At the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries, Russia lived in anticipation of grandiose changes. This was especially felt in poetry. After the work of Chekhov and Tolstoy, it was difficult to create within the framework of realism, since the heights of mastery had already been reached. That is why the rejection of the usual foundations and a vigorous search for something new began: new forms, new rhymes, new words. The era of modernism began.
In the history of Russian poetry, modernism is represented by three main movements: symbolists, acmeists and futurists.
Symbolists strove to depict ideals, saturating their lines with symbols and premonitions. The mixture of mysticism and reality is very characteristic; it is no coincidence that the work of M. Yu. Lermontov was taken as the basis. The Acmeists continued the traditions of Russian classical poetry of the 19th century, striving to depict the world in all its diversity. Futurists, on the contrary, rejected everything familiar, conducting bold experiments with the form of poems, with rhymes and stanzas.
After the revolution, proletarian poets came into fashion, whose favorite themes were the changes that were taking place in society. And the war gave birth to a whole galaxy of talented poets, including such names as A. Tvardovsky or K. Simonov.
The middle of the century was marked by the flourishing of bardic culture. The names of B. Okudzhava, V. Vysotsky, and Yu. Vizbor are forever inscribed in the history of Russian poetry. At the same time, the traditions of the Silver Age continue to develop. Some poets look up to the modernists - Eug. Yevtushenko, B. Akhmadullina, R. Rozhdestvensky, others inherit the traditions of landscape lyrics with a deep immersion in philosophy - these are N. Rubtsov, V. Smelyakov.
Poets of the "Silver Age" of Russian literature
K. D. Balmont. The work of this talented poet was forgotten for a long time. The country of socialism did not need writers who created outside the framework of socialist realism. At the same time, Balmont left a rich creative heritage that still awaits close study. Critics called him a “sunny genius”, since all his poems are full of life, love of freedom and sincerity.
Selected poems:
I. A. Bunin- the largest poet of the 20th century, working within the framework of realistic art. His work covers the most diverse aspects of Russian life: the poet writes about the Russian village and the grimaces of the bourgeoisie, about the nature of his native land and about love. Finding himself in exile, Bunin leans more and more towards philosophical poetry, raising global questions of the universe in his lyrics.
Selected poems:
A.A. Block- the largest poet of the 20th century, a prominent representative of such a movement as symbolism. A desperate reformer, he left as a legacy to future poets a new unit of poetic rhythm - the dolnik.
Selected poems:
S.A. Yesenin- one of the brightest and most original poets of the 20th century. The favorite theme of his lyrics was Russian nature, and the poet called himself “the last singer of the Russian village.” Nature became the measure of everything for the poet: love, life, faith, strength, any events - everything was passed through the prism of nature.
Selected poems:
V.V. Mayakovsky- a real lump of literature, a poet who left a huge creative legacy. Mayakovsky's lyrics had a huge influence on the poets of subsequent generations. His bold experiments with poetic line sizes, rhymes, tonality and forms became a standard for representatives of Russian modernism. His poems are recognizable, and his poetic vocabulary is replete with neologisms. He entered the history of Russian poetry as the creator of his own style.
Selected poems:
V.Ya. Bryusov- another representative of symbolism in Russian poetry. I worked a lot on the word, each line of it is a precisely verified mathematical formula. He sang the revolution, but most of his poems are urban.
Selected poems:
N.A. Zabolotsky- a fan of the “cosmist” school, which welcomed nature transformed by human hands. Hence there is so much eccentricity, harshness and fantasticality in his lyrics. The assessment of his work has always been ambiguous. Some noted his loyalty to impressionism, others spoke of the poet’s alienation from the era. Be that as it may, the poet’s work still awaits detailed study by true lovers of fine literature.
Selected poems:
A.A. Akhmatova- one of the first representatives of truly “female” poetry. Her lyrics can easily be called “a manual for men about women.” The only Russian poet to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature.
Selected poems:
M.I. Tsvetaeva- another adherent of the women's lyrical school. In many ways she continued the traditions of A. Akhmatova, but at the same time she always remained original and recognizable. Many of Tsvetaeva’s poems became famous songs.
Selected poems:
B. L. Pasternak- famous poet and translator, winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature. In his lyrics he raised current topics: socialism, war, the position of man in contemporary society. One of Pasternak’s main merits is that he revealed to the world the originality of Georgian poetry. His translations, sincere interest and love for the culture of Georgia are a huge contribution to the treasury of world culture.
Selected poems:
A.T. Tvardovsky. The ambiguous interpretation of this poet’s work is due to the fact that for a long time Tvardovsky was the “official face” of Soviet poetry. But his work breaks out of the rigid framework of “socialist realism”. The poet also creates a whole series of poems about the war. And his satire became the starting point for the development of satirical poetry.
Selected poems:
Since the beginning of the 90s, Russian poetry has been experiencing a new round of development. There is a change in ideals, society again begins to deny everything old. At the lyrical level, this resulted in the emergence of new literary movements: postmodernism, conceptualism and metarealism.
The great Russian writer Maxim Gorky said that “the literature of the 19th century captured the great impulses of the spirit, the minds and hearts of true artists.” This was reflected in the works of writers of the 20th century. After the revolution of 1905, the First World War and the Civil War, the world seemed to begin to fall apart. Social disharmony has set in, and literature is taking upon itself the task of returning everything to the past. Independent philosophical thought began to awaken in Russia, new directions in art appeared, writers and poets of the 20th century revalued values and abandoned the old morality.
What is literature like at the turn of the century?
Classicism in art was replaced by modernism, which can be divided into several branches: symbolism, acmeism, futurism, imagism. Realism continued to flourish, in which the inner world of a person was depicted in accordance with his social position; socialist realism did not allow criticism of power, so writers in their work tried not to raise political problems. The golden age was followed by the silver age with its new bold ideas and varied themes. The 20th century were written in accordance with a certain trend and style: Mayakovsky was characterized by writing with a ladder, Khlebnikov was characterized by his numerous occasionalisms, and Severyanin was characterized by unusual rhyme.
From futurism to socialist realism
In symbolism, the poet focuses his attention on a certain symbol, a hint, so the meaning of the work can be ambiguous. The main representatives were Zinaida Gippius, Alexander Blok. They were in constant search for eternal ideals, while turning to mysticism. In 1910, a crisis of symbolism began - all ideas had already been dismantled, and the reader did not find anything new in the poems.
Futurism completely rejected old traditions. Translated, the term means “the art of the future.” The writers attracted the public with shocking, rudeness and clarity. The poems of representatives of this movement - Vladimir Mayakovsky and Osip Mandelstam - are distinguished by their original composition and occasionalisms (the author's words).
Socialist realism set as its task the education of working people in the spirit of socialism. Writers depicted the specific situation in society in revolutionary development. Among the poets, Marina Tsvetaeva especially stood out, and among the prose writers - Maxim Gorky, Mikhail Sholokhov, Evgeny Zamyatin.
From Acmeism to New Peasant Lyrics
Imagism arose in Russia in the first years after the revolution. Despite this, Sergei Yesenin and Anatoly Mariengof did not reflect socio-political ideas in their work. Representatives of this movement argued that poems should be figurative, so they did not skimp on metaphors, epithets and other means of artistic expression.
Representatives of the new peasant lyric poetry turned to folklore traditions in their works and admired village life. Such was the Russian poet of the 20th century Sergei Yesenin. His poems are pure and sincere, and the author described in them nature and simple human happiness, turning to the traditions of Alexander Pushkin and Mikhail Lermontov. After the 1917 revolution, short-lived delight gave way to disappointment.
The term "acmeism" translated means "blooming time." Poets of the 20th century Nikolai Gumilyov, Anna Akhmatova, Osipa Mandelstam returned to the past of Russia in their work and welcomed a joyful admiration of life, clarity of thoughts, simplicity and brevity. They seemed to retreat from difficulties, smoothly float with the flow, assuring that the unknowable cannot be known.
Philosophical and psychological richness of Bunin's lyrics
Ivan Alekseevich was a poet living at the junction of two eras, so his work reflected some of the experiences associated with the advent of new times, nevertheless, he continued the Pushkin tradition. In the poem "Evening" he conveys to the reader the idea that happiness lies not in material values, but in human existence: "I see, I hear, I am happy - everything is in me." In other works, the lyrical hero allows himself to reflect on the transience of life, which becomes a reason for sadness.
Bunin is engaged in writing in Russia and abroad, where many poets of the early 20th century went after the revolution. In Paris, he feels like a stranger - “the bird has a nest, the beast has a hole,” and he has lost his native land. Bunin finds his salvation in his talent: in 1933 he received the Nobel Prize, and in Russia he is considered an enemy of the people, but they do not stop publishing.
Sensual lyricist, poet and brawler
Sergei Yesenin was an imagist and did not create new terms, but revived dead words, enclosing them in bright poetic images. From his school days, he became famous for his mischief and carried this quality throughout his life, was a regular at taverns, and was famous for his love affairs. Nevertheless, he passionately loved his homeland: “I will sing with all the poet’s being the sixth part of the earth with the short name “Rus” - many poets of the 20th century shared his admiration for his native land. Yesenina reveals the problem of human existence. After 1917, the poet became disillusioned with the revolution, because instead of the long-awaited paradise, life became like hell.
Night, street, lantern, pharmacy...
Alexander Blok is the most brilliant Russian poet of the 20th century who wrote in the direction of “symbolism”. It is interesting to observe how the female image evolves from collection to collection: from the Beautiful Lady to the ardent Carmen. If at first he deifies the object of his love, serves him faithfully and does not dare to discredit him, later girls seem to him to be more down-to-earth creatures. Through the wonderful world of romanticism, he finds meaning, having gone through life's difficulties, he responds in his poems to events of social importance. In the poem "The Twelve" he conveys the idea that revolution is not the end of the world, and its main goal is the destruction of the old and the creation of a new world. Readers remembered Blok as the author of the poem “Night, street, lantern, pharmacy ...”, in which he thinks about the meaning of life.
Two women writers
The philosophers and poets of the 20th century were predominantly men, and their talent was revealed through the so-called muses. Women created themselves, under the influence of their own mood, and the most outstanding poetesses of the Silver Age were Anna Akhmatova and Marina Tsvetaeva. The first was the wife of Nikolai Gumilyov, and from their union the famous historian Anna Akhmatova was born. She did not show interest in exquisite stanzas - her poems could not be set to music, they were rare. The predominance of yellow and gray colors in the description, the poverty and dimness of objects make readers sad and allow them to reveal the true mood of the poetess, who survived the shooting of her husband.
The fate of Marina Tsvetaeva is tragic. She committed suicide, and two months after her death her husband was shot. Readers will forever remember her as a small, fair-haired woman connected with nature by blood ties. The rowan berry appears especially often in her work, which forever entered the heraldry of her poetry: “The rowan tree was lit with a red brush. The leaves were falling. I was born.”
What is unusual about the poems of poets of the 19th and 20th centuries?
In the new century, masters of the pen and word adopted new forms and themes for their works. Poems and messages to other poets or friends remained relevant. Imagist Vadim Shershenevich surprises with his work “Toast”. He does not place a single punctuation mark in it, does not leave spaces between words, but his originality lies elsewhere: looking through the text with his eyes from line to line, one can notice how some capital letters that form the message stand out among other words: To Valery Bryusov from the author .
it's like we're all in the movies
It's easy to fall down now
rush and have fun how much
ladiesLorn aboutTmennonus
ourger is decorated with liqueurs
andwe are sharp soulAsshiprom
looking for SouthJulyAvoAllForm
MchaPowerOpenToklipper
we know that all the young men
and Everyone speaksRubbeezed
Claiming this Ashkupunsha
let's drink with joy zabryusov
The work of poets of the 20th century is striking in its originality. Vladimir Mayakovsky is also remembered for creating a new form of stanza - the “ladder”. The poet wrote poems on any occasion, but spoke little about love; he was studied as an unsurpassed classic, published in millions, the public loved him for his shockingness and innovation.
Attention!
Ekaterina Likovskaya
what is born from the earth goes into the earth,
everything that wandered finds a home again,
every mermaid dreams of sea foam,
Each octave dreams of the note “C”.
yes, everything will return - this is the law of nature.
to the boy in a colorful jacket - a paper kite.
What is born by water will go under water.
what is born of the soul -
remains in it.
Long live the world in which
Hello, patterned path
twisted like a ribbon of lace.
no one needs anyone!
Unraveling the knots, quickly
preparing a second skin.
Long live the world in which
no one owes anyone!
A stitch that has become a mountain path,
another one that became a river.
Long live the world in which
nothing is easier.
Hundreds of drawn stories
and there is no favorite among them.
Long live the world in which
I don't need a name anymore
sounding too proud.
Let it be named
you - this world in which
nothing is new.
You are your own height and root,
You are your own cloak and spinner.
Long live the world in which
you don't know fear anymore.
The fog swirls higher and higher,
it's getting more and more difficult
breathe, and other people's faces
are becoming paler.
Below is a cardboard city
looms under the dead rock.
Long live the world in which
no one cries for anyone.
The cold flows through my collar,
The wind closes my eyelids.
Long live the world in which
we are all leaving forever,
where is death, which is like the sea,
kisses her softly on the lips.
Long live the world in which
no one loves anyone
woe to no one,
no one has power over anyone,
no one is happy.
And then - a raven on a branch,
sits, straining his throat:
Long live the world in which,
long live the world in which!
Long live the world in which,
long live the world in which,
long live the world in which
Tell me, candle, about love and sadness.
I don’t want to guess and tell fortunes now,
I'm standing on the edge. You melt the edges.
The two of us are in silence. Only you only me.
Human, bitter fate across
from above gave me strength in the amount of three.
These elementals until the Day of Judgment
They promised to protect and nourish me.
The first force is with me from the first word,
the power of bitter wormwood and forest paths,
the power of a twig, a grain, a strand of hair
or - piercing wax with a sharp needle.
To cause pestilence and to destroy livestock, to heal.
This force is the mighty force of the Earth.
And the second element is at the core of the foundations,
let's call it the liquid substance of dreams,
where I have conversations not only with people,
it is a strange spring reflecting the world.
The third power is in you. Primordial Fire,
warmth and peace - be careful, don’t touch -
tamed titan. And I don't want to know
what happens when a candle is knocked over.
Oh, don’t fool your brains with a vision, a shadow,
only you can help me today,
only you only me. The two of us are in silence.
I already have three.
Give me the fourth one.
That fourth force is Air and Spirit,
to bind together the power of the two,
to let me into a dream, where is my witchcraft
He will create the old world and complete it,
and fill it with energy, life, fire,
and then, giving praise to the Four,
I will enter all the doors, I will melt into everything,
I can break this circle and start...
But for this, fulfill the request, candle:
take me all, to the end, to the end
and wipe away impatience and bitterness from your face,
I want to learn your silence
and calm flame,
as if from outside.
© Ekaterina Likovskaya
Alexander Filatov
Goodbye
There are no complaints about the buttons - they are sewn tightly,
Another thing is white light - one tablet,
Second glass, fourth day of sleepless vigils -
And instead of peace there is rubbish of inconsistencies.
A veil dances in the eyes, an indistinct dance,
This is the country of Goodbye, I am a Goodbye man,
It warms you up here after all the somersaults
The hot breath of rebel asphalt.
When clearing, the fog is much clearer,
That only the Ocean is important, and only with Her,
And the rest is carried away on the gray waves -
Fog and space in Africa are albino.
Thoughts are spinning - the mind doesn’t knit needles,
There is nothing for the wheels to catch on in the fog,
Everything is out of place - an inadequate picture:
I rushed upward and became superficial, like mud,
I rushed upward and came off my feet -
Not life and not even a sketch - an oblique collage,
Where the universe sways like a drunk.
Oh, goodbye, I want to go to other countries!
So, the result: the soul is waiting in Paris, but the body
Either I barely crawled or I started sweating
Fly so high that you fall low
And a red-hot brain can’t cope with correspondence.
The triggers are cocked. Time It.
The ringing of the alarm clock will drive away the gloom from the platform.
The world will stop according to schedule.
And Dosvidaniya will hear “Goodbye!”
© Alexander Filatov
Polina Sineva
Eurydice
You flashed ahead, in the crowd, then disappeared from view.
Ice was again moving towards the mainland from the north.
Thrace, Crete, Sumer and dark Atlantis
went under the water and came out of the water again.
The hot desert sand burned my feet.
The warlike Horde rushed past.
Mecca, Turin, California and their shrines remained behind.
Maybe I'm not there? It was never?
The hysterical dogs of the convoy started barking.
Ladoga, the terrible ice cracked under me.
And I really wanted white... No, not white - blue.
Remember, you promised.
I got bread with the taste of earth and snow,
tomorrow with the taste of bread and quinoa.
I was behind to give birth to a new man
and with him in her arms I again caught up with your tracks.
All this was a long time ago. How the planet has grown!
Our children have scattered to the sides of the Earth.
How many times have you crossed the edge of the world?
and we haven't arrived yet.
Somewhere in the gardens, August is probably ripening like an apple,
The water from the well breathes cold in the morning.
Life never goes away. Life goes by. No, it seemed.
It’s scary: suddenly I’ll never grow old and die.
Somewhere in a forgotten house the arrows are turning,
on the floorboards - the light of the day going into eternity...
Please turn around - I don't care what happens.
Look at me.
Things
The abyss of a blank sheet shines,
and the day is bright, blinding and ominous.
But viscous, thick blackness,
as the truth stands behind every thing.
When they came into being,
when they bared their teeth like animals -
I saw that things are doors,
plugged holes into the void.
Their ribs, their peeling mouths
bulging in cardboard and plywood,
screaming about touch and size,
raping the pupil to the point of nausea.
The varnish fades and the glue shows through,
and there, inside - sand, grass and clay,
steps, night, and the smell of mothballs,
and again the door, and the back door behind it.
© Polina Sineva
Sima Radchenko
Neighbour
After all, the point, you yourself understand, is not that
that he won't play in his A minor,
hearts will not bark, dissatisfied with the cat,
who screams heart-rendingly in the corridor,
and it's not what the plumber said,
squeezing the grinder in shaking fingers,
that the dead man had been lying there for a week,
until his guests missed him
(yes, not relatives, but his sidekicks -
when I didn’t call for a bottle on Saturday),
but in the fact that he lay, he lay like that,
while you got up and went to work,
while I was teaching a sketch with my child,
and so on - endlessly, in the usual circle.
And you returned to warmth and comfort,
and we loved each other in the evenings.
Invisible
Suddenly the lights in the house went out. There is no light - and there is also nothing to do...
The parents held a meeting. Eventually, candles were found on the shelf.
The fire broke out as a weak sprout through the thickness of the night, weightless and thin.
And in the darkness, viscous and thick, it suddenly became clear: there was a child in the house.
It turned out that he had been here for a long time, and spoke quite well, and about a lot of things,
but somehow everything was not up to him - “go away and don’t get in the way, for God’s sake.”
But this evening, in the fragile silence, dad could not bury himself in the TV.
And fabulous shadows ran up the wall and walked along the cornices.
And mom didn’t stand at the stove and didn’t order the toys to be put away.
And fairy fairies and cats circled around the sofa and pillows,
without unclenching his strong paws and arms - and in a waltz, and gallop, and skip!
And mom and dad suddenly turned into a simple-minded girl and boy...
He told them everything, and they had never heard anything like this before.
About how motley herds wander across the blanket of the glow of the night,
that the neighbors have a baby who cries when dreams are bad,
that if you listen closely, dashing warrior drops will jump from the rooftops,
that in the evenings the backs of the planets are covered with twilight haze...
And in the morning... in the morning they turned on the light again. And again the child became invisible.
© Sima Radchenko
Dana Sideros
Excerpt from the poem "Rush Hour"
I have huge dreams
the black heart of the industrial zone,
glass snowball
in the dim light of night lamps.
I see him, a stranger,
he sows minutes like grains,
minutes of April
buries
in the prickly empty January.
I'm dreaming
how he waters
frozen ground in July
mine, unhappened, hot,
thoughtless, colorful.
I see through the thickness of the earth,
minutes sleep in it, like bullets,
molded and crushed
seeds of war.
I dream:
my seeds
grow a fathom
bullets turn into bombs,
tossing and turning, singing,
and the first flickering day
breaks through at midnight and soot,
burning with green fire
January patient is uncomfortable.
And the noisy crowns of weeks
explode
and take off
on slender trunks,
they shine, breathe and speak.
Honey days are blooming
my unlived May,
unfulfilled June,
last October.
This is where I always wake up
with a vague sense of loss
and after the whole day I don’t know
where to stick yourself.
Well what do you want to ask?
Would I like them back?
Yah…
© Dana Sideros
Ilya Turkov
I go out, outside there is a call back
grumbling rain permeates the evening,
he is old and gray, and it seems that he is eternal,
and it doesn’t seem to stop.
I'm standing on the street, and the street is empty,
streams flow down the deserts of windows,
and the world is already habitually quiet and wet,
uglier than a fallen leaf.
Almost indistinguishable from the ground
a thick mixture above the edge of the horizon.
Such is the landscape of the era and season.
A passerby appears in the distance.
And then the second one appears,
both wander stooped, without looking back,
dozens appear behind them
the same. The line is endless.
Tired infantry going nowhere
walks along broken sidewalks,
a drunkard from a bar joins them,
and water pours more and more from the sky.
Workers, hangers and junkies
in the company of politicians, lawyers,
priests, poets, atheists,
friends, lovers, enemies
are already very close to me,
and whether it’s the cold or the humidity,
but for some reason it became very scary,
as if there was nothing worse.
I'm standing. They look up to me.
Up close they are more clumsy and stooped.
I hear every voice in this noise,
in many ways very similar to silence.
© Ilya Turkov
Alexey Tsvetkov
Disheveled ice being raked from the platform
More persistent than mouse fuss.
Under the frozen dome is your plane
Turned on the side lights.
I look, between melancholy, initially simple,
And shyness is strange for two,
How are you, without saying goodbye, a green star
You rise above my world.
Above the dark planet in the arteries of the rivers
Confusion shakes the scales.
In the control room the eyelid is pulsating,
Frustrated for days and hours.
In the smoky hall the scoreboard flashes.
Silence grows from the noise.
The window opening cuts the wing
Like two different windows.
And I need to wipe away the feverish sweat
And write life forever,
As if forever in my firmament
Your star did not rise.
turn on the hydrant and the water is solid
neither wash your face nor fill a bucket
and the pump gnawed through the belts
the crowbar is dull and cannot take the pickaxe
because water is as strong as death
at least cancel it completely
all the events in it were reflected separately
at least throw the piano onto your neighbor from the balcony
he's as good as new, unharmed
and the tongue in the mouth is unbearably white
apparently we drank diluted chalk
and now we eat it like this
a useless sound emerged from the water
air does not pass into the blind reeds
your pipe has choked
granite will ring along the edges of the bucket
but there is no harm in frozen time
for star and animal plants
because the lime brain is blind
because the world is mountain wax
hardens easily
and in the well circle is more faithful than you
forever reflected his features
this rock water
© Alexey Tsvetkov
Anton Sergeev
Perhaps the mechanism is now broken
And it became clear: winter has no end.
From somewhere a train leaves for Lhasa,
And here it’s snowing, and it’s blowing your head off,
The head is swept and whirled by the wind,
The snowstorm blows snowflakes under the crown,
Before you even have time to step out the door -
Spattered to the core by the snowstorm this morning.
My head is so full this morning,
Let's say that I suddenly found myself somewhere,
Let's say it's a bistro, and you're chewing biscuits,
And creams are whiter than the snows of Tibet,
And the tablecloth turns white, it turns white in the eyes,
Winter licks the cornea with its tongue,
It carries you up to your neck in a snowdrift,
And, as if from an old dream, hearing:
“Come here, to the free cash register” -
It will seem like the roads are drowning in the snow,
"Last! Last train to Lhasa!”
Now I can't make it in time. And you will involuntarily shudder
The hurricane will sweep away the weather vanes and roofs,
He will pull the cables on Bankovsky with a wild boom -
Will rip out the throats of griffins -
Heartbroken with blood
The tongueless golden-wings will come forth;
Languageless and wild
They will howl silently,
They will collapse into the water,
And the stone will waste the water,
If fragile
If with a crystal ringing
The earth's axis accidentally breaks,
If the sad earthly string bursts
And the air will flow freely and terribly...
Don’t pull back your hand, hear me, don’t.
This is painful and more than serious.
The bridge circles over the canal,
There are little animals on it,
That pom-pom lanterns grow from heads,
Spas is also circling on the little blood at a distance.
The whole city groans in constant circling,
Moaning, spinning, enduring -
Where to go.
By secret:
Rotation is the basis
The beauty of dynamic transformations,
Eternity of the eternal
And the simplicity of the simple.
And what does all this bullshit revolve around?
So that the cats on Bankovsky will feel cute?
Continuously and subtly
Heart to Heart
The earth's axis passes through our hands.
The ball was given as a gift for the fifth summer of life.
A tennis ball is bouncy, cheerful, bright.
You can admit: you were happy about him like crazy.
Actually, what? Like an ordinary guy giving a gift.
If you go into the yard, be sure to have it in your pocket.
A round rubber friend is definitely needed
In every game. He flew through the windows - it’s normal,
Scared the cats and had a funny time jumping through the puddles.
The adults ate, laughed, fished -
We went to the lake one day at the end of the week,
A tennis ball accidentally jumped into the bushes
And I found myself lost forever by you.
Last thing - I cried into my pillow at night,
Mother promised to buy a designer set in an aprashka store,
I didn’t understand the reasons, the depth of sadness:
The ball is lonely, dark and scared there.
He grew up, got stronger and left the country a long time ago,
It’s fun to remember childhood troubles now.
Khule: successful, married and generally a winner! —
Life flows measuredly, clearly, smoothly.
Just grab (oh, Brodsky) your knees with your hand,
You smoke half the night, slowly drink beer,
Knowing that somewhere on the other side of the universe
The ball still lies lonely in the nettles.
Evening in the river drowned the sound
Sleepy cars and turned on the lights
Soft and moist. Moon circle
Hanging on an alder branch. No
There are no sighs, no melancholy.
Just a vague sadness-shadow,
Like a premonition of those years,
What hasn't passed yet; those
Failed dreams, meetings,
For which I am still alive.
Every word of yours, speech
The quiet river and the slope of the willows
Just for the sake of
One evening the distance thickened,
And he warmed your hands
Who was hopelessly waiting for you,
Whoever made his way to you sang
Your songs and moaned from
Your pain and sins, deeds
Free, involuntary. Look: here
Evening in the river drowned the sound
Sleepy cars and turned on the lights.
Listen with your hands to the warmth of your hands
A friend who is not... not there.
We all know the most popular poets of past centuries, each of us remembers and loves their poems. However, it is worth saying that in our time there are a considerable number of talented people who delight readers with their creativity and who have replaced the great and beloved poets. Perhaps not many people know them by sight, because in the 21st century there is an opportunity to freely express themselves and demonstrate their talents. In this regard, many people present their work to the public, and therefore it is difficult to remember all the talented people. The poets of the modern century create no worse than the talents of past centuries, so it is worth remembering their names.
Poet of our time Sergei Zhadov
Sergei Zhadov is a modern poet who has been delighting with his work for a relatively short time. He was born in 1988 in Sverdlovsk. His poems are so insightful and fantastic that no reader who gets acquainted with them will remain indifferent.
It must be said that Sergei’s work evokes a storm of emotions and experiences in the reader. His poems make the reader think about the eternal, about things that had not previously penetrated his thoughts. It is said about his poems that they are permeated through and through with opposites. Only the notes of hatred are clearly visible, and then you can see a thin ray of hope. Hatred and love, fear and faith, hopelessness and hope go very close together in the poems of this author. Their opposites are like sisters.
The most famous works of Sergei Zhadov are “What do you want, my generation?”, “Mama”, “Blade”, “Loops of Unions”, etc. No reader will remain indifferent to his poems, as they evoke a lot of emotions and leave behind unforgettable impressions.
Modern writers and poets delight readers with their creativity. It must be said that they are a real treasure of the 21st century, which deserves to join the ranks of the best poets and writers of centuries.
Poet of our time Evgeny Chernikov
Chernikov Evgeniy is a modern poet who was born in 1985 in Kamensk-Uralsky. It is worth noting that Evgeniy is the author of two poetry books, “Through the Noise” and “Trouble.”
Most of Eugene’s poems do not have titles, and we can say that this is precisely what distinguishes the poet from others. Chernikov does not write about love. All his poems have a deep meaning that every reader can discern. Having become acquainted with the poet’s work, you can notice that all his poems are full of human experiences that are characteristic of everyone.
Contemporary poet David Gordon
David Gordon is a modern poet and a very talented writer. He was born on May 1, 1987 in Vesyegonsk. The author shares that writing for him is the meaning of life. He compares poetry and prose to a breath of air. David says that he gets great pleasure from his creativity, and life without it is not the same.
Gordon often writes about love and human feelings. Poems of this kind do not leave any reader indifferent, because in the lines of David’s poems you can recognize yourself.
One of David Gordon's most famous poems is "The Pony". It has spread all over the Internet, and not many of its users know that David is the author of the verse.
Contemporary poet Alexander Kolobaev
Alexander Kolobaev is a modern poet who was born on August 31, 1951. The man worked for a short time as a pathologist, but soon realized that his calling was to write poetry.
All of Alexander's poems are sensual and emotional. Having become acquainted with his work, one can understand that Kolobaev very skillfully uses the visual means of language, giving his poems mystery, unusualness and sensuality. Several of Kolobaev’s poems are dedicated to women, their beauty and love for them.
Modern Russian poets describe human feelings and experiences in their poems, because these are the topics that are close to every reader. They know how to convey experiences to the reader through their poems, which leave the most vivid and unforgettable impressions for a long time.
Four young Russian poets who did not become “VKontakte stars”
Text and photo selection: Alexander Solovyov
Instant popularity is the lot of pop stars. And that's okay. Including poetry. But, unfortunately, sometimes it is precisely by those young pop poets, whose names are well-known and whose texts are in plain sight, that the entire poetry of twenty-year-olds is judged as a whole - and they not only judge, but draw unfavorable conclusions. To correct this imbalance, we asked a student from the School of Philology at the National Research University Higher School of Economics Alexandra Solovyova talk about four recently published original books by Russian poets who began their journey in the tenth years of the 21st century.
As often happens in any conversation about, the choice of several representative figures turns out to be incomplete, incorrect - poetic practices are too numerous and different from each other, too many authors (not even dozens) choosing extremely different ways of writing. And if in the generation of the 90s we have already learned to at least somehow classify poets (although sometimes it seems that it is in vain): “New epic”, “New sincerity”, etc., then with the generation of 20-30 year olds this turns out to be almost impossible. However, since the amount of text is limited, you will still have to stop at just a few figures. If possible, preference will be given to authors who have recently published collections that can still be found and become familiar with a more or less complete selection.
1. “The key to the tower. Russian Gothic"
M.: ARGO-RISK, 2017. Series “Generation”
When people talk about 24-year-old Rostislav Amelin, they often cannot resist inappropriately looking for parallels with his father’s poetry, which is quite strange. Maxim Amelin is deeply rooted in tradition and is guided in many ways by the Russian 18th century, and Rostislav is one of the most experimental poets of his generation: his texts are unlike each other, addressing a variety of, sometimes contradictory, traditions. The word “experimental” in this case is not a cliché, but a statement of fact - R. Amelin never stops at any one method of poetic expression, for each new poem he looks for a new form, so the latest book really resembles a laboratory for rebooting poetry.
And yet, for all its mosaic, there is something that unites all (or almost all) texts presented in the book. This is a search for non-obvious connections connecting the elements of the universe. There is nothing separate, everything is connected to everything. However, the search for hidden connections is a common place in the poetry of 20-30 year olds, but Amelina is distinguished by her breadth of coverage and unobtrusive intonation of speaking, for herself or to herself. The above poem demonstrates this quite clearly.
Mandelstam ate, ate the cherry from Khlebnikov’s cake, but didn’t swallow the bone, spat it out
rolled, the bone rolled on the asphalt, fell into the sewer
the rat runs, runs, the bone falls, falls on its head
the rat looks up, looks up, there is nothing, light, light at the end of the tunnel
She lowers her head and sees: a bone. bone. grabs it with his mouth and runs away
The rat is running and running along the embankment of Vasilyevsky Island
The Theban Sphinx smiles and asks the reflection opposite:
who stands on four legs in the morning, eight in the afternoon, and sixteen in the evening?
the reflection answers him: cherry tree. and now my, my question!
who walks at night without legs, and at dawn stands on one?
The Theban Sphinx smiles and answers: cherry tree!
the rat with the bone runs, runs, and doesn’t understand anything at all
runs to the black river. to the black river
puts the bone in a hole, in a hole, covers it, hides it, and then dies
a year passes, a year passes, a slender tree grows, opens its buds, raises branches with leaves
Caterpillars crawl on them, birds peck at them, cherries are tied
a new baker comes up, picks it and doesn’t eat, picks it and doesn’t eat it
he makes cakes, cakes, puts a cherry on each one
sometimes bakes pies filled with cherries with pits
and the new, new Mandelstam comes to visit, but doesn’t eat, doesn’t eat the cakes
he picks cherries from them, spits the pits, spits out the window
2. Galina Rymbu “Mobile space of revolution”
M: ARGO-RISK, 2014. Series “Generation”
It seems that no conversation about young poetry can be done without 27-year-old Galina Rymbu. She belongs to the circle of left-wing poets, who largely inherit the style of Kirill Medvedev - direct social statements in free verse. However, these poets differ quite greatly from each other, and at first glance it is quite difficult to unite them.
Rymbu’s poetry demonstrates the penetration of the social into the personal, registering problems that consumer society is accustomed to keeping silent about: violence, alienation, poverty. However, its accusatory pathos does not seem anachronistic; the language of description is adequate to modern times. At the same time, Rymbu’s poems often combine sociality with the almost intimate - a direct counter-argument to supporters of the separation of the personal and the political. Something similar can be found in the poetess Oksana Vasyakina (“Wind of Fury”), who harshly actualizes the feminist agenda, and Lida Yusupova (“Dead dad”), who analyzes violence as a social phenomenon.
The above poem is from Rymbu’s latest collection “Space Prospect”:
on the territory of CHPP-5 we lit a fire of a prohibited scale;
we succeeded because then, in the late 90s
it was possible to enter there freely,
in the early autumn of 1999, my dad and I walked there among the waste pits,
small industrial dumps, crooked trees and copper searches;dad always said: “it’s better to find copper than to find aluminum”
“aluminum” can be handed over when it really sucks”;
and he affectionately called her “honey” when he found her.we had black bags where we put old cables -
Dad is big, and I am smaller,
that time we were lucky and scored a lot,
I came across thick cables with a lot of copper inside,
Dad said: “We’ll be tired of cleaning them with knives, let’s set them on fire”;we collected branches and some other flammable debris
dad started making a fire and throwing cables there,
the rubber burned beautifully on them, and copper remained, which
we used chopsticks to pull them out of the fire; I found it nearby
old work helmet and played with it, put it there,
and the fire flared up more and more, dad threw and threw there
cables, which we were lucky with that day; we chatted and burned copper
and were already imagining how dad would buy himself a little drink,
I’ll buy myself some marmalade, we’ll give the rest to my mom for groceries,
but then we saw a fire truck approaching us
with the siren turned on, firefighters got out of the car and started yelling:
“What are you, *? this is the territory of CHPP-5
and you lit a fire here of a prohibited scale,
Let's call the cops right now and go to the station,
you will pay a fine"
and dad calmly said: “No need, the child is with me.”
We'll put it all out and go home. We don’t need a fine.”
and then I realized that now I need to be a child as much as possible,
say so that they would fall behind, and said: “no need,
We’ll put everything out honestly, and give the money for the copper to mom,”
they looked and said: “okay, * with you” and left.and then we went to a scrap metal collection point that had just opened nearby
and they made a good profit there, dad drank a little on the way to the house,
I carried a box of marmalade and also ate it on the go
black mouth and black hands, and when
we came home and gave mom money,
she was very happy and asked:
“why do you smell like fire?”
3. Eduard Lukoyanov “Green Line”
St. Petersburg: Word order, 2017
28-year-old Eduard Lukoyanov belongs to the same circle of leftist poets, but he is very far from, for example, the poetry of Rymbu. His poems, in the absence of a language adequate to the reality described, generally refuse to explain or describe anything, replacing description with indicating and combining elements of speech. This, in the words of Pavel Arsenyev, “deictic writing” becomes a constant technique of Lukoyanov’s poetry and can be traced both in the description of a love experience and in the conversation about the political agenda, persistently referring us to something outside the text and outside the language, and ultimately results in the top note of experience and clear poignancy. It seems that none of the young poets offers a more radical criticism of language.
The collection also includes the poem “Kenya,” for which Lukoyanov received the Arkady Dragomoshchenko Prize in 2016.
the pattern was wooden birds there are heathers
Czech speech in the gorge of snake gerunds
who bent down, dismantling what he himself created for some reason
so-and-so for so-and-so is hardly the one I’m not afraid of
I'm afraid that the stones will leave no stone unturned
that a draft will unwind the wire of the last weather vane
what are your bones like your knees for someone who is far away
where are you from? I’m from Tskhinvali, and you and I are from Moscow.***
children are practicing in the cellar: we are having a boy
we will have a girl, we will have a son, we will have a daughter,
we will have a soldier of the internal troops. two girls laughing
two girls are given to young Chechens, we will have bird cherry,
her flowers are white, her smell is white, her girls give themselves over to the bird cherry,
she falls prostrate into a glass of wild garlic. nowhere, outside
weeded the brass knuckles on the forehead-ba-ba. in the cellar children practice:I will be the mother, you will be the father. winter has come. tk-tk-tk. ts-ts-ts-ts.
4. Gleb Simonov “The Selected Branch”
M: ARGO-RISK, 2017
New York poet and photographer Gleb Simonov (b. 1986) is not too clearly present on the map of modern poetry. The collection of “The Selected Branch” is a selection (or rather, selections - the book contains several sections) from the last five years.
Simonov's poems are very laconic and precise, they leave the impression of sketches, individual photographs that capture part of reality, but in the collage made up of them, a reflection of the universe as a whole can be discerned. This is poetry, devoid of an observer, equal to the part of the world that it describes, coinciding with it and speaking in the voices of what falls into its lens - the role of the poet comes down to choosing the right perspective. Between individual remarks there are pauses filled with silence - no less important component of these poems than the spoken speech. All this makes Simonov in common with another poet of his generation, Vasily Borodin, who is close to him in the way of poetic speaking, and, in part, with Gennady Aigi, whose influence is sometimes discernible behind some of the poems from this book.
or ice -
or lumps of soapy dust
finely flowing as is
through the lattice barriers
into a silent, stagnant swamp.
—
just behind the line -
bird cliff
sways in the wind.hand reaching to the ground
(giving hand to the ground) -
do you feel it? - warm. tags
on the sides
long field where
rpm -
do you see? - coming
herbal mistress
guess -
along the sickle in the rib
Of course, many wonderful poets were forced not to be named: , Victor Lisin, Nikita Sungatov, Dina Gatina, Alexey Porvin, and many more. However, it seems that from the presented sample it is already possible to draw a conclusion about the incredible diversity of poetic practices of young poetry. Certainly enough for every poet to find his reader.
Young poets performed in the square
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