Bell pepper is a wonderful tasty and healthy vegetable that you can ...
The poems of the collection "Night Hours" (1911) are also permeated with anxious expectation of the "unknown", a feeling of tragically growing tension in the world. Included in the collected works of the poet, published by the Symbolist publishing house "Musaget" in 1911-1912, in the form of the final third volume, they were the pinnacle of Blok's lyrics. It captures the results of the path he traveled, which, as the poet wrote to A. Bely on June 6, 1911, “led to the birth of a 'public' man, an artist who bravely looks into the face of the world.” During the years of public reaction, when, according to a contemporary N. Ya. Mandelstam, a significant part of the intelligentsia was characterized by "indulgence towards themselves, the absence of criteria and a thirst for happiness that did not leave anyone," the poet's position was sharply distinguished by its "moralism", which, as he wrote in reviews of "Night Hours" Nikolai Gumilev, "gives the poetry of Blok the impression of some special ... Schiller's humanity."
In the speech "Oh state of the art Symbolism "(1910), polemicizing with some new literary trends (primarily with acmeism), Blok said:" ... We are offered: sing, have fun and call to life, - and our faces are burned and disfigured by a purple dusk "( an image that expressed the vague and contradictory atmosphere of the era of the revolution and the reaction that replaced it).
"The terrible world", as one of the most important cycles of the poet is called, is not only the surrounding "objective" reality, which is reflected in the famous poems "On the Railroad", "Late Autumn from the Harbor" and others. Blok's lyrics are dominated by "landscape" modern soul, mercilessly truthful, in many respects confessionally colored. Bryusov wrote that Blok "with fearless sincerity draws the content of his poems from the depths of his soul." The poet himself later, with obvious sympathy, noted the "deep thought" of a writer close to him - Apollo Grigoriev: "If ... ideals are undermined and meanwhile the soul is unable to make peace with the untruth of life ... then the only way out for the poet's muse would be a mercilessly ironic execution, addressing himself, this untruth has eaten into his own nature ... "
The very expression "scary world" first appears in "personal songs" (no matter how conditional their separation from the "objective" ones in Blok's lyrics):
Scary world! It is small for the heart!
It contains delirium of your kisses,
The dark haze of gypsy songs
The hasty flight of comets!
("Black raven in the snowy twilight ...")
The poem "On the Islands" begins with a picture of a love date full of poetry:
Newly snow-covered columns
Elagin bridge and two lights.
And the woman's voice is in love.
And the crunch of sand and the snoring of a horse.
But it soon turns out that love is also "disfigured", the true feeling is replaced by a "rite" reduced almost to automatism, cold calculation:
... with the constancy of the geometer
I count every time without words
The bridges, the chapel, the harshness of the wind,
The desolation of the low islands.
And in the poem “Humiliation”, a bold metaphor (scaffold, procession to execution) mercilessly characterizes scenes of “venal” love, amplified by expressive soundtrack reaching high drama: “Yellow Winter Sunset Outside the window ... the convicts will be led to execution at Sunset ... Only lips with caked blood / on your golden icon / is it we Called love? / refracted by an insane line? "
The theme of the "scary world" is the main topic in the third volume.
poems by A. Blok, expressed in the cycle of the same name. But this topic
can be called through in the lyrics of the symbolist poet. She is present
both in the first and in the second volume of his poems. Often motives
The "terrible world" is interpreted as a denunciation of bourgeois society, but
this is not entirely true. According to Blok, this is only the outer, visible side
"Scary world". Its deep essence is much more important for the poet:
a person living in a "scary world" experiences its pernicious
influence.
Is in your innermost tunes
Fatal news of the death.
There is a curse of sacred covenants,
There is an abuse of happiness.
The "scary world" theme is closely
Blok has a problem
the city, its lack of spirituality, with
the problem of social
contradictions. The poet shows
what a man in the city
the elements take possession, destructive
passion. Internal
clash of purity and beauty
followed by "desecration"
all covenants brought in a cycle
"Scary world" to the limit.
So it opens up
fiery lines "To the Muse",
combining
incompatible: miracle and hell,
"Curse of beauty" and
"Terrible caresses".
And such an enticing force
What am I ready to repeat behind the rumor,
As if you brought angels down
Seducing with its beauty ...
And when you laugh at faith
Suddenly lights up above you
That dim, purple-gray
And once I saw a circle.
Evil, is it good? - You're all - not from here.
They say wisely about you:
For some, you are both a Muse and a miracle.
For me you are torture and hell.
I don't know why at dawn,
At the hour when there was no more strength,
I did not die, but I noticed your face
And asked for your consolations?
I wanted us to be enemies
So why did you give me
A meadow with flowers and a firmament with stars -
All the curse of your beauty?
And more insidious than the northern night,
And get drunker than the golden ai,
And gypsy love is shorter
There were your terrible caresses ...
And there was a fatal joy
In trampling on cherished shrines,
And delight insane to the heart -
This bitter passion is like wormwood! In the "scary world" everything goes out
human manifestations, and the poet
longs for revival with all my heart
personality. The soul of a lyric hero
tragically experiencing a state
own sinfulness,
disbelief, emptiness,
deadly fatigue. V
"Scary world" are absent
naturalness, healthy
human feelings... Love in
this world is not, there is only "bitter
passion like wormwood "," low
passion "(" Humiliation "," On
islands "," In a restaurant "," Black
blood").
The lyrical hero of the "Scary World" cycle wastes the treasures of his soul: he is the Lermontov demon, bringing death to himself and those around him ("
The lyrical hero of the "Scary World" cycle wastes the treasures of hissouls: he is the Lermontov demon, bringing death to himself and those around him
("Demon"), then - "an aging youth" ("Double"). Motives
hopelessness, the fatal cycle of life sound in poems
“The worlds are flying. Years fly by, Empty ... "," Night, street, lamp, pharmacy ... ".
The worlds are flying. The years go by. Empty
The universe looks at us with the darkness of its eyes.
And you, soul, tired, deaf,
You repeat about happiness - which time?
What is happiness? Evening coolness
In a darkening garden, in the wilderness?
Or dark, vicious delights
Guilt, passions, death of the soul?
What is happiness? A short moment and a cramped one
Oblivion, sleep and rest from worries ...
Wake up - again crazy, unknown
And a grabbing flight for the heart ...
He sighed, you look - the danger has passed ...
But at this very moment - again a push!
Launched somewhere, haphazardly,
The top is flying, buzzing, in a hurry!
And clinging to the edge sliding, sharp,
And listening to the always buzzing ringing, -
Aren't we going crazy in changing motley
Invented reasons, spaces, times ...
When is the end? Intrusive sound
He will not have the strength to listen without rest ...
How terrible everything is! How wild! - Give me your hand,
Comrade, friend! Let's forget again.
Night, street, lantern, pharmacy,
Pointless and dim light.
Live for at least a quarter of a century. Everything will be like this. There is no way out.
If you die, you start over again
And everything will repeat itself as of old:
Night, icy ripples of the canal
Pharmacy, street, lamp.
One of the leading motives for Blok is the mortification of the world of urban civilization. A laconic expressive image of this civilization appears in
One of the leading motives for Blok is the mortification of the urban world.civilization. Laconic expressive image of this civilization
appears in the poem "Factory", even the color ("zsolty") here
symbolizes the monotony and madness of the world.
The windows in the neighboring house are zsolty.
In the evenings - in the evenings
Brooding bolts creak
People are approaching the gate.
And the gates are deafly locked,
And on the wall - and on the wall
Immobile someone, black someone
He counts people in silence.
I hear everything from my top:
He calls with a brass voice
Bend over exhausted backs
The people gathered below.
They will come in and scatter
Pile coolies on their backs.
And in the yellow windows they will laugh
That these beggars were led away. Even the pursuit of personal happiness
the lyrical hero realizes how
sinful. After all, happiness is in
"Scary world" is fraught with
mental callousness, moral
deafness.
One of the most revealing
poems in this regard -
The Stranger (1904-1908). genre
of this work - a story in
poetry. Plot - meeting in
country restaurant. Wherein
all visible images of the material
Blok gain
symbolic overtones. The theme of the "scary world" in the lyrics of Blok continues the cycles
"Retribution" and "Yambas". Many poems of "Retribution" reflect
specific events and emotional upheavals of the poet himself ("About
valor, exploits, glory "," To the death of a baby ").
Saying "no" to the dark present, A. Blok is convinced that
the collapse of the old foundations of life is inevitable. He does not recognize triumph
"Terrible world" over people and does not capitulate to him. Not
by chance the poet said: “The difficult must be overcome. And behind him will be
clear day". Thus, the theme of the "scary world" is important
stage creative path A. Blok. This topic reflected acute
social contradictions of that time, deep philosophical
contradictions of the era.
Alexander Blok was a poet who did not separate his life from creativity. He wrote in a fit of inspiration, but all the upheavals of his time passed through the soul of Blok. The lyrical hero of his works was mistaken, rejoiced, denied, greeted. This was the poet's path to people, the path to the embodiment of human joys and sufferings in his work, the tragedy of "incarnation".
Having created "Poems about the Beautiful Lady", delightful in its ideological integrity in his youth, where everything is fanned by the atmosphere of mystical mystery and a miracle taking place, A. Blok will conquer readers with the depth, sincerity of the feeling about which his lyrical hero told. The world of the Beautiful Lady will be the highest standard for the poet, to which, in his opinion, a person should strive. But in his desire to feel the fullness of life, the lyrical hero of A. Blok will descend from the heights of beauty and find himself in a real, earthly world, which he calls "a terrible world." The lyrical hero will live in this world, subjecting his fate to the laws of his life. A. Blok's office will be the city - St. Petersburg squares and streets. It is there that the motives of his poem "Factory" will be born, which will sound unexpectedly sharp even for the poet himself, who is the world of social injustice, the world of social evil. From there, from the "yellow windows", "someone is motionless, someone black counts people in silence" and, like Kuprin's Moloch, absorbs them. For the first time in his work A. Blok so sharply, unequivocally stated the theme of people's suffering. But before us are not only oppressed people. These people are also humiliated: "They will laugh at the yellow windows that these beggars have been led away."
The theme of the humiliated disadvantaged person gets its further development in the poem "On the Railway". The railway is a symbolic image here. Before us Railway life, a path devoid of kindness, humanity, spirituality. People are going along this road, their faces flicker in the windows of the carriage - "sleepy, with an even look," indifferent to everything. And “under the embankment, in an unmown ditch,” lies a woman crushed by “love, mud or wheels,” crushed by life. Here is the evolution that the image of a woman undergoes in the lyrics of A. Blok - from the sublime Beautiful Lady to the being destroyed by the "terrible world".
Pictures of the spiritless world pass before the reader in the poem "The Stranger": "drunken shouts", "tested witches" in bowlers, dust of alleyways, "sleepy lackeys", "drunkards with the eyes of rabbits" - this is where the lyrical hero has to live. All this obscures the consciousness of a person and rules his fate. And the lyrical hero is lonely. But then the Stranger appears:
Breathing with spirits and mists
She sits by the window.
Peering into her, the lyric hero wants to understand who is in front of him, he is trying to unravel her secret. For him, it means knowing the secret of life. The stranger here is a kind of ideal of beauty, joy, and therefore admiration for her means admiration for the beauty of life. And the lyrical hero sees "the coast, enchanted and enchanted by the distance," that which his soul longs for. But the poem ends tragically: the poet realizes the illusory nature of his dream: The stranger exists only in his soul.
In the poet's poems, "songs of hell" sound, around the hero of the poems - demonic "dances of death", the universe is empty, and people have turned into masks that have "accidentally" lost their souls.
The "terrible world" is not only around, it is also in the soul of the lyric hero. But the poet will find the strength to come to an understanding of his path in life. This is what his poem "The Nightingale Garden" is about. How to live, where to go? "Is there a punishment or a reward?" These are the questions that the lyric hero of the poem is trying to solve for himself. The Nightingale Garden is the world of beauty, kindness, happiness that A. Blok has preserved in his soul. But the lyrical hero leaves this land of cloudless happiness. So the theme of the house turns into the theme of escape from home. The sounds of the surrounding world penetrate into the nightingale garden:
Drown out the rumbling of the sea
The nightingale song is not free!
The lyrical hero runs out of this world, because the soul cannot but hear, and conscience will not give an opportunity to find happiness together. And the poet again returns to a life full of work, hardship, deprivation:
I step on a deserted shore
Where my house and donkey stayed.
But the lyrical hero no longer finds his home; what he lived before is forever lost. There is no happiness there, in the nightingale garden, but there is no happiness here either. And the poet experiences the painful tragedy of a split: mind and soul, mind and heart are bifurcated. And along with this comes the realization of the impossibility of happiness in this world. But behind this is a deep author's thought: the choice was made correctly, since the hero sacrificed himself to duty. The only way of man in the world is the way of comprehending the world, no matter how terrible it may be.
The last tragedy in the life of the lyric hero Blok, and of the poet himself, is the revolution, which releases all those elemental principles that cannot be subject to human control. The world is crumbling, and no matter how much Blok wants to see Christ in front of him, he only gazes hopelessly into the gloomy darkness of the blizzard. Alexander Blok's desire to comprehend the "terrible world" led the poet to a tragic ending. But didn't he foresee this when he wrote in his poem "To the Muse":
Is in your innermost tunes
Fatal news of the death.
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AA Blok, with all the impressionability inherent in his poetic consciousness, experienced all the changes in the socio-political life of the country. February revolution gave the poet fresh strength, hopes for a new, bright future for Russia, which was reflected in the poetry of that period. But the period of reaction that followed, according to Blok, "closed the face of life from us, which had awakened for many, perhaps, years."
The poet in his work has already moved away from the search for the World Soul - the ideal that is present in almost every poem of the Symbolist Bloc, but the hopes for finding a new meaning in life did not come true. The surrounding reality frightens the poet with the vulgarity of bourgeois life, but he cannot find a worthy opposition to it, tormented by insoluble contradictions. It was during this period that he created a cycle of poems called "The Scary World". The lyrical hero of this cycle wanders in darkness, no longer feeling any desires. He survived everything: the "yoke of joyless passion" and "dark, vicious delights / Guilt, passions, death of the soul."
Life becomes a "torment", and he himself is a "dead man" walking in circles of Dante's hell: How hard it is for a dead man among people to pretend to be alive and passionate! ..
Blok understood that a person who succumbed to the temptations of this world is sinful, his soul, having lost his dream, is emptied. He compares himself to a sailor who was not taken on board, just like this sailor, the poet, "staggers through the storm", having lost the main meaning of his life.
The loss of spiritual values, and, as a consequence, the meaninglessness of being oppresses Blok.
There is no beauty and harmony in the "scary world". Its inhabitants do not know the joy of pure love, there they sing "bitter passion like wormwood", "low passion", "trampling on cherished shrines."
The lyrical hero of poems is endowed with a sensitive soul that perceives all the diversity of life, he is smart and perceptive, but the inability to share wealth with anyone inner peace oppresses him. Realizing the hopelessness of his life, Blok makes the heroes of his poems either an “aging youth”, then a “dead man”, or a demon bringing death.
In the "scary world" even pictures of nature are repulsed: there "is a large disc, Filling everything in nature with unbearable yellowness." The always mysterious moonlight, turned into "intolerable yellowness", is one of the indicators of the poet's tragic outlook, his disgust for everything around him. Nature seems hostile to the lyrical hero.
In the cycle “The Life of My Friend,” Blok reveals the depths of his despair. This is his life is full of "petty worries", and at the bottom of his soul, "joyless and black, Disbelief and sadness." A fictional "friend" helps Blok to look at himself from the outside, to express what his soul hurts about. “The meaninglessness of all affairs, the joylessness of comfort” - this is the lot of those for whom “bright thoughts” remained “vague memories”.
The lyrical hero of the "Scary World" cycle is lonely, like the poet himself. The world described by Blok evokes melancholy and a sense of hopelessness. “Dead men”, “skeleton”, “noseless women”, “dance of death” - the abundance of such gloomy images involuntarily makes one think about death. Death as a refrain goes through the entire cycle, leading to the idea that it is impossible to live in a "terrible world". Spiritual death inevitably leads to physical death. A senseless existence is contrary to human nature. The poet's tragedy in the poems of this period is limitless, but already in the cycle "Yamba" we see how the outlook of Blok is changing, who has gained new strength to fight evil: Oh, I want to live madly:
The theme of the "terrible world" is the main one in the third volume of A. Blok's poems, expressed in the cycle of the same name (1910-1916). But this theme can be called a cross-cutting one in the lyrics of the Symbolist poet. It is present in both the first and second volumes of his poems. Often the motives of the "terrible world" are interpreted as an exposure of bourgeois society, but it seems to me that this is not entirely true. According to Blok, this is only the outer, visible side of the "terrible world." Its deep essence is much more important for the poet: a person living in a "terrible world" experiences his pernicious influence.
Blok's theme of the "terrible world" is closely connected with the problem of the city, its lack of spirituality, with the problem of social contradictions. The poet shows that in the city people are seized by the elements, destructive passions. The inner clash of purity and beauty with the subsequent "desecration" of all the precepts has been brought to the limit in the "Scary World" cycle. Therefore, it opens with fiery lines "To the Muse", combining the incompatible: miracle and hell, "the curse of beauty" and "terrible caresses."
Sometimes the poems of this cycle are perceived as separate, independent chapters in a holistic work: "Dances of Death", "The Life of My Friend", "Black Blood". The sequence of their placement is logical: in the first - a picture of the meaningless existence of the "terrible world", in the second - the fate of one person, in the third - the inner state of a devastated personality.
Blok's poem "Black Blood" makes a strong impression. It contains a frenzied monologue of a man wounded by fleshly, base passion - "black blood". This is a story of two heroes. Before us are nine scenes - nine flashes in opposition to the dark instinct. The end of the poem is tragic - the murder of a beloved takes place.
In the "terrible world" all human manifestations are extinguished, and the poet with all his heart longs for the revival of the personality. The soul of the lyrical hero tragically experiences a state of its own sinfulness, disbelief, emptiness, and mortal fatigue. In the "scary world" there is no naturalness, healthy human feelings. There is no love in this world, there is only “bitter passion like wormwood”, “low passion” (“Humiliation”, “On the Islands”, “In a Restaurant”, “Black Blood”).
The lyrical hero of the "Scary World" cycle wastes the treasures of his soul: he is either Lermontov's demon, bringing death to himself and those around him ("The Demon"), or "an aging youth" ("Double"). The motives of hopelessness, the fatal cycle of life sound in the poems “The worlds are flying. Years fly by, Empty ... "," Night, street, lamp, pharmacy ... ".
One of the leading motives for Blok is the mortification of the world of urban civilization. A laconic expressive image of this civilization appears in the poem "Factory", even the color ("zholty") here symbolizes the monotony and madness of the world. The idea of the fatal cycle of life, of its hopelessness is surprisingly simple and strongly expressed in the well-known eight-line "Night, street, lamp, pharmacy" (1912). This is facilitated by its circular composition, precise, capacious epithets ("meaningless and dim light"), unusual bold hyperbole ("If you die, you will start over again").
Even the lyrical hero realizes his search for personal happiness as sinful. After all, happiness in the "terrible world" is fraught with mental callousness, moral deafness.
One of the most revealing poems in this regard is The Stranger (1904-1908). The genre of this work is a story in verse. The plot is a meeting in a country restaurant. Moreover, all visible images material world they acquire a symbolic connotation from Blok. The story of a restaurant meeting turns into a story about a man oppressed by the vulgarity of the world around him, about his desire to free himself from it. The poet vividly describes the social and everyday background of the restaurant: "female squeal", "drunkards with the eyes of rabbits." There are few details, but they are expressive and serve as a means of revealing the soul of the lyrical hero.
The details of everyday life are mated in the poem with the landscape ("spring rotten spirit"). This is a kind of symbol of the dark beginning, which obscures the consciousness of a person. All this gives rise to a feeling of discord, disharmony of being. With the arrival of the Stranger, the hero forgets about the "terrible world", and the "enchanted shore" opens up for him. However, the "scary world" does not disappear. The duality of consciousness, the duality in which the hero finds himself, make the poem tragic.
The theme of the "terrible world" in the lyrics of Blok is continued by the cycles "Retribution" and "Yamba". Many poems of "Retribution" reflect specific events and emotional upheavals of the poet himself ("On valor, on exploits, on glory", "On the death of a baby").
Saying “no” to the dark present, A. Blok is convinced that the collapse of the old foundations of life is inevitable. He does not recognize the triumph of the "terrible world" over people and does not capitulate to him. It is not by chance that the poet said: “The difficult must be overcome. And after him there will be a clear day. "
Thus, the theme of the "scary world" is an important milestone creative path of A. Blok. This topic reflected the acute social contradictions of that time, the deep philosophical contradictions of the era.
A. BLOK "SCARY WORLD" BOOK OF POEMS
(1909 - 1916)
TO THE MUSEUM
Is in your innermost tunes
Fatal news of the death.
There is a curse of sacred covenants,
There is an abuse of happiness.
And such an enticing force
What am I ready to repeat behind the rumor,
As if you brought angels down
Seducing with her beauty ...
And when you laugh at faith
Suddenly lights up above you
That dim, purple-gray
And once I saw a circle.
Evil, is it good? - You're all - not from here.
They say wisely about you:
For some, you are both a Muse and a miracle.
For me you are torture and hell.
I don't know why at dawn,
At the hour when there was no more strength,
I did not die, but I noticed your face
And asked for your consolations?
I wanted us to be enemies
So why did you give me
A meadow with flowers and a firmament with stars -
All the curse of your beauty?
And more insidious than the northern night,
And get drunker than the golden ai,
And gypsy love is shorter
There were your terrible caresses ...
And there was a fatal joy
In trampling on cherished shrines,
And delight insane to the heart -
This bitter passion is like wormwood!
December 29, 1912
Monotonous noise and ringing
Under the city bustle
I'm leaving, idle at heart,
Into a blizzard, into darkness and into emptiness.
I break the thread of consciousness
And I forget that "" and how ...
All around - snow, trams, buildings,
And ahead - lights and darkness.
What if I, spellbound,
Consciousness that broke the thread,
I will return home humiliated, -
Can you forgive me?
You who know a distant goal
Guiding beacon,
Will you forgive me for my blizzards?
My delirium, poetry and darkness?
Or you can do better: without forgiving,
Wake up my bells
To thaw the night
Didn't she take you away from your homeland?
February 2, 1909
On these yellow days between houses
We only meet for a moment.
You burn me with your eyes
And hiding in a dark dead end ...
But the eyes are silent fire
It's not for nothing that you douse me
And I bow down secretly for a reason
Before you, silent lies!
Winter nights will be thrown, perhaps
Us to the crazy and devilish ball,
And it will finally destroy me
Your smashing, your gaze, your dagger!
October 6, 1909
From the crystal mist
From an unprecedented dream
Someone's image, someone else's strange ...
(In the restaurant office
For a bottle of wine).
Screech of gypsy chant
Came from the distant halls,
Distant violins scream hazy ...
The wind comes in, the maiden comes in
Into the lined mirrors.
Gaze into sight - and a burning blue
Space was designated.
Magdalene! Magdalene!
The wind blows from the desert
Fanning the fire.
Narrow your glass and a blizzard
Behind the blank glass of the window -
Life is only half!
But behind the blizzard - the sun of the south
Scorched country!
Resolution of all torment,
All blasphemy and praise,
All the snaking smiles
All pleading movements, -
Break life like my glass!
So that on the bed of a long night
Not enough passionate strength!
So that in the desert scream of violins
Frightened eyes
Mortal gloom extinguished.
October 6, 1909
DOUBLE
Once upon a time in the October fog
I wandered, remembering the tune.
(Oh, a moment of unmarketable kissing!
Oh, the caresses of unbought virgins!)
And now - in the impenetrable fog
A forgotten tune arose.
And I began to dream of youth
And you, as if alive, and you ...
And I began to dream away
From wind, rain, darkness ...
(So early youth is a dream.
And you, will you come back?)
Suddenly I see - from the foggy night,
Staggers, comes to me
An aging youth (strange,
Didn't I dream about him in a dream?),
Comes out of the foggy night
And he comes right up to me.
And whispers: "I'm tired of staggering,
Breathe in a dank fog,
Reflect in other people's mirrors
And kiss strangers' women ... "
And it began to seem strange to me
That I will meet him again ...
Suddenly - he smiled cheekily,
And there is no one near me ...
This sad image is familiar,
And somewhere I saw him ...
Perhaps myself
I met on a mirror surface?
October 1909
SONG OF HELL
The day has burned out on the sphere of that land,
Where I was looking for ways and days are shorter.
There the lilac twilight fell.
I'm not there. By the path of the underground night
I go, sliding, a ledge of slippery rocks.
The familiar Hell looks into empty eyes.
I was thrown on the ground in a bright ball,
And in a wild dance of masks and guises
Forgot love and lost friendship.
Where is my companion? - Oh, where are you, Beatrice? -
I walk alone, having lost the right path,
In underground circles, as custom dictates,
Drown amid the horrors and gloom.
The stream carries corpses of friends and women,
In some places, a pleading gaze, or a chest, flickers;
A cry of mercy, or a gentle cry - sparingly
Will fall from the mouth; here words have died;
It is strapped here senselessly and stupidly
A ring of iron pain to the head;
And I, who once sang tenderly, -
Outcast who has lost his rights!
Everyone strives for the hopeless abyss,
And I followed. But now, in the breakthrough of rocks,
Over the foam of the snow-white stream,
Before me is an endless hall.
A network of cacti and roses of scent,
Scraps of darkness in the depths of the mirrors;
In the distant mornings, a dim shimmer
The defeated idol gilded a little;
And the stuffy breath spirals.
This hall reminded me of a terrible world,
Where I roamed blind like in a wild tale
And where the last feast caught me.
There, gaping masks are thrown;
There is a seduced wife by an old man,
And the impudent light found them in a vile caress ...
But the binding of the window was reddened
Under a cold morning kiss
And the silence turns strangely pink.
At this hour in a blissful country we spend the night,
Only here our earthly deception is powerless,
And I look, we excite with a premonition,
Into the mirror through the morning mist.
Towards me, from the web of darkness,
A young man comes out. The camp will be tightened;
Withered rose color in the buttonhole of a tailcoat
Paler than the lips on the face of a dead man;
On the finger is a sign of a mysterious marriage -
Shines sharp amethyst rings;
And I look with incomprehensible excitement
Into the features of his faded face
And I ask in a slightly intelligible voice:
"Tell me what you must languish for
And wander in circles irrevocable? "
Thin features have come to confusion,
The burnt mouth swallows the air greedily,
And a voice speaks from the void:
"Find out: I am devoted to merciless torment
For being on a woeful land
Under the heavy yoke of joyless passion.
As soon as our city disappears into the darkness, -
Tumble with a wave of insane melody,
With the stamp of crime on your forehead,
Like a fallen humiliated maiden
I seek oblivion in the joys of wine ...
And the hour of punishing anger struck:
From the depths of an unprecedented dream
Splashed, blinded, shone
Before me is a wonderful wife!
In the evening clink of a fragile glass,
In the fog hmm "" flax meeting for a moment
With the only one who despised affection,
I first grasped the glee!
I drowned my eyes in her eyes!
For the first time I let out a passionate cry!
So this moment came, unexpectedly fast.
And the darkness was deaf. And the long evening is hazy.
And meteors rose strangely in the sky.
And this amethyst was in the blood.
And I drank blood from fragrant shoulders,
And the drink was stifling and resinous ...
But don't curse the strange stories
About how the incomprehensible dream lasted ...
From the abysses of night and hazy abysses
The funeral ringing came to us;
The tongue of fire flew up, whistling, above us,
To burn away the uselessness of interrupted times!
And - closed by immeasurable chains -
We were carried away by a whirlwind into the underworld!
Chained forever by deaf dreams
It was given to her to feel pain and remember the feast,
When, that night, to her satin shoulders
A yearning vampire bows!
But my destiny - can I not call it terrible?
Barely cold and sick dawn
Will fill Hell with indifferent radiance,
From hall to hall I go to fulfill the covenant,
Driven by melancholy passion without beginning, -
So have compassion and remember, my poet:
I am doomed in the distant gloom of the bedroom,
Where she sleeps and breathes hotly,
Leaning over her in love and sadness,
Late autumn from the harbor
From the snow-covered ground
On a destined voyage
Heavy ships are sailing.
In the black sky is meant
A crane over the water
And one lantern is swinging
On the snowy shore.
And the sailor, not taken on board,
He staggers through the storm.
All is lost, all is drunk!
Enough - I can’t take it anymore ...
And the shore of the empty harbor
Already the first light snow has drifted in ...
In the purest, in the most gentle shroud
How sweet is your sleep, sailor?
November 14, 1909
ON ISLANDS
Newly snow-covered columns
Elagin bridge and two lights.
And the woman's voice is in love.
And the crunch of sand and the snoring of a horse.
Two shadows merged in a kiss
They fly by the cavity of the sled.
But not hiding and not jealous,
I'm with this new - with the captive - with her.
Yes, there is a sad delight
Is that love will pass like snow.
Oh, is it, is it really necessary to swear
In ancient fidelity forever?
No, I'm not the first to caress
And in the strict clarity of mine
I don’t play obedience anymore
And I do not demand kingdoms from her.
No, with the constancy of the geometer
I count every time without words
The bridges, the chapel, the harshness of the wind,
The desolation of the low islands.
I honor the rite: easy to refuel
Bear cavity on the fly
And, embracing a thin camp, dissemble,
And race into the snow and darkness
And remember tight shoes
Falling in love with cold furs ...
After all, my chest is in a duel
Will not meet the groom's sword ...
After all, with a candle in anxiety long ago
Mother is not waiting for her at the door ...
After all, the poor husband behind the tight shutters
She will not be jealous ...
Than the last night shone
What the real one calls
Everything is just a continuation of the ball,
Transition from light to dusk ...
November 22, 1909
The score is over with peaceful happiness,
Don't tease, belated comfort.
Everywhere these nagging notes
They guard and call to the desert.
Life is desolate, homeless, bottomless
Yes, I've believed it since then
As a siren lover sang to me
The one that flew through the night, the motor.
11 February 1910
The gray twilight has fallen
In the spring the city is pale.
The car sang in the distance
Into the victorious horn.
Look through the pale window
Pressing tightly against the glass ...
Look. You changed a long time ago
Irrevocably.
11 February 1910
The spicy spirit of March was in the moon circle,
Under melted snow the sand crunched.
My city melted in a wet blizzard
Sobbed, in love, at someone's feet.
You cuddled more superstitiously
And it seemed to me - through the horse's snoring -
Hungarian dance in the heavenly mob
Ringing and crying, teasing me.
And the crazy wind, rushing over the distance, -
He wanted to burn out my soul,
Throwing your veil in my face
And singing about the old days ...
And suddenly - you, distant, alien,
Said with lightning in her eyes:
That soul, entering the last path,
Crying madly about past dreams.
IN THE RESTAURANT
I will never forget (he was, or was not,
This evening): by the fire of dawn
The pale sky is burnt and parted
And at the yellow dawn - lanterns.
I was sitting by the window in a crowded room.
Somewhere bows sang about love.
I sent you a black rose in a glass
As golden as the sky, ai.
You looked. I met with embarrassment and defiance
Arrogant gaze and bowed.
Turning to the gentleman, deliberately sharply
You said, "And this one is in love."
And now, in response, something struck the strings,
Bows sang frenziedly ...
But you were with me with all the young contempt,
A slightly noticeable shake of the hand ...
You rushed with the movement of a frightened bird,
You passed like my dream is light ...
And the perfume sighed, eyelashes dozed,
Anxious silk whispered.
But from the depths of the mirrors you threw me eyes
And, throwing it, she shouted: "Catch it! .."
A monisto strummed, the gypsy danced
And screamed at the dawn of love.
April 19, 1910
DEMON
Hold me closer and closer
I did not live - I wandered among strangers ...
Oh, my dream! I see new
Delirious with your kisses!
In your frenzied languor
Longing for an unprecedented spring
Burns me with a distant ray
And the song of zurna stretches.
To the smoky purple mountains
I brought it to the beam and to the sound
Tired lips and eyes
And the whips of broken arms.
And in a mountain sunset fire,
In the floods of blue wings
With you, with the dream of Tamara,
I, heavenly, forever without strength ...
And I dream - in a distant village,
On the slope of an immortal mountain
Melancholy poured into the sky to us
The unnecessary folds of the veil ...
There he creeps in a dance and cries,
Dust curls and groans zurna ...
Let the groom ride - don't count!
The Chechen bullet is correct.
April 19, 1910
The man was burned there.
How hard it is to walk among people
And pretend to be infallible
And about the game of tragic passions
To narrate to those who have not yet lived.
And looking into your nightmare
Build to find feelings in a discordant whirlwind,
To the pale glow of art
Have learned the disastrous fire of life!
May 10, 1910
I am whiling away my life.
My crazy, deaf:
Today - soberly triumphant,
And tomorrow I cry and sing.
But if death is to come?
But if behind my back
He - with an immense hand
Covering the mirror - is it worth it? ..
Mirror light will flash into your eyes
And in horror, shutting his eyes,
I'll retreat to that area of the night
From where there is no return ...
September 17, 1910
Hours and days and years go by.
I want to shake off some dream
To look into the face of people, nature,
Dispel the twilight of time ...
There is someone waving, teasing with light
(So on a winter night, on the porch
Someone's shadow looks like a silhouette
And the face will quickly hide).
Here is the sword. He was. But he is not needed.
Who weakened my hand? -
I remember: a small row of pearls
One night in the moonlight
Sick, plaintive cold,
And the sea is snowy ...
Horror flashed from under the eyelashes -
Ancient horror (let me know) ...
The words? - They were not. - What happened? -
Neither dream nor reality. Far away, far away
It rang, faded, went away
And separated from the ground ...
And he died. And the lips were singing.
Hours passed, or years ...
(Only telegraphs rang
There are wires in the black sky ...)
And suddenly (how memorable, familiar!)
Clearly, from afar
A voice rang out: Ecce homo!
The sword fell out. A hand trembled ...
And tied with stuffy silk
(So that the blood does not come from the black veins),
I was cheerful and obedient
Disarmed - served.
But the hour has come. Remembering,
I remembered: No, I am not a servant.
So fall down, colored sling!
Flood, blood, and stains of snow!
October 4, 1910
HUMILIATION
In the black boughs of naked trees
Yellow winter sunset outside the window.
(To the scaffold for the execution of the convicted
They will lead at this sunset).
Red damask of faded sofas,
Dusty curtain brushes ...
In this room, in the clink of glasses,
A merchant, a sharpie, a student, an officer ...
Of these naked magazine drawings
Not a human hand touched ...
And the scoundrel's hand pressed
That dirty bell button ...
Chu! The soft carpets rang
Spurs, laughter muffled by doors ...
Is this house really a house?
Is it so destined among people?
Am I glad to meet you today?
Why are you as white as a board?
What's in your bare shoulders
Is it hitting a huge cold sunset?
Only lips with caked blood
On your icon is gold
(Was that what we called love?)
Refracted by an insane line ...
In a yellow, winter, huge sunset
The bed has sunk (so magnificently!) ...
Still breathing tightly from the embrace
But you whistle again and again ...
He is not cheerful - your whistle is burial ...
Chu! again - the muttering of spurs ...
Like a snake, heavy, well-fed and dusty,
Your train crawls from the armchair onto the carpet ...
You dared! So still be fearless!
I am not your husband, not your fiancé, not your friend!
So plunge, my angel of yesterday,
In the heart - a sharp French heel!
December 6, 1911
AVIATOR
The flyer was released.
Swinging two of its blades,
Like a sea monster into the water,
Slid into air jets.
His screws sing like strings ...
See: unwavering pilot
To the blind sun above the podium
Strives its propeller flight ...
Already in the sky unattainable
Engine copper shines ...
There, barely audible and invisible,
The propeller continues to sing ...
Then - in vain he looks for an eye:
You will not find a trace in the sky:
With binoculars held high
Only the air is clear as water ...
And here, in the wavering heat,
In the haze smoking over the meadow,
Hangars, people, everything earthly -
As if pinned to the ground ...
But again in a golden mist
As if - an unearthly chord ...
It's close, a moment of applause
And a pitiful world record!
The descent is spiral-shaped lower and lower,
Everything is steeper than the curving blades,
And suddenly ... ridiculous, ugly
In the monotony break ...
And the beast with silent screws
Hanged in a frightening angle ...
Search with faded eyes
Supports in the air ... empty!
It's too late: on the grass of the plain
Wings crumpled arc ...
In the weaving wire of the machine
A hand is deader than a lever ...
Why were you in the sky, brave,
For your first and last time?
So that the secular and corrupt lioness
Raise violets eyes to you?
Or the delight of self-forgetfulness
You have tasted the destructive
Crazy for the fall
And he stopped the screws himself?
Or the unfortunate poisoned your brain
The coming wars are a terrible sight:
Night flyer, in the stormy haze
Earth carrying dynamite?
1910 - January 1912
My mother
Have fun at a wild feast
I returned home late;
The night quietly wanders the apartment,
Keeping a cozy corner of mine.
All faces merged, all resentments
In one face, in one spot;
And the night wind sings through the window
Chants of a sleepy dirge ...
Only my seducer does not sleep;
He whispers flatteringly: "Here is your skete.
Forget about the temporary, about the vulgar
And in the songs sacred lies about the past. "
January 6, 1912
DANCES OF DEATH
1
How hard it is for a dead man among people
Pretend to be alive and passionate!
But we must, we must rub into society,
Hiding the clash of bones for a career ...
The living are asleep. The dead man rises from the coffin
And goes to the bank, and goes to court, to the Senate ...
The whiter the night, the blacker the anger,
And the feathers creak triumphantly.
The dead man has been working "" on the report all day.
The presence ends. And so -
He whispers, wagging his backside,
To the Senator a dirty joke ...
It's already evening. Light rain splashed with mud
Passers-by, and at home, and other nonsense ...
And the dead man - to another disgrace
A gnashing taxi carries it.
The hall is crowded and multi-column
The dead man is in a hurry. He is wearing an elegant tailcoat.
He is given a supportive smile
The hostess is a fool and her husband is a fool.
He was exhausted from the day of bureaucratic boredom,
But the clash of the bones of the muse is drowned out ...
He shakes hands tightly with friends -
He must seem alive, alive!
Only at the column will meet the eyes
With a friend - she, like him, is dead.
Behind their conventionally secular speeches
You hear the real words:
"Tired friend, I feel strange in this room." -
"Tired friend, the grave is cold." -
"It's already midnight." - "Yes, but you did not invite
To waltz NN. She's in love with you ... "
And there - NN is already looking for a passionate gaze
Him, him - with excitement in the blood ...
In her face, girlishly beautiful,
The senseless delight of living love ...
He whispers insignificant speeches to her,
Captivating words for the living,
And he looks, as the shoulders turn pink,
As my head bowed on my shoulder ...
And the sharp poison of habitually secular anger
He scatters with unearthly anger ...
"How clever he is! How he is in love with me!"
Night, street, lantern, pharmacy,
Pointless and dim light.
Live for at least a quarter of a century -
Everything will be like this. There is no way out.
If you die, you start over again
And everything will repeat itself as of old:
Night, icy ripples of the canal
Pharmacy, street, lamp.
October 10, 1912
Empty street. One fire in the window.
The Jewish pharmacist groans in his sleep.
And in front of the cabinet with the Venena lettering,
Economically bending squeaky knees,
A skeleton wrapped up to the eyes with a cloak
Looking for something, grinning with a black mouth ...
Found ... but inadvertently jingled with something,
And the skull turned ... The pharmacist grunted,
I got up - and a side fell on the other ...
Meanwhile, the guest is a cherished bubble
Slips from under a cloak to two women without noses
On the street, under a whitish lantern.
October 1912
Old, old dream... Out of the gloom
Lanterns are running - where?
There is only black water
There is oblivion forever.
A shadow slides around the corner
Another crawled up to her.
The cloak is open, the chest is white,
Scarlet color in the buttonhole of a tailcoat.
The second shadow is a slender armored man,
Or is the bride from the crown?
Helmet and feathers. No face.
Dead man's immobility.
The bell rings at the gate "" x,
The lock clicks dully.
Go over the threshold
A prostitute and a libertine ...
The chilling wind howls,
Empty, quiet and dark.
A window is burning upstairs.
Does not matter.
As lead, water is black.
In it, oblivion is forever.
Third ghost. Where are you going,
You, sliding from shadow to shadow?
February 7, 1914
The rich again is angry and happy
The poor are humiliated again.
From the roofs of stone masses
The month looks pale,
Sends silence
Shades the slope
Stone plumb lines,
The blackness of the awnings ...
All this would be in vain
If there were no king
To keep the laws.
Just don't look for the palace
A good-natured face
Golden crowns.
He is from distant wastelands
In the light of rare lanterns
Appears.
The worlds are flying. The years go by. Empty
The universe looks at us with the darkness of its eyes.
And you, soul, tired, deaf,
You repeat about happiness - which time?
What is "happiness"? Evening coolness
In a darkening garden, in the wilderness?
Or dark, vicious delights
Guilt, passions, death of the soul?
What is "happiness"? A short moment and a cramped one
Oblivion, sleep and rest from worries ...
Wake up - again crazy, unknown
And for the "" heart grabbing flight ...
He sighed, you look - the danger has passed ...
But at this very moment - again a push!
Launched somewhere, haphazardly,
The top is flying, buzzing, in a hurry!
And, clinging to the edge, sliding, sharp,
And listening to the always buzzing ringing, -
Aren't we going crazy in changing motley
Invented reasons, spaces, times ...
When is the end? Intrusive sound
He will not have the strength to listen without rest ...
How terrible everything is! How wild! - Give me your hand,
Comrade, friend! Let's forget again.
July 2, 1912
Night without the one who is called
By a bright name: Lenora.
It was an autumn evening. To the sound of the rain glass
I was still solving the same - a painful question,
When my office, huge and foggy,
That gentleman came in. Behind him is a shaggy dog.
The guest sat down tiredly on a chair by the fire,
And the dog at his feet lay down on the carpet.
The guest politely said: "Are you not enough yet?
It's time to come to terms with the Genius of Fate, s: r ".
"But in old age - the return of both youth and heat ..." -
So I began ... but he insistently interrupted:
"She is still the same: Mad Edgar's Linor.
There is no refund. - More? Now I have said everything. "
And strange: life was - delight, storm, hell,
And here - in the evening hour - alone with a stranger -
Under this businesslike, long-calm gaze,
She introduced herself much easier to me ...
That gentleman is gone. But the dog is with me forever.
In a bitter hour, a kind gaze will fix on me,
And put a hard paw on your knee,
As if he says: It's time to come to terms, with: p.
November 2, 1912
There is a game: carefully enter,
To lull the attention of people;
And with the eyes of the prey to find;
And watch her imperceptibly.
No matter how insensitive and rude
The person being watched is
He will feel the gaze
Though in the corners of barely trembling lips.
And the other will definitely understand right away:
Shoulders tremble, his hand is in his;
Turns around - and there is nothing;
Meanwhile, anxiety is growing.
That is why the invisible look is terrible,
That it is impossible to catch him;
You can smell, but you cannot understand
Whose eyes are following you.
Not self-interest, not falling in love, not revenge;
So - a game, like a game for children:
And in the gathering of every people
These secret detectives are.
Sometimes you yourself don't understand
Why does it happen sometimes
That you will come to people on your own,
And when you leave people - not by yourself.
There is a bad and a good eye,
Only it would be better if I did not follow anyone:
There is too much in each of us
Unknown, playing forces ...
Oh, longing! After a thousand years
We will not be able to measure souls:
We will hear the flight of all planets
Thunderous rolls in silence ...
In the meantime, we live in the unknown
And we do not know our strength,
And like children playing with fire
We burn ourselves and others ...
December 18, 1913
How anxiety grows towards night!
Quiet, cold, dark.
Conscience torments, life is busy.
There is no urine to look at the moon
Through the frosty window.
Something is happening in the world.
I'm scared to reveal in the morning
Newspaper sheet. Someone wants
Appear, someone wanders.
Ile - changed his mind, maybe?
Sleepless guest, creaky floor?
Ah, is it all the same to me!
I'll be friends with the tavern violin again,
Monotonous and melodious!
I'll drink wine again!
Still not enough strength
Drag to the end
With a sober, deceitful smile
Behind which is the fear of the grave,
Dead man's anxiety.
December 30, 1913
Well, what then? Weak hands are wearily twisted,
And eternity itself looked into extinguished eyes,
And the agony subsided. And if there were high torments, -
What are you waiting for? - I see the sad procession of the night.
After all, the sun, having gone around the circle, has set.
Open my books: everything that will happen is said there.
Yes, I was a prophet while this heart was praying, -
They prayed and sang you, but you are not a queen.
I will not be king: you did not share the power of dreams.
I will not become a slave: you did not want the power of the earth.
Here's a new burden: until the grave opens
Damp hugs - dragging along without an important matter ...
But I am a man. And, recognizing his fall,
I will not humble my anxiety: it is getting stronger.
That jealousy of the house, disturbing my heart,
He insists relentlessly: What are you doing, do it quickly.
February 21, 1914
LIFE OF MY FRIEND
1
The whole day is like a day: filled with small works
And petty worries.
A string of them past the tired eyes
It will float unnecessarily.
You are worried - but in the depths you are humble:
It will not burn out - let it be.
At the bottom of your soul, joyless and black,
Disbelief and sadness.
And by the evening the string will flow away
Your daily worries.
When will the frosty darkness contemplate the capital
And midnight will sing, -
And you would be glad to fall asleep, but - a terrible moment!
Among all other thoughts -
The meaninglessness of all matters, the joylessness of comfort
Will come to your mind.
And a quiet longing will squeeze your throat so tenderly:
Neither gasp nor sigh
As if the night had spread a curse on everything,
The devil himself sat on his chest!
You jump up and run to the deaf streets
But there is no one to help:
Wherever you turn - looks into empty eyes
And sees off - the night.
There the wind above you will moan in the drafts
Until the pale morning;
The policeman, so as not to fall asleep, will drive away
A tramp from the fire ...
And finally, the desired weariness will come,
And it will be all the same ...
What""? Conscience? Truth? A life? How small it is!
Well, isn't it funny?
February 11, 1914
Look, here's the powerless
Who could not save life,
And she, like a spirit of the grave,
He slumbers heavily locked up.
In the blue frosty vault
So the patient's disc will be flattened,
Spat on everything in nature
Intolerable yellowness.
Go away too. Enough
You suffered, unhappy friend,
From his involuntary melancholy,
From his involuntary torment.
What was passed,
Your destiny is similar to everything:
The heart was striving for the truth,
But the lie broke him.
December 30, 1913
Everything happened according to the writings:
Young ardor has cooled down,
And the end of the enchantments
Gradually came.
I was in a daze, not feeling a child,
I consoled myself with the torment of hell
I have listed all the words
But - my head hurt ...
I was sick for a long time,
The body was quietly cold
Awakened: Thirty Years.
Praise-praise - but there is no heart.
The heart is a painted corpse.
And when the end has come
He found it very commonplace
Death of your sad soul.
December 30, 1913
When by accident on Sunday
He lost his soul
The department did not go to the detective,
He did not look for witnesses.
And there were, however, not a few of them:
The yard puppy was wailing
The old woman stood at the gate,
And the janitor asked for tea.
When he slowly walked out,
Pulling up the collar, out of the gate,
Goggled sympathetically from the rooftop
Eyes of a battered cat.
Do you think you're a witness too?
So he will answer you!
In the same gulb
His virtue!
December 30, 1912
A beggar fool stuck to me
Follows on the heels like a friend.
"Where is your money?" - "I took it to the tavern". -
"Where is the heart?" - "Thrown into the pool."
"What do you want?" - "That
So that you become, like me, frank,
As I, in humiliation, humble,
And more, my friend, nothing. "
"Why are you prying into someone else's heart?
Go, come in, stay away! "-
"Do you think, honey, there are two of us?
In vain: look, look around ... "
And it's true (well, I set a task!)
I look - no one is near me ...
He looked into his pocket - nothing ...
I looked into my heart ... and I cry.
December 30, 1913
The day passed as always:
In a quiet madness.
Everybody was talking around
About diseases, doctors and medicines.
A friend told about the service,
The other is about Christ,
About the newspaper - the fourth.
Two poets (admirers of Pushkin)
Books have been sent
With many rhymes and dimensions.
The student sent
Manuscript with a cloud of epi "" graphs
(From Nadson and the Symbolists).
After - to the ringing of the phone -
The messenger filed an envelope,
Perfumed by other people's spirits.
Put roses on the table -
It was written in a note
And I had to put them on the table ...
After - fellow in the pen,
Drowned up to the eyes in the beard,
About lamentations from the South Croats
He spoke for a long time.
The critic, trashing futurism,
I spit with symbolism,
Concluding with realism.
In the cinema in the evening
The noble baron was kissing under a palm tree
With a young lady of low rank,
Raising her to himself ...
Everything was in perfect order.
He fell asleep in the evening
And I woke up in another country.
Nor the cold of the morning
Not a word from a friend
No ladies' roses
Not a futurist manifesto
Nor the poems of a Pushkinian,
No dog barking,
Not the rumble of the cart -
Nothing, nothing
It could not return to the world ...
And what can you do, really
If the order is excellent
Sweet little world
Sometimes it will plunge into dreams,
And in these dreams a lot is dreamed ...
And it's not always like this in them
As in the world, excellent order ...
No, you wake up sometimes
Agitated, alarmed
A vague memory
A secret premonition ...
Run wildly in the brain
Too bright thoughts ...
And, taming their rampage,
As if frightened of something, it’s no better
Do you think that the new one
The day passed as always:
In quiet madness?
May 24, 1914
THE DEATS SAY:
Sin while worried about you
Your innocent sins
While the beauties conjure
Your sinful verses.
For consolation, for fun
Drink sparkling wine
As long as you like wine
While it is not painful.
Will the impudent eyes flare up -
Do not take away their sparkles,
Sins, guilt and passionate nights
Whispering the cherished "Amen".
After all, it's all the same - charm
Will pass, and in a crazy hour
You, in frenzied repentance,
You will curse the poor, us.
And you will fall - but in a crowd
We are all, like angels, pure,
We will catch you so that as a fifth
You did not stumble about a stone ...
December 10, 1915
DEATH SAYS:
When the anxiety overpowered
And he is in anguish madness "" l,
He forgot how to praise God
And he sang sinful songs.
But, taken aback,
He received his sight, and a vague swarm
Bygone visions, strange image
He was sometimes pursued.
But he was worn out - and early
The heat of youth has gone cold - and now
The vanity of holy memories
Slowly rises before him.
He doesn't believe in anything anymore
He only wants to deceive himself
And he himself - to my blissful door
Finds a languid way.
It's enough for him to praise God -
He’s not a voice, only a groan.
I'll open it. Albeit a little
He will still suffer.
December 10, 1915
BLACK BLOOD
1
In a half turn you stood up to me
Your chest and hand are visible to me.
Mother forbids you to come
I'm tempted to offend you!
No, I lowered my eyes in vain,
Breathing, pursuing, close - a thunderstorm ...
My gaze burns on your cheek,
Trembling runs through the trembling hand ...
The circle of your fire for me is widening,
You, and without looking, are looking at me!
A stormy fire wrapped in ashes -
Your not looking, sliding your gaze!
I look at you. Every demon in me
Hidden, looking.
Every demon in you guards
Lurking in the thunderous silence ...
And the greedy chest heaves ...
Scare these terrible demons?
Not! Turn your eyes away, and do not dare, and do not dare
To look into this terrible abyss!
March 22, 1914
Even your name I despise
But when you squint your eyes
I hear a multi-foam stream howling,
A thunderstorm is coming from the desert.
The eye is silent, golden and brown,
Thin throats are looking for fingers ...
Come here. Crawl. I will hit -
And, like a cat, you bristle ...
January 30, 1914
Oh no! I don't want you and me to fall
In a terrible embrace. So that the torment lasts for a long time,
When - not to unravel the clasped hands,
Do not open your mouth - you can not in the darkness of the night!
I don't want to go blind from thunderstorm lightning,
Nor listen to the howl of the violins (violent sounds!),
Nor experience the surf of unspeakable boredom,
Buried in the ashes with your burning head!
As the first man burning divine,
I want to return forever to the blue coast of paradise
You, killing all the lies and destroying the poison ...
But you call me! Your poisonous look
Someone prophesies paradise! - I give in knowing
That your serpentine paradise is a bottomless boredom hell.
February 1912
Back at home ... Humiliated, angry and glad.
Is it night, is it day there, in the window?
There is a month, like a clown, over the roofs of the masses
Grimace makes me ...
Day sun - away, remorse - away!
Who dares to help me?
Only night will burst into a wasted brain
Only night will burst!
One, one glance penetrates into an empty chest,
A greedy glance will scream ...
Everything will go away forever, it will never come
When you shout: Yes!
January 29, 1914
Seized by fright, drawn
Into the whirlpool ...
How familiar this room is!
And everything will pass forever?
And, horrified, he whispers incoherently ...
And hiding his face
Fearful hands twists tighter
Singing ring ...
And in the morning the first ray is ringing
Through the yellow curtains ...
And God draws on the sleeping body
Your light pattern.
January 2, 1914
The night is like centuries, and a languid thrill,
And passionate delirium
Mouth about blissfully strange babbling,
There is an ancient, faint light in the window.
Unrealizable assurances
No, not words -
That which loses all meaning
The pale day will barely begin ...
Then - in the eyes of the tired eyes -
Your lies in him!
Then my mouth twisted scarlet
Mysteriously similar to yours!
December 27, 1913
I finally defeated her!
I lured her to my palace!
Three candles in the endless distance.
We are covered in heavy carpets and dust.
And under the dark fire of three candles
Dark velvet of open shoulders,
A storm of tangled braids, a dull eye
On the ring is a faded diamond
And a charred mouth covered in blood
He also asks for the torture of love ...
And in the failure of the deaf an eye "" n
Vague rustle of many banners,
Ringing and trumpets and horse top
And a heavy coffin sways.
Oh, beloved, we are not alone!
Oh, unfortunate one, put out the lights! ..
Drive away incomprehensible fear -
It was blood that rumbled in my ears.
Close howl of funeral pipes
The sigh of cold lips is confused:
My handsome man, my shame, scourge ...
The night casts its hazy cry
Candles go out, eyes, words ...
- You're dead, finally dead!
I know I drank your blood ...
I put you in a coffin and sing, -
On a misty night about a gentle spring
Your blood will sing in me!
October 1909
Above the best creation godly
I have experienced the power of contempt.
I hit her with a stick.
Hastily dressed. Leaves.
She left. Looked around fearfully
On my gray windows.
And she is gone. Into the gray windows
A rainy evening is pouring in
And further, behind the gloom of bad weather,
The glowing border is burning.
Far, wet valleys
And close, stormy happiness!
Alone I stand and listen
That the violins are singing to me.
They sing wild songs
That I became free!
That for the best
I have traded low passion!
March 13, 1910
DEMON
Come, follow me - obedient
And my faithful slave.
I'm on a glittering mountain ridge
I will climb confidently with you.
I will carry you over the abyss
Its bottomlessness teasing.
Your horror will be useless -
Just an inspiration for me.
I'm from a rain of ethereal dust
And I will protect you from whirling
With all the strength of muscles and the canopy of wings
And, lifting up, I will not drop.
And on the mountains, in sparkling white,
On a spotless meadow
Divinely beautiful body
I’ll burn you strangely.
Do you know how little
Those human lies
That sad earthly pity
What do you call wild passion?
When the evening gets quieter
And, bewitched by me,
You want to fly higher
Desert of the sky of fire, -
Yes, I'll take you with me
And I will take you there
Where the earth looks like a star
The earth looks like a star.
And, numb with surprise,
You see new worlds at ""
Incredible visions
Making my game ...
Trembling with fear and powerlessness,
Then you whisper: let go ...
And, spreading his wings quietly,
I will smile at you: fly.
And under a divine smile
Destroying on the fly
You will fly like a fragile stone
Into a shining void ...
June 9, 1910
Now you shake your sweet hand
You play with her, joking,
And you cry when you notice the lie
Or a knife in the hand of your beloved
Child, child!
There is no measure of lies and deceit,
And death is far away.
Everything will be blacker than a terrible light,
And the whirlwind of the planets is getting crazier
Centuries, centuries!
And the last century, the most terrible of all,
We will see both you and me.
The whole sky will hide a vile sin,
Laughter will freeze on all lips,
Longing of nothingness ...
Spring, child, you will wait -
Spring will deceive.
You will call the sun to the sky -
The sun won't rise.
And scream when you start screaming
Like a stone, it will sink ...
Be happy with your life,
Quieter than water, lower than grass!
Oh, if I knew, children, you
Cold and dark days to come!
June 6, 1910 - February 27, 1914
