Breathes autumn cold puffs in a gray blanket. "Autumn" by A. Pushkin: careful reading

Great about verses:

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

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

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

Marina Tsvetaeva

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

Humboldt W.

Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.

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

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

A. A. Akhmatova

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

I. S. Turgenev

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

G. Lichtenberg

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

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

Murasaki Shikibu

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

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

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

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"

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

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

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

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

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

Max Fry. "The Talking Dead"

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

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

Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky

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

Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"

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

No other season is represented as widely and vividly in Pushkin's work as autumn.

Pushkin repeated more than once that autumn is his favorite season. In autumn, he wrote best and most of all, he found “inspiration”, a special state, “a blissful state of mind, when dreams are clearly drawn in front of you, and you find live, unexpected words to embody your visions, when poems easily fall under your pen, and sonorous rhymes run towards harmonious thought” (“Egyptian Nights”).

Why is autumn so dear to the poet?

Pushkin in the poem "Autumn" says this about his attitude to this season:

The days of late autumn are usually scolded,
But she is dear to me, dear reader ...

In this poem, with wonderful descriptions of autumn nature, the poet wants to infect the reader with his special love for this season, and in the last lines of this unfinished passage, he shows with extraordinary persuasiveness and poetry how inspiration is born in his soul, how his poetic creations appear:

Sad time! oh charm!
Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me -
I love the magnificent nature of wilting,
Forests clad in crimson and gold,
In their canopy of the wind noise and fresh breath,
And the skies are covered with mist.
And a rare ray of sun, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats ...
... And the thoughts in my head are worried in courage,
And light rhymes run towards them,
And fingers ask for a pen, pen for paper,
A minute - and the verses will flow freely.

("Autumn", 1833)

The poet knows how to find poetic features in the withering of autumn nature: the yellowing foliage of trees turns purple and gold in him. This is a loving perception of her by a person who really loves and knows how to notice the poetic features of autumn. No wonder the French writer Prosper Mérimée noted that "poetry blossoms in Pushkin from the most sober prose."

We meet many descriptions of autumn nature in the novel "Eugene Onegin". Familiar from childhood, the passage “Already the sky was breathing in autumn” introduces us to late autumn in the village. In this passage there is also a traveler rushing at full speed on a horse, frightened by a wolf, and a shepherd who worked during the summer suffering, and a village girl singing behind a spinning wheel, and boys skating on a frozen river.

Already the sky was breathing in autumn,
The sun shone less
The day was getting shorter
Forests mysterious canopy
With a sad noise she was naked,
Fog fell on the fields
Noisy geese caravan
Stretched to the south: approaching
Pretty boring time;
November was already at the yard.

(Chapter IV, stanza XL)

Another passage from the famous novel is imbued with a different mood. It also speaks of autumn, but there is no direct, simple depiction of pictures of nature and images of people closely related to the life of nature. In this passage, nature itself is poetically humanized, allegorically represented in the form of a living being.

... Golden autumn has come,
Nature is quivering, pale,
Like a victim, magnificently removed ...

(Chapter VII, stanza XXIX)

Indeed, in the fall, A.S. Pushkin experienced an extraordinary surge of strength. The Boldin autumn of 1830 was marked by an extraordinary upsurge and scope of the poet's creative genius. In the history of all world literature, it is impossible to give another example when a writer would have created so many wonderful works in three months. In this famous "Boldino autumn" Pushkin finished chapters VIII and IX of the novel "Eugene Onegin", wrote "Belkin's Tales", four "little tragedies" ("The Miserly Knight", "Mozart and Salieri", "The Stone Guest", "Feast of time of the plague”), “The history of the village of Goryukhino”, “The Tale of the priest and his worker Balda” about 30 poems (including such as “Demons”, “Elegy”, “Prank”, “My family tree”), several critical articles and notes. The works of one "Boldino autumn" could perpetuate the name of the poet.

Pushkin lived in Boldin this autumn for about three months. Here he summed up the thoughts and ideas of previous years and outlined new themes, especially in prose.

The poet will visit Boldin two more times (in 1833 and 1834), also in autumn. And these visits left a noticeable mark on his work. But the famous "Boldino autumn" of 1830 remained unique in the poet's creative life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Analysis of the poem "Autumn" by Alexander Pushkin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sad time! Oh charm!...

Sad time! Oh charm!

And distant gray winter threats.

Already the sky was breathing in autumn ...

Already the sky was breathing in autumn,
The sun shone less
The day was getting shorter
Forests mysterious canopy
With a sad noise she was naked,
Fog fell on the fields
Geese noisy caravan
Stretched to the south: approaching
Pretty boring time;
November was already at the yard.

autumn morning

There was a noise; field pipe
My solitude is announced
And with the image of a mistress draga
The last dream fell.
A shadow has already fallen from the sky.
The dawn has risen, the pale day is shining -
And all around me is a deaf desolation ...
She's gone... I was off the coast,
Where the darling went on a clear evening;
On the shore, on the green meadows
I did not find any visible traces,
Left by her beautiful foot.
Thoughtfully wandering in the wilderness of forests,
I spoke the name of the incomparable;
I called her - and a solitary voice
The empty valleys called her into the distance.
He came to the stream, attracted by dreams;
Its streams flowed slowly,
The unforgettable image did not tremble in them.
She's gone!.. Until the sweet spring
I said goodbye with bliss and soul.
Already in autumn with a cold hand
The heads of birches and lindens are bare,
She rustles in the deserted oak forests;
There, day and night, a yellow leaf is spinning,
There is a fog on the waves of the cooled,
And an instant wind whistle is heard.
Fields, hills, familiar oak forests!
Keepers of sacred silence!
Witnesses of my anguish, fun!
You are forgotten... until the sweet spring!

Autumn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The golden time of the year inspired many creative people. If you read the verse "Autumn" by Pushkin Alexander Sergeevich in full, you can understand that he was no exception either. The work was written at the peak of inspiration that came to the poet during his next visit to his beloved Boldino. The author was in the estate just in the fall, when his work became the most productive. The creation of this poem falls on October 1833.

Pushkin not only praises this period. He openly and without subtext admits to the insane adoration of this time of year. The poet conducts a full-fledged conversation with readers, addressing them directly and describing in detail his attitude to autumn. He cannot rationally explain this strange attachment, but clearly states the reasons why he does not treat other periods of time so favorably. The poet associates spring only with constant boredom and dirt. In summer, insects, thirst and heat bother him. And winter, although it pleases Pushkin, but quickly gets bored. Autumn is a special time for the poet. He doesn't care that many people don't like her. He is ready to describe even non-colorful landscapes so emotionally, with a positive connotation, that he involuntarily makes readers admire them and be imbued with quivering feelings for autumn. The poet originally compares her with a living being, touched by the humility and calmness with which nature at this time of the year accepts its withering.

Many people remember the lines about autumn “the dull time of the eyes of charm”, which they learn by heart in grade 4, but this is only an excerpt, a small part of the entire lyrical work. To fully appreciate the beauty of the syllable that describes the merits of this season, you should read the entire text of Pushkin's poem "Autumn" online or download it from our website.

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

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

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