The nightingales are still passionately ringing. "difficult sentence"

The theme of the purpose of a poet and poetry in literature is fully revealed in the lyrics of the following poets:

1. In the lyrics of A. Pushkin. Pushkin considered it his duty to sing of freedom to the world and to defeat vice on the thrones (ode “Liberty”, 1817). He said that not everyone is given the opportunity to be a poet, that it is very difficult life path(“To a Poet Friend,” 1814) that the poet is obliged to burn the hearts of people with a verb, to serve his people and to raise people to fight for truth and freedom (“The Prophet,” 1828). He called on the poet to be free from the opinions of the crowd: You yourself are your own highest court (“To the Poet,” 1830) and compared yourself to an echo that responds to all the sounds of life (“Echo,” 1831).
2. In the lyrics of M. Lermontov. Following Pushkin, Lermontov recognizes the special mission of the poet, inspiring the people to fight for freedom (The Prophet, 1841), and compares the poet with a dagger: he must also be firm and unbending in serving his ideals (The Poet, 1839).
3. In the lyrics of N. Nekrasov. Nekrasov’s muse descended from the poetic Olympus onto city streets and rural arable lands - he compared his muse to a young peasant woman (“Yesterday, at six o’clock,” 1848). All his work is permeated with the thought: You may not be a poet, But you must be a citizen (“Poet and Citizen”, 1856).
4. In the lyrics of V. Mayakovsky. Mayakovsky argued that today the poet’s rhyme is a caress and a slogan, and a bayonet, and a whip. The poet’s word heals and burns, so his duty is to roar like a copper-throated siren (“Conversation with the financial inspector about poetry,” 1926). In the poem “At the top of his voice” (1930) he says that poetry is a weapon, and the poet is not a chosen one and a priest, but a performer of the most difficult work (a sewer man and a water carrier, mobilized and called up by the revolution), his word should not only convey the idea to the reader , but also to excite, motivate to immediate action - building a new world.
5. In the lyrics of A. Akhmatova. For Akhmatova, the process of composing poetry is a disease, languor: If only you knew from what rubbish / Poems grow without knowing shame (“I don’t need odic armies...”, 1940). She considers her main task to be recording poetry under the dictation of the muse, and this ability is bestowed on poets from above. Creation - thorny path, in which the poet encounters misunderstanding, deafness and blindness on the part of people. The poet’s mission is to go alone and heal the blind (“We have freshness of words and simplicity of feelings,” 1915).

An example of a poem on the topic of the poet and poetry - “I erected a monument to myself, not made by hands” by A.S. Pushkin. Let's try to briefly analyze it.

Subject. The poem is considered Pushkin's poetic testament. This is a hymn to poetry, which affirms the high purpose of the poet and poetry. The theme of freedom was introduced: the monument rose higher Alexandrian pillar(symbol of royal power).

Composition. Consists of five stanzas. The 1st stanza affirms the significance of the miraculous monument. In the 2nd - the immortality of art. The 3rd stanza is devoted to the theme of the wide posthumous fame of Pushkin himself. In the 4th stanza, the poet defines the essence of creativity. In the 5th - he is ready to accept fate, whatever it may be.

Means of artistic expression. The solemn sound is conveyed by the introduction of anaphora (And every language that exists in it will call me. And the proud grandson of the Slavs, and Finn...), the choice of sublime epithets (miraculous, rebellious, cherished, sublunary). A lot of
Slavicisms: erected, head, drink, until. The author uses only past and future tenses - he cannot evaluate himself in the present, hopes for the future and says what he did in the past.

The theme of the poet and poetry runs through the entire work of A. S. Pushkin, receiving over the years different interpretation, reflecting the changes taking place in the poet’s worldview.

It is significant that in his first printed work, the message “To a Poet Friend” (1814), Pushkin says that not everyone is given the gift of being a real poet:

Arist is not the poet who knows how to weave rhymes

And, creaking his feathers, he does not spare paper.

good poems not so easy to write...

And the fate prepared for a true poet is not easy, and his path is thorny:

Fate has not given them even marble chambers,

The chests are not filled with pure gold.

The shack is underground, the attics are high -

Their palaces are magnificent, their halls are magnificent...

Their life is a series of sorrows...

Pushkin the lyceum student is alien to the image of the official “gloomy rhymer” (“To Galich”, 1815), “boring preacher” (“To My Aristarch”, 1815) and the image of the freedom-loving poet-thinker, the fiery-stern denouncer of vices is sweet:

I want to sing freedom to the world,

Slay vice on the thrones...

In the poem “Conversation between a Bookseller and a Poet” (1824), the poet and bookseller express their attitude towards poetry in the form of a dialogue. The author's view of literature and poetry is somewhat down-to-earth here. A new understanding of the tasks of poetry is emerging. The hero of the poem, the poet, speaks of poetry that brings “fiery delight” to the soul. He chooses spiritual and poetic freedom. But the bookseller says:

Our age of trade; in this iron age

Without money there is no freedom.

Both the bookseller and the poet are right in their own way: the laws of life have extended to the “sacred” area of ​​poetry. And the poet is quite satisfied with the position that the bookseller offers him:

Inspiration is not for sale

But you can sell the manuscript.

Pushkin considers his work-poetry not only as the “brainchild” of inspiration, but also as a means of livelihood. However, to the bookseller’s question: “What will you choose?” - the poet answers: “Freedom.” Gradually the understanding comes that no political freedom is possible without inner freedom and that only spiritual harmony will make a person feel independent.

After the massacre of the Decembrists, Pushkin wrote the poem “The Prophet” (1826). The mission of the prophet is beautiful and terrible at the same time: “To burn the hearts of people with the verb.” It is impossible to cleanse the world of filth without suffering. The poet is a chosen one, a seer and a teacher, called to serve his people, to be prophetic, wise, and to encourage them to fight for truth and freedom.

The process of human transformation is nothing other than the birth of a poet. “The eyes of the prophet have opened” in order to see the world, “the sting of a wise serpent” is given instead of a tongue, and instead of a tremulous heart - “a coal blazing with fire.” But this is not enough to become the chosen one. Need more high goal, the idea in the name of which the poet creates and which animates, gives meaning to everything that he so sensitively hears and sees. “God’s voice” commands to “burn the hearts of people” poetic word, showing the real truth of life:

Arise, prophet, and see and listen,

Be fulfilled by my will

And, bypassing the seas and lands,

Burn the hearts of people with the verb.

The poem has an allegorical meaning, but in this case the poet affirms the divine nature of poetry, which means that the poet is responsible only to the Creator.

In the poem “The Poet” (1827), the motive of the divine election of the poet also appears. And when inspiration descends, “the divine verb touches the sensitive ear,” the poet feels his chosenness, the vain amusements of the world become alien to him:

He runs, wild and harsh,

And full of sounds and confusion,

To the shores desert waves,

In the noisy oak forests...

In the poems “To the Poet”, “The Poet and the Crowd”, Pushkin proclaims the idea of ​​freedom and independence of the poet from the “crowd”, “rabble”, meaning by these words the “secular rabble”, people deeply indifferent to true poetry. The crowd does not see any benefit in the poet’s work, because it does not bring any material benefits:

Like the wind, his song is free,

But like the wind she is barren:

What benefit does it have to us?

This attitude of the “uninitiated” crowd irritates the poet, and he says to the crowd with contempt:

Be silent, senseless people,

Day laborer, slave of need, of worries!

I can't stand your impudent murmur,

You are a worm of the earth, not a son of heaven...

……………………………………

Go away - who cares

To the peaceful poet before you!

Feel free to turn to stone in depravity,

The voice of the lyre will not revive you!

Poetry is for the elite:

We were born to inspire

For sweet sounds and prayers.

This is how Pushkin formulates the goal in whose name the poet comes into the world. “Sweet sounds” and “prayers”, beauty and God - these are the guidelines that guide him through life.

The poem “To the Poet” (1830) is imbued with the same mood. Pushkin calls on the poet to be free from the opinion of the crowd, which will never understand the chosen one:

Poet! do not value people's love.

There will be a momentary noise of enthusiastic praise;

You will hear the judgment of a fool and the laughter of a cold crowd,

But you remain firm, calm and gloomy.

Pushkin calls on the poet to be demanding of his work:

You are your own highest court;

You know how to evaluate your work more strictly than anyone...

Reflecting on the purpose of poetry in the fate of a poet, Pushkin compares himself to an echo (poem “Echo”, 1831). The echo responds to all the sounds of life; it, like the poet, is in love with the world:

For every sound

Your response in the empty air

You will give birth suddenly.

In these words one can hear the readiness to accept the world in all its manifestations, even when there is “no response.” For a poet, the main thing is service eternal values: goodness, freedom, mercy, and not the whims of the “crowd” and “rabble.”

This is exactly what Pushkin will write about in his poem “I have erected a monument to myself not made by hands...” (1836):

And for a long time I will be so kind to the people,

That I awakened good feelings with my lyre,

What's in my cruel age I praised Freedom

And he called for mercy for the fallen.

In this poem, Pushkin places poetry above the glory of kings and generals, for it is closer to God:

By the command of God, O muse, be obedient.

Man is mortal, and the creations of his spirit acquire eternal life:

No, all of me will not die - the soul is in the treasured lyre

My ashes will survive and decay will escape.

Ivan Bunin

It was a bright May twilight, I was riding on horseback according to our Order. The horse walked along a narrow road among the fresh growth of aspen and hazel trees. Everything around was young and green, the nightingales gently and distinctly clicked around, calling to each other. The sun had long since set, but the forest had not yet had time to calm down: turtle doves were murmuring somewhere nearby, a cuckoo was crowing in the distance... May nights the sleep is weak and short-lived, it dawns until dawn, the dawn meets the dawn.

I drove out to the clearing where the guard stood. In the hollow behind the clearing lay a large, deep pond. Above the pond, above the hundred-year-old birch and oak trees that surrounded it, a pale and transparent circle month. And Meliton sat on a stump near the pond and threw dry twigs into a hot and nimble fire built in an earthen stove under a pot hanging in it. As always, his patched trousers and shirt were very clean, and his onuchi was well tied. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands, looking at the fire, and he hummed something in a quiet and thin, completely feminine voice.

Did you catch crucian carp, Meliton? - I asked, jumping off the horse.

He stood up, stretched out to his full height, with that special bearing that was once characteristic only of Nicholas’ servants, and immediately assumed an impassive expression, as if trying to hide the constant sadness of his pale turquoise eyes. He was tall, his body was thin and bony. Gray thick eyebrows and the same mustache, on his cheeks converging with bristly sideburns, gave him a stern appearance, but his bald head, those turquoise eyes and a clean peasant shirt, indicating his readiness to lie down “under the saints” whenever he wanted, spoke of a meek, reclusive life.

When the potatoes in the cast iron began to sizzle and bubble, he poked them with a sliver and removed the cast iron from the heat. The fire began to go out - only the red chest of heat glowed in the dugout. Near it there was the smell of burnt oak leaves, and when the old man began peeling potatoes, the smell was so delicious that I asked for a couple for myself. And we silently began to have dinner near the motionless, darkened pond, in the silence and darkness of the spring dawn that was still not extinguished. The sunset behind the trees to the right glowed tenderly and subtly, and it seemed that it was already dawn there.

Meliton,” I asked with youthful innocence, “did they really run you through the gauntlet?”

True, sir,” he answered simply and briefly.

For what?

And, of course, for stupidity, for misconduct...

He went into the hut, and I sat alone for a long time, looking at the smoldering coals. He appeared silently from the darkness and brought with him another slice of rye bread, a knife made from an old braid, and a handful of coarse salt. Krutik, small, cheerful, but desperately angry, despite his cheerfulness, came running after him, affectionately and nervously wagging his tail. He also sat down near the stove, yawned with pleasure, licked his lips and began to follow with his eyes every movement of Meliton, who was steeply salting the bread. The nightingales still sang passionately and loudly, tenderly and boldly.

Are you completely alone? - I asked.

Absolutely, sir. There was a wife, but so long ago that you don’t even remember.

There were also children, sir, but God took them away in due time too...

And he fell silent again, chewing his bread with senile slowness. I peered into the movements of his wrinkled cheeks, into his drooping eyelids, trying to penetrate the secret of his sad silence. He looked at me meekly and helplessly; I turned away. I was then twenty years old, everything touched me: the forest, the sky, the guardhouse, bunches of some herbs and corollas in its canopies under the roof, between the dry foliage of the trellis... Meliton had bast sandals on his feet, I thought, on his body was an unkempt shirt. .. How wonderful it is to live so pure, simple, poor life! And these corollas - for whom does he collect, knit them? The corollas touched me even more, and I said, getting up:

You have quite a monastery, Meliton!

He smiled tenderly and sadly.

“There are chapels in the monastery, sir,” he said, throwing the crust to Krutik, and poured water from the cast iron on the coals.

They hissed and faded. And immediately it became clear that it was already a bright, moonlit night in the forest, that the clearing was illuminated by the shining moon, that the thickets of the forest had turned black and separated from it. Krutik, as soon as he had a crusty dinner, immediately set about his nightly task. He was busy barking here and there behind the guardhouse, and it seemed as if the whole forest was full of angry and restless little dogs. Meliton lit a lamp in the hut, laying hay on the bunk for me - the windows under its old, clasped roof shone like two golden eyes. Then he took the light bulb out into the hallway. I walked in there and he smiled at me again.

Otherwise, lie down on the bed,” he said, nodding towards his bed.

In the corner near the entrance there was something like a bed on tall legs from birch logs. There was also hay spread on it, covered with a blanket and rising towards the head.

“What a dream now,” I said, “soon it will be dawn.”

“Soon,” Meliton agreed dispassionately.

Indeed, we only took a nap. It was quiet and pleasant in the dark hut, greenish pieces could be seen through the windows moonlit night. But something didn’t let me sleep: the subtle song of a mosquito was enough to wake up. I listened to Krutik, the nightingales, thought about something that you don’t remember, as always on a sleepless night... Meliton didn’t sleep either. Fleas were bothering him.

Well, just wait, wait, I’ll wean you from sleeping under the bed! - he muttered occasionally, meaning Krutik.

Then he coughed, sighed, whispered something... Finally I heard his steps under the windows. I leaned out of the window into the cool night air. Meliton did not notice me. He sat on the threshold with his head down, slowly rubbing leaf tobacco on his palm and again humming in a sad female voice.

Oh, Lord, Father! - he whispered with a deep sigh, shaking his head and striking out fire. And, lighting his pipe, he leaned on his hand and sang more clearly, more sincerely.

You could hear that he was talking in a song about some green gardens, with kind reproach he reminded someone of those places where “he died and said goodbye, oh, yes, his former love...”. The night was shining. The moon climbed to the very middle of the sky and stood right above the pond. Occasionally, something glinted in the water, as if a silver grass snake was hovering there. There seemed to be no water on the opposite shore. There was a bright abyss into another, underground sky. The centuries-old oaks and birches on the other side now seemed taller and slimmer than during the day. But even better was the forest, which, with its roots up, darkened under the shore, going into this abyss with its peaks. And in the distance, behind the forest, the sky had already become glassy green, there, in the fields, quails began to strike freshly and distinctly... I closed my eyes. When I woke up, it was already day. The whole pond was smoking, the clearing was gray from heavy dew, the forest, cold and fresh, seemed to stand even more motionless around the pond. And then a damp wind blew through the windows, frogs croaked in the pond, and the rooster, flapping his wings strongly and convexly, roared in a hoarse bass voice in the entryway. Meliton, bent over, walked towards the hut from the pond with a full, heavy bucket from which water was splashing, and left behind him a long bright green trail along the gray grass...