Why does my dormant mind not enter then?
Derzhavin

I
October has already come - the grove is already shaking off
The last leaves from their naked branches;
The autumn chill has died - the road freezes through,
The murmuring stream still runs behind the mill,
But the pond was already frozen; my neighbor is in a hurry
In the departing fields with his hunt,
And they suffer winter from mad fun,
And the barking of dogs wakes the sleeping oak forests.

II
Now it's my time: I don't like spring;
The thaw is boring to me; stink, dirt - I'm sick in the spring;
The blood is fermenting; feelings, the mind is constrained by melancholy.
In the harsh winter I am more satisfied,
I love her snow; in the presence of the moon
As an easy sleigh run with a friend is fast and free,
When under the sable, warm and fresh,
She shakes your hand, glowing and trembling!

III
How fun, shod with sharp iron feet,
Glide on the mirror of stagnant, smooth rivers!
And the brilliant anxieties of the winter holidays?..
But you also need to know honor; half a year snow yes snow,
After all, this is finally the inhabitant of the lair,
Bear, get bored. You can't for a century
We ride in a sleigh with the young Armides
Or sour by the stoves behind double panes.

IV
Oh, red summer! I would love you
If it weren't for the heat, and dust, and mosquitoes, and flies.
You, destroying all spiritual abilities,
you torment us; like fields, we suffer from drought;
Just how to drink and refresh yourself -
There is no other thought in us, and it is a pity for the winter of the old woman,
And, seeing her off with pancakes and wine,
We create a wake for her with ice cream and ice,

V
The days of late autumn are usually scolded,
But she is dear to me, dear reader.
Silent beauty, shining humbly.
So unloved child in the native family
It draws me to itself. To tell you frankly
Of the annual times, I am glad only for her alone,
There is a lot of good in it; lover is not vain,
I found something in her a wayward dream.

VI
How to explain it? I like her,
Like a consumptive maiden to you
Sometimes I like it. Condemned to death
The poor thing bows without grumbling, without anger.
The smile on the lips of the faded is visible;
She does not hear the yawn of the grave abyss;
Still purple color plays on the face.
She is still alive today, not tomorrow.

VII
Sad time! Oh charm!
Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me -
I love the magnificent nature of wilting,
Forests clad in crimson and gold,
In their canopy of the wind noise and fresh breath,
And the heavens are covered with mist,
And a rare ray of sun, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats.

VIII
And every autumn I bloom again;
The Russian cold is good for my health;
I again feel love for the habits of being;
Sleep flies in succession, hunger finds in succession;
Easily and joyfully plays in the heart of blood,
Desires boil - I'm happy again, young,
I am full of life again - this is my body
(Allow me to forgive unnecessary prosaism).

IX
Lead me a horse; in the expanse of the open,
Waving his mane, he carries a rider,
And loudly under his shining hoof
The frozen valley rings and the ice cracks.
But the short day goes out, and in the forgotten fireplace
The fire burns again - then a bright light pours,
It smolders slowly - and I read before it
Or I feed long thoughts in my soul.

X
And I forget the world - and in sweet silence
I am sweetly lulled by my imagination,
And poetry awakens in me:
The soul is embarrassed by lyrical excitement,
It trembles and sounds, and searches, as in a dream,
Finally pour out free manifestation -
And then an invisible swarm of guests comes to me,
Old acquaintances, fruits of my dreams.

XI
And the thoughts in my head are worried in courage,
And light rhymes run towards them,
And fingers ask for a pen, pen for paper,
A minute - and the verses will flow freely.
So the ship slumbers motionless in motionless moisture,
But chu! - the sailors suddenly rush, crawl
Up, down - and the sails puffed out, the winds are full;
The mass has moved and cuts through the waves.

XII
Floats. Where are we to swim? . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

1833

Great about verses:

Poetry is like painting: one work will captivate you more if you look at it closely, and another if you move further away.

Little cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of unoiled wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which has broken.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Of all the arts, poetry is most tempted to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen glitter.

Humboldt W.

Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.

The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish Poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion near a fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not in verses alone: ​​it is spilled everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life breathe from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.

G. Lichtenberg

A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing inside us. Telling us about the woman he loves, he wonderfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He is a wizard. Understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful verses flow, there is no place for vainglory.

Murasaki Shikibu

I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in Russian. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. Because of the feeling, art certainly peeps out. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

- ... Are your poems good, tell yourself?
- Monstrous! Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! the visitor asked pleadingly.
I promise and I swear! - solemnly said Ivan ...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write them with words.

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

Every poem is a veil stretched out on the points of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

The poets of antiquity, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. It is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times, a whole Universe is certainly hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for someone who inadvertently wakes dormant lines.

Max Fry. "The Talking Dead"

To one of my clumsy hippos-poems, I attached such a heavenly tail: ...

Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea and not a plague!

Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky

Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore drive away critics. They are but miserable drinkers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let the verses seem to him an absurd lowing, a chaotic jumble of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from tedious reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.

Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"

Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing but pure poetry that has rejected the word.

Why does my dormant mind not enter then?
Derzhavin.

October has already come - the grove is already shaking off

The last leaves from their naked branches;

The autumn chill has died - the road freezes through.

The murmuring stream still runs behind the mill,

But the pond was already frozen; my neighbor is in a hurry

In the departing fields with his hunt,

And they suffer winter from mad fun,

And the barking of dogs wakes the sleeping oak forests.

Now it's my time: I don't like spring;

10 The thaw is boring to me; stink, dirt - I'm sick in the spring;

The blood is fermenting; feelings, the mind is constrained by melancholy.

In the harsh winter I am more satisfied,

I love her snow; in the presence of the moon

As an easy sleigh run with a friend is fast and free,

When under the sable, warm and fresh,

She shakes your hand, glowing and trembling!

319 -

How fun, shod with sharp iron feet,

Glide on the mirror of stagnant, smooth rivers!

And the winter holidays are brilliant alarms ?...

20 But honor must also be known; half a year snow yes snow,

After all, this is finally the inhabitant of the lair,

The bear is tired. You can't for a century

We ride in a sleigh with the young Armides,

Or sour by the stoves behind double panes.

Oh, red summer! I would love you

If it weren't for the heat, and dust, and mosquitoes, and flies.

You, destroying all spiritual abilities,

you torment us; like fields, we suffer from drought;

Just how to get drunk, but refresh yourself -

30 There is no other thought in us, and it is a pity for the winter of the old woman,

And, seeing her off with pancakes and wine,

We make a wake for her with ice cream and ice.

The days of late autumn are usually scolded,

But she is dear to me, dear reader,

Silent beauty, shining humbly.

So unloved child in the native family

It draws me to itself. To tell you frankly

Of the annual times, I am glad only for her alone,

There is a lot of good in it; lover is not vain,

40 I found something in her a wayward dream.

How to explain it? I like her,

Like a consumptive maiden to you

Sometimes I like it. Condemned to death

The poor thing bows without grumbling, without anger.

320 -

The smile on the lips of the faded is visible;

She does not hear the yawn of the grave abyss;

Still purple color plays on the face.

She is still alive today, not tomorrow.

Sad time! oh charm!

50 Your parting beauty is pleasant to me -

I love the magnificent nature of wilting,

Forests clad in crimson and gold,

In their canopy of the wind noise and fresh breath,

And the heavens are covered with mist,

And a rare ray of sun, and the first frosts,

And distant gray winter threats.

And every autumn I bloom again;

The Russian cold is good for my health;

I again feel love for the habits of being:

60 The dream flies in succession, hunger finds in succession;

Easily and joyfully plays in the heart of blood,

Desires boil - I'm happy again, young,

I am full of life again - this is my body

(Allow me to forgive unnecessary prosaism).

Lead me a horse; in the expanse of the open,

Waving his mane, he carries a rider,

And loudly under his shining hoof

The frozen valley rings, and the ice cracks.

But the short day goes out, and in the forgotten fireplace

70 The fire burns again - then a bright light pours,

It smolders slowly - and I read before it,

Or I feed long thoughts in my soul.

321 -

And I forget the world - and in sweet silence

I am sweetly lulled by my imagination,

And poetry awakens in me:

The soul is embarrassed by lyrical excitement,

It trembles and sounds, and searches, as in a dream,

Finally pour out free manifestation -

And then an invisible swarm of guests comes to me,

80 Old acquaintances, fruits of my dreams.

And the thoughts in my head are worried in courage,

And light rhymes run towards them,

And fingers ask for a pen, pen for paper,

A minute - and the verses will flow freely.

So the ship slumbers motionless in motionless moisture,

But chu! - the sailors suddenly rush, crawl

Up, down - and the sails puffed out, the winds are full;

The mass has moved and cuts through the waves.

Floats. Where do we sail ?....

...........................

...........................

I
October has already come - the grove is already shaking off
The last leaves from their naked branches;
The autumn chill has died - the road freezes through.
The murmuring stream still runs behind the mill,
But the pond was already frozen; my neighbor is in a hurry
In the departing fields with his hunt,
And they suffer winter from mad fun,
And the barking of dogs wakes the sleeping oak forests.

II
Now it's my time: I don't like spring;
The thaw is boring to me; stink, dirt - in the spring I'm sick;
The blood is fermenting; feelings, the mind is constrained by melancholy.
In the harsh winter I am more satisfied,
I love her snow; in the presence of the moon
As an easy sleigh run with a friend is fast and free,
When under the sable, warm and fresh,
She shakes your hand, glowing and trembling!

III
How fun, shod with sharp iron feet,
Glide on the mirror of stagnant, smooth rivers!
And the brilliant anxieties of the winter holidays?..
But you also need to know honor; half a year snow yes snow,
After all, this is finally the inhabitant of the lair,
Bear, get bored. You can't for a century
We ride in a sleigh with the young Armides
Or sour by the stoves behind double panes.

IV
Oh, red summer! I would love you
If it weren't for the heat, and dust, and mosquitoes, and flies.
You, destroying all spiritual abilities,
you torment us; like fields, we suffer from drought;
Just how to get drunk, but refresh yourself -
There is no other thought in us, and it is a pity for the winter of the old woman,
And, seeing her off with pancakes and wine,
We make a wake for her with ice cream and ice.

V
The days of late autumn are usually scolded,
But she is dear to me, dear reader,
Silent beauty, shining humbly.
So unloved child in the native family
It draws me to itself. To tell you frankly
Of the annual times, I am glad only for her alone,
There is a lot of good in it; lover is not vain,
I found something in her a wayward dream.

VI
How to explain it? I like her,
Like a consumptive maiden to you
Sometimes I like it. Condemned to death
The poor thing bows without grumbling, without anger.
The smile on the lips of the faded is visible;
She does not hear the yawn of the grave abyss;
Still purple color plays on the face.
She is still alive today, not tomorrow.

VII
Sad time! oh charm!
Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me -
I love the magnificent nature of wilting,
Forests clad in crimson and gold,
In their canopy of the wind noise and fresh breath,
And the heavens are covered with mist,
And a rare ray of sun, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats.

VIII
And every autumn I bloom again;
The Russian cold is good for my health;
I again feel love for the habits of being:
Sleep flies in succession, hunger finds in succession;
Easily and joyfully plays in the heart of blood,
Desires boil - I'm happy again, young,
I am full of life again - this is my body
(Allow me to forgive unnecessary prosaism).

IX
Lead me a horse; in the expanse of the open,
Waving his mane, he carries a rider,
And loudly under his shining hoof
The frozen valley rings and the ice cracks.
But the short day goes out, and in the forgotten fireplace
The fire burns again - then a bright light pours,
It smolders slowly - and I read before it
Or I feed long thoughts in my soul.

X
And I forget the world - and in sweet silence
I am sweetly lulled by my imagination,
And poetry awakens in me:
The soul is embarrassed by lyrical excitement,
It trembles and sounds, and searches, as in a dream,
To pour out at last a free manifestation -
And then an invisible swarm of guests comes to me,
Old acquaintances, fruits of my dreams.

XI
And the thoughts in my head are worried in courage,
And light rhymes run towards them,
And fingers ask for a pen, pen for paper,
A minute - and the verses will flow freely.
So the ship slumbers motionless in motionless moisture,
But chu! - the sailors suddenly rush, crawl
Up, down - and the sails puffed out, the winds are full;
The mass has moved and cuts through the waves.

XII
Floats. Where are we to sail?
. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . .

Analysis of the poem "Autumn" by Alexander Pushkin

It is widely known which season was Pushkin's favorite. The work "Autumn" is one of the most beautiful poems dedicated to autumn in all Russian literature. The poet wrote it in 1833, during his stay in Boldino (the so-called "Boldino Autumn").

Pushkin acts as a talented artist, who paints a picture of an autumn landscape with great skill. The lines of the poem are imbued with great tenderness and love for the surrounding nature, which is in the phase of withering. The introduction is the first sketch for the picture: falling leaves, the first frosts, dog hunting trips.

Further, Pushkin depicts the rest of the seasons. At the same time, he lists their advantages, but focuses on the shortcomings. The description of spring, summer and winter is quite detailed, the author resorts to playful, rude remarks. Signs of spring - "stink, dirt." Winter seems to be full of many joyful events (walks and fun in nature), but it continues unbearably long and will get bored "and the inhabitant of the lair." Everything is good in the hot summer, "yes dust, yes mosquitoes, yes flies."

Having made a general overview, Pushkin, as a contrast, proceeds to a specific description of the beautiful autumn season. The poet admits that he loves autumn with a strange love, similar to the feeling for a “consumptive maiden”. It is precisely for its sad appearance, for its fading beauty that the autumn landscape is infinitely dear to the poet. The phrase, which is an antithesis, - "" has become winged in the characteristics of autumn.

The description of autumn in the poem is an artistic model for the entire Russian poetic society. Pushkin reaches the height of his talent in the use of expressive means. These are various epithets (“farewell”, “magnificent”, “wavy”); metaphors ("in their vestibule", "threat winters"); personifications ("clothed forests").

In the final part of the poem, Pushkin proceeds to describe the state of the lyrical hero. He claims that only in the fall does true inspiration come to him. Traditionally for poets, spring is considered a time of new hopes, the awakening of creative forces. But Pushkin removes this limitation. He again makes a small playful digression - "this is my body."

The author assigns a significant part of the poem to the visit to the muse. The hand of a great artist is also felt in the description of the creative process. New thoughts are "an invisible swarm of guests", completely transforming the loneliness of the poet.

In the finale, the poetic work is presented by Pushkin in the form of a ship ready to sail. The poem ends with the rhetorical question "Where can we go?" This indicates an infinite number of themes and images that arise in the mind of the poet, who is absolutely free in his work.

The poem "Autumn" was started by A.S. Pushkin Boldinskaya in the autumn of 1833, but it was never completed. Because of this, it was not published during the life of the poet - it was first published in 1841. The poem has an unusual form for the poet, who preferred iambic six-foot, the form - an octave. Traditionally used for poetic epic in the works of Spanish and Italian authors of the Renaissance, the octave gives Pushkin's poem the rhythm of a measured narrative.
The epigraph refers us to Derzhavin's poem “Eugene. Zvanskaya life. The lyrical hero of this work finds peace, living in a place rich in nature, and is inspired by the beauty of the landscape and the tranquility of a happy family life. Pushkin continues this theme, and the motifs of landscape lyrics and reflections on creativity are also intertwined in his poem.

We invite you to read Pushkin's poem "Autumn":
October has already come - the grove is already shaking off
The last leaves from their naked branches;
The autumn chill has died - the road freezes through.
The murmuring stream still runs behind the mill,
But the pond was already frozen; my neighbor is in a hurry
In the departing fields with his hunt,
And they suffer winter from mad fun,
And the barking of dogs wakes the sleeping oak forests.

II
Now it's my time: I don't like spring;
The thaw is boring to me; stink, dirt - I'm sick in the spring;
The blood is fermenting; feelings, the mind is constrained by melancholy.
In the harsh winter I am more satisfied,
I love her snow; in the presence of the moon
As an easy sleigh run with a friend is fast and free,
When under the sable, warm and fresh,
She shakes your hand, glowing and trembling!

III
How fun, shod with sharp iron feet,
Glide on the mirror of stagnant, smooth rivers!
And the brilliant anxieties of the winter holidays?..
But you also need to know honor; half a year snow yes snow,
After all, this is finally the inhabitant of the lair,
Bear, get bored. You can't for a century
We ride in a sleigh with the young Armides
Or sour by the stoves behind double panes.

IV
Oh, red summer! I would love you
If it weren't for the heat, and dust, and mosquitoes, and flies.
You, destroying all spiritual abilities,
you torment us; like fields, we suffer from drought;
Just how to get drunk, but refresh yourself -
There is no other thought in us, and it is a pity for the winter of the old woman,
And, seeing her off with pancakes and wine,
We make a wake for her with ice cream and ice.

V
The days of late autumn are usually scolded,
But she is dear to me, dear reader,
Silent beauty, shining humbly.
So unloved child in the native family
It draws me to itself. To tell you frankly
Of the annual times, I am glad only for her alone,
There is a lot of good in it; lover is not vain,
I found something in her a wayward dream.

VI
How to explain it? I like her,
Like a consumptive maiden to you
Sometimes I like it. Condemned to death
The poor thing bows without grumbling, without anger.
The smile on the lips of the faded is visible;
She does not hear the yawn of the grave abyss;
Still purple color plays on the face.
She is still alive today, not tomorrow.

VII
Sad time! oh charm!
Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me -
I love the magnificent nature of wilting,
Forests clad in crimson and gold,
In their canopy of the wind noise and fresh breath,
And the heavens are covered with mist,
And a rare ray of sun, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats.

VIII
And every autumn I bloom again;
The Russian cold is good for my health;
I again feel love for the habits of being:
Sleep flies in succession, hunger finds in succession;
Easily and joyfully plays in the heart of blood,
Desires boil - I'm happy again, young,
I am full of life again - this is my body
(Allow me to forgive unnecessary prosaism).

IX
Lead me a horse; in the expanse of the open,
Waving his mane, he carries a rider,
And loudly under his shining hoof
The frozen valley rings and the ice cracks.
But the short day goes out, and in the forgotten fireplace
The fire burns again - then a bright light pours,
It smolders slowly - and I read before it
Or I feed long thoughts in my soul.

X
And I forget the world - and in sweet silence
I am sweetly lulled by my imagination,
And poetry awakens in me:
The soul is embarrassed by lyrical excitement,
It trembles and sounds, and searches, as in a dream,
Finally pour out free manifestation -
And then an invisible swarm of guests comes to me,
Old acquaintances, fruits of my dreams.

XI
And the thoughts in my head are worried in courage,
And light rhymes run towards them,
And fingers ask for a pen, pen for paper,
A minute - and the verses will flow freely.
So the ship slumbers motionless in motionless moisture,
But chu! - the sailors suddenly rush, crawl
Up, down - and the sails puffed out, the winds are full;
The mass has moved and cuts through the waves.

XII
Floats. Where are we to sail?
. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . .