Verse From the poem “Mother. Analysis of the poem Nekrasov's mother

Throughout his life, the poet remembered his mother with deep gratitude and sincere filial love. In the poem “A Knight for an Hour” (1862), he suffers because, having left home as a sixteen-year-old boy, he never saw his mother. She died too early. Not far from Yaroslavl, in the village of Abramtsevo, there is the Church of Peter and Paul, whose parishioners were the Nekrasov family. And nearby, behind the church fence, is the grave of the poet’s mother, Elena Andreevna Nekrasova.

See me, darling!

Appear as a light shadow for a moment!

You've lived your whole life unloved,

You have lived your whole life for others.

With a head open to the storms of life,

All my life under an angry thunderstorm

She stood with her breasts

Protecting beloved children.

And the storm broke over you!

You took the blow without flinching,

While dying, I prayed for my enemies,

God's mercy called upon the children.

Is it really after years of suffering

The one who honored you so much,

Will not send you the joy of a date

With your dying son?.. (N.A. Nekrasov “Knight for an Hour”)

Along with the fact that N.A. Nekrasov always showed tenderness towards his mother, in his poems he retained this tenderness for his lyrical heroines. N. Nekrasov's Russian woman is beautiful and talented, like his own mother. She is not without intelligence, dedication and inspiration. This is why the poet’s images of women are so beautiful:

Beauty, the world is a wonder,

Blush, slim, tall,

She is beautiful in any clothes,

Dexterous for any job! [17;93]

This is what the poet writes in the poem “Frost, Red Nose.”

The Nekrasov woman goes through hardships and hardships in her life:

Fate had three hard parts,

And the first part: to marry a slave,

The second is to be the mother of a slave son,

And the third is to submit to the slave until the grave.

Daria, the central heroine of the poem “Frost, Red Nose,” repeated the fate of many: she married a serf, became a mother, and experienced all the sorrows and hardships of peasant life. ABOUT tragic fate We learn a lot about the heroine in the second part of the poem, when she, forced to go into the forest for firewood, becomes a victim of Frost. Freezing Daria, plunging into a sweet dream, reveals her inner world, resurrects the joyful days of her past and dreams of a future that, of course, will never come for her. The true beauty of this loving, hardworking woman is clearly revealed to us, and her fate is so sad, so painful are the blows that life has in store for her.

Before N.A. Nekrasov, there was no such truthful, deeply felt image of a peasant woman in Russian literature, who had to endure unimaginable hardships of life, but who always retained her moral strength and beauty.

The image of Matryona Timofeevna Korchagina from the poem “Who Lives Well in Rus'” became the pinnacle creation in the development of this theme. She has many virtues: beauty, intelligence, health, a rich poetic soul, hard work. It seems that such a woman is destined by nature for happiness. She knew love, she got married out of love, and she also had a happy motherhood. But then we get acquainted with the fate of this woman, her life before marriage and in her husband’s family, and, as we see from her story, she suffered a difficult lot. She worked from an early age and suffered humiliation in someone else's family. She told about the beatings, about the death of her first son, about the misfortune with Fedotushka, about the terrible famine in the lean years, the conscription, the bitter lot of a mother-soldier with many children. Matryona speaks about the trials and hardships fate has prepared for her as something natural, everyday, but behind this apparent everydayness one feels deep drama and tragedy. But Matryona Timofeevna endured everything, withstood it, and retained her self-esteem. A “free heart” and spiritual nobility helped her endure all the suffering, but she did not forget or forgive the insult. “I have a bowed head and an angry heart,” she confesses to the men. And, of course, it is difficult to name Matryona Timofeevna happy woman. Her image once again convinces us that the “keys to happiness” of a peasant woman are “abandoned, lost” and in Rus' “it is not the job of women to look for a happy woman”:

Centuries passed - everything strived for happiness,

Everything in the world has changed several times,

Only one thing God forgot to change

The harsh lot of a peasant woman...

The image of the “suffering mother” N.A. Nekrasov captured in the poem “Mother”. In it, the poet says that he recognized “familiar features” in the images from Dante’s “living world.” The parallel of N. Nekrasov’s mother, Beatrice, who is placed in the center of Paradise, again allows us to talk about a mythological rethinking of the image. Thus, in the poetry of N. A. Nekrasov, a universally all-encompassing image of the Mother Trinity appears. The presence of the Mother in the surface space harmonizes, according to N. Nekrasov, all spiritual and endowed with ability to unity in empathy of the earthly created world, of all those who suffer and require protection.

Your ruler is hereditary morals

Sometimes he left, sometimes he showed up violently,

But if he's into crazy fun

I didn’t initiate children in bad times,

But if he is unbridled freedom

I didn’t bring it to the fatal line, -

You stood guard over him for years

While darkness reigned in his soul...

And if I easily shake off the years

There are noxious traces from my soul

Having trampled everything reasonable with her feet,

Proud of the ignorance of the environment,

And if I filled my life with struggle

For the ideal of goodness and beauty,

And carries the song composed by me,

Living love has deep features -

Oh, my mother, I am moved by you!

saved me living soul You!

The poem “Russian Women” is characterized by the fact that the two themes of mother, wife, and protector merged together. The event of December 1825 did not pass by N.A. Nekrasov. The poet was able to embody the feat of the wives of the Decembrists in his work. Women followed their husbands to distant Siberia. The strength and character of a courageous woman comes to the fore of Nekrasov’s poem. He believes in the future, he believes that the strength of a Russian woman is in kindness, in the desire to protect her neighbor, as his mother once protected.

It will be terrible, I know

My husband's life

Let it be mine too

No happier than him!

Fate had three hard parts,

And the first part: to marry a slave,

The second is to be the mother of a slave's son,

And the third is to submit to the slave until the grave,

And all these formidable shares fell

To a woman of Russian soil.

The Great Battle of Stalingrad, as they say, among people of the older generation is associated with the name of the writer Viktor Platonovich Nekrasov, participant in events, Stalin laureate, author of the story ` In the trenches of Stalingrad`.

Everything turns out differently for everyone: one person has the most close person- a spouse, someone has a sister, a comrade or a brother: For Nekrasov, his closest friend always remained his mother Zinaida Nikolaevna, to whom he, barely allowed by the front-line situation, sent letters.

The epistolary genre is a separate story, but a talented writer turns an ordinary everyday letter into a small literary work, and not emasculated and edited, but full of pure momentary sensations.

3.1.44.

It's cold today. For the first time ever, the sun appeared. And wind. First winter day. The hut is warm, although the only type of fuel here is straw. The owner fries us potatoes - yesterday we received butter. I've been here for four days now. We are not particularly tired of work, or rather, activities. Yesterday and the day before yesterday there were no classes at all. I sit in the house and read. Dumas finished. Yesterday I read “The Dictator Peter” and “At a Dead End”. Although this is the 23rd year, I am amazed that such things were allowed to be printed then. But books are a bit tight here; we should have taken more from Kyiv. I got “The Ninety-Third Year” from some guy in Ukrainian - I’ll try to stretch it out for 5 days. I haven’t read any newspapers from Dnepropetrovsk. We feed only on rumors that reach us. Things seem to be very good around Kyiv. And we seem to be doing well here. The cannonade is getting quieter and further away every day. But without newspapers it is difficult and boring. And in the regiment, and in the hospital, and in Stalingrad, even in the most difficult moments, we even received Moscow newspapers in the most accurate manner. I wonder how long they'll keep me here. I haven’t seen the chief of finance yet. He is in another village and now without money. I already paid for December here, because I will probably get it right away for 2 months. And if I stay here, I won’t start receiving letters from you until February. Well, I kiss you.

Vika

04/22/44. N 13

Congratulations! Our unit was awarded the Order of Bogdan Khmelnitsky for Odessa. This is already the third order, because now the name of our unit cannot be said in one breath - 14 words!

It's still the same for us. By the way, have you received anything from the Yanurovs or Galina Baviy? I don't know them now. I can’t write the addresses. Kiss.

Vika

13.05.44.

Now there is absolutely no time to write letters. A lot of work. And spring is wonderful. Here on the shore beautiful river, among the blooming apple and cherry trees, relax and swim peacefully, but, unfortunately, there is not enough time for this. We have now taken a break from the mail, so letters may not be sent regularly. I kiss you deeply.

Vika

15.05.44.

You see, mom, how often I write, although there is nothing special to write about. Everything is the same. War is war. Yesterday evening another batch of letters arrived. Fortunately, there was a candle. There is only one thing from you, and that is old, ` 27. From Ionchik, from Lenka, from P. Nesterovsky, and, of course, from Baku. Letters for us are now the most a big joy. First, everyone reads their letters, and then we begin to read to each other. That is how we live. I don’t like that the Fritz has started getting along with you again. And often? Have you heard anything about the Yanurs? Why don't they appear and are silent? After all, I left S.A. your new Kyiv address.

I kiss you deeply.

Vika

21.05.44

I think it's number 22 (I keep getting confused).

I continue to engage in earthen construction. I live in a tent in the open air. We cook our food over the fire - various porridges and soups - and only hear how far, far away guns are roaring, and planes are flying in rows to the West.

It’s been a long time since I’ve received letters from you, or from anyone else. This means that a whole pack will come at once again.

There is literally nothing more to write about. Today or tomorrow our chief of finance will make you a transfer of 2000 rubles. In addition, from this month you should already receive money according to the certificate. I won’t be able to send money other than the certificate for the next 2 months, because I want to pay off the loan.

Well, I kiss you warmly and wait for your letters.

Vika

06.16.44. I think N 27

We arrived in Korosten, in a few minutes we are moving on. Apparently, we will exchange Ukraine for Belarus. We drive well - quickly and non-stop. The weather has turned bad. Today the whole sky is covered and flows like autumn.

And I’m only about 150 km from you. Until we reached Kazarin, somewhere in the depths there was still a hope that we would go to the right and not to the left, although everyone understood perfectly well that we had nothing to do in Kyiv.

Bye then. Best wishes.

Vika

5.07.44.

Wonderful, sunny morning. I just returned with Mityasov from the latest news (they took Polotsk), we had breakfast with millet porridge with tomato juice, we marked the advance of the front on the map (what a great time in Belarus!), and now I somehow don’t know what to do. We have almost all finished our houses. They turned out nice, like the fairy-tale huts of Baba Yaga. It’s just that, apparently, you won’t really have to live in them. Our vacation seems to be coming to an end. Yesterday, thanks to the fact that some of our people worked on the river, there was great shopping. Here are all our events. We have been living peacefully for more than a month now. The letters somehow stopped again. One or two letters arrive per baht.

Well, I kiss you.

Vika

Our cards should be ready today.

23.07.44.

I can imagine how worried you are when you don’t receive letters from me. But, by God, I’ve been getting ready since the first day of the offensive, and I literally don’t have a free minute. The German runs so that we don’t even see him. We do 30 - 35 km a day and can’t catch up. Now, if we don’t move on, I’ll write a detailed letter. And this is just in case. I kiss you deeply.

In his young years, N.A. Nekrasov experienced a lot of grief. The fate of his mother, Elena Andreevna, left a noticeable imprint for life. After reaching manhood, he decided to write a poem about his beloved mother. In the laconic title “Mother” Nekrasov tried to reveal in detail eternal themes– mutual understanding in the family and the difficult share of women in the 19th century.

The central image of the poem is Nekrasov’s mother - a dreamy and kind woman, who also passionately loves her husband - the direct opposite of herself. She is a spiritually rich and educated woman, he is an educated, but cruel and rude “bug” who values ​​only fun and drinking. Her husband spends most of his free time joyfully traveling and hunting hares, not forgetting to get drunk and lose a considerable amount of money at cards.

The poet described the sad image of a woman sitting all day at the piano and singing painful songs about love, hope and kindness. “She was a singer with a beautiful voice,” the poet once said about his mother in one newspaper. Subsequently, these painful songs formed the basis of many of his poems.

In the poem, Nekrasov raises the topic of the lack of rights of the peasants, who were constantly threatened by their drunken husband with cruel reprisals. At such moments, the wife tried to protect the defenseless peasants, calming his anger with forest words. But the kind woman was not always able to calm her husband down, and he unleashed an avalanche of anger on the poor wife, sometimes even leading to beating. Such terrible scenes certainly left a noticeable mark on my son.

Nekrasov loved his mother very much, because it was she who introduced him to world-famous poets. She often talked about the lives of the poets themselves, citing their work. Subsequently, young Nekrasov will begin to write poems in different topics, using as an information base the poems his mother told him.

It is worth noting that few people turned to the image of their mother as often as Nekrasov. “Motherland”, “The Knight and the Hour”, “Mother” and others are considered very good poems about mother. He defended with all his might the rights of women to their own thinking, to political and equal material rights. His own memories of the frequent suffering of his mother prompted him to fight for comparison in the rights of women and men.

Subsequently, he more than once regretted that at a young age he could not do anything to oppose his tyrant father. And, after time, he decided to express all his love and hatred for injustice in the beautiful poem “Mother”.

Nikolai Nekrasov’s childhood was not the easiest and happiest; he experienced a lot of grief. He spent his entire childhood on the family estate, where his tyrant father ruled everything. He was very cruel to both his subordinates and his family. When he needed to hide from beatings, he sought shelter from the peasants; they practically replaced his family. The father unleashed his anger on the unfortunate mother; she left this life very early. And this upset Nekrasov. He was upset that, as a child, he could not resist the cruelty of his own father.

In the poem “Mother,” which was written after the death of her mother, 14 years later. Over the years, the already mature Nekrasov conveys well his love, sadness, and compassion for his poor mother. He also condemns and reproaches his own father, who did not allow this poor, unfortunate woman to live. Nikolai compares his father to an executioner, telling him that “you ruined my mother and deprived us of our childhood.” His mother was very kind and educated. She and her husband were the complete opposite, dreamy, loving wife and a mother, she loved her children very much, and at the same time was very worried about their fate. And the head of the family was cruel and rude, he loved to have fun and play cards, while losing all the money.

Nekrasov describes his mother, very sad and sad. A woman who is scared to death and cornered, she doesn't even have own opinion. Only over time did he realize that his mother’s life was like hell, but he could not do anything about it. Her husband was 13 years older than her, and he reproached and was jealous all the time. The father was on the verge of insanity, reproaching her that she would drive him to the grave. She listened to all these reproaches with dignity, although who knows what was in her soul. As a result, he survived her much longer. The image of his mother appears before the poet, and she sits and hums something to herself. According to him, she had a wonderful voice. Always pale and very calm. Since she was an educated woman, she told him a lot about the lives of poets and quoted their work. Thanks to her stories, he was in absentia acquainted with world-famous poets. Nekrasov will begin to write poems, using the information that his mother once gave.

Thinking about sad fate to his mother, Nekrasov learned in childhood compassion and empathy for all defenseless, oppressed and powerless women. He especially sympathized with serf women and serf workers. What a difficult fate befell them. The poet is convinced that it was his mother’s suffering that awakened in him a protest against the oppression of women.

Briefly according to plan

Picture for the poem Mother

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22.From the poem "Mother"

In our mocking and impudent century

Great, holy word: "mother"

Does not awaken feelings in a person.

But I'm used to despising the custom.

I'm not afraid of fashionable ridicule.

Fate gave me this muse:

She sings on a free whim

Or is silent, like a proud slave,

I have been among labor and laziness for many years

He ran away with shameful cowardice

Captivating, long-suffering shadow,

For sacred memory... The hour has come!..

The world loves glitter, rattles and timpani,

The lot of the crowd is not to recognize friends,

She brings praises, crowns and laurels

Only those whose scourge lashed her more painfully;

A crown, twisted by an unthinking crowd,

Burns the forehead of the forgotten sufferer -

I'm not looking for a late crown for her.

But I want the light of the soul to be high

Shined for you in the middle of the deep midnight,

Unhappy hearts are like her!..

Perhaps I'm acting criminally

Is your sleep disturbing, my mother? sorry!

But all my life I have suffered for a woman.

The path to freedom is denied her;

Shameful captivity, all the horror of a woman’s lot,

Left her little strength to fight,

But you will give her a lesson in iron will...

Bless me, dear: the hour has struck!

Sobbing sounds boil in my chest,

It's time, it's time to entrust my thought to them!

Your love, your holy torment,

Your struggle is an ascetic, I sing!..

I left my father's house as a teenager.

(I was in a hurry to the capital for fame.)

At sixteen I lived by my labor

And meanwhile I studied in fits and starts.

About twenty years old, with a tired head,

Neither alive nor dead (I starved for a long time),

But proudly, I came home.

I visited the village, the fields, the Volga -

You are still the same – both the fields and the people...

And it’s still the same – my native river...

I noticed a new thing: a steamboat!

But only for a moment did life flash.

You were seething like a cogwheel

The dug is a watery road,

And the shores were dozing in a gentle sleep.

Everything was dozing: the barks, the wires,

The barge hauler was dozing at the bottom of the imported boat,

If he wakes up, the Volga will come to life!

I waited for the viscous measured sounds...

Will I come here again to listen to my grandchildren,

Where can I hear you, fathers and sons!

Isn’t that what my life was given to me for?

Suddenly overwhelmed by drowsiness and laziness,

In the midday heat I entered the old garden;

In it, seven keys sparkle and rattle.

Listening to their impetuous singing,

The tops of the linden trees make a mysterious noise.

I love them: under their green canopy,

Quiet as the night and light as a shadow,

You, my mother, wandered every day.

At the slab where you lie, dear,

I remembered, worrying and dreaming,

What else could I see with you?

And I was late! And working life

I was devoted to both passion and adversity,

I was overwhelmed by the Neva wave...

I'm glad you're not under the family vault

Buried - it’s stuffy there, there’s no sun;

Your poet will not lie there either...

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And finally I entered the old house,

It has a new gender, and new orders;

But I cared little about that.

I dismantled those kept by my father,

The remains of your works, your papers

And I thought about one letter.

It has a coat of arms, it has a narrow border,

The sheet is covered in either Polish or French

Impetuous and passionate language.

I remembered something for a long time, vaguely:

Isn’t it him, sighing every minute,

You read it in my infancy

Alone, in the garden, not knowing anything,

I saw in him then the source of grief

My dear, I was glad to burn him,

And now I hated him.

Dead night! I hurriedly go to the garden...

I’m looking for her, I want to hug her passionately...

Where are you? Please accept my filial greetings!

But only the echo echoes me indifferently...

I burst into tears; Alas! she's gone!

The moon has risen and the garden has turned silver,

I stood motionless under the vault of linden trees,

Whom the dear canopy loved so much.

I waited for her - and I didn’t wait in vain...

She goes; sometimes slow, sometimes fast

Her steps, the letter in her hand...

She's coming...Attentive gazes

They glide over it in anxiety and melancholy.

“You are with me again!” I involuntarily exclaim.

You are with me again..." My head is spinning...

Chu, quiet crying, Chu, whisper! I'm listening -

The words of the letter are familiar words!

3. Letter

Warsaw, 1824

What a night I spent today!

Oh, my daughter! what did you do to us?

To whom, to whom did you give your fate?

Which native country did you prefer?

I dreamed: hunted by dogs,

You are covered by Russian snows.

It was winter, it was the dead of night,

A fire was burning, lit by savages,

And by the fire with my eyes closed

You were lying there, my own daughter!

The dense forest, turning black in a semicircle,

Roared like an animal... it was a long night,

You moaned like a slave groans at the plow,

And finally she froze - she died!..

Oh, how many dreams... oh, how many black thoughts!

I know that God punishes the disobedient,

I believe in dreams and cry like a child...

A shame! a shame! we are the fable of all Warsaw.

You, whose hands M.M. I was looking for glory,

To whom N.N. fell in love in earnest

You're infatuated with an army officer

You're infatuated with a handsome savage!

I don't argue, he is decent in manners,

I noticed a natural intelligence in him.

But his character, habits, upbringing...

Can he sign his name?

Sorry! Indignation boils in the chest -

I can't, I shouldn't be silent!

………………………….

Your beauty (nature is harsh there)

Never to fully blossom;

Your braid will be gone for six months,

It has its own motto: “love and beat”... sorry.

………………………………………..

What a life! Linens, talcs, chickens

From unfortunate women; neighbors are savages,

And their wives are illiterate fools...

Today is a feast... hounds, hounds, hounds!

Sing, my daughter! in the midst of it

Your roulades, unable to withstand the blow,

The slave is falling... Laugh! everyone is funny...

…………………………………..

…………………………………..

IN last time I kiss you like a mother -

I shouldn’t encourage the runaway;

Decide for yourself, take any fate:

Return to your family, be true to your homeland -

Or, forever cursed by my father

And forever lost by me,

Remain there as a renegade of the region

And the Muscovite is a despicable slave.

………………………..

I woke up. The keys rattled silently,

And the early birds sang on the old linden trees.

There is a letter in my hand... but my dear one is not there!

Confused, I hung my head sadly.

Nature was still in a light sleep;

The moon looked into the pond; on the fatal stem

The burdocks stood motionless over the pond.

This is how prisoners look out of the casemate windows

……………………………

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I went through the books I had with me

My family once brought me from afar

I read random notes in the margins:

They had an inquisitive mind that delved deeply.

And again I cried and thought about the letter,

And again I read it carefully from the beginning,

And the meek soul tormented within him,

For the first time, she appeared before me in her beauty...

And you have remained inseparable since then,

O suffering mother! with my sad son,

The eyes were looking for you and your traces everywhere,

My leisure time was devoted to paintings of the past.

That pale hand that caressed me

When by the dying fire

When I was a baby I sat with you,

Filled with melody and caress,

To whom you told me fairy tales

About knights, monks, kings.

Then, when I read Dante and Shakespeare,

It seemed that I encountered familiar features:

Those are images from their living world

You imprinted on my mind.

And I began to understand where your thought wandered,

Where did you live in soul, sufferer,

When violence rejoiced all around,

And a pack of dogs howled in the kennel,

And the blizzard hit and chalked the windows...

……………………………

……………………………

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An invisible staircase from recent youthful days

I descended to childhood, remembering that life,

When you were still my nanny

And a guardian angel, dear.

In another land, no less unhappy

But born less harsh,

In the gloomy and stormy north

At eighteen you were already alone.

He fell out of love, to whom fate was handed,

With whom I trustingly went to a foreign land, -

He’s not yours, but you haven’t stopped loving him,

You couldn’t stop loving until the grave...

……………………………

……………………………

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You answered the letter with silence,

You went your own way fearlessly.

……………………………

It sounded like the cry of a long-suffering soul,

But you were even and cheerful:

"I am unhappy, tormented by a friend,

But before you, O slave woman!

Before the slave, bent over the plow,

My destiny is an enviable destiny!

You are unhappy, O Motherland! I know:

The whole region is in captivity, all in trepidation,

But the land where I love and die,

More unfortunate, a hundred times more unfortunate!”

Chaos! I'm rushing around in unconsciousness, in delirium!

Chaos! the poet's mind barely flickers,

But youth's sacred vow

If I don’t do it, I won’t go to the grave!

They will understand or not, but the song will be sung.

I am late! I'm slow and steady

I am unable to accomplish my cherished work,

But I dare in a picture of few words

Combine your destiny, dear.

And I can!.. Art will help me,

Death will help - she needs me soon!..

A tear is small, but there is an excess of feeling in it...

What a vast ocean in front of her!..

……………………………

So twenty years of chain asceticism

You dragged on until your hour struck.

And not in vain among the waterless steppe

The spring flowed - it gave water to the thirsty.

And your love did not shine in vain:

No matter how many black clouds there are in the sky,

But if the night began to give in to the morning,

Finally, a ray of sunshine will shine through!

And the day broke out! It's yours: you win!

At your feet is the father of your children,

The family has long forgiven your guilt,

The servant kisses your crown of thorns...

But... twenty years!.. How sweet, dying,

You sighed... how quietly you died!

Oh, how much strength you have shown, dear!

What path did you come to victory!..

Your soul - it burns like a diamond,

Crushed into thousands of grains

In the greatness of deeds, elusive to the eye.

I understood them - I fell on my face before them,

I sing them (give me strength, heaven!..).

Doomed to a modest struggle,

You couldn't give bread to the hungry

You could not give freedom to a slave.

But once again the feeling of fear did not compress

You gave his souls to slaves, -

But once again from trembling and dust

He raised his gaze more cheerfully to the heavens...

Perhaps the gift is poorer than a drop in the sea,

But twenty years! But thousands of hearts

Whose ideal is reduced grief,

The borders of evil are finally open!

Your ruler is hereditary morals

Sometimes he left, sometimes he showed up violently,

But if he's into crazy fun

I didn’t initiate children in bad times,

But if he is unbridled freedom

I didn’t bring it to the fatal line, -

You stood guard over him for years,

While darkness reigned in his soul...

And if I easily shake off the years,

There are noxious traces from my soul

Having trampled everything reasonable with her feet,

Proud of the ignorance of the environment,

And if I filled my life with struggle

For the ideal of goodness and beauty,

And carries the song composed by me,

Living love has deep features -

O my mother, I am moved by you!

You saved the living soul in me!

And I'm happy! you've already left the world,

But you will live in human memory,

As long as my lyre is able to live in it.

Years will pass - my faithful admirer

She will devote solitary leisure time,

He will read the story about your fate;

And, having visited the poet's forgotten dust,

Having sighed for him, he will sigh for you.

23. BURNING LETTERS

They are burning!.. You can’t write them again,

At least write, laughing, you promised...

Doesn't love burn with them?

Which dictated their heart?

Life has not yet called them lies,

I haven’t proven them to be true yet...

But that hand burned them with malice,

Who wrote them with love!

You freely decided your choice,

And not like a slave did I fall to my knees;

But you're walking up the stairs steep

And you boldly burn the steps you have passed!..

A crazy step!.. perhaps fatal...

…………………………..

Move pen, paper, books!

Dear friend! I heard the legend:

The chains fell from the shoulders of the ascetic,

And the ascetic fell dead!

Help me work, Zina!

Work has always given me life.

Here's another beautiful picture -

Write it down before I forget!

Don't cry in secret! Believe in hope

Laugh, sing, as you sang in the spring,

Repeat to my friends, as before,

Every verse you wrote down.

Say that you are happy with your friend:

In the celebration of victories won

Over your tormentor illness

Your poet has forgotten about death!

Love and work are under piles of ruins!

Everywhere you look - betrayal, hostility,

And you stand - inactive and sad

And you slowly burn with shame.

And you send a reproach to heaven for the happy gift:

Why did you crown it with it?

When the soul is dreamily fearful

No determination to fight?..

(February 1877)

26.BAYUSHKI-BAYU

Invincible suffering

Inexorable melancholy...

Draws you in like a sacrifice to the slaughter,

Illness black hand.

Where are you, oh muse! Sing like before!

“There are no more songs, darkness in the eyes;

Say: we will die! end of hope!

I walked on crutches!"

Is it a crutch or a grave spade?

It knocks... it stops... and then it goes quiet...

And she, my omnipotent one, is gone,

And he changed the verse for the poet.

But before the restless night

"It's time to get out of the midday heat!

It's time, it's time to find peace;

Sleep, sleep, my killer whale!

Accept the desired crown of labor,

You are no longer a slave - you are a crowned king;

Nothing has power over you!

The coffin is not scary, I am familiar with it;

Don't be afraid of lightning and thunder,

Don't be afraid of the chain and whip,

Do not be afraid of poison and sword,

Neither lawlessness nor law,

No hurricane, no thunderstorm

Not a human groan

Not a human tear.

Sleep, patient sufferer!

Free, proud and happy

You will see your homeland,

Bye-bye-bye-bye!

Just yesterday human anger

I have offended you;

It's all over, don't be afraid of the grave!

You will no longer know evil!

Do not be afraid of slander, my dear,

You paid her tribute alive,

Do not be afraid of the unbearable cold:

I will bury you in the spring.

Don't be afraid of bitter oblivion:

I already hold in my hand

Crown of love, crown of forgiveness,

A gift from your gentle homeland...

The stubborn darkness will give way to the light,

You will hear your song

Over the Volga, over the Oka, over the Kama,

Bye-bye-bye-bye!.."

Black day! Like a beggar asking for bread,

Death, death I ask the sky,

I ask the doctors for it

From friends, enemies and censors,

I appeal to the Russian people:

If you can, help out!

Dip me in living water,

Or give it to the dead in moderation.

28. YOU ARE NOT FORGOTTEN...

"I was useful yesterday

To my neighbor - now I can’t!

Death alone is desirable and kind -

It’s not for nothing that I’m saving the bullet...”

That's all you bequeathed to us,

And we also found out later,

How long have you been giving to the poor?

What did you manage to obtain through hard work?

The priest is cowardly - he is afraid, he does not bury;

We couldn't convince him.

We are in a ravine where the wind moans bitterly,

The deceased was carried in their arms.

Having buried, we hewed the stone,

Approved right on the coffin

And it was clearly written on the stone

Life and death, and your whole destiny.

And your remains are dear to people,

Both reproach and teaching in them...

We need great graves,

If there is no greatness alive...

Before - a village holiday,

Today, autumn is hungry;

There is no end to a woman's sadness,

No time for beer and wine.

Since Sunday the mail has been raving

Our Orthodox people,

On Saturdays he goes to town,

Walks, asks, finds out:

Who is killed, who is wounded in the summer,

Who was missing, who was found?

According to some infirmaries

Were the survivors transported?

Is it so creepy? vault of heaven

Dark at noon as in the night;

Don't sit in a cramped house,

Does not lie on the stove.

Full, warm, thank God,

Just sleep! No, you're not sleeping,

So it’s drawn to the road,

There's no way you'll lie down.

And we have a good road!

So they carry a lot of crippled people,

What's behind them on the hill,

As the carriages rush by,

Human moans

Clearly audible at dawn.

30. HUSBAND AND WIFE

"Glashenka! Ivashevo Wasteland -

A third of our fortune

Don't sell it, my angel!

Give me back the deposit..."

Tears, nervous laughter, seizure:

“I owe a debt - and the term is behind me...”

- “Glasha, don’t cry! I’m a bad master,

Do whatever you want with me.

My heart, bleeding,

With all-enduring love

That's enough, my friend!"

"Glasha! excites and torments

A jealous feeling in my soul.

This teacher who teaches Petenka..."

- “So! I recognize hubby!

Oh, if you only knew how angry and disgusting you are."

“I know, I’m sorry! I’m a big jealous person!

Do whatever you want with me.

My heart, bleeding,

With all-enduring love

That's enough, my friend!"

“Glasha! how often do you go for walks these days?

Just stay with me today.

A lot of work has accumulated - you know

To overcome it, you need peace!

Tears, nervous laughter, seizure...

"Glasha, go! I am a madman, I am disgusting,

I am an egoist, heartless and evil,

Do whatever you want with me.

My heart, bleeding,

With all-enduring love

That's enough, my friend!"

I dreamed: standing on a cliff,

I wanted to throw myself into the sea,

Suddenly an angel of light and peace

He sang a wonderful song to me:

"Wait for spring! I'll come early,

I will say: be a man again!

I will remove the cover of fog from the head

And sleep with heavy eyelids;

And again the blissful hours

You will find by collecting the ear

From your uncompressed lane."

Great feeling! At every door

Whichever direction we go,

We hear children calling their mothers,

Distant, but eager to reach children.

Great feeling! It's all the way

We keep it alive in our souls, -

We love sister, and wife, and father,

But in our torment we remember our mother!

(late 1877)

33. IMITATION OF SCHILLER

1. ESSENCE

If your soul is clear

Types of goodness and love,

All the themes in the world are beautiful,

Call the muse boldly.

The muse visited you:

Your gaze wanders vaguely!

There is power in the first inspiration!

Drop the conversation you started.

2. FORM

Give the form a generous tribute

Time: important in the poem

Style that matches the theme.

A poem is minted like a coin

Strictly, clearly, honestly,

Follow the rule stubbornly:

So that words are cramped,

There is room for thoughts.

(late 1877)

Soon - my signs are good! -

Soon I will leave the abode of sadness:

Eternal companions of the Russian soul -

Hatred, fear - fell silent.

(late 1877)

O muse! I'm at the door of the coffin!

Even though I have a lot to blame

Let it increase a hundred times

My fault is human malice -

Do not Cry! our lot is enviable,

They don't mock us:

Between me and honest hearts

You won’t let it break for long

Living, blood union!

Not Russian - will look without love

To this pale one, covered in blood,

A muse cut with a whip...

(December 1877)

In a country where there is neither gold nor silver,

We are talking about the seizure of papers

Can't do any good

But... the lot of the listeners is difficult.

37. O.A.Petrov

(on the day of the 50th anniversary)

Touching a person's heart,

Glorious is the path of the heroic singer.

Do not become weaker under the yoke of old age.

Thousands and thousands of hearts

Loving, deeply touched,

They send their gratitude to you, singer!

Embodying Russian art

In the sounds of life, truth, beauty,

Work, love and creativity

You bring it to the altar...

(December 1875)

38. When Dmitriev left for Kyiv from Yaroslavl

Don't be angry with him

When the speech is bad:

The path is long to Kyiv,

You will forget the game!

(1875(?))

39. TO THE PORTRAIT ***

Your claim to fame is very fragile

And if you subtract from the merits

Mistakes of youth and later years of concession, -

Good luck, dear friend.

<1876>

Calm down, my perky muse,

You don't have the strength to work.

Dear homeland, holy, spacious Rus'

I paid fate again...

Bury me with honor, broken

A serious and evil illness.

My century, anxiously lived,

In a word, don’t remember the dashing.

Believe that in me there is an immense, immeasurable

There was love for the people

And what will freeze in me now is faithful,

Pure, Russian blood.

I know there will be many guardians,

Everyone will scream about me

It’s just a pity that there are few such benefactors,

That they will be sad and remain silent.

They will spend a lot of hot enthusiasm

Everything is over my grave.

Dear homeland, son lying down

Bless, don't hit!..

……………….

……………….

Forget me as a private person,

But judge as a poet...

And I'm not afraid of that strict judgment

I am pure before you, mother.

I'm only guilty of a lot, a lot of things

Here they didn’t let me say...

(September 1876)

A man alone

Angry - will not forgive mistakes,

The world - "not everything fits in a line"

He says from time immemorial.

Your courage will not die

To fight with lies and malice...

Just a deliberate step

Down the wrong path

Be afraid!.. Proudly raised

Suddenly the head drops,

Your speech will become direct

Fearful and dead.

Courage and determination will bend,

Suspiciousness takes over the heart

And finally leaves

Even the belief in leniency

Human hearts!..

(December 1876)

Not for Yakov Rostovtsev

You pray, not for Milyutin,

…….. you pray

About everyone in the casemates rotting,

About the soldiers spotted in the regiments,

Pray for the hanged.

(late December 1876)

No shame, no compassion,

Curls in small curls,

The body, flexibly agitated,

And on sensual lips

A voluptuous smile.

(1876)

44. TO THE PORTRAIT ***

We have debunked this idol

With his inactive, phrasetic love,

We have become smart: the world believes

Only valor, sealed in blood...

(1876(?))

I asked people

In life, in the nature of my homeland,

In cold books,

In the groans of the people -

I searched in vain for an answer...

(1876(?))

But loving, prepare your heart

Endure incessant thunderstorms:

In our world, child, where is love,

There are tears there.

(1876(?))

Tolstoy, you proved with patience and talent,

That a woman should not "walk"

Neither with the chamber cadet, nor with the aide-de-camp,

When she is a wife and mother.