PLOT OF FATE
about the author | Andrey Yurievich Ariev was born on January 18, 1940 in Leningrad. Literary historian, essayist, prose writer. Author of more than 400 printed works and books, including: "The Royal Branch" (2000), "The Life of Georgy Ivanov. Documentary Narrative (2009). Compiler, commentator and author of introductory articles to editions of the New Poet's Library: Georgy Ivanov. "Poems" (2005; 2010, 2nd ed.), "Tsarskoye Selo Anthology" (2016). Lives in Pushkin, St. Petersburg.
The first thing that is transmitted to the reader when getting acquainted with the poems of Alexander Kushner is the possibility of confidentially generous communication with a person as such. Not with a troublemaker, not with an embarrassing celebrity, not with the poet K., but simply with a person. With those who, like any of us, escape from worldly melancholy in the most accessible way: “When I am very melancholy, / I will take out a notebook, / And neither shout nor sigh - / I will call someone.” This is how they began to live in verse in the early 1960s in Leningrad, and with the same lines Kushner opens his last St. Petersburg book, Selected Poems (2016).
Kushner was given the ability to turn everyday life into poetry, its prescriptions, which are impossible to pay attention to, especially love them:
Man gets used
To everything, to everything.
Whatever the year gets
By letter, by letter.
It's in a white envelope
Winter writes to him.
Promise of immortality
The content of the letter.
Kushner's "habit of living" is not a burden; his repetition is the path to something wonderful. It's about to open - just take a look. Iridescent novelty - it is from the old, what happened, and therefore irrevocable, "immortal".
"Immortal", of course, in quotation marks, fixing the unreliability of the boundaries of our knowledge and its alluring limit. There are poems about him: “Immortality can also be set / Limit - and, probably, this is not bad!”. The thought here is that human culture is impossible outside the outlined habitat.
Kushner's aesthetics is a “everyday renaissance”, which manifests itself in particular and in such lines, unprecedented in boldness: “I do not think, but I exist. / I exist, I live, how else!”. The reason for such disputes with Descartes may be the simplest: in this case, the garden seen from the country porch with its damp morning “the joy of smoking life”. And the point here is not some unusual "poet's right" to express the unknown to the mind. Statements in the spirit of Mayakovsky - “I am a poet. This is what is interesting ”- you can’t wait for Kushner. “The name of the poet has always been wild to me,” he says in the most that neither is “ adulthood", calling his own poems mainly "rhymes". Although they are main value: a notebook of poems, not a surname on the cover. Only to their dictatorship does the poet submit himself. With this philosophy, in general, the Leningrad "thaw" poetry of the early sixties, its young nonconformist surf, began. The love of depicting "ordinary things" was tantamount to its creators - and for Kushner par excellence - inspiration. There were no "significant persons" to enter this space enchanted by verses.
If there is anything that excites Kushner as a poet, it is a delightful series of accidents in our life, not calculated by us. As if every morning he receives a letter - in a sealed envelope. Not every time it is opened, but every time it is delivered. It is a common thing for a poet, but Kushner does not shy away from such a routine, from the endless repetition of motifs available for review, does not fall into despondency, adjoining at this point with patristic philosophy: dull and unhappy immortality will not be achieved.
However, one should not flatter oneself about the poet's adherence to any canonical religion, in general, to anything other than poetry itself. His brightest poem in the new century "Along the deserted Kirochnaya, along the garden ..." - about the night singing of random oncoming ones ...
At the turn of the millennium in full of all-out threats and apocalyptic forecasts, his spiritual choice is unchanged:
And how much closer is intelligible
Passion of a love verse
How bad is the idea
Original sin.
Kushner's opposition is not set by his personal opposition. His opposition is generally a spiritual project that does not need everyday implementation. But if you do not guess about him, then you will catch little in his poems. You will not understand the innermost in them: "... life, in some main sense, / A completely heroic act."
The statement made by a person of St. Petersburg culture - from the very beginning.
The imperial façade of the northern capital, the “moonless brilliance” of its white nights, was sung by Pushkin in the prologue to The Bronze Horseman, and after him, never and no one else high note in the description of St. Petersburg was not able to take. Because the same Pushkin, in the same "The Bronze Horseman", revealed his own tragic reflection on this splendor, one way or another experienced by all the significant artists of St. Petersburg. The banks of the Neva are at the same time the banks of the Styx, a long, endless “Petersburg story” that flows into “Leta-Neva”, as Anna Akhmatova put it in “A Poem without a Hero” and as Alexander Kushner said about one of his books: in it are “Petersburg the rivers flow into the Lethean ... ".
The dramatic content of this type of culture inevitably comes down to standing on guard - that which cannot be saved, but impossible to lose. “He was on the hair from eternal life, / But - it broke!” - writes Kushner in the poem "Farewell, love! ..". And what is behind this - the abyss? No: “You are even now, pulling your hand away, / The most beautiful of all!” Or - even more clearly: “To be unloved! My God! / What happiness to be unhappy!”. So it is about loved ones - poets - in a paroxysm of admiration: "What happiness - even a panorama / Their shortcomings, lined up!"
Through Pushkin's "cast-iron fences" any person looks on the banks of the Neva as a "little man", an "anti-hero", a fragile little boat at the sovereign pier.
But even on it, it turns out, you can swim far as far. Kushner and swam away:
And I do not feel sorry for the kingdom, but for the person.
And God is not occupied with the kingdom, but with the soul.
This is a "summary". That is the plot of all Kushner's lyrics. The kingdom for the poet is indistinguishable from the eye, it doesn't matter what it is. Yes, and the man too. That is, he is like, “like you and me”, “I sing him - why not? / He is my friend and neighbor.” This is what the poet says about himself:
I don't want to be anyone, I don't want to be
And least of all - the king or khan ...
This is the whole consolation - to have something in your soul that is not available to either kings or khans, or unrestrained flight to romantics. There is a particularly remarkable internal dialogue with the latter:
It was necessary, high ardor
Feel free to break this network
Go out into the night where the luminaries are burning,
Shine in this darkness and burn.
You chose earthly inflorescences
And the fire is white-winged, daytime,
So sit down, stay in the answer
For all the tears, all the horror of the earth.
The opposition between "external" and "internal" is obvious here. But bifurcation is not always and not necessarily a detriment. In a delightful way, Alexander Kushner derives from it the dogma of the expected fullness unbiased being. Its incompleteness is filled by an intangible effort that overcomes it:
And how many of us, attentive, like me,
Poem today, maybe they own,
And the night goes on, and there is no oblivion
Stronger than this...
The result is predictable: "I myself will say, I myself am responsible for everything."
It is not surprising - and very "in St. Petersburg" - that Kushner began his professional poetic life somehow imperceptibly, she did not change his monotonous stay on the banks of the Neva. It seems that he entered the literary path early: he saw his first book in 1962, at the age of twenty-five. By Soviet standards, and even for a poet who was not listed as trustworthy, fate favored him. Soon he was admitted to the Writers' Union, published books further - in 1966 "Night Watch", in 1969 - "Signs" ... At the same time, until 1970 he continued to teach at school. And I would have taught further if I had not been asked (quite correctly) to leave this field due to ideological inconsistency and general unreliability. Here, of course, worries were added, so everyone put off the next book - until 1974 (“Letter”). So literature did not give special dividends, although it did not drive it into too far a corner.
The path to fame was long and not very intelligible. To this day, it has not led to anything beyond the normal imagination. Some literary awards have accumulated, no one has seen any awards on their lapels. Kushner walks along the same Tauride Garden as in his youth, along the same Vyritsa road as twenty, and forty years, and half a century ago. Well, added vacation in Turkey. The achievement is small. And not very, as it immediately turned out, reliable.
What can we say about "glory", even more so in its modern domestic box office! About all its measurements by market ratings and commercial premiums. Seen in abundance. Bitter taste from her:
I don’t write about spring anymore, because I’m old.
I do not write about the soul, because the soul has dried up,
Not about death (the nightmare no longer frightens me),
Not about glory (that bird flew over us - died) ...
She “died”, but did not disappear from the horizon of consciousness, she settled down next to non-existence. From reasoning about the earthly measure of human success and dignity, where can you go. None of the creators succeeded. The poet is not blessed, and it would be vulgar to pretend to be one. Even believing in the sobering power of the brilliant aphorism: “Glory is sun of the dead". Kushner also refers to him.
The famous Apollo himself is good only in his landscape, not on a pedestal. For nature not only does not know glory, but in Kushner it rather opposes it:
Lie down in the grass. The thicker the grass
The more inconspicuous is the white torso,
The long-range view of the power
helpless; the less fame
The more butterflies and wasps.
The word is hotter and more wonderful,
The quieter it is...
And what does Shakespeare have in comparison with a waterfall:
All Shakespeare with his ornateness is just a mold, little brother,
That's who is happy to commit suicide out of love for her!
The source of the poetic lies in nature itself, in "life" - regardless of the position of a person in it. This, according to Kushner, is the proof of the existence of God. The poet can only follow in the footsteps of Divine Providence.
Reflection on this topic, in the end, leads to its almost perfect solution, organically arising from the poet's worldview and affecting the meaning of human existence itself:
Jesus to the fishermen of Galilee
And not to the Romans, say, came
To their palaces, gardens and avenues:
A halo is more visible to the poor in spirit,
Even in the midday light
And the province is closer to the capitals
To heaven: only boats and nets,
Yes, the flickering of impetuous birds.
On the other hand, is it
Neither Ovid His nor Catullus
Wouldn't notice, wouldn't see
If He stepped towards them?
Wouldn't notice, wouldn't see
Do not go, stumbling, after Him, -
Too loud im maybe singing
Muses, glory interfered like smoke.
The poetic "I" of Kushner - and with this pronoun of poetry he begins no less than that of a written romance - by the time any of his lyrical plots is completed, it drops to the everyday "I" familiar to us. This "I" - through the demonstration of the original separation of any "I" from the world - turns us to the discovery of a soul mate in it.
And in poetry, we, solely because of this affinity, leaving aside the biographical link to the author, read about a life that coincides with the life of a particular citizen, a specific era that we live together with Kushner:
Were, were once in our country house
And strawberries - mess with it! - and with zucchini,
And cabbage, and I remember the color of chicken
Cucumber flowers, their mustaches with hooks ...
The biography of the author seems to be visible, but there is none, no biography! Kushner and his own character as a burden. What he says so directly: “But I'm not sure that character is so important for a poet. It comes to the surface when the gift is insignificant: its insufficiency is replaced by character.
Kushner's biography and his character will only prevent us from distinguishing our own - and, thank God, not the worst - features in his poems.
It was while reflecting on Kushner (in the preface to his 1990 collection of poems) that Joseph Brodsky remarked: “We are downright corrupted by poetic biographies - mostly of a tragic nature, especially in this century. Meanwhile, biography, even extremely saturated with events that capture the imagination, has an extremely remote relationship with literature.<…>And the poet's biography is the whole story! - art, biography of the material. More precisely, the biography of the poet is what he does with the material he has inherited ... "
Kushner's "material" is amazing. Some kind of light, anonymous happiness he highlights in the most nondescript, “stagnant” years. Sometimes you can’t even make out who is happy with him and with whom:
This shadow is so beautiful on its own under a bush
Hairy lilac, that more happiness is not needed ...
This is perhaps the most important thing in Kushner - his poetry is turned towards the "tree of life". Why not taste of it before striving for the "tree of knowledge"?
Lilac bush, shade, coolness - this is the "general plan". The poet is looking for personified otherness in the simplest. In moments of sadness - too. “A branch against the background of the palace” Kushner in a poem with a Tsarskoye Selo landscape prefers the palace itself: “... But in winter we will not drop our quiet dignity / And our chilled honor.” Isn't this, isn't it honor, isn't it our "independence" that's the whole point? The plot of the poem is revealed in the fact that it is not the magnificent imperial baroque that excels in the image, but the nameless branch endowed with existential qualities.
Some charming genius loci, domestic unobtrusive lares and all sorts of dryads - that's who the rulers of Kushner's places.
This is significant: Kushner's history comes to life and lasts in nature, merged with it, the poet travels through it, as if over the sea. Following Mandelstam, he is "a student of running water." "Natural" and "cultural" are not separated from each other by a fatal line, rather they correspond to each other, as is typical of the Petersburg post-symbolist poetry in general, starting with Innokenty Annensky and especially manifested again by Mandelstam: “Nature is the same Rome and was reflected in it ...”.
Receptive to this tradition, Kushner makes the habit of measuring the historical, cultural and natural by one common measure an artistic principle, almost a device:
What, Octavia, today the wind is strong!
Your unfortunate and evil death
A tormented bush reminds me of a dusty one,
Even if I pretend not to know.
As if Tacitus was reading this crown
And now it breaks the branches in the sky
So, like a statue of the living wife of Nero
It is ordered to dump and drown in a wave.
Like heavy clouds lie on the slope
No way, what a lilac underside they have!
Did they dream of the Tyrrhenian sea
And an island freezing in the middle of desert waters?
What, Octavia, today's shine is unbearable,
Steel, piercing - and you can't look away.
I have, Octavia, someone to regret (and it's too late,
And the matter is distant), except for you, I'm sorry.
Kushner's human culture has generally grown together with the elements, first of all - water, fluid, mobile and at the same time commensurate with eternity, with peace unknown to us. “The foliage is important, not the plot,” the poet declared. The noise of foliage fraternizes "with a line of verse", while the heavens "sympathize with moisture." Wind, rain, the rustle of bushes and waves reign on Kushner's land and move his lyrical plots, full of secret content at the time:
Life after death is worse than earthly life, -
This means that the Greeks lived well.
The wave of the sea drove the Triere,
Rowers sat in it, as in a pea pod.
Lean on the paddle, nothing that's hard
We will come to the port - your lower back will rest.
And in the edges of the Zaleteisky shimmers meagerly
Light and not to see in the twilight of the face.
Philological knowledge is needed to write such verses, but philology, like philosophy, should by no means suffice in them. Kushner does not have enough. He has an "hour's drive" to Homer.
Philological education, enhanced by communication with the luminaries of Russian philology, reliably showed Kushner that the word "spirituality" does not guarantee any "spirituality" to anyone, least of all for those who define the dignity of life with this word. Being "faithful to life" is much more difficult than preaching "spirituality":
My friends, there were many
None of them believed in God
As it is accepted now.
From Fet, Tyutchev and Blok
They consisted of an iconostasis.
<……………………………>
Like their flowers of the field
Able to please anyone
Snowdrop, buttercup, adonis!
And I - stretched young
To them - was warmed by their attention.
They had authenticity and modesty
And the words of superfluous "spirituality"
I do not remember in restrained speeches.
And death, well, death - there was readiness
To her and silence, but not fear.
The philological environment, teaching literature at school gave Kushner a "life experience" no more miserable than any other. Most likely, even more significant than the experience of people tightening the nuts day after day - both at the factory and in the party cell. This was never recognized - and could not be recognized - by the builders of communism, which caused their fearful aggressiveness towards works that were not adapted for choral performance.
But the matter is not in “life experience”, but in “spiritual”, diverging from life practice, which is confirmed by the entire history of lyric poetry.
Here we will continue about inspired, although not having exact definition, symbols that played a decisive role in the development of young poetry post-Stalin era. These are the concepts of “soul” and “God”, which only in the seventies acquired more or less stable confessional attributes from the poets and became God.
Let us repeat: of course, Kushner's poems live in contemporary life for all of us and are closely connected with it. But their ideal projection is dictated by circumstances that leave worldly and social ties aside:
In the country, where the river and the field,
Yes, a bush at my shoulder,
Arrival of President de Gaulle
Doesn't mean almost anything.
You know, tanks, submarines,
Aircraft carriers don't count.
Fet drove past the grove in a cab,
Block stood at the gate.
This conditional Fet recalls the long-standing controversy of F.M. Dostoevsky with N.A. Dobrolyubov on a topic that is burning at all times: should the poet be silent when the guns take the floor? What would happen, Dostoevsky imagines, if Fet happened on the day of the Lisbon earthquake to print his verbless poem “Whisper, timid breathing... "? Lisbon, Dostoevsky believes, the poet "... would immediately be executed publicly, on the square<…>and not at all because he wrote a poem without a verb, but because instead of the trills of a nightingale, such trills were heard under the ground the day before<…>that the poor Lisboners not only had no desire to observe - In the smoky clouds the purple of the rose<…>, but it even seemed too insulting and unfraternal act of the poet, singing such funny things at such a moment of their lives.
The picture is instructive. And the next one, even more so: “... they would have executed the poet, and in thirty, fifty years later they would have erected a monument to him on the square for his amazing poems in general, and at the same time for the “purple roses” in particular.<…>The poem, for which the poet was executed, as a monument to the perfection of poetry and language, brought, perhaps, even considerable benefit to the people of Lisbon, arousing in them later aesthetic delight and a sense of beauty, and lay like a beneficial dew on the souls of the younger generation.
This view from the point of view of, so to speak, "local eternity" also distinguishes Kushner's cultural position. A striking example is the “verbless” lines that surprised him during the days of the recent earthquake - the Crimean:
Of course, the Russian Crimea, with the surf under the rock
With blue space and a small mountain,
Lying like a bear, under the steep bank.
Of course, the Russian Crimea, with a line of poetry,
And a sail on a wave, and steamship smoke ...
A branch, a sigh, an exhalation, pain - this is the fundamental principle of being, which is worth appreciating.
This conflict-free, to the prejudiced view, concept of human existence first of all requires courage, secretly it is deeply dramatic. As in the one commemorated and quoted in last years more and more often Fet - with his stanza, poetically incomparably capturing the high tragedy of life (and death):
... It’s not a pity for life with a weary breath,
What is life and death? But sorry for that fire
That shone over the whole universe,
And goes into the night, and cries leaving.
It will not be difficult to find a flash of these lines in Kushner's verses 1 - they are the root subtext of his later lyrics. Speaking in one of his poems about the secret of a “completely incredible” life, he follows Fet almost verbatim: “Fire rushing into the darkness!”.
The true life of the verse is inscribed in a history that is not initiated by us and not controlled by us - in the history of culture. It is much more extensive and more significant than any social, and even more so - political system.
Which does not mean that Kushner does not want to be understood, or that he neglects his contemporaries. He hardly intends to postpone the date until better times, especially before meeting in heaven. "At the risk of disappointing you," he wrote, - I will say: no matter what the poet writes about, his poems, it turns out, should be written about us too. Only and everything!”
Neither in the future nor in the past is there a greater secret for Kushner than the one hidden in the heart of an individual, in his daily worries. Whether he sits in an armchair or on a mound - it's all the same:
And in a caftan, valor, valor and pain, pain will remain,
And in a shabby dark jacket ...
Kushner's pain is heartache, the measure of all things. The measure by which harmony itself is determined, which does not depend on the scale and historical significance of events and is not determined by them. The wedding of the heroes is replaced in this poetry by love for the "inconspicuous, quiet brotherhood." This love paved the way for the main theme of “happy living” in his poems, albeit with “unbearable background,” as Kushner writes.
To what extent can the values of private existence and private consciousness prevail in contemporary lyrical creativity? In a review of Day Dreams (1986), Lidia Ginzburg wrote that this collection by Kushner is “about the happiness of life and unceasing anxiety for it. This is the key theme of the book, and hence its lyrical intensity. In it, the interconnectedness of the life-affirming and the tragic is realized. The person depicted in the book accepts the joy of the world given to him as a potency, as an ever-present opportunity that must be achieved, obtained in the struggle with oneself.
This is very significant, since the “anxiety for happiness” by the force of things opposes the anxiety for its impossibility, which is characteristic of the lyrics of most of our geniuses.
“It took a truly terrible experience of the 20th century,” the poet himself writes, “so that both in life and in literature an idea of the possibility of happy love and its deep humanity arose, contrary to traditional opinion and evil circumstances.”
It is difficult to figure out what specific literature Kushner has in mind, but the fact that this refers to his own literature is the truth he personally obtained. Literature is not life, and it is much more difficult to find happiness in it “on the beaten path” than in a round dance of days. Kushner found.
A priori tragedy and the desire for inexpressible, inexpressible goals that lie beyond the limits of spiritual contemplation, which are so characteristic of the “silver age” now canonized, are alien to Kushner. Of course, the lessons of acmeism were perceived by him and his verse, like that of the same Akhmatova, according to his own statement, “does not run away from prose, on the contrary!”. But the symbolism that gave rise to the poetry of the "Silver Age" is irrevocably denied by him. There are no "philosophical sunsets", no "torturous unbearable dawns" in nature:
Tragic worldview
The bad thing is that it is arrogant.
The "greatness of the idea" leads the Symbolists and their adherents to the unbearable grandiosity of the statement, to the pompous theatricalization of life, to a continuous "carnival". In order to show the tragic situation, Kushner does not need any stages or heroic personalities, it is enough for him to see the spider: “The web trembles like a wonderful optical sight / For some secret, obviously unearthly eye.” This "otherworldly look" is the look of an artist, without any mysticism. Armed with this vision, the poet says:
The tragedy is easy: they will kill or destroy -
Darkness will be redeemed by insight and tears.
I'm afraid of drums, Aeschylus. Surrounded on all sides
They will embrace, braid, like a tenacious vine ...
Kushner will not allow himself to be entwined with tragic haze. In verse, what is important for him is the incommensurable “accuracy” that is opposed to the evil winds and horsemen of the apocalypse, a synonym for “surprise”. And the most unexpected of all happens, of course, the usual "trifle". "Surprise" replaces in Kushner all the "inexpressible" and "inexpressible" romantic aesthetics. “The more precise, the more unexpected” - this is how Kushner's poetics can be defined.
His principles in this matter are unshakable and impudent:
Poetry, follow the trifle
First for nothing, then for meaning.
It's from " daydreams", 1986. But you can count ten to twenty years ago or the same amount ahead - we get the same result. It turns out that “following” the poet is not enough. “In inflatable, golden bubbles for nothing” Kushner is ready to “serve”.
In Russian poetry, the canonization of "trifles" and small "signs" ("Signs" - the title of Kushner's third book), of course, also has a rationale. From these “golden bubbles” a specifically Kushnerian genre was formed, designated by A.K. Zholkovsky as "a monument to a modest household item".
Let's say a few words about Boris Pasternak, without reference to whose work not a single young talent of the late fifties - early sixties of the last century positioned itself. Including Kushner, an artist of a purely St. Petersburg temper, not inclined to Zamoskvoretsky oaths on Sparrow Hills, literary patriarchy, as well as calf tenderness, delight and "almost lowing." And yet, even in the case of Kushner, immediately comes to mind pasternak justifying human existence"God's wondrous trifle" from "Sister of my life." But there are deeper connections.
Twice referring in the collection of essays "Apollo in the Snow" (1991) to that passage from Pasternak autobiography "People and Positions", where the author talks about life, which is not conceivable "outside of mystery and invisibility", Kushner reveals his own idea of the sources of poetic insights.
There is joy only in a secret resemblance, from the external one annoyance, from it creative person warps.
What he has in common with Pasternak, Kushner explains philosophically when he cites in a speech about him a phrase from Vladimir Solovyov about “unconditional, essentially good, sense being." And, of course, here are the words of Pasternak himself: "... A feeling of happiness must accompany my efforts in order to succeed in what I have planned, this is an unavoidable condition."
These judgments both indirectly and directly point to a similar experience for both poets of dedication to the affairs of the Universe. To the fact that "the universe is simpler than some sly one believes." Its secret is that it was created by "the all-powerful god of details, the all-powerful god of love," as Pasternak lyrically summarized. Accident, but not regularity, is a sign of the divine fullness of being. Kushner's eternity consists, as we have already said, of local signs.
The overcoming of the “finiteness” of love and happiness shows itself in the fact that the artistic word brought to the light of day creates an “accidental” reality initially unknown to the creator himself, a new cohesion of meanings.
For Pasternak, no matter how ingenious this connection may turn out to be, in true creation it will lead to a Christian revelation about God and Christ crucified for Him. Kushner, as it appears in his poems, thinks about revelation outside the Christian sacraments, the cathedral walls only distract him from the divine "trifles":
God, if you want to know, not in that rough church
With its carved iconostasis illuminated,
And where you thought about him - above the line
Favorite verse, and in the park under the elm tree ...
The stanza is not without a romantic veil - a lonely soul seeking good things. Well, without romanticism in Russia it is easy to suffocate. For Kushner, it is that if you think poetically, you think about good, not about evil. Dobre, not exhibited:
Maybe good, if true, then secretly.
Done in secret, it is completely dark...
non-manifestationKushner's worldview on this cardinal issue is explained by his principled non-confessional. Given, as well as for the mass of his readers, the historical experience of a contemporary of Kolyma and Auschwitz:
And when in the newsreel a boy with eyes
Hot with horror, looks at us,
Dedicated to humanity and heaven, -
Has the yellow halo of his star gone out?
God knows, I will not leave him, to another
Having crossed faith and settled in it!
To a Christian? Oh, never, never
The Hermitage old man will not forgive me, a Jew.
The fascists were bad Christians, the communists were not them at all. But everything that they created happened in the countries of the thousand-year-old Christian habitation and domination. Therefore, the boy from the newsreel ended up in Kushner's poem next to the biblical character from Rembrandt.
Theosophical talk about "theodicy" is worthless, interfaith debates are tired. It is a shame to be a man, alas, - a believer too. Such is the moral of the writer of modern poetry:
Children suffer more than adults
On that dying, terrible path.
Be silent in churches and mosques,
On a newspaper strip
And at the theological faculty,
Shut up for a day or two!
Any catholicity closes the way for Kushner to a positive and lofty meaning, is fraught with the impossibility of comprehending the truth alone. But Kushner has this meaning, and here is the most important thing that was revealed to him:
What a miracle if
The one who warmed up in our honor
Night set of constellations!
And if everything is by itself
Settled, then, my friend,
Even more wonderful!
A miracle is a description of reality "in a new and better language." The isolation from this reality of a harmonic series, before, before the poet, felt by no one.
"Best" does not mean "highest". Kushner's "new language" is a colloquial, broken, sometimes slurred, self-contradictory, but always musically intoned "direct speech".
More important than about God, Kushner has a question about a person, the very one who either believes in God or not. About his image on earth. About this - "direct speech" in his early poems, and in the latest:
Is there no God, is He, - we find out,
Having died, with Gogol, with Kant,
At any counter - over the edge,
We'll be fine with both options.
It seems that only Kushner, of all the serious poets, could solve the two-thousand-year-old problem of human "abandonment", "abandonment" on earth with such an ingenuous mockery.
In both Kushnerian variants, the thought of the impossibility of making a reliable judgment about the existence or non-existence God. “And what can we know about Him with our skull!” - a certain father at Rozanov parries doubts. The poet sees the Universe from the same bell tower:
All of us are Byron, Goethe, we are like children,
We want to know what Thackeray thought.
God cries, reading in the other world
Life of unremarkable people.
These beings are the only somehow spiritualized subject of consideration within the limits of the solar system. Because, at least, that it is in the “unremarkable people” that all the Christian salt is, and Kushner’s poems are addressed to them, he still meets them alone on his Vyritsa road:
Do I believe in God or do I not believe in God,
Vyritskaya road knows about it...
This is the beginning of the poem, included by the poet himself among the eighteen masterpieces written by 2005 and published in albums when Kushner was awarded the Russian National Poet Prize.
Do you believe in God or do not believe in God - this question does not bypass any of the people, it is rooted in human consciousness. For Kushner, it is adequate to the poetic consciousness, dissolved in poetry and dreams. To resolve this "thought", the poet does not need the Sinai heights. An invisible "guest" descends to him without tabor illumination - for a "quiet conversation" about
... That together people are evil, good one by one,
That a simple glass of water can become a miracle,
That there is a favorite work and linden smells sweet,
That you can’t live forever, that happiness is without trouble
It cannot be continuous, and he said: thank you.
So it turns out that it has always been suspected: no glory, no metaphysics is worth a summer cottage on the third platform near Vyritsa. Not acquired, but inherited from parents. That is why we will return together with Kushner to the Gatchina road, to the bushes and trees surrounding it. To the poet who taxied to her - on a bicycle instead of a Mercedes. For the noise of foliage in Kushner's poems is the best music, and it is not even Tsvetaeva's mountain ash that caresses his gaze, but so, in Russian spaces in whirlwinds and darkness, a “broken bush”.
This is very significant: the main visual image of Kushner's lyrics is a proportionate human nature a bush, or even a thistle (it is also Tolstoy's burdock from "Hadji Murat"):
But I'm not cold. I'm your thistle
Blink from the side of the lilac-blue eye -
And my ice melted, and my wet anger dried up,
And the angry heat cooled down - in a lonely doubt, -
Enough shouting, maybe you need a breath? -
I stand, thinking: I feel sorry for everyone inadvertently.
And your world is sad, is it good or bad?
It is more difficult to be a man in it than a prophet.
In all respects a program statement. That is why this poetry dispenses with epic oaks and biblical cedars, because courage, wisdom and courage are personified in it by the familiar bush “among the swamp”:
In a busy life
I ask for courage not the same
What is given to ardent youth,
And quiet, strong, lingering,
Like a bush growing in a swamp...
The bush is the embodied breath and breath of life-poetry. Bushes in Kushner's poems "swirl" more often than clouds. The bush is “the image of the world, manifested in the word”, a symbol of overcoming the accumulated evil for centuries:
I would believe you what lies
The world is in evil, but gravel prevents me
On the track and hard boxwood,
No stubborn and curly,
Look how thick and glossy it is!
When Kushner, in the article “The Soul of Art,” recalls “grains of life” precious for lyrics, he begins the enumeration like this: “Lilac bush ...” And he calls one of his later collections - “Shrub” (2002). Let's not say that this is some kind of insight that has never been seen before in poetry. Gleb Semenov, one of Kushner's older friends, and once Kushner's teacher, has a poem "The Bush" - 1966 - with symbols similar to Kushner's figurative system: "From the windows an illumined bush. / The appearance of the bush to the people! But Kushner still rarely seen Khodasevichevsky kind of reflection, characteristic of Semenov, who does not forget: "But now the light goes out in the windows, / and without you again in darkness ...".
For Kushner, the bush is first of all the main metaphor for life. From the bush, like God with Moses, Poetry itself speaks to him:
The gospel of the jasmine bush
Breathing in the rain and turning white in the dusk,
Among the alleys and the ringing of mosquitoes
Says no less than Matthew.
So white and wet, so these clusters glow,
So the petals fly from the affected wild.
You are blind and deaf when you have evidence
Miracles are needed more than that.
You're blind and deaf and looking for someone to blame
And he is ready to offend someone.
But the bush will touch you possessed,
And you will begin to speak and see.
This involuntary break into preaching is an act of lyrical freedom, close in spirit to the enthusiastic pantheistic lowing of the incomparable author of "My Sister - Life".
It's not about the similarity of poetics. Both Pasternak’s lofty tongue-tied tongue, and Kushner’s attraction to harmonious peace, irritated by the “world nonsense”, are an echo of the lyrical explosion that, according to the sensation of both poets, generated the human universe and to comprehend the creative nature of which all their spiritual work is aimed at happy moments of life. Kushner has more of them than other poets, but there are no more limits. Death for him, as for every thinking creature, is also "always with him." No weaker than Sologub, some worn-out tie will remind him of her:
It is clear without words that the old knot is strong,
That, diving into the loop with his head, as if into a collar,
I'm going to where rock brought everything to the pit and narrowed it,
There, where everyone, looking down, goes.
Kushner is disgusted, as already mentioned, by the carriers of the "tragic worldview." With them, he, as he was, remained at odds: "As I was able to make sure, lovers of the tragic in art are very often prudent and cold people, in addition, they are great gourmets."
Kushner introduced happiness into the obligatory poetic program - just at the time when most of tired of the poets of his generation. If Kushner in 1975 wrote "The Gospel of the Jasmine Bush ...", then Brodsky had already written "Lagoon" (1973) by this time, with a hero whose role is difficult to both overestimate and underestimate: "a perfect nobody, a man in a raincoat" . This “lyrical wanderer hero, whose movement we followed with exciting interest,” Kushner himself admits, instead of intoxicating with the “Gospel from the Bush”, fascinates everyone with the temptation to look “where / where you should not look.”
Kushner did not succumb to this temptation. The eighties, painfully for the mass of our compatriots, turned into the nineties, turned out to be more radiant for him than childhood. An impartial adherent of indirect descriptions and rough meanings, he makes the refrain of his books the sweetest possible revelation: “I love you so much!”.
The aesthetic justification here is: "Poetry is our memory of what life is like in its best moments."
"The soul of art," says the poet, is in the elusive lyrical movement, in the lyrics as such. Without it, culture really turns out to be a colossus with feet of clay, without it the breath will stop, it will literally turn out to be unviable.
Stand up for all the offended, one mountain verses
Happy in this world
convinced poet. Poetry is the "soul of the world." Let's put an end to it: "The soul of the world" - "lyrics".
But what is the power in poetry, especially in lyrics? First of all, the strength of independence from anyone's strength, including the strength of their author. Poems, like gardens, "come out of the fences", descend from the cliff, breathe the earthly air. The "earthly" in them prevails over the "heavenly" - this is the unfading truth of modern lyricism. "Earth gravity" - Alexander Kushner called one of latest collections. About her, about the earth, the speech is - “About the crust of the snow-covered poor earth, / Which we love, jealous of the heavenly home.”
A thing among other things and in combination with them forms a community of independent things, each of which can freely dispose of itself. The uniqueness, self-sufficiency and self-correlation of things, the phenomenological plurality of being - this is another aspect of the metaphorical intention. In other words, in metaphor as a means of poetics, we see not so much the reality of the One as the reality of multiple being. In this case, the metaphor is the clearest phenomenological confirmation of the personalistic structure of the world. It is no coincidence that the name of the character was assigned to the heroes in art.
Vvedensky's poem "I'm sorry that I'm not a beast" expresses this two-dimensional, multidirectional intention of metaphor:
“I’m scared that when I look at two identical things, I don’t notice that they are different, that each one lives once.
I’m scared that when I look at two identical things, I don’t see that they are diligently trying to be similar” (51. p. 184).
“I’m scared” is a consequence of the finiteness of human existence.
“We will sit with you the wind on this pebble of death ...
It’s hard for me that I’m with minutes, they terribly confused me ”(51. P. 183).
Hence the experience of transcendence, more precisely, an attempt at transcendence, the desire to be different, to become every thing, that is, to discover the other in oneself, to become a different self.
“I also have a claim that I am not a carpet, not a hydrangea” (ibid.).
Metaphor as a way of being things in artistic experience knows its ontic-specific forms and techniques. So, in the novel, the characters are isolated and identified, actualized in the metaphorical relations of contact and distance, they interpret each other, repeat and at the same time withdraw into themselves, become isolated, personalized. In particular, the provocation of the semantic integrity of the “main character” in the novel (or several main characters) only in the system of characters occurs due to their metaphorical correlation with secondary characters, double characters or, conversely, antagonist characters, with special intermediary characters, and finally, with the author’s direct point of view. (60. p. 73131). There are also picturesque, plastic, musical metaphors. Ludwig Wittgenstein gives a scheme of visual metaphor in his Philosophical Investigations, calling it the “memory head” (38. p.278). This is a drawing of a head in which you can see both the head of a hare and the head of a duck. "Two in One" - a scheme of visual transformations and differences. A pictorial metaphor more clearly than a literary one reveals not the spatial, but the temporal nature of the metaphor. The interrelationship of a thing with other things and with itself is not of a spatial but of a temporal nature. To enter into a metaphorical relationship means to get into a certain time, the time of experience. The game of differences and similarities into which an object is drawn into in a metaphor is a way for the object to clarify its own, search for its own integrity. As G. Amelin writes, “metaphor as a holistic event does not deal with identification different items, but with the difference within one object, the difference between the object and itself. More precisely, the point of likeness of two different objects is the point of dissimilarity of the object with itself ... The object begins to last, take time, makes a split in time ”(39. P. 268).
According to the principle of "head memory", such famous paintings Salvador Dali, as "The Invisible Man", "The Slave Market and the Invisible Bust of Voltaire", "Portrait of Mae West", "The Metamorphosis of Narcissus", the painting "The Bottle Woman" by Rene Magritte, "The Librarian" by D. Arcimboldo (XVI century) and many others paintings. But this is not the only way of pictorial metaphor. The dialogical metaphorical provocation of the thing on the canvas is carried out different ways: transferring into a subject context alien to it, with which it enters into syntactic relations, for example, Dali’s “Six Appearances of Lenin on the Piano” or the once scandalous painting “Breakfast on the Grass” by E. Manet, into an unusual light and color environment, transforming the contours of a thing, deformations, system of shifts. In fact, shift is another name for metaphor, since it implies movement, the movement of a thing from the “pro” mode to the “re” mode, where it appears unknown and unforeseen (50). Even at first glance, such a non-metaphorical genre of painting as still life, in its historical development, reflects the fate of a thing in its antinomic artistic realization - to become between the general and the individual, the universal and the unique (40). Wherever a thing enters into close syntactic relations with its environment, it lives by repetitions and differences, transformations and references.
The cinema knows its "tightness of the verse series" (Yu. Tynyanov), its methods of metaphor. Editing allows you to transfer action or states from objects to objects, playing with plans establishes a purely cinematic correlation, where things do not go one after another, but, as it were, instead of each other, standing in someone else's place, thereby provoking semantic formation. A classic example is the montage of the beating of a workers' demonstration with footage of the massacre in the film "Strike" by S. M. Eisenstein. Tynyanov describes the film metaphor as follows: “Now, if after a shot in which a close-up shot of a man in a meadow is followed by a close-up shot of a pig walking right there, the law of the semantic correlation of shots and the law of the timeless, extra-spatial meaning of a close-up will win over this one, it seemed. would, a naturalistic motivation, like the simultaneity and one-spatiality of a walk of a man and a pig; as a result of such an alternation of frames, it will not be a temporal or spatial sequence from a person to a pig, but a semantic figure of comparison: a man-pig ”(41. P. 334).
An unusual angle moves the thing from its place, the angles change continuously - the thing is constantly moving, the ratio of things and people on the screen is constantly being rebuilt. The meaning is rearranged. The meaning enters during the "re". Cinema has more than any other art the possibilities to move, displace, transfer, replace – to provoke things to self-actualization.
We are accustomed to using stable art criticism terms, such as allegory and symbol, grotesque and comparison, today they are vying with each other about the simulacrum. But all these tropes have one ontological basis - the relation, the structure “from ... to ...”, and the latter is the “transition”, “transfer” of meaning from something to something, in a word, a metaphor. It is the metaphor as a noetic way of being of artistic experience, as the founder of a relationship that is the ontological basis, the foundation of the whole multitude of artistic tropes.
In particular, a symbol is a metaphor whose end point is unknown. Metaphor - moving a place to another place, relocation, rearrangement, dragging, eternal moving from place to place. A person who carries a burden on his shoulders, for example, furniture when moving to another apartment, lives at this time in a state of metaphor. Where he transfers it is seen quite clearly, but this does not eliminate all the inappropriateness of what is happening and does not give hope for the final settlement. The new location is pre-given as the new transfer point. The symbol reinforces the metaphor. It is also a transference, but it is not at all clear where exactly. This is a transfer in all directions at once. A symbol always symbolizes something, but that something is unknown. Therefore, we are trying to unravel, decipher the symbol. A simulacrum, on the other hand, differs from a symbol in that it is a transfer to nowhere, a reference to nothing. Therefore, it does not require decryption at all. The simulacrum is an apophatic construction, which cannot be said to mean nothing. It means nothing, symbolizes nothing, it can be everything, that is, nothing. The simulacrum is an absolute metaphor and absolute way life in the “pere” mode.
If with a symbol, comparison, simulacrum, metamorphosis, metaphor is, so to speak, on the same horizontal axis, being its founding basis, then with metonymy it forms, as it were, a perpendicular. In terms of linguistics, these are the axes of selection and substitution. Roman Yakobson gave metaphor and metonymy a fundamentally polar relationship, penetrating not only speech and language, but also art and, in general, any semantic process in individual or collective consciousness (54). It is metaphor that makes metonymy artistic. Metonymy singles out an object, calls out the whole according to its part. But the formation of the whole in its part, the search for a thing of its "true face", its "otherness" is provided by metaphor. Metaphor in artistic experience provokes a metonymically represented thing to represent the unrepresentable, introduces the thing into the distinction of itself, and carries out a dialogue with it.
In the history of metaphor, the constancy of one ontically concrete type of metaphor is striking. It deserves mention, if only because it has this history, and also because in it the artistic experience opens up from an unforeseen side. Let's call this type of metaphor "cultural". It is characteristic of all arts, of architecture with its floral ornaments, for painting with its bio and zoomorphism, for sculpture, drawing its source of form in nature, for literature and cinema. So, for example, a huge number of poetic metaphors have one constant, rooted in the past type of formation - the transfer of states and properties belonging to the "world of nature" to the "world of culture" and vice versa, more precisely, the discovery of one in the other, so that their boundaries are problematized. This type of metaphor is so permanent that the whole complex dynamic of the undivided poetic work, the tense and sublime mental game of verbal enumeration, the real experience, which naturally does not divide objects into classes, may even seem like a shockingly stereotypical realization of the underlying primitive scheme. Moreover, judging by the various autobiographies of poets, such realizations bring them the deepest satisfaction. Alexander Kushner, having pronounced “The Gospel from the Jasmine Bush...” (35. p. 172), must have experienced tremendous satisfaction. Or Zabolotsky, when it seemed to him that “Like a little Hamlet, a grasshopper is crying” or “The forest chapel has already fallen silent” (42. P. 191, 183) (“cultural-natural” type of metaphor permeates all of Zabolotsky’s work). Or Pasternak, who turned out to be a witness of the “stormy meeting // Trees over roofing shingles” (31. p. 180). Or Khlebnikov, who saw the head of Nietzsche in the walrus, and Ivan the Terrible in the rhinoceros, and for whom “seagulls with a long beak and a cold blue eye, as if surrounded by glasses, look like international businessmen, which we find confirmation in the natural art with which they pick up water thrown to the seals on the fly” (43, p. 186187). Or, finally, Horace, concluding that “As the leaves on the branches change with the years, / The former will fly around everything, - so are the words in the language” (44. p. 344). And Horace in this series will not be the most ancient author. Moreover, what is compared, and what is compared with can change places. If Zabolotsky compares the forest with a chapel, then Mandelstam compares the organ with the forest: “The lancet forest of the organ”, although he also has “The trunks are winding and bare, // But still harps and viols.”
Mandelstam has both a “colonnade of a grove” and a “grove of porticos” (19, p. 67, 38, 230). For certain artists in certain eras, the frequency and measure of originality in the implementation of this type of metaphor are different. But the main thing is that it is almost everywhere, no matter what direction the author belongs to, no matter what aesthetics he professes.
Where is the table, where is the chair, where is the bouquet.
In a caftan, with a lush mustache,
Man with a dead rose
He looks, not knowing what to do with her.
Breathe in the finest fragrance
In his head, of course,
Can't come (what's the matter -
Pick it up and bring it to the lady!).
This is how you should behave
So and should be a little careless
Men treat life
To her smothered beauty,
Like this glorious officer
(there is no place for reproach) -
A little awkward, awkward
Then what is something other than life
There are: duty and valor, for example.
"I loved - and did not remember myself, waking up ..."
lilac bush
He loved - and did not remember himself, waking up,
But in memory the name of the beloved popped up,
Two syllables, as if they were born,
As if overnight it became mine;
He got up, brushing off the covers automatically.And rest ended at the thought of her,
He is short! And again - an obsession.
Loved - and it seemed: to reach the door
It is impossible, three times without entering into temptation
Break up with yourself in front of things.And the old Norwegian who taught enmity
Love still of our grandmothers, from the shelf
I got on the table and read in trouble
More drunken than new; fjords and fir trees,
And the hole, and the author's look from under the bangs.Indeed, this world is too rich,
He does not care about ruined nests.
Oh, what our condemning look is to him!
Letters burn and stars fall
And the frosts are climbing into the garden.Loved - and stood to the spring mechanism
Earthly and heavenly as close as later
It didn't happen anymore; not knowing the reasons
And the knowledge of whims; no trampling in the hallway,
And a pass to the chambers, where the chair and the bed.Loved - and probably love too
He was, that is, rejected, marked, tortured.
What is the work and anguish - young
Be; the old and enduring it all - better.
He envied the birds and creatures of the forest.Loved - and now still ... no, nothing
More like this, it's all right now
Here dreams just do not know that
That we are awake and love riddles:
Curtains and curtains and gathers and pleats.Loved... oh, when was that? Forgot.
For a long time. As if in another life or century
Friend, and now for nothing this ardor
It is impossible to understand wet eyelids:
Well, what's wrong with that, loved - and loved.Bush
The gospel of the jasmine bush
Breathing in the rain and turning white in the dusk,
Among the alleys and the ringing of mosquitoes
Says no less than Matthew.So white and wet, so these clusters glow,
So the petals fly from the affected wild.
You are blind and deaf when you have evidence
Miracles are needed more than that.You're blind and deaf and looking for someone to blame
And he is ready to offend someone.
But the bush will touch you, the demoniac,
And you will begin to speak and see."What a miracle if there is..."
What a miracle if
The one who warmed up in our honor
Night set of constellations!
And if everything goes by itself
Settled, then, my friend,
Even more wonderful!Are we at a loss? No.
Then everything is a mystery, everything is a secret.
And life is absolutely incredible!
Fire rushing into the darkness!
Even more beautiful because
What is irrevocable.Folding your wings
feasts
Andrey Smirnov
Champagne - two hundred bottles,
Orchestra - eighteen rubles,
Five hundred silver forks
Glasses, plates, knives,
Snacks, pheasants, turkeys,
Violets from greenhouses, -
Everything is calculated to the penny,
The last lackey has been paid.And an old feast inside out
On a glossy yellow sheet
Blinding like a night Fontanka
With lights in mirror water.
It seemed forgotten, but surfaced,
It appeared, it went from hand to hand.
But who will tell us how it was
Safe and fun out there!Sad and boring!
Satire
There is a marble torso on the stairs.
I'm sorry not this feast
And a couple, and life - to tears.
I know why it's fussy
Others leaving the worlds
In a tailcoat, buttoned crookedly,
Brel Tyutchev to these feasts.Oh, if only it tormented, flickered,
Beckoned to white hair ...
I'm sorry not for this ball
And ardor, and life - to tears,
Her crowds and tubs
With a shabby palm tree in it,
And our yesterday's feast,
And the day before yesterday, yours!"In a slippery graveyard, alone..."
In a slippery graveyard, alone
Among the slabs of split, ruins,
Tore the marble veins,
Rotten aspens, -
I'm standing at Tyutchev's grave.Don't move away.
Near Obvodny, among
Factory walls, pressed tightly,
Look: almost forgotten
"The all-consuming abyss".So here she is! alien light,
Is it a pity to break out through the greenery?
The underside of life? Chaos? - No.
swept away years
Outdated garbage, just a dump.What cemeteries do we have!
Their desolation -
Renunciation of life and rejection
From death, bird two or three phrases
Broken singing in the bushes.In the fields of the afterlife we wander,
Not in purple - dressed in rags,
Silent way.
Give me an elastic band - we will erase it like this:
Not a line of ours, not a sign.One hundred of our years
Thousand years of destruction
They can give a head start: so many troubles
Fell down, bombs that extinguished the light,
Calls with nocturnal devastation.Sleep, cool down.
Well, do not plant flowers
On this ashes and decay!
If not for Tyutchev, maybe
He would have been completely plowed.And this is all
Our character and ecstasy.
And is the Kingdom of God here?
And does the dead paint arrogance?
Is there insincere humility in verses?Ask Tyutchev - and he
Through eternal sleep
He waved his hand, shrugged his shoulders.
And he thinks: mortal damage
Bless, between us.“Being a classic means standing on a closet…”
To be a classic is to stand on the closet
Senseless bust, clavicle bristling.
Oh Gogol, is this all in a dream, in reality?
So they put a stuffed animal: a snipe, an owl.
You stand instead of a bird.He wrapped himself in a scarf, he loved to make
Vests, camisoles.
Not only to undress - to swallow a piece
Could not with witnesses - naked sculptor
Delivered. Is it nice to be a classic?To be a classic is to watch from the closet in the classroom
For schoolchildren; they will remember Gogol -
Not a wanderer, not a righteous man, not even a dandy,
Not Gogol, but Gogol's upper third.Like Kovalev's nose. Last lesson:
No need to invent, life is fantastic!
O youth, the dust on your face is like a stocking!
Being a classic is scary, almost indecent.
They do not hear: they want to the ceiling.“And after the waste, unable to head ...”
And after the waste, unable to head
Pick up from the pillow, still trying to find out
Details about the capture of Khiva.
Why do they need him? After all, he moved
To the area where Khiva is the same empty sound,
Like Tsarskoye Selo.
Limes rustled in the window,
And life's sweet delirium, multiplied by foliage,
Death drowned out him, her melancholy and wheezing.And we, reading about how someone died,
We try on someone else's death secretly:
Wouldn't it suit us? Perhaps this horror
It could be worse, let's try another one.
I have flickered and died so many times in others,
What own death demolished by half:
Her sleeve is wrinkled and the material is wiped off.
When I go out at night, I will put it on like an old raincoat.“A child is closest to nothingness…”
The child is closest to nothingness.
He is still haunted by disease,
He tends to sleep and forget
Under the shaky infant songs.Darkness still licks him
Creeping up to the headboard like a she-wolf,
Smoothing over the glimmers of the mind
And adults smearing faces.He is also in a white lace haze
And cloudy, still swaddled,
And in linen and linen foam
His ruddy moments are drowning.Foggy from the edge of existence,
So they lie at death, as he - during life,
Loosened without my own "I",
We are sorry for living and reproach.He is still being rocked, he
What he remembers about unconsciousness - he will forget.
He is watching his eternal dream.
Look at him: he's about to be awakened.“Control. The darkness behind the window of violets ... "
Control. The darkness outside the window of violets,
No worse than ink. And two options
Shared class. And you don't know the answers.
No courage yet, no talent.
No adult grin, no experience of life.
To get a textbook - they will shame and take it away.
Has anyone been in a huge homeland,
Like a little schoolboy, they will leave so menacingly!Perhaps those years had a special effect
Anguish and chills? I don't think so, though.
Ah, childhood at all times, tough-headed
The view is sculpted by severity and confused.
And I wake up in the darkness of midnight
From mortal anguish and blinding light
Those lamps on cords, their milky whiteness,
And this abandonment compresses the heart.And all the troubles are our adults:
Checks and misses, involuntary trembling,
Love shivers and a date even -
All this is not worth that children's test.
We just forgot. But the little schoolboy
He paid for us until he grew up,
And a triangle trembled in his fingers.
Today, as an adult, he could not bear it.visit
I also visited
The area where the light
I am a ray in my youth,
Where is the willow floor
Springed under the foot.
There is no way to know her.
I lost my key to it.
There was no such
Hollows, and railings
Birch, and steep -
Their appearance confused me.So that's it! No
That swamp and flowers And no signs,
And no trace.
And a trace of youth
Melted and got cold.
There were no bushes here!
Oh who in twenty years
Did he change the land for us?Unrecognizable face
Earth - and so sad
Like a glacier has slipped
And layer upon layer.
And those films and books
Awesome bone!
And your children's diary,
Lost in the Mesozoic!Elegies are alien
Our habits - we
And there is no direct need
Dig up all the rubbish
Gone to rest
And collect those years
Details: pickaxe
Run into a skeleton
That life and enmity.In "Crocodile" magazine
Diplodocus walks,
As a symbol of formidable forces,
Looks like a bag.
But maybe only
The view would be worse
For us, just
What the heart values.I have a card where are you
With an old friend
Filmed by an amateur.
Moves filled.
More hazy than that world.
Pale than the Garden of Eden.
There you can see the rut
That heavy rain washed away.
So, you were in paradise
But apparently he forgot.I am "Confession" Rousseau
Just reread it.
So overgrown
Everything has a new meaning in it,
That I didn't recognize the book
Its pages, parts.
How many new faces!
Envy, singers,
Slutty, cheated.
Say, connoisseur of people,Did you paste it?
But the brilliance of the fields is even
And invisible glue.
And there are among the pages
Such that it is quite
could be entered
Tolstoy, in another country,
Where is the snow and feather grass.
Trembling eyelashes,
Fervor of heart truth.I also visited.
Probably in our age
Change soon
Features of swamps and rivers;
Look: the rear is undermined.
The collapse of your soul.
Not able to man
Slow down hard run
Lawns and roots.I remembered Muscovites
Pitying Arbat.
But the shore and stream
Those streets are not stronger
And stone naiads.Who would have thought that the landscape
Passes like love
Like youth, like a mirage, -
He sees our horror
And a raised eyebrow.
memorial letters,
On white - gold,
Book guide,
Chewing stale verse
Can not see. Spurge
The guards of antiquity
Doesn't know. Goodbye!
This is not our fault.Meadows slide into death
Like a fringed tablecloth.
Perhaps die -
Come to your home
Don't turn on the light
Not hooked with the foot
No table, no stool.It's getting dark. Friends
Less and less. happy that
What lived, with all the sadness,
Making no problems
From the difference of the blind
Between someone and yourself
So much more important
The sign of the community of people
still inherited
From pre-war daysAnd today's old women
What went, shoulder to shoulder,
In t-shirts and shorts
Under sticky kumach
With garlands in hand.
About poplar fluff
And heavy stroke of copper!
After all, childhood is a rumor
And vision, not fear.Ran through
But he did not find the meadow.
Come on and we'll leave
Easy as he left.You thought to surprise
A set of changes
accumulated by you
But wet bushes
They don't know what to compare
faded features,
Your faded appearance
sentimental scenes
They are ashamed, they are what you are,
It must be that anyone.And you know, even glad
I this: our world -
Not a reserve; stock
Its changeable; holes
Don't patch; but
New for those
Who pulled in the lotto
Your number is later than us
Whose whisper and laughter
You hear at a late hour.In the wagon
The strap on the suitcase creaked,
The spoon clinked in the glass,
Beam stretched along the wall behind the beam.
What are they about? Don't know. About nothing.
The buckles and clasps shook.
Dresses and boots swayed.
He winked, blinked the ceiling.
Grunted, crackled the car.
The swaying shelf swayed.
Some kind of lace fought for a long, long time
On the wall with a metal hook.
What are they about? Don't know. About nothing.
Sleep, sleep, sleep, the logs have been unloaded.
By eight, by eight, by eight, no, exactly at nine.
Everything is a whim, a trifle, forgive me, everything is nonsense.
Try this: yes - yes, and no - no.
Ah, these knocks, squeaks, busts,
I surrendered to these persuasions,
I bowed and agreed with fate,
Coaxed with buckle and brace."I don't like the East, I don't understand..."
I don't like the East, I don't understand
Love for deserts, heat and carpets,
To his stones, with an ornament along the edge,
To his flowery, insinuating speeches,
To his poems, in which not a word,
Either a rose or a gem
And the hazy purple of Pavel Kuznetsov
In museums, I am the more sadly hurt,
That these dreams are mirage, alien
I do not dream, and secretly I realize
Your inferiority, seeing how others
Find paradise in life in that land
Where I am - only heat and dusty haze.
The East is rich, and these pathetic lines
He will not read, and laziness, and, thank God,
The cold will not harm the East.I have a friend, he was born
In Moscow, but chose this sweet captivity,
Resounded in the cheekbones, the whole has changed
And it became that your Tajik or Turkmen.
Nationality is a strange concern
She passes. Heart, clinging
To another land, lost count
In another pattern, believing and knitting.And I, looking at other lines,
Looking for an example for myself in other people's poems,
I look: they are sprinkled with sand,
Dry, solid, creaking on the teeth,
And they praise the steppe, and demand courage.
To become a grain of sand - the soul opposes.
Oh, her leaves, and clouds, and moisture,
From the balcony on the night of the flying swift!Lace
Cloth blanket from the showcase
They threw it away - and the lace appeared
Patterned, in air bubbles.
Something like foam or snow.
And to the air of the seventeenth century
We fell on folded arms.Lace attracted a friend.
Not that I preferred sackcloth,
But this luxury is also not about us.
About Richelieu, who ruined Saint-Mar.
The collar on the chopping block looks like a pair.
Take it off - they will execute you now.And yet how to breathe! In the world
There is nothing cooler than these loops
These leaks, whatever you name it.
Patterned acupuncture.
But even in poetry, the air element
Most important, and in thunderstorms, and in love.The verse keeps on exhaling and inhaling,
Love is on them, and every shift in the era.
Remember how the garden breathes at night!
These punctures, omissions, gaping,
Tremors filled with tears.
What are our lives doing? They pass through.Let's come to our senses. Do you seem tired?
Let's throw a cloth blanket
On lace - and lace exactly the same
The song will break like a tit song,
When a rag is thrown on the cage:
Day outside the window, and for the songstress - night."There was fog. And in the fog ...
I. Gordin
There was fog. And in the fog
Like the shadows of the grave
Two steps from the French passed the British,
Not noticing other people's ships.Nelson was nervous: he missed Bonaparte,
Rushed to Alexandria, trampled along the walls of Syracuse,
Too much excitement
He invested in this business: the Frenchman was lost.And imagine: no fog on this night!
The French fleet is identified, shot, scattered, defeated.
And then - nothing from a crazy step and plan,
No pyramids.Nothing at all. No empire, no Austerlitz.
And the twelfth year, and the epic novel, sorry.
O mist! A homeless suspended moisture particle,
It's good that Nelson met you on the way.I like phantasmagoria in history, fantas,
Everything that historians are so ashamed of in it.
They want to put variants on a rigid chain,
And she - on the ship and brings them on the move - a hundred days!And for the fact that she is not an art for them, but a science,
For resentment does not climb into your pocket.
Maybe she's a pain
But not boredom. I went out into the yard, looked closely: fog.Folding your wings
The butterfly will fold its wings
And its color will coincide with the tree bark.
Who can find her?
There are no butterflies.Ah, ah, ah, woe to us, woe!
The wings will coincide with all points: no cracks, no seam.
Like a Greek choir
stanza and antistrophe.How rich we were, but we lost everything!
We would like to return this brilliance - and we could no longer b.
Where is your palace? Blind man, you walk stumbling in sorrow.
King Oedipus.Joy folded its wings
And he looks with his reverse, dreary side.
What the soul cherished
It became a complete mess.And the handwriting changes
And bending over the line
You do not catch a butterfly, but a pitiful, withered leaf,
Seemed like a butterfly at hand.And time fades.
Where are his divorces, velvety fabric and canvas?
Turns into darkness
Life, dear pattern, you can hardly distinguish in the fog.How many motley butterflies popped up at the eyes and seduced:
And tropical heat, and in purple stains Paris!
And the soul died -
Yes, a voice whispered to me: “You are looking in the wrong direction!”Ah, ah, ah, look closely
Looking around and again plunging into yourself.
Maybe love is somewhere here, only folded,
Perched, wing on wing, silently loving?Maybe good, if true, then secretly.
Perfect in secret, it is completely dark.
Will not leave a crack
For someone to see how perfect it is.Maybe in the fact that the butterfly folded its sultry wings,
There is also our fault: we came too close to it.
Let's move away - and flutter, and wake up, Princess Brambila
In colorful dust!«…»
September sweeps with a wide broom
Bugs, spiders with a web through,
Tortured butterflies, shriveled wasps,
On the broken wings of broken dragonflies
Their round lenses, binoculars, glasses,
Scales, struts, thick pollen,
Their antennae, paws, holds, hooks,
Ruffles that were to the face.September sweeps with a wide broom
Chitinous garbage, lace outfit,
As if the director of ballet greenhouses
Woke up - and blew off his dancers.
September sweeps with a broom from the yard
Over the field, over the river and beyond, into the darkness,
Cuffs, fasteners, raincoats, fans,
Hopes for happiness, cambric, fringe.Farewell, my joy! To the cemetery of wasps,
To the landfill of beetles, to the churchyard of horseflies,
To the realm of Pluto, to dried tears,
To faded, in flowers, Elysian fields!Sound wave
"On the other side of love, on the other side of the deadly..."
On the other side of love, on the other side of death
Longing seems to be a completely different pattern:
Not this disastrous, but like watercolor,
Easily and cheerfully running into space.O pain of the heart, for a moment reveal the wrong side,
Like a poplar tree with leaves twisted in the wind,
Like a cloak open, like the edge of the floor, a fugitive
Suddenly forcing to press the coat with his hand.Ask it to blow, so that it smells from the sea into the garden
The invigorating freshness of the waves beating on the cape,
So that the word is even bent to us by the breeze -
And we saw its fleecy meaning.“There - an icy curtain shows us winter ...”
There - an icy curtain shows us winter,
Sharpened in spring; there - a blanket shines;
There - silvery, all in knots, braid;
There - the tablecloth has moved out and the fringe is shining
Her glass; and dripping from the balcony;There - the brush is seen; there - a frequent scallop;
There - the skeleton of a tubular, cranked organ;
There is an eagle claw launched into the snow,
Walrus tusk, dog tooth, ram's horn;
There - an icy skin, like a peel from a banana;Candle swollen; columns capital
Seems in the garden; under it - a piece of the column -
A block of wet ice, laid in bed,
Wreathed in hoarfrost - this is how hop wraps around
Ruins somewhere in green Lombardy.All this melts, sticks together, floats.
We are walking on the ruins of winter with you.
Some kind of culture, set in ice,
In tears, he says goodbye and gives a crack.
And we breathe the March air like love.“Not about love - about a high rustle ...”
Not about love - about a high rustle
In the foliage of a deaf leaf of one,
As if delirium in deep unconsciousness -
And do not appease, do not level it.Not about love - about a broken strand,
About a quiet sigh that escaped suddenly;
Not about love - about mystery and conjecture,
But so dark, so ghostly, my friend.Not about love - about valor and duty.
Which Corneille inspires us with a stanza?
Not about love - about a sigh and a slip of the tongue,
About the cold, about a glass in the closet.Even the night is carried out on a stretcher,
And starlight hangs by a thread
And he still beats, crouched, in veins,
And rustles like a vein at the temple.“The brilliance is so - no flower Nice is needed ...”
Valery Popov
The brilliance is so - no flower Nice is needed.
It is impossible to sit locked up in the spring.
And I say to the starling: “Fly, if a bird!”
And lilacs: "Please, if lilac, then bloom!"The person is dissatisfied: still bad with meaning
life; nothing to help a person, but good
With a starling and a lilac that hung like a hat
And in his face breathes sinlessly, thoughtlessly, freshly.And when those were bred to the left, and these to the right,
All the same, and in tears, he would join that majority,
For which life, even if pain and poison,
That is a happy pain, so the rays flood the foliage!“Like maple and mountain ash grow at the threshold ...”
As maple and rowan grow at the threshold,
Rastrelli and Rossi grew up at the threshold,
And we distinguished Empire from Baroque,
As you at this age ate from pines.
Well, what is in the false classical style
There is something funny that in the toga, in the fog
Coagulated looking at the cars
Is the commander standing in a sheet, like in a bath?
And we take convention for granted.
First, habit. And they explained to us
In infancy, this cheerful oddity,
When they brought us here by the hand.
And these mighty copper folds,
Adhering to the body, sorry, to the uniform,
In such an impeccable order,
That in childhood inspire confidence in the world,
The pursuit of glory. From what points would we
They didn’t look - it’s still a feast for the eyes.
Especially if the leaf is spinning
And autumn, like a banner, stands in the distance.“If the pebbles into two piles of controversial ...”
E. Nevzglyadova
If the pebbles into two heaps of disputed
We will decompose, according to their different colors,
There will be more whites than blacks.
Martial, it makes no sense for us to lose heart.
If that's how you had it in tough Rome,
That, believe me, is exactly the same in Leningrad
Where all day under the icy winds
Stones in wet flaunt attire.The rustle of someone else's conversation is heard.
The colonnade is curved, as in Rome.
Here they bloom at the Kazan Cathedral
Tragedy roses in greasy make-up.
Happiness - that's it! Theatrical gesture
The shadow glides over the buds and tangles.
Martial, let others go to Paestum,
Famous for its double blooming roses."And the dusty haze, and the distance in the halo ..."
And the dusty haze, and the distance in the halo
Evening sun, and a grove in the fog.
The artist works so quietly in the field
What a field mouse finds in his pocket.Alas, her little body is funny and miserable.
And, squeamishly taking it out of his pocket,
He hides a smile. For the Lord God
To be accepted is still flattering and strange.He thinks: if in a gray jacket,
Shabby, smeared with oil paint,
He would poke his head too, quick-witted and nimble,
In a wide pocket for warmth and affection, -Will they rise, shudder, when they discover it?
Suffocate, warm? Will they be released?
For meekness, for the kind of troublesome frail,
For devotion to this dusty field?Wave
Wave in lace
Breaks, bends, twists,
stucco curls,
Repeated jumps and motives;
fringe wave,
With a pediment on a magnificent top
Over the expanse of the sea.
Shine, Borromini, Bernini!And the roar, and the rumble.
Pretty, elegant, high.
To the sky, shielding from splashes with a palm,
looked:
And in the sky - baroque!
Clouds float:
Garlands, pilasters, railings.
Which hand
Bizarrely blinded them like that?scholarly expert,
I don't need your efforts
I understand the origin
And the origin of styles!
Like a storm or calm
Without asking you how the weather is,
The style is changing.
Art is freedom!From the winds in it,
Borrowings and influences
More fun. When there is no wind, we will fall asleep,
Wake up with a roar.
Oh wish fulfillment!
I'm sitting at the table.
Irregular breathing and disruptions
Cardiac - the rhythm is forced to walk shaking,
Tossing and turning thoughts like stones in the surf.Plot frame
Resigned, with his lack of freedom
And boredom. So,
I like what is called "meaningless"
ode.
line collapse,
The poet is either powerful or powerless.
But this vice
It is sustained and productive:He is called to show
Confusion and fatigue
For us to appreciate
The higher could inspire.
Like waves on rocks
Like a crumbling mass.
And I'm so tired
That there is no need to pretend.We are given a head start -
Ten years: we grew up later.
Take dear names from past times:
We are older, but our heart is younger And the string is strong
Clamped on the neck, but still ...
Yet the wave
And ours - on the exhale too."What, fun to live?" -
So they ask wonderfully and absurdly.
"Life is better than being
I could, but worse than I would
I wanted, "- at the gate
I will answer the afterlife,
Where the shadows stand
Waiting for tired guests.What can you enter?
Lights and halos will dim.
We are better than being
They could, but worse than they would
I wanted to. Walk
Gradually, as in the Hermitage?
To tell the truth
I future life I'm not thirsty.I am these verses
He wrote, contrary to Heraclitus:
As in the same sins
Entered these stanzas, in appearance
Similar friend
On a friend, although in Leningrad
Finished them, remembering the south in the north,
And he began - in the Crimea, leaning against the chalk balustrade.I remember love
There seemed to be no end
How hard, in the blood,
To hopeless torments of titanium,
And in this wave
Throwing around, looking for a distraction.
And suddenly it turned out that my pain is less in length,
Than a poem.I'm ashamed in my life
Confessions, in verse, more and more often
I seem to myself
A monster with a burning eye
Ruined life
To yourself and your loved ones and again
Floating up
For a wet, precise word.Reader and friend!
What to do with a sound wave?
Will roll - and suddenly
Gives me away with my head, -
And here at hand
Yours, with fluttering and trembling,
Dead and fading on a white dry page
With all my truth and lies.What could be the body
Frozen pity and jelly?
But I flew
For a long time, this is my sound in separate Divorces, coils,
Lost in his own life.
But, apparently, in verses
There is something of blood and mucus.I'm ashamed that I
I take your attention.
And is your
Hidden life is not a shudder,
Not a death rush
Not waves in blinding attire?
Humbled disgust,
Like a crab, throw me into the sea!We lived with you
At one unprecedented time
And the general surf
We were beaten in the chin and crown,
And lived years
You can't turn back outside the lines of poetry.
You are a book and a blanket
Under the arm - and you leave the beach.But here, side
Knowing that I'm dying and freezing,
Comes for me
And drags back into the abyss -
wave in swirls,
Repeated jumps and motives,
cool times,
Salty and yet happy!From the store
In memory of Akhmatova
1. "The wave is darker towards the night..."
The wave is darker at night
The gate knocks.
Charon is taciturn
But she is also silent.Hands stroking the upholstery,
And the look, as in life, is firm.
Waves roll before her
Cocytus and Acheron.For a long time such a load
The shuttle did not lift.
Muse flies with a cry,
And she doesn't know.End of Free Trial
Recently I saw a strange grave at the New Cemetery. Fence, and in it only a lilac bush. But what! Lush, lilac, it seemed to swirl like a cloud, it was somehow unreal, airy.
I went to see whose grave, and it turned out - a draw. No monument, no cross, no plaque. All the way I thought about this riddle.
What did this bush in the cage of the fence mean, it seemed to burst out like tenderness from the chest? In whose honor is it planted? Without the name of the buried, this grave seemed like a metaphor, some kind of hint, a generalization that I could not comprehend with my mind, but understood with my heart.
"What does the bush need from me?" "The juniper bush, the juniper bush, the cooling babble of changeable mouths...» What do they all want from us? Our love, our memory. And we get confirmation from them, a sign that It exists.
cemetery fence,
and instead of a grave, a bush.
Lilac joy
a square that is empty.
What was the name of the one who died?
Where is the monument or cross?
Purple grave.
Mystery of the surroundings.
Not a plank ingrown into the grass,
not a stone with a scrap of dates.
Who was he, gone to eternity, -
vagabond, poet, soldier?
I opened the door...
She gave in easily.
What does the bush need from the heart?
Love and sobs to your heart's content.
The lilac swirled with mist,
hovered not here, but there.
Like honeysuckle that mercy
what Mandelstam begged for.
The fence was the frame
the most beautiful of flowers,
for whom there are few graves,
they want our mouths
doors open to the sky,
outstretched arms rays.
I walked, pocketing in my heart
who is already a nobody.
For some reason, none of those who responded to the poems reacted in any way to the situation itself - the riddle of an empty grave, which I still cannot solve. After all, even in the most ancient burials there are some traces: fragments of a tombstone, a cross, tablets, but there was nothing here. And the fence was freshly painted, and the bush, although lush, large, but not at all old. What could it mean? Maybe someone saved a place for themselves for the future (now many do it)? Or on the site of the old overgrown grave, having removed the traces, created a springboard for a new one? Then I perceived it as something mystical, some kind of Higher Sign. The soul was tuned only to this.
I won’t be surprised if next time there will be nothing at this place, everything will disappear like a dream at dawn.)) As it is in " We'll live until Monday."
A broken cage, a handful of ashes
and the crane is back in the clouds.
There is also such a version: perhaps the deceased was very humble person, or, on the contrary, the original, or maybe the poet, and he wanted just such a nameless, flowery grave for himself, and his descendants fulfilled this testament. This is not as strange as it might seem at first glance. Tsvetaeva dreamed that instead of a monument, a stone would be installed on her grave in Tarusa - in the place where she would like to lie. Marina Vladi wanted to install a melted meteorite on the grave of Vysotsky, which would symbolize his personality and fate. But parents and children insisted on a banal pedestal, and hoisted pompous horses and a hero to be shot.
The shroud was pulled off - how I am bound, -
Here you go, die! -
Is this the way you need me
After death?!
There are figures that are immeasurably larger than their shell, whom the monuments do not perpetuate, but emasculate, narrow, trivialize. How much more does a tree on their grave tell us, or such a lilac bush...
And, maybe, who knows, someday, in the future, all grave monuments will be replaced by lilac, elderberry, jasmine, blackthorn bushes, everyone will order for himself that flower or tree that best suits his essence.
« A dark, fresh elderberry branch is a letter from Marina...» ( A. Akhmatova)
The gospel of the jasmine bush
Breathing in the rain and turning white in the dusk
Among the alleys and the ringing of mosquitoes
Says no less than Matthew.
(Alexander Kushner)
Or, he has:
Look at the bush
hugging slope.
Here is my best partner!
I grew up like him.
Without asking permission
ridding the landscape
from dizziness,
beholder and watcher.
Follow the branches:
invisible to the eye
the flame flares up
in it at noon.
There is something to rely on
heaven on earth...
Or at N. Gumilyova:
Lilacs are weighted down
Barely spread branches
But the pale wing is torn,
Becoming transparent from the light.
She flies to God's call,
Scorched by the anticipation of the meeting,
She is the rising clouds
Either a prototype, or a forerunner ...
What is left for us? boil
Whether by soul, in a word, by pale blood,
Dropping petals, fly
Earthly sacrificing love...
My post ended here yesterday. But in one of the comments, the phrase about “gravestone trees” flashed by - it turns out that such a project exists now, but I didn’t know anything!
I rummaged through the Internet and I discovered fantastic things that made me write a sequel today. Science has proven that human genetic material can be grafted onto plants and thus continue in them!
In an article titled "Hybrid of plant and man" subtitled "Tombstone trees - a new step biological revolution» I have read the following:
The British company Biopresence (Biological Presence) proposes to plant trees on the graves instead of tombstones, which, along with their own DNA, contain the genes of the deceased. Founders George Tremmel and ShihoFukuhara received the National Endowment for Science, Technology and Arts award for this idea.
As Tremel stated, the tree is not a gravestone or a memorial plaque. " Tombstones are dead, and growing trees are a symbol of life. Besides, it's a good consolation.", he explained.
In order to create "grave" trees, biologists first take a smear from the oral mucosa from the deceased. From the material obtained, human cells are isolated that contain a sufficient amount of DNA. Then the DNA is processed in such a way that human genes do not interfere with the tree's growth, and are built into one plant cell. A plant cell multiplies in a special solution and under the influence of light, and after six months a plant appears ready for planting.
Biotechnologists plan to create "grave" trees for 20 thousand pounds. In their opinion, " it is a small price to pay for eternal life.”
portrait likeness
The Slavs in pre-Christian Rus' had "sacred" groves and oak forests, where it was not allowed to cut trees. It turns out that these were communal cemeteries. The burial rite consisted in the fact that on the grave, right above the deceased, a tree was planted, the roots of which received nourishment both from the soil and from buried body. Thus, the tree performed not only the function of a monument - after all, trees live for more than one hundred years - but also personified the person himself, since it contained particles of his body. Today, enthusiasts offer to return to the experience of our ancestors.
Italian designers Anna SITELLI and Raoul BRETZEL created a project called SarsulaMundi, which means "earth capsule".
- We offer unconventional way burial, after death, returning a person to the bosom of mother nature, says Anna Sitelli. “Our invention will help people reconnect with nature. The capsule is a biodegradable coffin that allows the body to break down naturally. A tree will be planted on the grave as a marker, so that such a new cemetery will turn into a sacred memorial forest in a few years.
"Crossing" of man and apple tree
The second version of the graves of the XXI century is the introduction of DNA fragments of a dead person into the gene apparatus of an apple tree - the biblical tree of temptation. But over time, scientists promise to master other trees.
“Tombstones are dead, and trees are a symbol of life that can serve as a comfort for people who have lost their loved ones,” the authors of the ritual project called “Transgenic Gravestone”, Austrian Georg TREMMEL and Japanese Shiho FUUKHARA from the Royal College of Art in London, are convinced. - If the DNA of the deceased lives in the tree, then the person will still be present in this world, only in a different guise. And in general, there is a long-standing connection between human death and trees as symbols of life. For example, in some countries, a tree is planted in memory of both the recently deceased and the newborn child.
The authors of the project argue that "crossing" the DNA of a person and a tree will not violate either the genetic structure or the visual appearance of the tree.
Indeed, goosebumps! I don't even know how to feel about this project.
It has much in common with the theory of eternal life. The idea of metamorphoses and immortality occupied the poet in his youth and arose under the influence of the works Lucrezia And Goethe. He denied the fundamental difference between living and non-living matter - both equally constitute an integral organism of nature. As long as this vast organism exists, a person, the bearer of his mind, the organ of his thinking, cannot disappear without a trace. Having posthumously dissolved in nature, it appears in any part of it - in a leaf of a tree, a bird, a stone - passing on to them, at least to a small extent, its individual features and uniting in them with all those living earlier. Zabolotsky wrote about this in the poem " Metamorphoses". Yes, and in many other poems, he tried to convey traces of immortality: he saw a glimpse of consciousness in a frozen lake, the voices of birches, the smile of a woman in flower petals.
I smelled a slight smell of resin through my sleep.
Bending these low trunks,
I noticed in the darkness of tree branches
Slightly living likeness of your smile.
juniper bush, juniper bush,
The cooling babble of changeable lips,
Light babble, barely reeking of pitch,
Pierced me with a deadly needle! ..
Can trees really become for us not only living beings, but relatives and friends, and in the literal sense? Can the lives of people dear to us be continued in them?
What do you think about all this? Do you believe in it?
flower genre syntagmatic speech
The first mention of fragrant jasmine was found in ancient Egyptian papyri. The Greeks believed that jasmine was given to people by the goddess of wisdom, Athena. In France, pipes and flutes were made from its trunks.
IN explanatory dictionary Kuznetsova jasmine - 1. Garden ornamental shrub of this family. saxifrage, with fragrant white flowers; mock orange It smells sweet. Jasmine branch.
2. Evergreen subtropical shrub fam. olive, with fragrant flowers (cultivated as a houseplant).
In Dahl's dictionary? yasmin, Jasminium plant and flower. Wild, night jasmine, chubuchnik, wasteland, wild cherry? plant Philadelphus coronaris. Jasmine perfume.
In Fasmer's etymological dictionary, jasmine? jasmine old. yasmin (Karamzin). The first of the French jasmin, the second - through it. Jasmin. The original source of the French word is Arabic-Pers. Jvsdmon .
Etymological dictionary Russian language Semenov? French - jasmin. Arabic - yas(a)min. Ornamental shrub with white fragrant flowers, which came to Russia from the Arab countries and South Asia. In Russia, the word yasmin was originally used, which is nothing more than an ancient Arabic female name (used in the form Yasaman).
WITH late XVIII V. modern phonetic design and lexical meaning are spreading. Words from similar meaning and sound are found in many languages, for example, in Portuguese (jasmin), in Turkish (yasemin).
In the diary of M. M. Prishvin (1951) we read: “June 20. Wednesday. Name day L. Jasmine is blooming... jasmine now smells of something that was not there, and now I smell it and rejoice that I now have something of my own and that even the jasmine itself has grown out of our love. He grew up as a bait to make something of his own from what was not.
And B. Pasternak:
I'm tired of you
I can smell that snow on mine
It melts on mine in my sleep.
The symbolism of this plant is determined White color and sweet aroma.
The plant that is considered jasmine in Russia is a plant of the hydrangea family, which is (correctly) called mock orange and has nothing to do with jasmine.
Basic values:
nobility;
elegance;
benevolence.
In Orthodoxy, this word is a symbol of the Virgin Mary.
Among the Tatars, jasmine is considered a sacred plant, and before going to heaven, a person will be asked - did he grow jasmine? .
The first mention of jasmine in poetry was dated 1730 by V. K. Trediakovsky. “In this place, the sea is not dashing ...” [Riding to the island of love]:
“And although after many years, But they do not always fade; Roses, tulips, jasmines emit incense, oliettas, and so do krines.
In prose - A. I. Herzen. Notes of one young man (1840):
“After examining the plant, we came to the garden and sat on the terrace; the day was very good; the smell of airy jasmine and poplar ... ".
In the 19th century given word used in 27 documents: K. D. Balmont, M. Lokhvitskaya, V. Ya. Bryusov, M. Gorky and others.
K.D. Balmont compares the jasmine bush with tenderness:
"All white, with a raised brow,
All tender, like a fresh jasmine bush,
You called thunder with the power of passion,
You expressed the feelings of a giant.
A.N. Budischev compares jasmine petals with satin:
"There on the white satin of jasmine,
Dew sparkles like diamonds
And on every dahlia flower
An intoxicated wasp slumbers.
In the 20th century - 115 documents: I. A. Bunin, K. D. Balmont, I. Severyanin, I. F. Annensky, B. A. Sadovskoy, V. F. Khodasevich, Vs. A. Rozhdestvensky, S. M. Solovyov and others.
T.D. Rathhaus compares jasmine flowers to stars:
"On the settling ledges
Jasmine scattered its stars.
B.L. Pasternak presents a metaphor for snow jasmine:
"I will not hide from you:
You hide your lips in the jasmine snow
I can smell that snow on mine
He melts on mine in a dream.
In the dictionary of poetic images, jasmine can mean the following:
Creature: human - Jasmine? my friend, my true favorite: / He breathed, child, your heart. - I. Severyanin. May our fawn evening be sanctified, / And you, jasmine, blooming favorite! - I. Severyanin.
Animal? Does the jasmine live at the gate? bear of the Barents, / white flowers-glasses / (there are a million-million of them!) / in lamps, / in paws. ? Sosnora.
· Information? The gospel from the jasmine bush, / Breathing in the rain and turning white in the dusk, / Among the alleys and the ringing of mosquitoes / Says no less than from Matthew. ? Kushner.
· Textile? And the wind rustles in an attempt / to remove the jasmine veil / from the open face of the gate. ? I. Brodsky.
· Receptacle? Does the jasmine live at the gate? bear of the Barents, / white flowers-glasses / (there are a million-million of them!) / in lamps, / in paws. ? Sosnora.
· Precious - Faithful to shutters, bedrooms, / morning in July procrastinates with a finger / packs of jasmine banknotes. - I. Brodsky.
· Water - And beyond the archipelago/Jasmine Spray. - B. Pasternak.
· Sound - We heard the sweet tenor of jasmine in confluence ... - I. Severyanin.
The name jasmine enters into various syntagmatic relationships with other words:
Meaningful adjectives:
colors: white-emerald.
internal characteristics: virgin, burning-feminine, wild, sleepy.
external characteristics: fragrant, odorless, sweet.
by place of growth: forest.
time: late, old.
Nouns: jasmine spirit, smell, petals, freshness, bouquet, breath, jasmine stars, jasmine snow.
Verbs: blossomed, blossomed, blooms, stirred, crashes, smells, faded, breathed, grew, leans, pours, drooped, drops petals, touched by longing.
Data from the National Corpus of the Russian Language show that the name of the jasmine flower is also used as a proper name - Jasmine: Svetlana Novikova "Jasmine is a flower girl." 2003:
"Jasmine? flower girl Svetlana Novikova? The name Jasmine was first heard three years ago.
