Spring lines Tvardov analysis. Poems A

“Spring lines” Alexander Tvardovsky

The morning party lay on the road
With a flat, dry cloth.
Slowly, little by little
The sun rises over the hill.

The sun is like a thin hazel tree,
It grew as a copper bush.
The little bird spoke -
Little joyful house.

Yellow herd of thawed patches
He woke up in the field and lives...
The joy of sunken ruins,
The joy of an open gate.

Analysis of Tvardovsky’s poem “Spring Lines”

Many poetry lovers associate the work of Alexander Tvardovsky with the events of the Great Patriotic War. Indeed, this poet went to the front as a war correspondent in 1938 and took part first in the Finnish campaign, then in the liberation of western Belarus. Then there were the front roads of the Great Patriotic War, which the poet met in Voronezh. However, few people know that in his soul Tvardovsky, until his death, remained a sensitive lyricist, whose idols were Pushkin and Lermontov, Fet and Nekrasov. It's hard to say how it would have turned out creative path this man, if not for the war. But one thing is indisputable: Tvardovsky’s lyrical works are no less interesting than military poetry.

An example of this is the poem “Spring Lines,” written in 1925 and dedicated to his native village of Zagorye. It was here that the most serene and romantic years of the life of the young poet passed, who learned in simple words convey the beauty of the surrounding world. The poet perceives an ordinary spring morning as a gift from heaven, noting: “Slowly, little by little, the sun rises behind the hill.” The poet compares its rays to a thin hazel tree, the branches of which bend under a light spring breeze. With the first sun rays nature comes to life, because in the morning everyone has their own worries and responsibilities.

“The birdhouse began to speak - a small joyful house,” notes the author, admiring not only the hardworking birds, but also how the world around him is waking up. The sun has already warmed the first thawed patches, and not only the trees and early wildflowers speak of the arrival of spring, but also the wide open gates of rural estates and sun-warmed rubble near houses.
Like many Russian poets, Tvardovsky endows inanimate objects with the qualities of living people, which gives his works amazing imagery. “The frozen farm thawed, the windows shed tears in the sun,” the poet notes. He also never ceases to be amazed at how quickly nature changes. Even in the morning, a sleigh was racing along the snow-covered edge of the forest, “and by noon, the sun was spreading across the field in a great warm spring.”

However, the most accurate and reliable predictor of the change of seasons are the cranes, which, “calling to each other, make a new flight” and return to their homeland from warm weather. southern countries. Their arrival means that the cold will not return, and spring has truly come into its own. A new page of life has been opened, and the amazing author called nature is already beginning her next chronicle of the seasons.

The morning party lay on the road
With a flat, dry cloth.
Slowly, little by little
The sun rises over the hill.

The sun is like a thin hazel tree,
It grew as a copper bush.
The little bird spoke -
Little joyful house.

Yellow herd of thawed patches
He woke up in the field and lives...
The joy of sunken ruins,
The joy of an open gate.

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More poems:

1. From a shabby notebook Two lines about a boy fighter, Who was killed in Finland on ice in the forties. A small, childish body lay there somehow ineptly. Frost pressed the overcoat to the ice, Far away...
2. Again the birds fly from afar to the shores that break the ice, the warm sun walks high and waits for the fragrant lily of the valley. Again, nothing can calm your heart, Until the rising blood touches your cheeks, And with a bribed soul you believe...
3. You will wake up at dawn - fathers, where am I? The whole meadow is white: With crisp frost, with a delicious smell, it beckons away from the barn. Jump up... Which one? Bah, it's already past six! The chilly morning trample barefoot. It seems: in...
4. Seagulls hover over the mists over the river, Horses wander sleepily through the meadows, Waves like curly-haired shepherd dogs caress towards the green shores. The breeze plays ping-pong with the willow, Clouds weave brocade at the zenith, Along the road...
5. How dim is the purple flame, How dead are the yellow mornings! Like a network of branches in a window frame Everything is the same today as it was yesterday... One joy is that in places a coating of white and silver softens with fluffy...
6. 1 A loon was flying, a loon was flying at the spring dawn. A loon flew from a sea cliff over the damp tundra. And there in the swamps, And there in the swamps Lingonberries bloomed. And there in the swamps...
7. Like our Lyalechka, there are almost a dozen dresses. - I won’t wear white - Badly ironed! I won’t wear yellow - The yellow is crumpled. I'm not just a girl, I'm our counselor! Grandmother...
8. There are patterned shadows on the snow, the colors of blue-pink lilac. Every dried path smells like a rich tartine. I could sing lyrical notes here! - But spring has so many worries... Each grass must manage...
9. Sleepy hosts of somnambulists of spring Sleepily beckon into illuminated dreams. The streams rumble clearly at night. The sonorous speeches of the stream are hot. The lilacs are crying to the lunar refrain. The eyes of the sand sirens laugh. Lunar shoulders of the epic wave....
10. The spring waters rustled, cheerful thunderstorms thundered, hyacinths and roses bloomed in the robes of resurrected nature. Migratory songbirds came from distant shores; In the sky, bright-eyed dawns do not close all night...
11. He roughly crushed your spring flowers and threw them away, not loving them. I noticed how you looked at the enemy who killed you. And then I realized: you are strong... You stronger than that who won...
12. The sun is shining brightly, the air is warm, and wherever you look, everything around is light. The meadow is full of bright flowers; Dark sheets are covered in gold. The forest sleeps: Not a sound, - The leaf does not rustle...
13. After the salvo, the fireworks thunder. Rockets in the hot air Bloom with colorful flowers. And the Leningraders are quietly crying. There is no need to calm people down yet. There is no need to console people. Their joy is too great - It thunders...
14. This night is irreparable, But it’s still light here. At the gates of Jerusalem the black sun rose. The yellow sun is more terrible - Bayu-bayushki-bai - In the bright temple the Jews buried my mother. Having no grace...
15. “Whine, whine, whine!” - The little one is used to whining. Last time I saw you, - You were proud, Who offended you now, God or the devil? “Whine, whine, whine! - The little one is used to whining...

You are now reading the poem Spring Lines, by the poet Tvardovsky Alexander Trifonovich

Spring stitches

The morning party lay on the road
With a flat, dry cloth.
Slowly, little by little
The sun rises over the hill.

The sun is like a thin hazel tree,
It grew as a copper bush.
The starling spoke -
Little joyful house.

Yellow herd of thawed patches
He woke up in the field and lives...
The joy of sunken ruins,
The joy of an open gate...

The frozen farm has thawed,
I shed tears in the sunshine of the window.
And only the frost of the morning
Lays a road through the mud.

Only in the morning do the sleighs cut through
There is silence near the copse.
And by noon - the sun stretches across the field
Great warm spring.

From the blue of a foreign land
In the calm of the sensitive swamps
The cranes, calling to each other,
Making a new flight...

Harvest

They breathe with sweaty chests
Yellow Mane Oats.
Something warm
Something ripe
It's blowing from our lane.

Give me a bare foot
Over the thorny stubble.
Give me a shiny braid
I'll cut off my stripe.

Under the oat talk of the fields
I'll get hot afterwards.
I'm doubly happy then
If I work hard enough.

On the threshing floor under a dark roof
The sheaves will rest in the stacks.
The early morning will hear
How the flails clink.

There is space and joy in the soul,
Endless land of happiness...
The bread is falling like a golden blizzard.
Hello, New Harvest.

Notice how consistently the poet addressed terrible events Stalin's repressions in poems and poems, as in the most hard time spoke about the hardships that the people are experiencing, first in small retreats, then in full voice (“Terkin in the next world”, “Beyond the distance - the distance”, “By right of memory”). Each of the latest poems contains reflections on the sad pages of our history. For example, the whole chapter “So it was” in the poem “Beyond the Distance is Distance” is devoted to memories.

Let's think together with the poet over the lines:

When the Kremlin walls
The living are protected from life,
Like a formidable spirit he was above us, -
We didn't know any other names.

We wondered how else to glorify
Its in the capital and villages.
There's no denying it,
Not to add -
That's how it was on earth...

So it was: a quarter of a century
A call to battle and labor
The man's name sounded
Along with the word Motherland.

It knew no less
Already entering into those rights,
What do people of deep faith have?
Has the name of a Deity.

And it was just common,
What is he through the pipe smoke
I saw everything in the world myself
And he was in charge of everything like God...

High demands on himself have always distinguished the writer and editor Alexander Trifonovich Tvardovsky. That is why every line evokes trust and a reciprocal feeling of gratitude and appreciation.

Who else but the poet
Descendants will not allow us to remain silent.
Him to a harsh answer
The court will require a special one.

I'm not afraid of such a judgment
And maybe I’ve been waiting for him for a long time,
Let that word not be mine yet,
What is most capacious of all, it is given to say.

Mine is from the heart - not to the wind,
It is ready for anyone:
I lived, I was - for everything in the world
I answer with my head...
Alexander Trifonovich Tvardovsky

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Alexander Trifonovich Tvardovsky

The morning party lay on the road
With a flat, dry cloth.
Slowly, little by little
The sun rises over the hill.

The sun is like a thin hazel tree,
It grew as a copper bush.
The little bird spoke -
Little joyful house.

Yellow herd of thawed patches
He woke up in the field and lives...
The joy of sunken ruins,
The joy of an open gate.

The frozen farm has thawed,
I shed tears in the sunshine of the window.
And only the frost of the morning
Lays a road through the mud.

Only in the morning do the sleighs cut through
There is silence near the copse.
And by noon - the sun stretches across the field
Great warm spring.

From the blue of a foreign land
In the calm of the sensitive swamps
The cranes, calling to each other,
Making a new flight...

Many poetry lovers associate the work of Alexander Tvardovsky with the events of the Great Patriotic War. Indeed, this poet went to the front as a war correspondent in 1938 and took part first in the Finnish campaign, then in the liberation of western Belarus. Then there were the front roads of the Great Patriotic War, which the poet met in Voronezh. However, few people know that in his soul Tvardovsky, until his death, remained a sensitive lyricist, whose idols were Pushkin and Lermontov, Fet and Nekrasov. It is difficult to say how this person’s creative path would have developed if not for the war. But one thing is indisputable: Tvardovsky’s lyrical works are no less interesting than military poetry.

An example of this is the poem “Spring Lines,” written in 1925 and dedicated to his native village of Zagorye. It was here that the most serene and romantic years of the life of the young poet passed, who learned to convey the beauty of the world around him in simple words. The poet perceives an ordinary spring morning as a gift from heaven, noting: “Slowly, little by little, the sun rises behind the hill.” The poet compares its rays to a thin hazel tree, the branches of which bend under a light spring breeze. With the first rays of the sun, nature comes to life, because in the morning everyone has their own worries and responsibilities.

“The birdhouse has spoken - a small joyful house,” notes the author, admiring not only the hardworking birds, but also how the world around him is waking up. The sun has already warmed the first thawed patches, and not only the trees and early wildflowers speak of the arrival of spring, but also the wide open gates of rural estates and sun-warmed rubble near houses.

Like many Russian poets, Tvardovsky endows inanimate objects with the qualities of living people, which gives his works amazing imagery. “The frozen farm thawed, the windows shed tears in the sun,” the poet notes. He also never ceases to be amazed at how quickly nature changes. Even in the morning, sleighs were racing along the snow-covered edge of the forest, “and by noon, across the field, the sun was drawing a big, warm spring.”

However, the most accurate and reliable predictor of the change of seasons are the cranes, which, “calling to each other, make a new flight” and return to their homeland from warm southern countries. Their arrival means that the cold will not return, and spring has truly come into its own. A new page of life has been opened, and the amazing author called nature is already beginning her next chronicle of the seasons.