where Yaroslavl burns, that in the miter The Patriarch has an al ruby, Where our Tsarevich Dimitri grew up, Crine rosy with blood, Where everything is free, everything is sedate, Where everything shines, everything blooms, Where the Volga slowly and foamy To the distant seas the path leads. I know the running of carpet sleighs And the roses of cheeks in the cold, Royally severe frosts In another land I will not find. I know the ringing of Lenten, In the distant forest there is a small skete, - And in a sweet and inert life There is some kind of secret magnet. I remember the smell of raspberry ridges And festive cosiness of the chambers, Touchingly long tunes of services Until now, they sing in my soul. I don't know if I'm right or not, I don't love by command. For having grown up in Yaroslavl, I will bless my fate!
M. Kuzmin. Arena. Selected Poems. 1000 years of Russian literature. Library of Russian classical literature. St. Petersburg: North-West, 1994.
Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin was born in Yaroslavl, spent his childhood in Saratov, from the age of 13 he lived in St. Petersburg. The Volga and St. Petersburg are two homelands and two important themes of his work.
Kuzmin's parents were Old Believers; Russian, "Trans-Volga" roots of Kuzmin's poetry were also noticed Annensky and Block. In the late 1890s and early 1900s, after a deep spiritual crisis and travels to Egypt and Italy, he traveled a lot in the Russian North, studying sectarian songs and spiritual poems. His most stable interests are determined: early Christianity with elements of paganism, Franciscanism, Old Believers, Gnosticism.
For three years Kuzmin studied at the St. Petersburg Conservatory with I. A. Rimsky-Korsakov; music remained one of the main hobbies of the poet. She also accompanied his entry into literature: the cycle “Alexandrian Songs”, written in free verse, which brought fame to Kuzmin (included in his first collection “Networks”. M., 1908), was created precisely as songs and romances. Stylized "under the XVIII century." Kuzmin's musical pastoral "The Chimes of Love", which he willingly performed, was published along with notes (Moscow, 1910). Kuzmin - the author of music for the production of "Balaganchik" Blok at the Komissarzhevskaya Theatre. He was associated with Diaghilev, K. Somov and other figures of the "World of Art", theatrical circles; for several years (1907-1912) Kuzmin - a permanent inhabitant of the "tower" Vyach. Ivanova. 1905-1909 - a period of emphasized aestheticism and dandyism of Kuzmin. Block considered them "masquerade" and hoped that Kuzmin "shake off the rags of capricious lightness." In the future, Kuzmin's poetry acquires great depth and spirituality.
Being his own, "home" person in various artistic circles, Kuzmin was not organizationally connected with any of the directions, protecting his artistic independence. The work of Kuzmin removes the opposition “symbolism-acmeism”, which is essential in Russian poetry of the 20th century. Respect and attention to the objective world with clear and distinct contours made him a teacher of acmeists. But the “little things” of life are not valuable in themselves for him, they embody the mercy of God, which is given to the humble. The objective world of the mature Kuzmin is certainly permeated with a mountain light ("In a small drop - the Divine"). In this Kuzmin is a man of late symbolism. The “property” symbolism of Kuzmin is similar to the symbolism of Annensky and polar to him: Annensky“things” are united with a person by deep kindred suffering, general rejection from the whole” and abandonment into the three-dimensional world, Kuzmin has a related, but joyful, grateful, “Franciscan” feeling of common involvement in a higher, spiritual principle. The leading theme of his mature lyrics (as well as prose) is the path of the soul through love and beauty to spiritual enlightenment. The soul ("Psyche") and the heart are the favorite images of Kuzmin's poetry, they are accompanied by images of the path, flight, lightness.
With all the integrity of the image of the author in Kuzmin's poetry (not replaced by a "lyrical hero"), there remains a contradiction in him that creates difficulty for perception: the combination of deep religiosity - church, ritual, everyday - with dandyism, aestheticism, with spicy and sentimental eroticism. Maybe the autocharacteristic from the letter of 1901 will clarify something here: “I just listen and sound like a gong struck by someone. Who am I to invent? I can invent hairstyles, perfumes, shirt colors, book bindings, but I don’t break the spirit and don’t invent it. In all of Kuzmin's work, two planes seem to overlap and permeate each other: "little things" either show through the depth, or completely obscure it.
Kuzmin's poems in the collections of 1918-1929 become more and more complicated, become hermetic, tragic notes appear. Gnostic, occult, magical themes and multiple mutual reflection of images-symbols of different cultural and historical planes in Kuzmin's late lyrics sometimes make it extremely difficult to read. But often at the same time "beautiful clarity" is also preserved. The artistic impact is achieved by the very combination of simplicity and mystery: "The darker and thicker the mind. / The easier it is for a light soul."
The looseness and sophistication of Kuzmin's poetic form, the unlimited freedom of choice of topics, words and sounds, the possibility of endless mutual reflections of images can be felt as a kind of danger for poetry, as the limit of what is permitted in art. But in Kuzmin's poetry, freedom does not turn into arbitrariness, being moderated by free obedience to the external and internal canons.
Russian poetry of the Silver Age. 1890-1917. Anthology. Ed. M. Gasparov, I. Koretskaya et al. Moscow: Nauka, 1993
KUZMIN, Mikhail Alekseevich - Russian writer. Born into a noble family. He began to print in 1905. At the beginning of his literary career, Kuzmin joined the Symbolists, then his work marked the transition to acmeism. Poetry, prose and dramaturgy of Kuzmin are turned to the sensually tangible, objective world, in the image of which the motive of illusoryness, fragility, inconstancy dominates (“Will I begin to love these cute fragile things less for their perishability?”). Kuzmin's poetic worldview is dominated by the features of decline, the withering of culture: refinement and elegance, turning into mannerism, stylization, exposing the conditional nature of reminiscences, a condescendingly ironic view of things. Hence also - the primitivism of the figurative drawing, the deliberate "carelessness" of the syllable and rhythm, designed to inform the intonation of the naivety of artless speech. "The gift of a melodious and light verse" ( V. Bryusov) allowed Kuzmin to noticeably expand the rhythmic range of chamber lyrics (for example, in the "Alexandrian Songs", written in free verse). In his work, the moment of “game”, theatrical and puppet performance, “sacred farce” ( A. Blok), which brought him closer to the artists of the "World of Art" (K. Somov, S. Sudeikin and others). In Kuzmin's prose "biographies" ("The Wonderful Life of Joseph Balsamo, Count of Cagliostro", 1919, etc.), a sharp, entertaining plot is dictated by the "whims of fate", in obedience to which the characters experience many adventures and metamorphoses. Over time, in the style of Kuzmin, exaggeration, grotesque, and techniques of the so-called. removal. In later works, modernist tendencies are outlined, close to surrealism (“For Augustus”, 1927; “Lazarus”, 1928). He translated from Boccaccio, Apuleius, Shakespeare, wrote on literature, theater and painting.
Op.: Sobr. soch., v. 1-9, P., 1914-18; Alien Evenings. Poems, P., 1921; Tuesday Mary. Performance in 3 parts for living or wooden dolls, P., 1921; Parabolas. Poetry. 1921-22, P., 1923; Conventions. Articles about the claim, P., 1923; New Ghoul. Poems, L., 1924; Trout breaks the ice. Poetry. 1925-28, L., 1929.
Lit.: Block A., On drama, Collected works. op. in eight volumes, v. 5, M. - L., 1962; his, Letters on Poetry, ibid.; Ivanov Vyach., On the prose of M. Kuzmin, "Apollo", 1910, No. 7; Bryusov V., M. Kuzmin [and others], in his book: Far and near, M., 1912; Zhirmunsky V., Overcoming symbolism, “Rus. thought", 1916, book. 12; Znosko-Borovsky E., On the work of M. Kuzmin, "Apollo", 1917, No. 4-5; Gollerbach E., Joyful Traveler, “Prince. and revolution”, 1922, No. 3; Gumilyov N., Letters about Russian. poetry, P., 1923; Eikhenbaum B., On the prose of M. Kuzmin, in his book: Through Literature, L., 1924; Tsvetaeva M., Unearthly Evening, in her book: Prose, New York, 1953.
A. Korneev
Brief literary encyclopedia: In 9 volumes - T. 3. - M .: Soviet Encyclopedia, 1963
KUZMIN Mikhail Alekseevich - poet and novelist. Born in Yaroslavl in a noble family. He spent his childhood in Saratov; from 1885 he lived in St. Petersburg, where he studied at the gymnasium, and then at the conservatory. He made a long journey to Italy and Egypt. Upon his return, he became close with the Old Believers, with whom he traveled in search of ancient icons in the northern provinces. He appeared in print only in 1905. Kuzmin's work marks the process of the bourgeois rebirth of the noble intelligentsia of the 20th century. It expresses an expansion into the field of art of the bourgeois-landowner bloc of the era of the bourgeois renewal of tsarism (Stolypinism), a bloc that triumphed after 1905, striving for the full use of its position, for the refined enjoyment of life, for the artistic sublimation of its being, for the aestheticization of its life, a variant of which and represents the "clarism" of Kuzmin. Starting from the decadent noble symbolism and impressionism, Kuzmin opposes them to the tendencies of clarism. Art for Kuzmin is no longer a religious rite, like the Symbolists, but a "fun craft" that requires a rational design of artistic matter, a strict logical justification for every compositional detail. Kuzmin's poetry implements the classical principles of separation (distinctness, measure, structure), harmony, balance of form and content. It is characterized by measured periods, dominated by the classical size of the verse - iambic 4-foot. Kuzmin's verse is not singsong; his free verses are approaching colloquial speech, have the character of an intimate casual conversation. Kuzmin puts forward the classical principle of clear boundaries between genres: "... let them tell in the story, let them act in the drama, save the lyrics for poetry." Kuzmin's prose again acquires a narrative character, the situation dominates the type, there is no description of the details of the environment, life, environment, if they are not necessary for the course of action. Psychologism is supplanted by plot, the development of an entertaining intrigue of an adventure novel, the image of external events and objects prevails. Kuzmin restores the beginning of plastic form, objectivity. If impressionism dissolved things in a stream of sensations, and symbolism depicted them only as commemorations of the other world, then Kuzmin puts forward the significance of the material-objective world in itself, the intrinsic value of the material, bodily, finite, in connection with which still life plays a large role in his poetry, “spirit little things charming and airy. The psyche of a declassed nobleman, captured into the orbit of the bourgeois world, attracting, but in many ways still alien, is also fixed in Kuzmin in the images of the heroes of his adventurous stories (Leboeuf, Firfax, Eleusipp, etc.). Their characteristic features are: a strong sense of life, an all-consuming thirst for pleasure, a constant readiness for adventures, but at the same time the absence of free initiative, organizing will, setting any goals; acting according to someone else's will, passively giving oneself to a stream of accidents, directed by fate, drawing them from the peaceful life of the Old Testament into the motley change of a new ebullient life. Kuzmin expresses the psychology of the bourgeois viverism of the Rantier type of the "bourgeois aristocracy", etc.
The main motive of Kuzmin’s work is the joyful acceptance and affirmation of the world in its givenness (“Everything that happens is sacred”), careless, sophisticated and greedy enjoyment of life, attraction to the “earthly”, “pagan”, sensual (“Merry lightness of a thoughtless life , / Ah, I am faithful, far from obedient miracles, Your flowers, cheerful land! A significant place is occupied by Kuzmin's theme of love, which is no longer interpreted as a mystical experience in the spirit of symbolism, but as sensual erotica, often perverted (an apology for homosexuality in the story "Wings"), etc.
The most characteristic and significant stylization line of Kuzmin's work. He draws plot and imagery from the world of Alexandrian culture, Rome of the era of decline, Byzantium, the XVIII century in France, Italy, the Ottoman East, etc. His attraction to XVIII century, to Rococo. In Kuzmin's poems and plays, motifs and images of the pastoral, idyll, anacreontics popular in the 18th century, mythological images interpreted as elegant decorations in the style of Rococo, oriental exoticism in the spirit of 18th century ballets are frequent. Echoing the paintings of Somov, the artists of the "World of Art", Kuzmin plunges into the world of harlequinades, fireworks, marquises, love affairs. His poetry assimilates lightness, cuteness, the all-filling spirit of the refined eroticism of Rococo, the style of which corresponds to the palette of Kuzmin's epithets. Along with this main channel of creativity, Kuzmin outlined a number of novels, stories of a completely different nature (“Gentle Joseph”, “Dreamers”, “Quiet Guard”, “Floating Travelers”, etc.). It depicts the modern life of bourgeois ladies, officials, officers, burnt-out nobles, patriarchal merchants, Old Believers, etc. This insignificant line of Kuzmin's work continues the traditions of Leskov's novels, albeit in an extremely vulgarized form.
Bibliography: I. Wings, Tale, M., 1907 (2nd ed., P., 1923); Three plays, St. Petersburg, 1907 (confiscated); Adventures of Aime-Leboeuf, Tale, St. Petersburg., 1907; Networks, 1st book. poems, M., 1908, ed. 2nd (vol. I Sobr. sochin.), P., 1915, ed. 3rd, Berlin, 1923); Comedies, St. Petersburg., 1909; The first book of stories, M., 1910; The second book of stories, M., 1910; Chimes of love, Poems and music, M., 1911; Autumn lakes, 2nd book. poems, M., 1912; The third book of stories, M., 1913; Clay doves, Poems, Sochin., vol. III, P., 1914 (2nd ed., Berlin, 1923); The deceased in the house, Stories, Sochin., vol. IV, P., 1914; Military stories, P., 1915; Venetian madmen, Comedy, M., 1915; Floating travelers, Roman, Sochin., vol. VI, P., 1915 (2nd ed., P., 1923); Quiet Guard, Roman, Sochin., vol. VII, P., 1916; Intermission in the ravine, Stories, Sochin., vol. VIII, P., 1916; Grandma's casket, Stories, Sochin., vol. II, P., 1918; Virgin Victor, Stories, Sochin., vol. IX, P., 1918; Leader, Poems, P., 1918; Two, Poems, P., 1918; The wonderful life of Joseph Balsamo, Count of Cagliostro, in three books. (New Plutarch, I), P., 1919; Curtain Pictures, Poems, Amsterdam, 1920; Alexandrian Songs, Poems, P., 1921; Otherworldly Evenings, Poems, P., 1921; This, Poems, P., 1921; Mary's Tuesday, performance at 3 o'clock, for living or wooden dolls, P., 1921; Lesok, Lyric poem for music with explanatory prose in 3 hours, P., 1922; Parabolas, Poems 1921-1922, P., 1923; Conventions, Articles on Art, P., 1923; Green nightingale, Stories, Sochin., vol. V., ed. 2nd, P., 1923; New Gul, Poems, L., 1924.
II. White A., Art. in "Pass", 1907, Nos. 6 and 10; Ivanov V., Art. in "Apollo", 1910, No. 7; Gurevich L., Literature and aesthetics, art. "On the prose of Kuzmin", M., 1912; Zhirmunsky V. M., Overcoming symbolism, Russian Thought, 1916, No. 12; Znoska-Borovsky E., On the work of M. Kuzmin, "Apollo", 1917, No. 4-5; Gollerbach E., Joyful Traveler, "Book and Revolution", 1922, 3 (15); Gumilyov N., Letters on Russian Poetry, P., 1923 (about "Autumn Lakes"); Eikhenbaum B., Through Literature, Art. about Kuzmin's prose, L., 1924; Gorbachev G., Essays on modern Russian literature, L., 1925.
III. Vladislavlev I.V., Russian writers, ed. 4th, Guise, L., 1924; Him, Literature of the Great Decade, vol. I, Guise, L., 1928; Writers of the Modern Age, vol. I, ed. B. P. Kozmina, ed. GAKhN, M., 1928.
B. Mikhailovsky
Literary Encyclopedia: In 11 volumes - [M.], 1929-1939
Vocal compositions
Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin (October 6 (18) (1872-10-18 ) , Yaroslavl - March 1, Leningrad) - Russian poet and prose writer of the Silver Age, translator, composer.
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Biography
Childhood
Was born October 6 (18) (1872-10-18 ) in Yaroslavl in the family of a nobleman, retired naval officer, member of the Yaroslavl District Court Alexei Alekseevich Kuzmin (1812-1886) and his wife Nadezhda Dmitrievna Kuzmina (nee Fedorova) (1834-1904). In a brief autobiography, Mikhail Kuzmin wrote that his mother's great-grandfather was the famous French actor Jean Offren, who moved to St. Petersburg during the time of Catherine II. His daughter Ekaterina Osipovna also married the migrant Leone Mongotier, in whose marriage the writer's grandmother Ekaterina Lvovna was born. M. A. Kuzmin liked to emphasize his French roots. Paternal relatives came from the poor nobles of the Yaroslavl and Vologda provinces.
M. A. Kuzmin was the youngest child, in addition to him, there were six children in the family: Varvara (1859-1922), Anna (1860 - no later than 1922), Alexei (1862 - no later than 1922), Dmitry (1865-1895), Mikhail and Pavel (1876 - no later than 1884). When M.A. Kuzmin was 1.5 years old, his father was transferred to serve in the Saratov city court chamber and the whole family moved to a new place. In 1883, M. A. Kuzmin studied at the same gymnasium, where N. G. Chernyshevsky studied a little earlier. In the Saratov period of life, the first prose experiments - imitations of Hoffmann - fall.
M. A. Kuzmin describes his childhood as follows: “I grew up alone and in an unfriendly and somewhat difficult family, and on both sides self-willed and stubborn ... I was alone, brothers in Kazan, in the cadet school, sisters in St. Petersburg on courses, then married . I always had girlfriends, not comrades, and I liked to play with puppets, go to the theater, read or play light medleys of old Italian operas, since my father was their admirer, especially Rossini ... for my comrades I felt a kind of adoration and, finally, formally fell in love with 7th grade schoolboy Valentin Zaitsev. And again: “It keeps coming to my mind Novalis’s story about blue flower, which Heinrich Ofterdingen dreamed and yearned for. No one has seen him, and yet the whole world is filled with his fragrance. Not everyone is able to feel this smell, but who once inhaled it will not have peace in life, forever looking for it, fantastic, omnipotent, mystical. Where can you find it? Perhaps in music, perhaps in love! And its smell makes you cry at the pale sunset and awakens the desire to rush away with the bird far, far away. Early childhood I breathed in this smell, I don’t know, for joy or sorrow! And everything, like a flock of seagulls, winds memories without end. And everything from my pre-gymnasium childhood... In general, I knew little about caresses in childhood, not because my father and mother did not love me, but, secretive, withdrawn, they were stingy with caresses. There were few children I knew, and I was shy of them; if I converged, then with the girls. And I madly loved my sister, not the one that is now in Petersburg, but another, younger than her. She was poetic and original. She was said to be a strange and quirky girl; in my opinion, she was just with a spark of God and knew about the blue flower. She adored Hoffmann and sunsets. She had a talent for the stage, and since I hear what she says at night; I quietly approached the door and see that Anya is standing with a quiet smile in a robe of red scarf and says the words of Hermione in the last act of Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale. Quiet, blue joy blew over me. In the morning I began to tell her what I remembered from yesterday; of course, I had to confess that I overheard; then she gave me Shakespeare. Do you know readings at night, when you devour forbidden pages full of blood, love, death and elves, all in heat and trembling, and the night, like a black ribbon, stretches for a long, long time? Then soon I was allowed to read everything. Dark winter evenings by the stove, when I was reading Hoffmann! And then in reality I dreamed of evening bells in Wartburg and Nuremberg ... I did not like the games of boys - neither soldiers, nor travel. I dreamed of some creatures I invented: skeletons, stinks, a secret forest where Queen Harp and her one-armed servants Strings live. When I told the kids about it, they laughed... The first music was, of course, Weber, Rossini and Meyerbeer, lovely music from the 30s. I especially loved „Barbier de Séville“, „Huguenots“, „Frei-Schütz“...” .
St. Petersburg
Gymnasium
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| M. A. Kuzmin. OK. 1890. |
G. V. Chicherin. 1900s. |
M. A. Kuzmin entered the Eighth St. Petersburg Men's Gymnasium (9th line V. O., house 8). In 1886, his father died. At the same time, M. A. Kuzmin met his classmate G. V. Chicherin. Friendship with him and his family had a great influence on the future writer. G. V. Chicherin for many years (until his departure from Russia in 1904) became his closest friend, and to some extent - an admirer of talent and mentor. They were united by the same hobby - music and literature, as well as orientation - they were both homosexuals. G. V. Chicherin in this duet was an intellectual, and M. A. Kuzmin was a creative beginning. It was the future diplomat who broadened the horizons of the future writer, for example, accustomed him to philosophy, Italian and German cultures.
Already in the gymnasium years, M. A. Kuzmin began to study music a lot, which significantly determined his future tastes in art: “I began to write music, and we played our compositions in front of the family. Having written several romances valuable in terms of melody, but otherwise unimaginable romances, I began to write operas and kept writing the prologues to Don Giovanni and Cleopatra and, finally, the text itself and the music for King Millo by Gozzi. This is the first thing I ventured into literature. Then I became madly carried away by the romanticism of the Germans and French: Hoffmann, J. P. Richter, Fouquet, Tik, Weber, Berlioz, etc. I was terribly carried away.
During the gymnasium years there are also intense psychological searches for oneself: “I studied poorly at the gymnasium, but I liked to go to it, loving to study languages, loving my comrades. Here for the first time I had a connection with a student older than me, he was tall, half-German, with eyes almost white, they were so bright, innocent and depraved, blond. He danced well and we saw each other, besides breaks, at dance lessons and then I visited him ... The same time I had the first attack of religiosity, aimed mainly at fasting, services and rituals. Nearby, there was a passion for the classics, and I began to draw my eyes and eyebrows, then I quit .. One summer I lived in Revel, and as Yusha imagined that he was in love with Myasoedova, so I imagined myself in love with Ksenia Podgurskaya, a girl of 16 years old with the manners of a regimental lady . It was the most childish of all adventures. Soon we finished high school. My religious (before I applied for a priesthood, and in the gymnasium, knowing this, along with an unhappy love for the Capital, about the connection with Kondratiev and then with other classmates, they laughed at me) mood passed, I was all in new French, intolerant, arrogant, rude and passionate.
Conservatory and Music School
The summer of 1891, after graduating from the gymnasium, M.A. Kuzmin spent at the Karaul estate with the Chicherins, who strongly advised him to continue his studies at the University. However, he stood by his choice - and in August he entered the St. Petersburg Conservatory. His teachers were N. A. Rimsky-Korsakov, A. K. Lyadov and N. F. Solovyov. M. A. Kuzmin did not finish his studies at the conservatory, having completed three years of a seven-year course, and then for two years he took lessons from Rimsky-Korsakov at the private music school of V. V. Küner.
During these years, M. A. Kuzmin composed a lot of music: romances based on texts by Fofanov, Musset, Eichendorff, as well as the opera Elena (based on Leconte de Lisle's Antique Poems), Cleopatra and Esmeralda (based on the plot " Cathedral of Our Lady of Paris » Hugo). He studies German and Italian. M. A. Kuzmin at that time preferred classical art. He continued to get acquainted with French (Massene, Delibes, Bizet), partly German and began - Italian music, in particular Verdi, Paganini and Palestrina. M. A. Kuzmin expanded his literary views - the French Musset, Pierre Loti, Hugo, the Germans Hoffmann, Goethe, Heine, Schiller, Wagner, the Italians Alfieri, Manzoni, and also Ibsen. Unlike his friend G. V. Chicherin, he was not at all interested in social life and politics.
During the years of study at the conservatory, the worldview of M. A. Kuzmin, his idea of \u200b\u200b"beautiful clarity" is laid. He adopts the philosophical teaching of Plotinus about beauty penetrating into all spheres of life, whether high or low, being a unique part of being, embodied in perfect love and transforming through it. human nature. The mood of this period is euphoric and serene.
Later, however, the changeability of the writer's mood also manifests itself. Having completely gone from life to art, he is well aware of his position, he has few friends. M. A. Kuzmin comes to the idea of the fundamental loneliness of the artist, who, for the sake of his vocation, is isolated from society: “Pure art is born and ends in its own closed circle, cut off from the whole world with special requirements, laws, beauty and needs, like the world of the sick and a madman (even if he is ideal and well-proportioned, but in his isolation and abstraction he is insane).
In 1893, M. A. Kuzmin met and fell in love with an officer of the cavalry regiment, Prince Georges, who was 4 years older than him. This was the beginning of a serious romance. However, in 1894, the poet fell into a mental crisis - because of his rejection of himself as a homosexual, disappointment at the conservatory, he attempted suicide by drinking cherry laurel drops, but then he got scared and woke up his mother, he was saved. As a result, M. A. Kuzmin left the conservatory. In the spring-summer of 1895, M. A. Kuzmin, together with Prince George, went on a trip to Greece and Egypt, having visited Constantinople, Athens, Smyrna, Alexandria, Cairo, Memphis, travels along the Nile, visits the pyramids of Giza. This trip makes a great impression on the poet. From Egypt, M.A. Kuzmin returned to St. Petersburg, and Prince Georges visited his relatives in Vienna, where he died suddenly. .
Subsequently, M. Kuzmin acted as the author and performer of musical works for his texts. A certain fame came to him after his musical performances at the "Evenings of Contemporary Music" - the music department of the magazine "World of Art". M. A. Kuzmin maintained friendly relations with the artists of the "World of Art" group. The aesthetics of the World of Art influenced his literary work.
Kuzmin was greatly influenced by youthful friendship and correspondence with G.V. Chicherin and travels in Egypt and Italy, and then in the Russian North (for a long time Kuzmin was fond of Russian Old Believers).
Creativity Kuzmin
1900s and 1910s
Kuzmin is the author of the collection of critical articles "Conditions" and the extensive "Diary", already known to contemporaries, but systematically began to be published only recently. Being a well-educated, and, in addition, an active and caring person, Kuzmin wrote critical articles on various topics related to art. Silver Age, such as: about prose, poetry, fine arts, music, theater, cinema and even about the circus. In addition, he periodically published notes on socially significant events taking place in the country, although it should be noted that politics interested him much less than art.
Speaking with poetry concerts, Kuzmin often resorted to musical accompaniment, melody (however, quietly), which was then in great fashion, and sometimes accompanied himself on the guitar. In 1906, he wrote the music for the production of Alexander Blok's Puppet Show on the stage of the Komissarzhevskaya Theatre.
He set some of his poems to music and performed them in an undertone like romances. The most widely known was his romance "The Child and the Rose", which was reprinted several times by the Euterpe music publishing house. This romance firmly entered the repertoire of military Petrograd and was performed by many artists until the end of the 30s, and the eccentric artist Savoyarov, famous in these years, responded to him in the then fashionable genre response romance-parody "Child, do not rush" (1915), full of very sarcastic hints and mimicking the pampered author's style of Kuzmin the artist.
Post-revolutionary period
In 1922-1923, Kuzmin was the leader of a group of "emotionalists", and a literary almanac was published under his editorship.
