The writing of the poetry of the Silver Age

The writing of the poetry of the Silver Age

Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva is a wonderful Russian poet who has preserved her originality throughout her creative work. Her poems can not be confused with others. They break through like lava, boiling with energy, sparkling and unique. Tsvetaeva, from the cradle, seems to know that she was awarded “a soul that does not know the measure.” It is generally accepted that from the verses of 1916 the “real Tsvetaeva” begins, all the previously written only run to this important stage. Since that time, the “spontaneous Tsvetaeva” sounded, as if a certain force suddenly made its way from the depths and found its own style. In the poems of the poet burst gusts of wind and rhythms, spells, lamentations and groans, followed by a sudden peace and enlightenment. Her

poetry of unbridled passions is like the antipode of Anna Akhmatova’s “quietest poetry, in love to which Tsvetaeva was ardently and openly acknowledged. In the verses of 1916-1917 there is a lot of space, roads, rapidly running clouds and sun, someone’s cautious shadows, rustles, cries of midnight birds, purple sunsets, foreshadowing an imminent storm, and purple restless dawns…

To you all – that to me, in anything not knowing the measures, Strangers and their own. – I am applying for faith and asking for love. And day and night, and in writing and verbally: For the truth and yes, For what I so often – too sad And only twenty years.

Verses of this period and later written were included in the collections “Versts”, “Versts I” and “Versts II”. The years of the revolution and civil war were a terrible test for Tsvetaeva, but she would not have been a great poet if she had not responded to the “blizzard” that was playing out.

If the soul was born winged – What is her mansion – and what her huts! What is Genghis Khan to her and what is the Horde! Two in the world I have an enemy, Two twins, unrequited-merged: Hungry hungry – and satiety full!

Tsvetaeva perceives her life as a predestined “book of destinies.”

On her way to the cross, having embodied it in verse, it is on the shoulder only great.

Nailed to the pillory of the Slavic conscience ancient. With a snake in my heart and a brand on my forehead, I say that it is innocent. I affirm that in me the Communion is before the parish. What is not my fault, that I’m with my hand. In the squares I stand – for happiness.

And how careless and even frivolous, albeit in a philosophical mood, Tsvetaeva foresees or rather predicts her fate:

You walk like me, Eyes down. I put them down – too! Passer-by, stop! Read – the blindness of chicken And poppy seeds by typing a bouquet. What was Marina calling me? And how old was I…

But the poet is not yet twenty years old. In youth you can be careless and mischievous. Ahead is a life full of secrets and wonderful surprises:

No one took anything away – I’m sweet that we are apart! … I kiss you – through hundreds of disconnecting versts…

And then the first disappointments, grievances and sorrows will come. And already almost intimately, with a purely feminine intonation, the question will sound:

Yesterday I looked into my eyes, And now everything is sideways! Yesterday even before the birds sat – All the larks today – crows! I’m stupid, and you’re smart, Alive, and I’m dumbfounded. About the howls of women of all time: “My dear, what have I done to you?!”

Tsvetaeva achieves special confidence in the fact that most of her poems are written in the first person. This “I” makes it close and understandable, almost native to readers. Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva recognized the great love and pain of loss. For her husband, a white officer, she goes to emigration. She did not leave the Motherland, but went to relieve her beloved life in a foreign land. He was her homeland and the meaning of life. She was born this way, she could not do anything in half, but only with her whole soul open to the end. Before the war, Marina and her husband returned to Russia, but she met them “stepmother.” The husband and daughter were imprisoned, nothing was known about their fate Tsvetaeva, and most importantly, there was no strength to fight. She lost not only faith in the future, but also the “core” on which life was kept. And why life, if there is nothing to live on.

We sleep – and now, through the stone slabs. Heavenly guest in four petals. O world, understand! Singer – in a dream – the Law of the Star and the formula of the flower are discovered.

1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)
The writing of the poetry of the Silver Age