Yesenin singer of the Russian village
In Russian literature of the early 20th century, Sergei Yesenin was a poet “with a peasant slant.” The world of Yesenin’s poems is a rural world, just as the world of Mayakovsky or Blok’s poetry is urban. Yesenin came from a village, one of the few in Russian literature of that time, and he rightfully considered himself a lyrical representative of the rural way of life in the variety of trends in contemporary poetry.
Another singer of Russia and its amazing nature is the outstanding Russian poet Sergei Yesenin. His unique talent is recognized by almost everyone. S. Yesenin was born on Ryazan soil. The poet spent his childhood here, then his youth, here he wrote his first poems. And the fire of dawn, and the silvery moon, and the immense blue of heaven, and the blue expanse of lakes - all the beauty of the native land is reflected in poems filled with love for the Russian land: O Rus' - a raspberry field And the blue that fell into the river - I love you to the point of joy and pain Your lake melancholy. From a young age, Russia, its sad and free songs, bright sadness, rural silence and girlish laughter sank into Yesenin’s heart from a young age. All this can be found in Yesenin’s poems, each line of which is warmed by a feeling of boundless love for his native land. “My lyrics are alive only with love, love for the Motherland. The feeling of the Motherland is fundamental in my work,” says the poet. And if in Sergei’s best poems, the most intimate human feelings, they are filled to the brim with the freshness of pictures of native nature, then in his other works there is despair, decay, hopeless sadness. Sergei Yesenin is, first of all, a singer of Rus', and in his poems, in Russian sincere and frank, we feel the beating of a restless, tender heart. They have a “Russian spirit”, they “smell of Russia”. They absorbed the great traditions of national poetry, the traditions of Pushkin, Nekrasov, Blok. Even in Yesenin’s love lyrics, the theme of love merges with the theme of the Motherland.
Yesenin’s artistic system is characterized by the opposition between city and countryside, and the poet gives it the character of a global, worldview conflict. In the author’s work one can trace a number of contrasting features inherent in these two worlds: the rural world is healthy, clean, full-fledged, bright, kind, natural and alive; the urban world is sick, vicious, flawed, gloomy, cruel, artificial and dead. Life in the city has a detrimental effect on the hero’s soul:
I've never been this tired before...
Endless drunken nights
And this is not the first time that melancholy has been rampant! Yesenin's early poems are full of sounds and colors. In them, nature lives a unique poetic life. She is all in endless movement, in continuous development and change. Like a person, she sings and whispers, is sad and rejoices. In depicting nature, Yesenin uses images of folk poetry and often resorts to the technique of personification. His bird cherry sleeps “in a white cape,” the willows cry, the poplars whisper,
With the advent of the revolution, a new stage in S. Yesenin’s work begins. Now he is concerned about the fate of the Motherland and the people in the revolutionary era: O Rus', flap your wings! Put up another support! A different steppe rises with different names. Yesenin welcomed the revolutionary renewal of Russia, but when transformations began in the village, the poet reacted with hostility to the invasion of civilization, the “iron guest” into the countryside. Only after his trip abroad did Yesenin’s views on the changes that took place in the life of the Russian peasantry change. Now he is ready to sing with all his heart the beauty of the emerging “steel” Rus', because the future lies with it
Thus, neither the difficult revolutionary situation, nor the suffering and death of the peasants could extinguish the love for the Motherland in the poet’s heart. The insight, deep feeling, and poetic power of his poems about the village do not leave the reader indifferent and testify that with all his heart, with all his soul, the author loved this beautiful and bright world of his childhood and his adult dreams. In the most difficult times, he remains with all his soul, with all his heart with Russia, the Russian people: Oh, you, Rus', my meek homeland, I cherish my love only for you.
Yesenin singer of the fate of the Russian village
Yesenin is a singer of the fate of the Russian village. Sergei Yesenin is an outstanding Russian poet, whose unique talent is recognized by everyone. From a young age, Russia lived in Yesenin’s heart, its sad and free songs, rural silence and girlish laughter, the grief of mothers who lost their sons in the war. All this is in verse, each line of which is warmed by a feeling of boundless love for the native land, the native people.
“My lyrics,” said Yesenin, “are alive with one big love, love for the homeland. The feeling of homeland is the main thing in my work.” Yesenin for me is love, nature, song, it is strength and tenderness, it is a mirror reflection of our Slavic soul, it is the essence of our life. The singer of “the country of birch chintz” passed away very early, and his poems still sound.
Sometimes bright and pure, like a spring, sometimes sad and lonely, sometimes sonorous and playful, sometimes thoughtful and sad. The expanse of steppe expanses, the blue of lakes, the noise of green oak forests, the lyrical thoughts of the poet will not leave anyone indifferent who has ever read Yesenin’s poems. I can’t imagine Russia without him. The Ryazan land itself gave birth to such a genius, raised him from the depths of people's life.
It was here, on Ryazan soil, that he first saw the fire of dawn, and the silvery moon, and the rustle of reeds, and the extraordinary blue of the sky, and the blue surface of the lakes. There is not, I think, a person in the world who did not know and did not love Yesenin. His works are full of sincerity, spirituality, and move you to tears.
Where the cabbage beds are watered by the sunrise with red water, the little maple tree sucks the green udder of the uterus. Yesenin is a truly folk poet. But with all the airiness and melodiousness of Yesenin’s poems, with all their melody, one cannot say that he is an “easy” poet to understand.
Yesenin's lyricism captivates me; in his poems, colors and sounds change all the time, they are covered with the breath of nature and the poet’s joyful spiritual mood. Only I, in this blossom, in this expanse, Under the cape of a merry May, I cannot wish for anything, Everything is as it is, endlessly accepting.
Landscape lyrics are imbued with joyful and sad tones, the poet conveys to us his feelings: he endures, is indignant and lives with bright hopes. Yesenin looks at nature through the eyes of an artist; under his pen, extraordinary and expressive pictures of nature come to life on a sheet of paper. Vast clouds, fragrant flowers, and the smoke of white apple trees loom before us.
We hear sounds that are pleasant to the heart: “the stream sings a rattling song like a wave,” “the native steppes ring with feather grass,” “the water breeze rings with roadside grasses from the lakes.” Nature takes on the features of a person who shares the joys and pains of the lyrical hero, lives with him in the same breath.
That’s why there is such spirituality in the images: “it’s like a pine tree is tied with a white scarf,” “the spruce girls are sad,” “the old hut is chewing the fragrant crumb of silence with the jaws of the threshold.” Each of us has in our souls our own image of the great poet and man Sergei Yesenin. Indescribable, blue, tender... My land is quiet after storms, after thunderstorms, And my soul is a boundless field - Breathing the smell of honey and roses.
Gently and caringly, nature heals human souls and relieves stress after a working day. I perceive the poet’s poems in my own way: poems about nature sound like music, they calm and console me when it’s very difficult for me. In the hustle and bustle of everyday life, in its boundless problematic, we lose something sublime, spiritual.
Material problems have pinned people to the ground, clipped their wings and, it seems, will no longer take off, no longer soar above the ground... But again a volume of miraculous poems ends up in their hands.
And Yesenin seems to stop us: look around you, listen to the sound of the wind in the oak groves, the rustle of grass in the meadows, the voice of a river wave... And I realize, for the umpteenth time, that Yesenin is a singer from God, from the people and for the people. And yesterday, and today, and always - “They sing Yesenin”... “Oh, you, Rus', my meek homeland, I cherish my love only for you” Small Woods. The steppe and the distance. The light of the moon in all directions.
Once again, the spilling bells suddenly burst into tears. Anyone who has seen at least once This land and this expanse, He is glad to kiss almost every birch tree. S.A. Yesenin In real poetry there is always some kind of surprise, a poetic discovery, an original, unique worldview of a living, searching soul. Such poetry always brings people together, unites them, and each of us, so different, feels something different in it.
Sergei Yesenin’s poems, it seems to me, do not leave anyone indifferent; they can be heard from the lips of a variety of people, sometimes from those from whom you would not expect it at all. Probably because they touch on everything that is most pure, sincere, childish and secret that is in each of us.
The words “love for the motherland”, “native nature” are so worn out that they are almost not perceived anymore, but when you read Yesenin, the husks seem to fall off from them, and you again feel the pain and some kind of sad tenderness: You are my abandoned land, You are my abandoned land mine, wasteland, unmown hayfield. Forest and monastery.
...Didn’t it say in the twig Your life and reality, That in the evening the feather grass whispered to the traveler? His poems, especially the early ones, in their language, figurative structure, and mood are reminiscent of folk songs. Sergei Yesenin was the son of a Ryazan peasant, and the world of the “golden log hut” was native to him from childhood.
In this world, everything is fused together: work, celebration, faith and everyday life - turned into being, and everything is spiritualized, full of warmth and joy of life: The mother cannot cope with her grips, She bends low, The old cat sneaks towards the makhotka For fresh milk. Restless chickens cluck Above the shafts of the plow, In the courtyard, the roosters are crowing a slender mass. And in the window in the canopy, from the timid noise, from the corners, shaggy puppies crawl into the collars.
Yesenin, in love with fields and forests, with his village sky, with animals and flowers, felt, like a peasant living on the land, that he was connected to it by blood ties. And therefore, in his poems, as in ancient songs and “grandmother’s tales,” there are sensitive human souls around the huts, trees, flowers, horses, winds. The road thought about the red evening, The rowan bushes are foggy in depth.
The old hut, with the jaws of the threshold, Chews the odorous crumb of silence......Quietly in the juniper thicket along the cliff Autumn - a red mare - scratches her mane... Surprisingly in its surprise, freshness of look and tenderness, one of Yesenin’s first poems: Where the cabbage beds are watered with red water by the sunrise, Maple Little the small uterus sucks the green udder.
His trees turn into animals, and his animals are “our little brothers,” who also have their own thoughts and worries, joys and sufferings. The horses thoughtfully listen to the shepherd's horn, the cow fiddles with the “straw sadness,” the cat at the window catches the moon with its paw, “Byron-style.” “The little dog greets you with a bark at the gate.”
And how unusual is his famous “Song of a Dog”: ... the dog’s eyes rolled like golden stars into the snow. No one before Yesenin wrote about animals with such tenderness and compassion. M.
Gorky said about him: “Sergei Yesenin is not so much a person as an organ created by nature exclusively for poetry, to express the inexhaustible “sadness of the fields,” love for all living things in the world and mercy, which man deserves most of all.” And when Yesenin speaks about the homeland, Rus', it seems that it is all about the same thing - about “everything living,” about the transience and joy of life.
The image of the homeland, Russia, is made up of small dashes: “birch milk on the plain”, “huts in the robes of the image”, the grandfather “with a birch bark stick” and Saint Mikola, “in bast shoes” walking around the Russian region, a tramp-tramp who walks “on a country road, praying to the haystacks and haystacks.”
Perhaps such a Rus' looks too benevolent and humble, but the poet cherishes this appearance of it: If the holy army shouts: “Cut it out, Rus', live in paradise!” I will say: “There is no need for paradise, Give me my homeland.”
And at the same time, Yesenin, gazing intently into the face of his native land, is increasingly aware of its abandonment and downtroddenness, and in his verses sadness and vague vagabond melancholy appear more and more clearly: I’m tired of living in my native land, Longing for the buckwheat expanses, I’ll leave my hut, I’ll go a tramp and a thief... For a month he will float and float, Dropping oars on the lakes, And Rus' will still live the same way, Dancing and crying at the fence.
This sadness, sometimes bright, peaceful, sometimes painful, remained forever in his poems about Russia. All his poetry became a declaration of love for his homeland, a poignant and tender song about it. In 1917, the “wind of revolution” bursts into Yesenin’s poetry, and the poet welcomes it, welcomes the new Rus' - “violent”, “set sail”, “revived” "
He expected from the revolution the fulfillment of the dream of a “peasant paradise”, a free, well-fed, happy life on earth. But then came the terrible years of 1919-1920. In one of his letters, Yesenin wrote: “What touches me... is only sadness for the passing away dear dear animal and the unshakable power of the dead, mechanical... I am sad now that history is going through a difficult era of the killing of the individual as a living thing, because it is going completely not the socialism I thought about.” A visual, dear image of a dying village became for Yesenin a small “red-maned colt” who decided to catch up with the driver: Dear, dear, funny fool, Well, where is he, where is he chasing? Doesn’t he really know that the living horses were defeated by the steel cavalry? Behind the ruin of the village “blue” Rus'” Yesenin saw and felt the destruction of harmony with nature, the soil from which the entire national Russian culture grew. An iron guest will soon appear on the path of the blue field. Oatmeal, spilled at dawn, A black handful will collect it. Not living, alien palms, To these songs I can’t live with you! There will only be ears of corn - horses about the old master. The wind will suck their neighing, the funeral service will celebrate the cry. Soon, soon the wooden clock will shout my twelfth hour! He sincerely tried to accept the new, Soviet industrial Russia, blamed himself for that, that “I did not see my bright youth in the struggle of others,” I was ready, “with my pants pulled up, to run after the Komsomol.” There are short poems about this: “Return to the Motherland”, “Departing Rus'”, “Letter to a Woman”, “Soviet Rus'”. And yet the poet already felt like a stranger here, useless, thrown out of life: My poetry is no longer needed here, And, perhaps, I myself am not needed here either. He did not blame anyone for his tragedy, he was ready to accept and forgive everything, but he simply could not become a poet of “socialist transformations” in his essence: I will give my whole soul to October and May, But I will not give away my dear lyre......You have a different life, you have a different tune, And I will go alone to unknown limits, With a soul rebellious forever subdued...
And, leaving, he conveyed to us all his pure, piercing, endless love for the “country of birch chintz,” his extraordinary sincerity and humanity.
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