October has already arrived. “Autumn” by A. Pushkin: careful reading

I
October has already arrived - the grove is already shaking off
The last leaves from their naked branches;
The autumn chill has blown in - the road is freezing.
The stream still runs babbling behind the mill,
But the pond was already frozen; my neighbor is in a hurry
To the departing fields with my desire,
And the winter ones suffer from mad fun,
And the barking of dogs wakes up the sleeping oak forests.

II
Now is my time: I don’t like spring;
The thaw is boring to me; stench, dirt - in the spring I’m sick;
The blood is fermenting; feelings and mind are constrained by melancholy.
I'm happier in the harsh winter
I love her snow; in the presence of the moon
How easy the running of a sleigh with a friend is fast and free,
When under the sable, warm and fresh,
She shakes your hand, glowing and trembling!

III
How fun it is to put sharp iron on your feet,
Slide along the mirror of standing, smooth rivers!
And the brilliant worries of the winter holidays?..
But you also need to know honor; six months of snow and snow,
After all, this is finally true for the inhabitant of the den,
The bear will get bored. You can't take a whole century
We'll ride in a sleigh with the young Armids
Or sour by the stoves behind double glass.

IV
Oh, summer is red! I would love you
If only it weren't for the heat, the dust, the mosquitoes, and the flies.
You, ruining all your spiritual abilities,
You torture us; like the fields we suffer from drought;
Just to get something to drink and refresh yourself -
We have no other thought, and it’s a pity for the old woman’s winter,
And, having seen her off with pancakes and wine,
We are celebrating her funeral with ice cream and ice.

V
Days late autumn they usually scold
But she’s sweet to me, dear reader,
Quiet beauty, shining humbly.
So unloved child in the family
It attracts me to itself. To tell you frankly,
Of the annual times, I am glad only for her,
There is a lot of good in her; a lover is not vain,
I found something in her like a wayward dream.

VI
How to explain this? I like her,
Like you probably are a consumptive maiden
Sometimes I like it. Condemned to death
The poor thing bows down without a murmur, without anger.
A smile is visible on faded lips;
She does not hear the gaping of the grave abyss;
The color of his face is still purple.
She is still alive today, gone tomorrow.

VII
It's a sad time! charm of the eyes!
I am pleased with your farewell beauty -
I love the lush decay of nature,
Forests dressed in scarlet and gold,
In their canopy there is noise and fresh breath,
And the skies are covered with wavy darkness,
And a rare ray of sunshine, 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 feel love again for the habits of life:
One by one sleep flies away, one by one hunger comes;
The blood plays easily and joyfully in the heart,
Desires are boiling - I’m happy, young again,
I’m full of life again - that’s my body
(Please forgive me the unnecessary prosaicism).

IX
They lead the horse to me; in the open expanse,
Waving his mane, he carries the 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 is burning again - then the bright light is pouring,
It smolders slowly - and I read in front of it
Or I harbor long thoughts in my soul.

X
And I forget the world - and in sweet silence
I'm sweetly lulled to sleep 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 finally pour out with free manifestation -
And then an invisible swarm of guests comes towards me,
Old acquaintances, fruits of my dreams.

XI
And the thoughts in my head are agitated in courage,
And light rhymes run towards them,
And fingers ask for pen, pen for paper,
A minute - and the poems will flow freely.
So the ship slumbers motionless in the motionless moisture,
But choo! - the sailors suddenly rush and crawl
Up, down - and the sails are inflated, the winds are full;
The mass has moved and is cutting through the waves.

XII
Floating. Where should we go?
. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . .

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, painting an autumn landscape with great skill. The lines of the poem are imbued with great tenderness and love for surrounding nature, which is in the withering phase. The introduction is a first sketch of the picture: falling leaves, first frosts, hunting trips with hounds.

Next, Pushkin depicts the remaining seasons of the year. At the same time, he lists their advantages, but focuses on the disadvantages. The description of spring, summer and winter is quite detailed; the author resorts to humorous, rude remarks. Signs of spring - “stench, dirt.” Winter seems to be full of many happy events(walks and fun in nature), but it lasts unbearably long and “even the inhabitant of the den” gets tired of it. Everything is fine in the hot summer, “yes there is dust, yes mosquitoes, yes flies.”

Having done general review, Pushkin, as a contrast, moves on 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.” Precisely for its sad appearance, for its fading beauty autumn landscape infinitely dear to the poet. The phrase, which is an antithesis, “” has become a catchphrase 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 heights of his talent in using expressive means. These are various epithets (“farewell”, “lush”, “wavy”); metaphors (“in their hallway”, “winter threat”); personifications (“dressed 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 and the awakening of creative forces. But Pushkin removes this restriction. He again makes a small playful digression - “this is my body.”

The author devotes a significant part of the poem to visiting 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” that completely transform the poet’s loneliness.

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

Why doesn’t my mind then enter into my slumber?
Derzhavin

I
October has already arrived - the grove is already shaking off
The last leaves from their naked branches;
The autumn chill has blown in - the road is freezing,
The stream still runs babbling behind the mill,

But the pond was already frozen; my neighbor is in a hurry
To the departing fields with my desire,
And the winter ones suffer from mad fun,
And the barking of dogs wakes up the sleeping oak forests.

II
Now is my time: I don’t like spring;
The thaw is boring to me; stench, dirt - in the spring I am sick;
The blood is fermenting; feelings and mind are constrained by melancholy.
I'm happier in the harsh winter

I love her snow; in the presence of the moon
How easy the running of a sleigh with a friend is fast and free,
When under the sable, warm and fresh,
She shakes your hand, glowing and trembling!

III
How fun it is to put sharp iron on your feet,
Slide along the mirror of standing, smooth rivers!
And the brilliant worries of the winter holidays?..
But you also need to know honor; six months of snow and snow,

After all, this is finally true for the inhabitant of the den,
The bear will get bored. You can't take a whole century
We'll ride in a sleigh with the young Armids
Or sour by the stoves behind double glass.

IV
Oh, summer is red! I would love you
If only it weren't for the heat, the dust, the mosquitoes, and the flies.
You, ruining all your spiritual abilities,
You torture us; like the fields we suffer from drought;

Just to get something to drink and refresh yourself -
We have no other thought, and it’s a pity for the old woman’s winter,
And, having seen her off with pancakes and wine,
We are celebrating her funeral with ice cream and ice,

V
The days of late autumn are usually scolded,
But I love her, dear reader.
Quiet beauty, shining humbly.
So unloved child in the family

It attracts me to itself. To tell you frankly,
Of the annual times, I am glad only for her,
There is a lot of good in her; a lover is not vain,
I found something in her like a wayward dream.

VI
How to explain this? I like her,
Like you probably are a consumptive maiden
Sometimes I like it. Condemned to death
The poor thing bows down without a murmur, without anger.

A smile is visible on faded lips;
She does not hear the gaping of the grave abyss;
The color of his face is still purple.
She is still alive today, gone tomorrow.

VII
It's a sad time! Ouch charm!
Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me -
I love the lush decay of nature,
Forests dressed in scarlet and gold,

In their canopy there is noise and fresh breath,
And the skies are covered with wavy darkness,
And a rare ray of sunshine, 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;
One by one sleep flies away, one by one hunger comes;

The blood plays easily and joyfully in the heart,
Desires are boiling - I’m happy, young again,
I'm full of life again - that's my body
(Please forgive me the unnecessary prosaicism).

IX
They lead the horse to me; in the open expanse,
Waving his mane, he carries the 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 is burning again - then the bright light is pouring,
It smolders slowly - and I read in front of it
Or I harbor long thoughts in my soul.

X
And I forget the world - and in sweet silence
I'm sweetly lulled to sleep 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 finally pour out with free manifestation -
And then an invisible swarm of guests comes towards me,
Old acquaintances, fruits of my dreams.

XI
And the thoughts in my head are agitated in courage,
And light rhymes run towards them,
And fingers ask for pen, pen for paper,
A minute - and the poems will flow freely.

So the ship slumbers motionless in the motionless moisture,
But choo! - the sailors suddenly rush and crawl
Up, down - and the sails are inflated, the winds are full;
The mass has moved and is cutting through the waves.

XII
Floating. Where should we sail?...

© A. Pushkin 1833

And you begin to think about yourself with sad severity. Friends pass by and greet you. Hello. You probably also noticed that autumn has arrived today? How dear you all are to me, and how little good I have done to all of you. After all, you are much better than I think about you. I would need to tell you something or just smile and look into your eyes.

Somewhere behind Porkhov, a traveler is walking in a hat and boots, with eyes that look like the windows of a good old hut. He will ask how to get to the neighboring village. I will tell him the way and will look after him as if I were seeing him off.

Evening will come. The wind will still make noise. There will be someone in the neighbor’s garden rattling plates and reminiscing about someone in a low voice. The clouds will go lower and faster. My daughter will fall asleep in her small crib. He will fall asleep, not knowing that autumn has already begun today. She will call someone in a dream - probably there, in her dreams, she and her friends are swimming in the river or picking flowers...

And I will think about her, and I will be sorry that someday she will live in the world without me. How little good I managed to do to her! And she’s asleep and doesn’t think about it yet.

I will also fall asleep by midnight, I will dream of summer, hot thunderstorms, warm waters pools, and there are mermaids in them, and a girl on the airfield field. She stands and waves at someone in the air, and her eyes surprisingly resemble mine.

OCTOBER IS HERE

The grove is already shaking off the early frost at dawn, when the wind rises. The road is frozen, the pond is frozen. The voices of hound dogs walk far in the fields and wake up the sleeping oak trees.

The days of late autumn are scolding. But how can one scold the cold and clear flow of the autumn hollow water? When you feel her breath, her gaze. The water is calm, the water seems to listen to the alarming tread of frost. It’s as if a quiet smile of regret shines on the silent fields, and the crimson color still plays through the forests. And midday breathes with wavy darkness, and the sun occasionally flashes over the forest. The fly agaric still stands as if alive, but is already frozen and sparkles fieryly. The short day fades, leisure evening is full half asleep, half imagining. It’s as if you are in love, easily and joyfully. Young and happy again.

And it’s as if you are floating through this noise and chatter of falling leaves, arms outstretched, looking around with rejuvenated eyes. And you can’t find any other words except the simplest and easiest ones, like the talk of a stream: “Sad time! The charm of the eyes!”

Again you stand and repeat, do not repeat, but breathe in the radiance and lightness of the words of these hearts:

It's a sad time! Ouch charm!

UNDER THE ARCHES OF GROVES

There was fog under the pine trees yesterday. Frost fell overnight and frost rose on the branches of the groves. Frost would have risen into the sky, but the skies swayed over Mikhailovsky with such blueness, such light, that the frost froze and simply rejoiced on the trees.

Today, Sinichya Mountain, the obelisk over the grave, the cathedral - everything ascended along with the trees, like a cloud, and stood in the sky, like an unheard-of kingdom. Such kingdoms are built by the frost of the sun at noon, and they sway and flicker from every attentive glance. Beyond the forest in the distance, someone rang a bell. Then he hit again. Beats could be heard from Mikhailovsky - time was being struck there, as in the time of Pushkin.

When you walk through the forest, it seems that you are climbing high into the mountains, but the valleys, gullies - everything remains far below. In early summer streams flow here, and in winter the hare lays his snares here. You enter under the pines of the forest; from your steps and from your breathing, the frost begins to sway and crumbles. Frost hangs in the quiet air and lights up a small frosty rainbow above the traveler. You spend so long walking through the groves around Mikhailovsky. And the vaults of pine trees shower their frost over you.

You'll be back late at night. And in the midst of the darkness, rainbows shine in the eyes that lit up the frost, sun and pine trees in the middle of the clearing.

FROST AND SUN

A wonderful day shines on the snow along Soroti. The river is not completely frozen; under the mountain behind Savkin a spring smokes near the shore. The ice is washed away by its leisurely flow. Here smoke rises from Soroti, like someone’s calm breathing. And it’s hard to believe that yesterday the blizzard was still angry, humming in the chimney and ringing on the windows. Low clouds rushed through the cloudy sky. And only in the morning the moon turned yellow through the blizzard.

And today you don’t even recognize the sky, the plain. The snow glistens in the sun. The forest is transparent. The whole room is illuminated with an amber glow. And the stove crackles merrily. And it’s easy to think. And can't resist the window.

Quicker. Go out into the sun, into the cold. Walk along Malenets. Breathe air as icy as a key and young. Cover your eyes with your palm and look into the distance, beyond the shore. See how they froze in blue sky blue columns of smoke from village huts. And they don’t even waver. Hear how the bus passed through the pine forest into the clearing and the ringing voices of schoolchildren poured down the mountain, towards Soroti, in Zimari.

Walk or stand breathless and just repeat words that cannot be found more colorfully or loudly at this moment:

Frost and sun, a wonderful day!

SPRING AND OBELISK

I will not go downhill from Savkino to the spring on a winter afternoon. There's over impatient clean water the sun cast a cloud of frosty radiance. Already from a distance you can see how the light shimmers in the cloud. And when you get closer, you will immediately understand that this is not just a cloud, not quite such an extraordinary light. This is a bowl. A shining bowl hangs over the spring. And no matter how thirsty you are, you are timid to touch this cup. After all, it is all glowing, and the light above the spring shimmers and sways.

And why, on an early and foggy summer morning, should I go downhill to this spring? There along the river the fog has already cleared and the bright sky is expanding over the lakes. And here, above the key, there is a bluish light and tall sail. He prepares to go and trembles. It’s dangerous to come here now: if you step under this sail, the wind will wake up in the rigging - and you’ll be gone. Floated away. Quite far away.

Already in the spring, during ice drift, it is not worth going down to the spring at night. He is not visible. There is a spill all around. The flood approached the village, the hill. And only in the depths does a spring live and flow through the hollow water, above the very place where the moon rises. More precisely, a month. And it stands above the water for a long month. Ashy ice floes pass all around. And the month here scatters small bells across the ice floes. They sparkle and ring.

I will go out to the spring on a bright autumn afternoon. When I see a maple leaf fluttering over the key. Others flock to him. From this, from this shore. There are already a crowd of them. Here's a flock. They stretched out and turned into a cloud. So they rose and stood like an obelisk. The foliage above the spring turned into a crimson obelisk. And a rustling sound is heard in the obelisk.

Now I’ll get down on my knees, drown my palms in the water, and take a wide handful. And I’ll bring it to my eyes. Then I’ll take a look at everything I can see, kneeling next to Soroti.

SPRING STAR FALL

The buds are already ready, but the foliage is not there yet.

And in the evening there will be a steady light April rain. He will hang a transparent silver earring on each kidney. The earrings will sway from the wind and from their own gravity, and the light will shimmer in them fully and transparently. So the earrings will turn into stars.

At night, under the fat and imperious radiance of the moon, the stars will drip from that young birch tree into the dark, bottomless water of the lake. And they will slowly sink there in the darkness, spinning, spinning, but not wasting light.

So, by morning, under the birch tree, a deep, mysterious cloud of stars will glow, so luminous and elongated like a cone.

Until dawn, until the sun rises.

RESTLESS BABY

A small gentle stream appeared under my mountain. I feel it, I hear it from afar. Shouldn't I go and have a look at him now? Under the mountain, among the crunchy and grainy snow, among the dead leaves of grass, dried by time and frost, there is sparkle and rustle.

There's a tiny helpless baby here. He breathes a barely noticeable, still quite naive, but already alarming dream. It slowly sways with sleepy breathing and glows. Here the sun covers the newborn with its wet, kind palm. Here, among the wet and happy snow of spring.

By the evening it will be frosty. He will forge obedient and sonorous ravines, ruts, and hillocks. Well, how can you sleep here? And in the middle of the night I will have to go down the mountain, to the stream.

October has already arrived - the grove is already shaking off
The last leaves from their naked branches;
The autumn chill has blown in - the road is freezing.
The stream still runs babbling behind the mill,
But the pond was already frozen; my neighbor is in a hurry
To the departing fields with my desire,
And the winter ones suffer from mad fun,
And the barking of dogs wakes up the sleeping oak forests.

Now is my time: I don’t like spring;
The thaw is boring to me; stench, dirt - in the spring I am sick;
The blood is fermenting; feelings and mind are constrained by melancholy.
I'm happier in the harsh winter
I love her snow; in the presence of the moon
How easy the running of a sleigh with a friend is fast and free,
When under the sable, warm and fresh,
She shakes your hand, glowing and trembling!

How fun it is to put sharp iron on your feet,
Slide along the mirror of standing, smooth rivers!
And the brilliant worries of the winter holidays?..
But you also need to know honor; six months of snow and snow,
After all, this is finally true for the inhabitant of the den,
The bear will get bored. You can't take a whole century
We'll ride in a sleigh with the young Armids
Or sour by the stoves behind double glass.

Oh, summer is red! I would love you
If only it weren't for the heat, the dust, the mosquitoes, and the flies.
You, ruining all your spiritual abilities,
You torture us; like the fields we suffer from drought;
Just to get something to drink and refresh yourself -
We have no other thought, and it’s a pity for the old woman’s winter,
And, having seen her off with pancakes and wine,
We are celebrating her funeral with ice cream and ice.

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

How to explain this? I like her,
Like you probably are a consumptive maiden
Sometimes I like it. Condemned to death
The poor thing bows down without a murmur, without anger.
A smile is visible on faded lips;
She does not hear the gaping of the grave abyss;
The color of his face is still purple.
She is still alive today, gone tomorrow.

It's a sad time! charm of the eyes!
Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me -
I love the lush decay of nature,
Forests dressed in scarlet and gold,
In their canopy there is noise and fresh breath,
And the skies are covered with wavy darkness,
And a rare ray of sunshine, 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 feel love again for the habits of life:
One by one sleep flies away, one by one hunger comes;
The blood plays easily and joyfully in the heart,
Desires are boiling - I’m happy, young again,
I'm full of life again - that's my body
(Please forgive me the unnecessary prosaicism).

They lead the horse to me; in the open expanse,
Waving his mane, he carries the 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 is burning again - then the bright light is pouring,
It smolders slowly - and I read in front of it
Or I harbor long thoughts in my soul.

And I forget the world - and in sweet silence
I'm sweetly lulled to sleep 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 finally pour out with free manifestation -
And then an invisible swarm of guests comes towards me,
Old acquaintances, fruits of my dreams.

And the thoughts in my head are agitated in courage,
And light rhymes run towards them,
And fingers ask for pen, pen for paper,
A minute - and the poems will flow freely.
So the ship slumbers motionless in the motionless moisture,
But choo! - the sailors suddenly rush and crawl
Up, down - and the sails are inflated, the winds are full;
The mass has moved and is cutting through the waves.

Floating. Where should we go? . . . .

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

Great ones about poetry:

Poetry is like painting: some works will captivate you more if you look at them closely, and others if you move further away.

Small cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creaking of unoiled wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is what has gone wrong.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Of all the arts, poetry is the most susceptible to the temptation to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen splendors.

Humboldt V.

Poems are successful if they are created with spiritual clarity.

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

If only you knew from what rubbish poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion on a fence, like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not only in verses: it is poured out everywhere, it is all around us. Look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life emanate 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. The poet makes our thoughts sing within us, not our own. By telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He's a magician. By understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful poetry flows, there is no room for vanity.

Murasaki Shikibu

I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in the Russian language. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. It is through feeling that art certainly emerges. 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 me yourself?
- Monstrous! – Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from others only in that they write in their words.

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

Every poem is a veil stretched over the edges of a few words. These words shine like stars, and because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

Ancient poets, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. This is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times there is certainly hidden an entire Universe, filled with miracles - often dangerous for those who carelessly awaken the dozing lines.

Max Fry. "Chatty Dead"

I gave one of my clumsy hippopotamuses this 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 the critics. They are just pathetic sippers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let poetry seem to him like an absurd moo, a chaotic pile-up of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from a boring mind, a glorious song sounding 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 more than pure poetry that has rejected the word.