“For me poetry is a house…”, wrote Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva. This house owned the poet completely and left him unlike others – warm, tall, beautiful and bright, in which you want to come back again and again.
Scattered in the dust of the shops
(Where no one took them and did not take them!),
My poems, like precious wines,
There will be a turn.
These lines were written when their author was not even 21 years old, however, even decades later Tsvetaeva spoke about this final stanza: “The formula in advance – of all my writing destiny.” Later in the lyrics of Tsvetaeva appeared poems that proclaimed the high destiny and duty of the poet:
In the sweat – a writer, in a pot-punching!
We know another
Light fire over the curls dancing, –
The genius of inspiration is the sole ruler of the poet. He hovers over him in the guise of a fiery horseman: “The devouring fire is my horse.”; “With a red mane, hair began to roll… / Fire strip – to heaven!”. And she herself, a woman poet, is likened to the bird Phoenix, which sings “only in the fire,” burning in the “secret heat” of the soul, and this fire sacrifices everything: “I and life beckon, I and death beckon / In an easy gift my fire. ” The theme of the poet and his destiny reaches its power in a small energetic poem “On the Red Horse”. The heroine brings to the feet of the Genius-master – the rider on the red horse – his life, so that he withers her upward, and “in azure,” in another world – into the sky of the poet.
In 1923 Tsvetaeva wrote a poem “Poet”. It is about the poet, his nature, his essence, his greatness and defenselessness, his power and insignificance “in this world.” “There are extra, extra, / not inscribed in the world” living with a pen and paper, the soul of which is more and more sensitive, unlike the others. A poet must be taller and brighter to be that ray of light that illuminates the
Poets we – and in rhyme with pariahs,
But having stepped out of the coast,
We defy goddesses
And the virgin of the gods!
The poets’ path in the world is special, but the road is not easy in the world where the rest see nothing but their own “I”, their own problems, choke in everyday life, reject poets who can break their routine, calling for a better, brighter,
What should I do, the singer and the first child,
In a world where the worst is ser!
Where the inspiration is stored, as in a thermos!
With this immensity
March 19, 1918 Tsvetaeva wrote a poem in which she makes a creative leap to the very one she soon became, to the very place where she sees the Poet – Woman – Love in their opposite principles, where her poetic intuition reveals the dual nature of man: two women essence, symbolized in Psyche (soul) and Eve (body). Also, it speaks of human heights – lowliness, purity – sinfulness, light – darkness, higher – earthly, “being” – life:
Whatever you want, ask. You are kind and old,
And you will understand that with such a kind in the chest
The Kremlin bell – you can not lie.
And you will understand how passionately day and night
Fought and arbitrariness fought
In the grinding millstones of the chest…
And the voice, leaving the chest with a dove,
In the dervish dome circle.
Two scales of weights: on one – arbitrariness, lowered gaze; on the other – fishing (the highest), cast in his right head. Two bowls of scales – and not outweigh any. After all, above everything, beyond everything – the voice of the poet (Logos), a pigeon flying out of his chest and hovering over the dome of the temple…
The poet, according to Tsvetaeva, is not subject to the court. “I do not judge a poet, / And you can forgive everything for a crying sonnet!” – so in her youth she defended the poet Ellis. The poet, she believes, not only does not judge the readers, but also does not judge others. He thinks in his own way. His “darkness” does not always mean evil, but height is good. Eve may be kind, and Psyche – impassive. When, later, Marina Tsvetaeva herself, with the gesture of the poet and Psyche in a hungry Moscow, will give Balmont the last potato; or when she leaves work, is unable to “serve”, while at home two hungry children are sitting, then as a woman and mother she was… not right. However, is it possible to judge and measure the poet by some ordinary everyday measures? And if it does not fit into them, and if it only exists because of its “immeasurable”? These questions are difficult to answer unequivocally. In any case, Tsvetaeva was exactly that in the 25-28 years. Over the years, it will become different, it will become more acute sense of duty. But he will not change his views on the rights of the poet and declare: “In life – black, in a notebook – it is clean.”