O Rus my wife is mine
The beginning of XX century. Art drowns in symbolic indistinct images, the homeland lives in pictures and verses then as a misty ideal, then as elegant pictures of a charming old time, exquisite ladies and gentlemen, a serene and beautiful life. But time demands change, there is a need for other images, in a sensitive, great talent that will respond with a mind and heart to what is happening in Russia, will come to a definite answer to the “damned questions.” Such a poet became Alexander Blok. His era was chosen by his voice and conscience.
The nineteen hundred years were a time of poetry, a time of foreboding, hopes, anxieties. And Blok honestly and courageously exposed the poet’s soul, merged his life with art, gave himself without reservation and calculations to Russia. Each time he chose the consonant lines for himself. In silence they read “Stranger”, in the catastrophic years of collapse and change they listened to the lines of “The Twelve.”
1905 year. Alexander Blok, the singer of the Beautiful Lady, writes: “I want action, I feel that fire is coming again, that life does not wait.” The old one collapses, I will never accept Christ, if you knew the face of a Russian village, it turns over, someone starts to give me weapon. “. The pure vision of a beautiful motherland – the virgins, the ladies lighting candles, has already gone. There were muddy, scary images, somersaulting swamp impasses, disappearing immersed in a dream, over the poet is dominated by the mysticism of everyday life, an alarming, terrible, attracting world:
No, I’m on the road, nobody is invited,
And the land shall be easy for me!
I will listen to Russia’s voice drunk,
To rest under the roof of the tavern.
I’ll sing about my luck,
How I ruined my youth in hops.
Over the sadness of your fields I will cry,
Your vastness will fall in love forever.
A lot of us – free,
Dies, not loving.
You shelter in the distance of the vast!
How to live and cry without you!
The subtle sense of the uniqueness of Russian nature, its sad charm, the excess of the blue of the sky, the waters, their interrelationship, the blue glow on the grasses, the transparency of the colors are repeated in Blok’s verses: “in a simple salary of the blue sky,” “the face and blue sky are one.”, and you will not comprehend the blue eye. ” Sadness is diffused in the landscape and poetry:
Single, light, a little sad –
Behind him rises cereal,
On the hillock lies the cabbage garden,
And birches and fir trees run into the ravine.
And everything is so close and so far away,
That, standing side by side, can not be reached.
But how far is the development of thought from the blessed “pseudo-Russian” mosaic image of “Mother Russia”! What understanding that it is impossible to comprehend the homeland without merging with it, observing it from the outside, is carefully but arrogantly:
And you will not comprehend the blue eye,
Until you become yourself, like a path.
While such a beggar you will not,
Do not lie down, trampled, into a remote ravine,
You will not forget about everything, and you will not stop loving everything,
And do not fade like a dead grass.
In 1906, Blok worked on an article on Russian conspiracies and spells and was shocked by the poetry of “secret Russia.” “Ancient beliefs” will respond in “Stranger”, the mysterious, new face of Rus appears in the poem “You and in a dream is extraordinary.”:
You are also in a dream extraordinary.
Your clothes will not touch.
I’m asleep – and for a nap a mystery,
And in secret – you pooh, Rus.
The legends of antiquity, a fairy tale and mystery are revealed in a dream vision to the poet, are presented as an extraordinary gift:
And witches play with devils
In road snow poles.
Rus warms the sick and lonely soul of the poet, but it’s still the same real homeland, not an artsy image:
So – I found out in my drowse
Country of birth
And in the rags of her rags
Souls hide nakedness.
All of Blok’s work, all his lyrical mood, he himself defined in two words: “The feeling of the homeland.” To understand the people’s soul, to understand where the real people are, to find the point where a culture of spontaneous, ancient and bookish culture is possible. Poems of the Kulikov cycle give an amazing roll call with the famous Pushkin’s remark from Boris Godunov: “The people are silent.” Similarly, over the camp of Dmitry Donskoy on the eve of the great battle, there was silence. And only the widow is crying inconsolably, and her mother is beating about the stirrup of her son.
We ourselves, a friend over the steppe at midnight, have become:
Do not go back, do not look back.
Behind the Nepryadva swans shouted,
And again, they shout again.
The homeland in Blok’s poems is a topic that has been suffered, not bookish, not contrived. This is his soul, which saw the Bride and Wife in Russia:
Oh, my Russia! My wife!
We are clear to the long path of pain.
Our path is an arrow of the Tatar ancient will
Our chest pierced us.
On the eve of the terrible events, on the eve of the ordeals, the main thing is to be ready for battle, defending our homeland hourly for ourselves and for ourselves. The dearest thing that a poet has is his motherland, for it is an eternal battle:
And the eternal battle! Rest only in our dreams.
Through the blood and dust
The steppe mare flies, flies
And feather grass wavers.
And there is no end! They are flickering miles, steep.
Stop it!
They go, frightened clouds walk,
Sunset in the blood!
Rus – wife, Rus – poor, poor, priceless. And the most accurate, most eternal image of the motherland and the attitude towards it: the son is the mother. Over the poor little house, the black raven circles the century after the century, the mother tushes over her son, whose face sees Blok standing up for the word Rus:
And you are all the same, my country,
In glory tear and ancient.
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