Only fish in the seas know the price of freedom. Listen to the song performed by Alexander Vasiliev
Because the art of poetry requires words,
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
A second-rate power associated with this one -
Not wanting to rape my own brain,
Handing myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk
For the evening newspaper.
The wind blows the leaves. Old light bulbs dim glow
In these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
With the assistance of puddles, it creates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal the orange by scraping the amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself is
I forgot this feeling.
In these sad lands everything is designed for winter: dreams,
Prison walls, coats, brides' toilets - white
New Year's, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan morals. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
Wooden heating pads.
This region is motionless. Presenting the volume of gross
Cast iron and lead, you shake your head in shock,
You will remember the former government on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs stay here
On bolts and nuts.
To live in an era of achievements, having an exalted character,
Unfortunately, it's difficult. I lifted up the beauty's dress,
You see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas.
And it’s not that Lobachevsky is strictly watched here,
But the widened world must narrow somewhere, and here -
This is where the prospect ends.
Either the map of Europe was stolen by government agents,
Perhaps the five-sixths of the parts remaining in the world
Too far away. Is it some kind of good fairy?
He's casting a spell over me, but I can't escape from here.
I pour myself some Cahors - don’t shout to the servant -
Yes, I'm scratching my cat...
Or a bullet to the temple, as if in the place of a mistake with a finger,
Or pull him out of here across the sea with the new Christ.
And how not to mix it up with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
A steam locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
Like a boat on the water, it will not leave a mark on the rails.
Locomotive wheel.
What do they write in the newspapers in the “From the Courtroom” section?
The sentence has been carried out. Looking here,
The average person sees through tin-rimmed glasses,
How a man lies face down against a brick wall;
But he doesn't sleep. For to disdain dreams
Perforated have the right.
The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
Times incapable in their general blindness
Distinguish those that have fallen out of cradles from those that have fallen out.
The white-eyed monster does not want to look further than death.
It’s a pity, there are plenty of saucers, but there’s no one to turn the table with,
To ask you, Rurik.
The vigilance of these times is vigilance for things that are dead-end.
It’s not appropriate for the mind to run wild yet,
But spitting on the wall. And it’s not the prince who wakes up the dinosaur.
For the last line, oh, you can’t snatch the bird’s feather.
To the innocent head of all things, why wait for the ax
Yes green laurel. Because the art of poetry requires words
I - one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
Second-rate powers associated with this -
Not wanting to rape your own brain,
Self feeding clothes, go down to the shop
During the evening paper.
The wind blows the leaves. Old bulbs dim glow
In these sad lands, whose motto - victory mirrors
With the assistance of puddles creates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal an orange, an amalgam of scratching.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself -
This feeling I forgot.
In these garden lands, all designed for the winter: dreams
Prison walls, coat, toilets brides - white
Christmas, drinks, second hands.
Passerines cardigans and dirt on the number of bases;
Puritanical mores. Underwear. And in the hands of violinists -
Wooden warmers.
This land is immovable. Representing gross
Iron and lead, stunned tryahnesh head
Remember former power on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But eagles sit like a magnet to iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs held here
Bolt and nuts.
Live in an era of achievements, with the sublime in nature,
Unfortunately, it is difficult. Belle dress lifted up
You see what I was looking and not new wonderful diva.
It is not that hard here Lobachevsky blyudut,
But somewhere in the world must move apart to narrow, and then -
Here end prospects.
Whether the map of Europe stolen agents authorities
Then five miles six remaining parts of the world
Too far. Whether some fairy godmother
Practice witchcraft on me, but I can't run away.
I pour myself Cahors - not screaming same servant -
Yes...I scratch Kotofei
Whether the bullet in the head, as if the finger of Errors,
Whether to pull out of here by sea new Christ.
And how not to mix with drunken eyes, Ninny from frost
Steam locomotive with the ship - still can not burn with shame:
As the canoe on the water, will not leave a trace on the rails
Wheel of a steam locomotive.
What the newspapers say in the section "From the courtroom?"
Sentence was carried out. Glancing here
Babbitt will see through his glasses in pewter frame,
As a man lying face down against a brick wall;
But not asleep. For squeamish bonce dreams
Perforated entitled.
Vigilance of this era roots entwined in those
Times, unable in their general blindness
Distinguished from the drop-down cradles of fallen cradles.
Ferruginous Chud on death did not want to look .
Pity saucers full, not only with whom vertanut table ,
To ask from you, Rurik.
Vigilance these times - this vigilance to things impasse.
Do not spread on the tree mind stuck until
But spit on the wall. And do not wake the prince - a dinosaur.
For the last line, oh, do not pull out a bird feather.
Defiant and head of all cases - that wait ax
Yes green laurel.
"End belle époque» Joseph Brodsky
Because the art of poetry requires words,
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
second-rate power associated with this -
not wanting to rape my own brain,
handing myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening newspaper.The wind blows the leaves. Old light bulbs dim glow
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
with the assistance of puddles, it generates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal the orange by scraping the amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself is
I forgot this feeling.In these sad lands everything is designed for winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats; bridesmaid toilets - white
New Year's, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan morals. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heating pads.This region is motionless. Presenting the volume of gross
cast iron and lead, you shake your head in shock,
remember the former government on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs stay here
on bolts and nuts.Only fish in the seas know the value of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out with a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
It looks for the properties of both in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.To live in an era of achievements, having an exalted character,
unfortunately, it's difficult. I lifted up the beauty's dress,
you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas.
And it’s not that Lobachevsky is strictly watched here,
but the widened world must narrow somewhere, and here -
this is the end of perspective.Either the map of Europe was stolen by government agents,
maybe five-sixths of the parts remaining in the world
too far away. Is it some kind of good fairy?
He casts a spell on me, but I can’t escape from here.
I pour myself some Cahors - don’t shout to the servant -
Yes, I’m scratching my cat...Or a bullet to the temple, as if in the place of a mistake with a finger,
or be pulled from here across the sea by the new Christ.
And how not to mix it up with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a steam locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
like a boat on water, it will not leave a mark on the rails
locomotive wheel.What do they write in the newspapers in the “From the Courtroom” section?
The sentence has been carried out. Looking here,
the average person sees through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a man lies face down against a brick wall;
but doesn't sleep. For to disdain dreams
perforated right.The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times, incapable in their general blindness
distinguish those that have fallen out of cradles from those that have fallen out.
The white-eyed monster does not want to look further than death.
It’s a pity, there are plenty of saucers, but there’s no one to turn the table with,
to ask you, Rurik.The vigilance of these times is vigilance for things that are dead-end.
It’s not appropriate for the mind to run wild yet,
but spitting on the wall. And it’s not the prince who wakes up the dinosaur.
For the last line, oh, you can’t snatch the bird’s feather.
To the innocent head of all things, why wait for the ax
yes green laurel.
Analysis of Brodsky's poem "The End of a Beautiful Era"
If there is no other way to speak out and be heard, then one poem can become a real confession, and the most trivial plot can become an encrypted message that will tell people what is going on in the poet’s soul. “The End of a Beautiful Era” became just such an outlet for Joseph Alexandrovich Brodsky (1940–1996). The poet hid so many hints in it that it is not always possible to recognize them all in one reading. But we will still make such an attempt.
The plot of the work, as stated above, is very simple - lyrical hero, on whose behalf Joseph Alexandrovich himself speaks, leaves the house to buy a newspaper. On the way to the kiosk, he glances at the street, then returns to the apartment and reads the news. However, this short walk is filled with such deep observations, reflections and conclusions that the reader will never cease to be surprised.
Here, for example, is the first sentence:
Because the art of poetry requires words,
I am one of the deaf...ambassadors
second-rate power...
It conceals bitterness from the fact that since 1963 Brodsky was persecuted, tried, not published, and not allowed to speak out. The poet could not even find out how he was received, which is very important for creative person That's why he calls himself deaf. “Ambassador of a second-rate power” is an ironic alogism containing a hint of Jewish origin Joseph Alexandrovich.
One attentive glance is enough for the poet to characterize the country in which he lives. To depict this sad place, he uses gloomy epithets: “sparrow jackets,” “Puritan morals,” “wooden hot water bottles.” The author points out that here people live in harshness, are accustomed to silence, and human happiness is determined by the volume of gross product and metal production:
Or a bullet to the temple, as if in the place of a mistake with a finger,
or pull it from here across the sea with the new Christ...
The reader may notice here a poignant anaphora that equates the idea of emigration with thoughts of suicide. And all these difficult thoughts are encrypted in skillful metaphors: in the “five sixths ... parts” we hear an echo of the proud slogan about greatness Soviet Union as one-sixth of the entire landmass. In the expression “to distinguish those who have fallen out of the cradles from those that have fallen out of the cradles,” one can discern a saying about a child thrown out from dirty water. This is an allusion to Soviet ideology, which ignores the essence and concentrates on trifles.
There are many more such metaphors and allusions in the text of the work. It is important to note that in addition to the colossal semantic content, “The End of a Beautiful Era” is distinguished by the elegance of its composition. Each stanza has a precise aabccb structure and is written in confident amphibrachium. Thanks to its correct rhythm and piercing images, it reaches the hidden depths of the soul and makes the reader think about the ideas presented in the lines.
Because the art of poetry requires words,
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
second-rate power associated with this -
not wanting to rape my own brain,
handing myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening newspaper.
- about how difficult it is for a poet to live in the Soviet Union.
The wind blows the leaves. Old light bulbs dim glow
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
with the assistance of puddles, it generates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal the orange by scraping the amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself is
I forgot this feeling.
- that the ostentatious “abundance” of the state is a soap bubble, a fiction that does not correspond to reality.
In these sad lands everything is designed for winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats, brides' toilets - white
New Year's, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan morals. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heating pads.
This region is motionless. Presenting the volume of gross
cast iron and lead, you shake your head in shock,
remember the former government on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs stay here
on bolts and nuts.
- I think the meaning is obvious...
Only fish in the seas know the value of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out with a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
It looks for the properties of both in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.
To live in an era of achievements, having an exalted character,
unfortunately, it's difficult. I lifted up the beauty's dress,
you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas.
And it’s not that Lobachevsky is strictly watched here,
but the widened world must narrow somewhere, and here -
this is the end of perspective.
Either the map of Europe was stolen by government agents,
maybe five-sixths of the parts remaining in the world
too far away. Is it some kind of good fairy?
He casts a spell on me, but I can’t escape from here.
I pour myself some Cahors - don’t shout to the servant -
Yes, I'm scratching my cat...
Or a bullet to the temple, as if in the place of a mistake with a finger,
or be pulled from here across the sea by the new Christ.
And how not to mix it up with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a steam locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
like a boat on water, it will not leave a mark on the rails
locomotive wheel.
- Three quatrains about the desire to leave the country and the impossibility of doing so.
What do they write in the newspapers in the “From the Courtroom” section?
The sentence has been carried out. Looking here,
the average person sees through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a man lies face down against a brick wall;
but doesn't sleep. For to disdain dreams
perforated right.
- that capital punishment, including executions without trial, have become so commonplace in the Soviet Union. that do not evoke any emotions in the average person. reading about them in the newspapers.
The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times, incapable in their general blindness
distinguish those that have fallen out of cradles from those that have fallen out.
The white-eyed monster does not want to look further than death.
It’s a pity, there are plenty of saucers, but there’s no one to turn the table with,
to ask you, Rurik.
- That the mistakes of this era are rooted in its past, its history and national character.
The vigilance of these times is vigilance for things that are dead-end.
It’s not appropriate for the mind to run wild yet,
but spitting on the wall. And it’s not the prince who wakes up the dinosaur.
For the last line, oh, you can’t snatch the bird’s feather.
To the innocent head of all things, why wait for the ax
yes green laurel.
- the most capacious quatrain, about the fact that in this era in this country it is an unfortunate fate to be a poet; that these problems are so deep that even history does not explain everything, and it is no longer necessary to ask Rurik, but to dig even deeper; that the poet, although innocent, will surely die, and glory will come only after death.
The end of a wonderful era
Joseph Brodsky
Because the art of poetry requires words,
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
second-rate power associated with this -
not wanting to rape my own brain,
handing myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening newspaper.
The wind blows the leaves. Old light bulbs dim glow
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
with the assistance of puddles, it generates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal the orange by scraping the amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself is
I forgot this feeling.
In these sad lands everything is designed for winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats, brides' toilets - white
New Year's, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan morals. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heating pads.
This region is motionless. Presenting the volume of gross
cast iron and lead, you shake your head in shock,
remember the former government on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs stay here
on bolts and nuts.
Only fish in the seas know the value of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out with a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
It looks for the properties of both in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.
To live in an era of achievements, having an exalted character,
unfortunately, it's difficult. I lifted up the beauty's dress,
you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas.
And it’s not that Lobachevsky is strictly watched here,
but the widened world must narrow somewhere, and here -
this is the end of perspective.
Either the map of Europe was stolen by government agents,
maybe five-sixths of the parts remaining in the world
too far away. Is it some kind of good fairy?
He casts a spell on me, but I can’t escape from here.
I pour myself some Cahors - don’t shout to the servant -
Yes, I'm scratching my cat...
Or a bullet to the temple, as if in the place of a mistake with a finger,
or be pulled from here across the sea by the new Christ.
And how not to mix it up with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a steam locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
like a boat on water, it will not leave a mark on the rails
locomotive wheel.
What do they write in the newspapers in the “From the Courtroom” section?
The sentence has been carried out. Looking here,
the average person sees through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a man lies face down against a brick wall;
but doesn't sleep. For to disdain dreams
perforated right.
The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times, incapable in their general blindness
distinguish those that have fallen out of cradles from those that have fallen out.
The white-eyed monster does not want to look further than death.
It’s a pity, there are plenty of saucers, but there’s no one to turn the table with,
to ask you, Rurik.
The vigilance of these times is vigilance for things that are dead-end.
It’s not appropriate for the mind to run wild yet,
but spitting on the wall. And it’s not the prince who wakes up the dinosaur.
For the last line, oh, you can’t snatch the bird’s feather.
To the innocent head of all things, why wait for the ax
yes green laurel.
Works of Joseph Brodsky.
Pushkin Foundation.
St. Petersburg, 1992.
