Tsvetaeva essay on creativity

Russian poetry is our great spiritual treasure, our national pride. But many poets and writers have forgotten, they were not printed, they were not spoken about. These are such wonderful Russian poets as Anna Akhmatova, Nikolai Gumilev, Osip Mandelstam, Marina Tsvetaeva.
From this magnificent galaxy, I am closer and dearer than MI Tsvetaeva, a wonderful Russian poetess and, I think, very sincere person. Ilya Ehrenburg, who knew her well in her youth, says: “Marina Tsvetaeva combined old-fashioned courtesy and rebelliousness, piety before harmony and love for spiritual tongue-tie, utmost pride and ultimate simplicity.” Her life was a ball of insights and mistakes. “
She lived hard and hard, she did not know and did not seek peace or prosperity, she was always in complete disarray, sincerely asserted that her “sense of property” was “limited to children and notebooks.” Marina’s life from the time of her childhood until her death

is the rule of imagination. Tsvetaeva began writing poetry from the age of six (not only in Russian, but also in French, in German), and printed from sixteen. Heroes and events settled in Tsvetaeva’s soul, continued her “work” in her.
The poems of young Tsvetaeva were still very immature, but they bribed her with talent, a certain originality and spontaneity. All the reviewers agreed on this. Strict Bryusov especially praised Marina for the fact that she fearlessly introduces into everyday life “everyday life”, warning her, however, from the danger of falling into “domesticity” and exchanging her subjects for “sweet little things”: “Undoubtedly talented Marina Tsvetaeva can give us the real poetry of an intimate life, and maybe, with the ease with which she seems to write poetry, squander all her talents for unnecessary, if even elegant trinkets. ” In this album (“Graceful knick-knacks”), Tsvetaeva puts her emotions into lyric poems about unfulfilled love,

I saw it all – so late!
In the hearts of our eternal wound,

In the eyes of a silent question.
In her poems appears a lyrical heroine – a young girl who dreams of love. “Evening album” is a hidden dedication. Before each section – an epigraph, and even two: from Rostand and the Bible. These are the pillars of the first building of Marina Tsvetaeva, the building of poetry. What it is still unreliable, this building; like some of its parts, created by a half-child’s hand. There are a lot of infantile lines – however, quite original ones, on whose not-like:
– “The cat was seen, the chickens
Steel with turkeys in a circle.”
Mom at the sleepy daughter.
She took the doll from her hands.
(“At the cot”).
In the “Evening Album” Tsvetaeva said a lot about herself, her feelings for people dear to her heart, especially about her mother and her sister Ace. In the best poems of Tsvetaeva’s first book, the intonations of the main conflict of her love poetry are already discernible: the conflict between “earth” and “heaven,” between passion and ideal love, between the momentary and eternal.
Tsvetaeva’s prose is closely connected with her poetry. In it, as in verse, the fact was important, not only the meaning, but also the sound, rhythm, harmony of parts. She wrote: “The poet’s prose is another work than the prose prose, in her the unit of effort is not a phrase, but a word, and even often it’s mine.” Prose Tsvetaeva creates the impression of great scale, weight, significance. One of her prose works is dedicated to Pushkin. In her Marina writes how she first met Pushkin and what he learned about it first. To this great poet she also devoted a lot of poems: the
Beach of the gendarmes, the God of the students, the
Bile of husbands, the delight of wives,
Pushkin in the role of a monument?
A guest of the stone? – he.
Soon the October Revolution took place, which Marina Tsvetaeva did not accept and did not understand. In May 1922 Tsvetaeva with her daughter went abroad to her husband, who was a white officer. Life was emigrant, difficult, poor. Resolutely abandoning her former illusions, she did not mourn any more and was not given any touching memories of what had passed in the past. In her poems, quite different notes began to sound:
From yesterday’s truths
In the house a stench and rubbish.
Even the very dust is given to the
Around Tsvetaeva the dull wall of solitude was closing ever closer. At the same time, in Tsvetaeva there is a growing and growing interest in what is happening in the abandoned Homeland. Russia for Tsvetaeva is the heritage of the ancestors, Russia is nothing more than a sad memory of the fathers who lost their motherland and who do not have the hope of finding it again, and the children have only one way – home, to their homeland, to the USSR. The personal drama of the poetess was intertwined with the tragedy of the century. She saw the bestial grin of fascism and managed to curse him. The last thing Tsvetaeva wrote in emigration is the cycle of angry anti-fascist verses about the trampled Czechoslovakia, which she tenderly and faithfully loved. It is truly “the weeping of anger and love.” Tsvetaeva was already losing hope – a saving faith in life. These poems of hers are like the cry of a living, but tortured soul:

In Bedlam – nonhumans.
I refuse to live
with wolves of squares.
On this note of last despair, Tsvetaeva’s work was cut short. Then there was just human existence. In 1939, Tsvetaeva restored her Soviet citizenship and returned to her homeland. She dreamed of returning to Russia as a “welcome and welcome guest”. But it did not work out that way. Tsvetaeva settled in Moscow, preparing a collection of poems. But then a war broke out. Conversion of evacuation was thrown Tsvetaeva first in Chistopol, and then in Elabuga. Then she was overcome by loneliness, which she spoke with such deep feeling in her poems. Exhausted, lost faith, on August 31, 1941 Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva committed suicide. Her grave was lost. For a long time she had to wait and fulfill her youthful prophecy that her poems “like precious wines, will come their turn.”

1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 5.00 out of 5)

Tsvetaeva essay on creativity