Poems dedicated to Anna Akhmatova. great POETS!
There is a row of small rosary on the neck,
I hide my hands in a wide sleeve,
Eyes absentmindedly
And they never cry again.

And the face seems paler
From purple silk
Almost reaches the eyebrows
My loose bangs.

And it doesn't feel like flying
This gait is slow,
It's like a raft under your feet
Not parquet squares!

And the pale mouth is slightly open,
Unevenly labored breathing
And they tremble on my chest
Flowers of not a former date.

A. Akhmatova, 1913

Anna Akhmatova

"Beauty is terrible", they will tell you -
You throw it lazily
Spanish shawl on the shoulders,
The red rose is in the hair.

"Beauty is simple", you will be told -
A motley shawl clumsily
You will shelter the child
Red rose is on the floor.

But, absentmindedly listening
To all the words that sound around
You will think sadly
And repeat to yourself:

“I am not terrible and not simple;
I'm not so scared to just
Kill; I'm not so simple
Not to know how terrible life is. "

A. Blok, 1913

I know a woman: silence,
Bitter fatigue from words
Lives in a mysterious twinkle
Her pupils are dilated.

Her soul is open eagerly
Only to the measured music of the verse,
Before life is dolny and joyful
Arrogant and deaf.

Inaudible and unhurried
So strangely smooth is her step,
You can't call her beautiful
But in her is all my happiness.

When I yearn for self-will
And bold and proud - I'm going to her
Learn to wise sweet pain
In her languor and delirium.

She shone in the hours of languor
And holds lightning in his hand
And her dreams are rosary like shadows
On heavenly sand of fire

N. Gumilev

A. Akhmatova

She flew to us like a flying dove,
Philomela sang languidly in the bushes,
The soul yearned to escape from the body
Like a prisoner from a dungeon.

Vorozheya, cruelly sharpen the sting
A poisoned, thin dagger!
You would gladly delay the course of the sun
And the shine of the day s

You came so defenseless
She kept armor from fragile glass,
But they tremble, anxious and winged,
Zarnitsy.

M. Kuzmin, 1912

Akhmatova

Half a turn, oh, sadness!
I looked at the indifferent.
Falling off my shoulders, turned to stone
False classic shawl.

O. Mandelstam, 1914

Like a black angel in the snow
You seemed to me today
And I cannot hide
There is the seal of the Lord on you.
Such a strange seal -
As if given from above -
What seems to be in a church niche
You are assigned to stand.
Let unearthly love
With the love of the local will be merged,
Let the raging blood
Will not go into your Lanits
And lush marble will shade
All the ghost of your rags
All the nakedness of the most tender flesh
But not reddening cheeks.

O. Mandelstam

Anna Akhmatova

At the beginning of the century, the profile is strange
(He is thin and proud)
Originated from the lyre. The sound is welcome
Distributed, sharply embodying

Resentment, bitterness and confusion
Of hearts that have seen the edge
Where in the inevitable collision
Two centuries fought for their own.

S. Gorodetsky,

Anna Akhmatova

You - initially - weary
Always fearlessly sad
Joylessly in love with herself
And unbreakable revenge to people.

But it seems to me when we meet
That you will not always be a captive
That the sleeping heart will awaken
And it will pour into the world like a wave of foam.

What will it bring: your suffering?
Or joy - terrible and unprecedented?
But I, anticipating your rebellion,
I still greet you - tired!

A. Tinyakov, 1913

Akhmatova - jasmine bush,
Burnt on gray asphalt
Lost the path to the caves,
Where Dante walked and the air is thick
And does the nymph spin crystal flax?
Among Russian women by Anna Dalny
She, like a cloud, comes through
Wakes in the evening graying!

... Hello, desired daughter
Glory, sovereign goddess!
In every nod of yours - the night
Longs for the conqueror moon, -
Glory beloved daughter!

Night. And you yourself are a star
Eclipsing the moon with brilliance ...
Here you are lit forever!
Here you are, shimmering in the firmament,
A huge star!

Legislative bored eyes
Through inattention, oppressed by laziness,
Like a steady hum of spindles
I heard voices behind a flabby argument.

But the heat of the soul was not all noticeable.
Three And I carefully drew a pattern,
Until the three damn good deal
It was not gossip to monogram you.

The consonance of features to the consonance of musical
Opened the door - and there are no external sounds.
Your voice is heard in the music of the planets ...
And here in front of everyone, in spite of impudent eyes,
With Leonardo, I am a mirror letter
I am writing down a sonnet that has finished singing.

N. Nedobrovo

Parting

Miles and miles away, where is the forest and meadow,
A complete circle to dreams and songs
Where tender hands touch
Gives a farewell blessing.
Initial day, final verst,
Accept my gift of the sacred cross.
Wait, last a mile! From river mouths
A man is sailing by the sea.
He hears a call in the distance: "Wait, wait!"
But that dream will remain empty
But not a mile away that inspiration measures
And words of painful miracles.
You create your poems with a groan,
They will fill the world with heavenly ringing.

B. Anrep, 1916

I live painfully and hard
I get tired and drink wine;
But, visited by a wonderful fate,
I love - severely and for a long time.

And it seems to me - that, one-thinking,
Into the lurking shadow
I'll take the July day away
And the memory of a mad woman.

V. Shileiko

Anna Akhmatova

Free and faithful in the morning
I hate your witchcraft,
Smoke-blue tavern
And painful poetry.
Here she came, entered the stage,
She sang unfamiliar words
And everyone from the muddy poison
The head grew dim.
As if we were tired of boredom
Choking on the smoky dust
Into dull and shameful torment
The Mother of God was brought.

G. Adamovich, 1914

Anna Akhmatova

Narrow, non-Russian camp -
Above the folios.
Shawl from Turkish countries
Fell like a mantle.

You will be transferred to one
Broken black line.
Cold - in fun, heat -
In your despondency.

Your whole life is a chill
And it will end with what is it?
Cloudy - dark - forehead
A young demon.

Each of the earthly
To play for you is a trifle!
And an unarmed verse
It aims at our heart.

In the morning sleepy hour, -
It seems to be a quarter past five, -
I fell in love with you
Anna Akhmatova.

M. Tsvetaeva

Like a desert, you are sadly loved by me,
Like a desert, your soul is merciless
You are slender like a stream of transparent smoke
Hashish.

Your lips are scented with eucalyptus resin
And the smile on them is like a poisonous snake,
Only the princess of Egypt smiled like that
An-ne-i.

Your thoughts to us mortals are dark and unclear,
They will be read only in the future - priest or God.
I want to die under the beautiful foot
Your feet.

N. Grushko, 1917

Akhmatova

Disciple of the Abode of Love
Prayerfully picks up the rosary.
In her autumnal clarity, her feelings are clear.
The lot is irreparable to holiness.

He, found, do not call your heart,
Will not be with her, meek in his pride
And proud in meekness, sailed away in a boat
A river from her own blood ...

It's already evening. White flock takes off.
She grieves at the white walls, simple.
Blood drips like roses from the mouth.

There is already a little blood in her,
But she is not sorry for her in the name of God:
After all, roses of blood are roses for the cross ...

I. Severyanin

Before the war

I paid a visit to Gumilyov,
When he lived with Akhmatova in Tsarskoe,
In a large, cool, quiet manor house,
Keeping their patriarchal way of life.

The poet did not know that death was already threatening
Not somewhere in the forest of Madagascar,
Not in the smothering Sahara sand,
And in Petersburg, where he was killed.
And for a long time he, the soul of a conquistador,
He told me what to say with joy.
Akhmatova stood at the table,
Tomima with constant sadness,
Shrouded in an invisible veil
Decaying Tsarskoe Selo ...

I. Severyanin, 1924

I'm not your enemy, not your enemy!
I even think fear
That, to the wind of speeches is strict,
You see me as an enemy.
For this high growth,
For this stern mouth
Because the soul is straight
Yours, just like you,
For the fact that the hand is true
That speech is deaf and light
That where bile should be, -
Your honeycomb poems are heavy.
For your terrible life
For life in the ice land
Where glitter and darkness are mixed
I am not your enemy, not your enemy.

N. Aseev, 1924

Anna Akhmatova

I think I'll pick up the words
Similar to your primordiality.
But if I am mistaken, this is tryn-grass for me,
I still won't part with the mistake.

I can hear wet roofs talking
End plates are stalled eclogs.
Some kind of city, obvious from the first lines,
It grows and is given in every syllable.

Spring is all around, but you can't go out of town.
The customer is still strict.
Sewing eyes behind the lamp, tearing down,
The dawn is burning, the back is not unbending.

Inhaling gave the Ladoga smooth surface,
Hastens to the water, humbling the forces of decline.
You can't take anything from such parties.
Channels smell like musty styling.

Dives over them like an empty nut,
Hot wind and eyelids shake
Branches and stars and lanterns and milestones
And from the bridge looking into the distance seamstress.

Sometimes the eye is sharp in different ways,
The image is accurate in different ways.
But the mortar of the most terrible fortress -
Night distance under the gaze of the white night.

This is how I see your appearance and look.
He was instilled in me by the wrong pillar of salt
Which are you five years ago
Fright looking back to the rhyme pinned.

But based on your first books,
Where the prose of the intent grain was strengthened,
He is in everyone, like a spark conductor,
The events of reality make you beat.

B. Pasternak, 1928

The blue-eyed woman enters with the gait of a queen.
Windows are opening. The river is burning at sunset.
In the evening air, the white flock strives,
And she is motionless. And a hand squeezes the rosary.

This is Anna Akhmatova. The eldest in the chorus of prophetesses.
The one that transformed wormwood days into song honey.
Who dares to defame the psalmist of God?
Singing bees and flowing birds are akin to her.

Before her eyes - a string of magical visions.
Under the sleepless moon the Blue Flower has blossomed.
Behind her shoulders shadows waver majestically:
Blok flashed out and went into silence.

Golden poems! Oh, twisted childhood with verses!
Oh, the rhythmic wind that rocked my cradle!
For puffy flatterers, gilding is a penny
For truthful singers - a shining star goal.

E. Tager, 1948

I made a snow bed
He decapitated meadows and groves,
I made you cling to your feet
The sweetest laurel, the bitter hops.

But March has not changed to April
On guard of paintings and rules.
I put a monument to you
On the most tearful of lands

I stand under the northern sky
Before the white, poor, rebellious
By your mountain height

And I don't recognize myself
One, one in a black shirt
In your future, as in paradise.

A. Tarkovsky

Day after day and year after year
Your cruel fate
Was the fate of the whole people.
Your wonderful gift, your magician
They would have been powerless otherwise.
But you are both hearing and seeing
I walked through the thicket of dead lyres
And Tyutchev says for the first time:
Blessed is he who has visited this world
In his fatal moments.

M. Petrovykh, 1962

Anna Akhmatova

What power bubbled
In your chest when your hand
I drew these lines,
As on the tablets, forever!

What pain drove a feather
Muffling heartbeats
And as the alarm bell beat
Into the immeasurable bell of the soul!

How is this pain and anger of the people
Buzzed, responding to you,
And were born a line free
From fear in this terrible hour!

N. Brown, 1966

On the death of Anna Akhmatova

And flattery and slander - what crumbs they are,
Compared to the burden of a holy craft,
For the one in the wind under the thunderstorms of the era
The honor of our Russian muses was so high.

N. Rylenkov, 1966

Anna Andreevna Akhmatova

She is scared and stuffy, and she wants to lie down,
She is clearer with every second
That this is not conscience, but Russian speech
Today he mocks her.

And yet it is necessary to write an epilogue,
Although the temple aches with pain,
Though every line and word and syllable
Grind on your teeth like sand.

Words creaked like sand on teeth
And suddenly they blurred into a blur.
The words turned white like death shirts
The canvas turns white in the haze.

They led to execution through the white snow
Over the bank of the white river
And her son watched after the departing
And I was waiting for this very line ...

A line stuck out like dry stubble.
It rustled with fallen leaves ...
But the angel stood behind her shoulder
And mournfully nodded his head.

A. Galich, 1972

Akhmatova

Oh, living unbearably
Oh going indelibly
Leaving a trail of light.
What kindness has appeared to me?
Is this God's mercy?
To be close to your destiny
To obscure even for a moment with yourself.
Well, what was it in vain?
Often timid, more often voiceless,
We live by our own laws.
We are going along the siliceous paths.

I follow you in the trail.
I kiss his light to light.
I'm sleepless like you, delirium to delirium,
I know as well as you that there is no death.

O. Bergholz, 1973-1975

How is life, recluse,
On the other side?
Is your room good
In the last snow?

Maybe the trees don't flatter
Or are the sands not yellow?
Or earthly misfortune
Is your memory tearing to pieces?

Or in the heavenly mansion
Are you light and light?
And Anno Domini flows
Above you, like a river ...

E. Blaginina,

Friends send poetry. Galina Larskaya

A. A. Akhmatova

After Akhmatova's evening

The dead need to appear on earth
And find a response among the living.
For a book or in the house where they gathered,
To commemorate the deceased

Or in prayer - a meeting takes place:
One is like a spirit, the other is still in the flesh
Streams of tears warm their meeting.
So I met with Akhmatova today.

Moscow, Russia, Genius Mandelstam,
Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva poems.
An ordinary drama is happening
The plot was written and the film was directed.
Human keepers take it
And before the Court they cherish in vessels.

In memory of Akhmatova

Now you don't need pride.
Let me feel sorry for you, dear.
Blind from pain, I was a beggar like you,
He dropped everything he owned into the abyss.
You took the secret of personality with you.
Who are you? Only God alone recognized you.

A string of quotes, prototypes of the local word,
Shadow of Shervinsky, Anna Akhmatova's voice,
Dante's muse ... I only breathe poetry.

Grave of Akhmatova

Failure to correct the dictates of fate.
Loneliness knits longing in February.
Akhmatova's low voice, Isaiah's tears,
Golden rays of an unknown star at dawn.

Where the fire was beating, only the hill was not high.
Husband and son were prisoners: grate walls.
The profile is young and gentle, and the voice is deep.
The cross is huge. The fortunes of prediction are dark.

Listen to the music through me
My blissful, don't forget
Our sounds are among the heavenly sounds.
I follow in your footsteps - apart
With loved ones and along your path.
Taking a sip of despair, I become brighter
Bowing down to your torment.

In the rhythm of a poet

Fragrant rosehip Akhmatova bloomed
Both white and red. He took the soul away
Where I am the pain of you shore.
And you are on your summer shore
You cast a shining look on the ground

But you don't want to go back ...
You soar like a guttural bird over the sea,
Now you dive into the waves, then you sleep like a swan.
Remembering you, I walk on the ground.
How sadly I rarely dream of you.

Artist Natalia Tretyakova Akhmatova and Modigliani. An unfinished portrait.

In 1965, shortly before her death, Akhmatova came to Paris for the third - and last - time. I met there a compatriot writer Georgy Adamovich, who emigrated to France after the revolution. Later Adamovich described this "extraordinary meeting" with Akhmatova.

“She happily agreed to ride around the city and immediately started talking about Modigliani. First of all, Anna Andreevna wanted to visit the rue Bonaparte, where she had once lived. We stood in front of the house for several minutes. “This is my window, on the second floor. How many times has he visited me here, ”Anna Andreevna said quietly, again remembering Modigliani and trying to hide her excitement ...

A. Akhmatova
"Poem without a Hero"

And then, from the coming century
Of a stranger
Let the bold eyes look
And he to me, a flying shadow,
Will give an armful of wet lilacs,
At the hour when this blowjob is a thunderstorm.

A. Akhmatova
"Poem without a Hero"

And the lace of verses that have not faded
In those books that I dreamed of
About a woman widowed so early
Exquisitely beautiful, I read.
She is quiet, proud
The outline is serpentine.
Emphasized severity of light eyes.
A set of rare words
Mermaid bend
A light shadow swept before us.

And this profile, neck, black hair,
And flexibility to the point of shivering.
Modigliani's drawing as a gift to us,

She learned by heart, burned paper.

And his life passed alone.

And a wet lilac at the end ...
You will still be born
The poet and the boy is a genius!
In that Sheremetev palace.
Egyptian princesses dark skin.

You threw a crimson bouquet out of the window,
It was a sign, you were waiting for it.
You are Donna Anna, he is an unknown genius,
I was a muse to the artist in Paris.

The years passed, you wrote poetry,
She learned by heart, burned paper.
And Requiem, as Mozart wrote,
And his life passed alone.

Fountain House, "A Poem Without a Hero",
And a wet lilac at the end ...
You will still be born
The poet and the boy is a genius!
In that Sheremetev palace.

The parents of the great Russian poet Anna Akhmatova were the family of an engineer - captain of the 2nd rank Andrei Antonovich Gorenko (1848-1915) and Inna Erasmovna (nee Stogova), (1852-1930).

Grandfather, Anton Andreevich Gorenko, married a Greek woman in Sevastopol. During the Crimean campaign he was awarded several orders. Thus, father Andrei Antonovich was half-Russian and half-Greek. Anna Akhmatova's profile, nose with a hump, inherited from a Greek grandmother.

When Andrei Antonovich married Inna Erazovna, he was a lieutenant in the fleet and a teacher in the Marine Corps.

But even before the marriage with Andrei Antonovich, Inna Erasmovna was not married for long to Grigory Grigorievich Zmunchilla. We mention this important fact because many years later her daughter Anna and son Andrei will be associated with the daughter of Grigory Grigorievich's brother - Alexander Zmunchilla - Maria Alexandrovna Zmunchilla. Anna will be connected with her by tender friendship, and Andrei will marry her.

But back to the Gorenko family.

The head of the family, Andrei Antonovich Gorenko, was from Sevastopol, served in the Black Sea Fleet as a mechanical engineer, studied and worked for some time in Nikolaev. During his 23-year service in the navy, A.A.Gorenko was sailing without a month for 6 years. In 1869-1870. he was on a voyage abroad. Upon his return he received the first officer's rank.

In 1875, with the rank of midshipman, he was appointed a full-time teacher of the Naval School in St. Petersburg. He moved slowly through the service. Only in 1879, at the age of 31, he was promoted to lieutenant and awarded the Order of St. Stanislaus, 3rd degree.

Simultaneously with teaching at the Naval School, A.A. Gorenko was engaged in social activities. In particular, his speech on January 7, 1881 at a meeting of the IV branch of the Imperial Technical Society with sharp criticism of the activities of the Russian Society of Shipping and Trade had a wide resonance. The newspaper "Nikolaevsky Vestnik" reported that A.A. Gorenko "based on accurate information and on data gleaned from the reports of the society itself, he proved the criminal negligence with which it conducts its naval operations."

Shortly after the wedding he was summoned to the gendarme office and asked: "Do you know Lieutenant Nikitenko?" He replied, "I know." - "Were you on friendly terms with him?" He said: "I was on friendly terms with him." At the request of the commander of a separate gendarme corps, the Naval Minister dismissed my father. Lieutenant Nikitenko, a mine officer, was hanged in the courtyard of the Peter and Paul Fortress after confessing to having made a dynamite bomb for a terrorist attack.6

It happened in 1887, he was dismissed "with a uniform and a pension" and promoted to the next rank - captain of the 2nd rank. in March 1887, at the age of 39, Andrei Antonovich settled with his family in Odessa.

In 1890 Andrei Antonovich Gorenko with his wife Inna Erasmovna and their children Inna, Andrei and Anna returned from Odessa to St. Petersburg. A.A. entered the State Control and quickly rose to one of the main members of the Control.

Soon the Gorenko family moved to the suburb of St. Petersburg, first to Pavlovsk, and then to Tsarskoe Selo.

The Gorenko family. I.E.Gorenko, A.A.Gorenko, in his arms - Rika, Inna, Anna, Andrey. Around 1894

In 1891, he was listed in the "Address-Calendar" as an official for special assignments of the State Audit Office in the modest rank of titular adviser (corresponding to the rank of lieutenant of the fleet, which A.A. Gorenko had before his retirement). In the civil service, he advanced somewhat more successfully than in the military. By 1898 he was a court councilor, assistant to the controller general of the Department of Civil Reporting of the State Audit Office. Then he goes to service in the department of railways. In 1904, he was a State Councilor, a member of the Council of the Chief Executive of the Main Directorate of Merchant Shipping and Ports (the position of chief executive was held by Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich), a member of the committee of the Society for the Promotion of Russian Industry and Trade, a member of the board of the Russian Danube Shipping Company

The family had four sisters and two brothers:

Inna (1885-1906), died of tuberculosis
Andrew (1887-1920), emigrated and committed suicide
Irina (Rika) (1892-1896), died of tuberculosis
Anna (1889-1966),
Oia (1894-1922), died of tuberculosis
Victor (1896-1976), emigrated

Inna and Anya went to study at the Tsarskoye Selo Mariinsky gymnasium, and Andrei went to Nikolaevsky.

The Gorenko family lived not far from the station, on the corner of Bezymyanny Lane and Shirokaya Street, in the old house of the merchant Shukhardina. This house went down in history thanks to the memories of Anna Akhmatova and her friends.

The life of the Gorenko family was not much different from the lifestyle of more or less wealthy families in Tsarskoe Selo: occasionally visiting theaters and museums in St. Petersburg, in winter a skating rink in a park, summer vacation at sea in Crimea, in spring and autumn attending musical evenings in Pavlovsk.

According to a document preserved in the Russian State Historical Archives, on September 23, 1905, Andrei Antonovich Gorenko was dismissed "according to a petition from service in the office of the Main Directorate of Merchant Shipping and Ports and from the position of a board member of the Russian Danube Shipping Company."

As Akhmatova recalled, "the father did not get along in character" with the Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich and resigned, which, of course, was accepted. Lifetime biographer of Anna Akhmatova Amanda Haight summarizes: "An innocent childhood life ended abruptly and suddenly in 1905. (...) Now the lack of money began to be acutely felt."

An unexpected change in social status and social status, an obvious sharp constraint on the material capabilities of the family of Andrei Antonovich Gorenko were not the last in a series of losses and upheavals of the yesterday's still prosperous family of a state councilor.

Unfortunately, in addition to the good qualities of A.A. Gorenko also had bad qualities. He knew how to spend money like no one else, always courted other people's wives, and they loved him very much. Leonid Galakhov came to the family, and everyone knew perfectly well that he was the illegitimate son of A.A. 6

A catastrophe in 1905 for the family of young Anna Gorenko was the departure of her father from the family, when Inna Erasmovna, an abandoned wife, with five children found herself in Evpatoria. And this big family never got together.

The head of the family began to live with the widow of Rear Admiral Strannolyubsky. This lady holds a degree from Magdalen College of Oxford University.6

Earlier than the others, back in April, she was sent to Evpatoria to stay with relatives, as VA Chernykh testifies in the Chronicle 7, Anna's older sister, Inna Andreevna, who has pulmonary tuberculosis. Her long-term, fatal illness tinted their life in Crimea in a dark tone.

Later, from Yevpatoria, her beloved sister was transported to the Sukhum sanatorium, but on July 15, 1906, she died and was buried in Lipitsy, near Tsarskoye Selo, at the Tsarskoye Selo Kazan cemetery.

1909. Gorenko (Anna Akhmatova's family). Anna Gorenko (A. Akhmatova) with her brothers Andrey, Victor and sister Iya. Inna Erasmovna's mother is in the center. Photo taken in Kiev.

Andrei Antonovich Gorenko died in 1915.

When the youngest son Victor settled on Sakhalin Island, Inna Erazmovna came to him in Aleksandrovsk-on-Sakhalin in 1925 and lived with his family for three years. In 1929, Inna Erazmovna left Aleksandrovsk and returned to Ukraine, to the Podolsk province to her sister Anna Erazmovna, where she died in 1930.

Sources:

V. Lobytsyn, V. Dyadichev. Three generations of Gorenko
Chernykh V.Ya. The family ties of the Zmunchilla and Gorenko families
Brother Akhmatova
Chernykh V.A. Chronicle of the life and work of Anna Akhmatova. 1889-1966. Ed. second, correct. and add. M .: Indrik, 2008.S. 42.
Hayt A. Anna Akhmatova. A poetic journey. Diaries, memoirs, letters to A. Akhmatova. M .: Raduga ", 1991. S. 26.
Letter to V.A. Gorenko Kralin 24 November 1973
Chernykh V.A. Chronicle of the life and work of Anna Akhmatova ... p. 41

A. Akhmatova

I was a girl
When you lived.
But the path to you
I didn't find it then.
And there was only a volume
Small poems,
Vertinsky sang everything
"The gray-eyed king ..."
And the grandmother from the songs
I wrote in a notebook
So that your lines
I'll read it later.
Many years later,
And here again with you
That with "satin bangs"
That with a gray-haired lady.
And again poems
They keep me awake
And in your life
My path is confused.
What is not at all true
I've gone through this life
Magnificent,
Like you, you weren't.
And she struck a little
I am man's hearts
And in another century
Mine sounded a bell.
March 23, 2007. Country

Anna Akhmatova

You floated with the flow like a white lily,
Torn off the boat by a cruel hand.
And there was no strength to find comfort
And find your peace in the river life.
Like a wild flower, you did not have a home.
Like a lily, you had no roots.
And only flashed: Bezhetsk and Slepnevo10,
Yes, the Tsarkoselsky garden in the middle of the white nights.
And your stem is a long green snake
Slightly touched someone's milestones along the way.
You looked into the sky as a detached flower.
And she gave us poems in passing.

I Bezhetsk and Slepnevo are the places where Akhmatova's son lived and
Gumilyov - Leo, together with grandmother Anna Ivanovna Gumile-
howl

"ISKRA PAROVOZA"

When you spark a steam train
I kindled in a dirty car,
And the lines, as always winged,
She put it in the lady's notebook.
Sappho11 trembled in your hands,
And there was not a friend around, but an enemy.
And thickened over Russia
Alarming gloomy darkness.
And death, like rhymes, is closer, closer.
After all, August is 21!
I went down the stairs below.
She said: "He's going to be executed ..."
And the predictions of Akuma
They came true more often and faster ...
That you won't disappear through tears
You rushed from all doors ...
And later, often remembering,
That August is 21 years old
When you lost your husband
You were put on the scaffold ...

About Niola Gumilev

I'm telling you
Taking possession of your hand,
About as wonderful as a dream fate,
About your fate and mine.

N. Gumilev

How I love the conquistador,
Everything is sweet to me in his lines.
I dream about travel
With a light smile on my lips.
Who were you so wonderfully gentle with?
Who did Cypride visit the gardens with?
And Rhodes left with whom he left,
And visited magical Crete?
Who loves women so madly?
Who do we dream about at night?
The Conquistador's horn will blow
And give work to the executioners.
It's a pity they won't be born again now
Poets like you.
And the beauties are different,
The Silver Age has sunk into oblivion.
And the muses? Yoko and Madonna?
What kind of light will they leave?
And the ocean is perfume-bearing
The wave from the sand washes away the trail.
And women, with Anna's smile,
With the "transparency of girlish" eyes.
They are still waiting in the sky.
Not soon to wait for them among us.
We will have to nurture them.
Select among the pearls.
And in the depths of which wells
Are diamonds rare to look for?
THEY left us songs.
And this is the only way we live.
And we look mentally at the sphere,
Sparkling with crystal.

Statuette of Anna Akhmatova

You are so good here
And your look is without coquetry,
Famous shawl
Your camp is blowing.

And serpentine flexibility
In lovely curves
And the whole look
Sings inaudibly like an organ.

Your sweet bangs
Perfect as always
You are dressed tastefully
Wager from "haute couture".

And such beauty
You gave it carelessly
What would buy that ticket
To dear Petersburg.

There is no husband, you are alone
Lonely, beautiful
And another such
You will not meet again ...

He was a romantic
Very gentle and passionate
But he was also proud,
And he wrote about love.

And you have left
And friend Olga,
Just whisper quietly:
"Gray-eyed king"

You are like two figurines
With grace subtle
We danced that life
Like a cannon player.

"... Painting is poetry that is seen, and poetry is painting that is heard."

Leonardo da Vinci

History of the painting: Portrait of A. A. Akhmatova (White Night. Leningrad) 1939 -1940.

Artist A. A. Osmerkin

And the stone word fell
On my still living chest.
Nothing, because I was ready
I can handle it somehow.

I have a lot to do today:
We must kill the memory to the end,
It is necessary for the soul to turn to stone
We must learn to live again.

Otherwise ... the hot rustle of summer,
Like a holiday outside my window
I had a presentiment of this
A bright day and an empty house.
Under these verses are the place and date of their creation: June 22, 1939. Fountain House. A day earlier, in one of his letters home, A.A. Osmerkin wrote:

"Every day I visit Anna Andreevna, whom I paint in a white dress against the background of Sheremetev lindens on a white night."
For two years, more precisely two seasons of the Leningrad White Nights, work on this portrait continued. Akhmatova was friendly with Osmerkin, patiently endured night sessions, although she admitted to L.K. Chukovskaya: "I only pose for him, I love him very much, he treats me well, but in general it is not worth writing me, this topic in painting and drawing has already been exhausted."

Indeed, many masters willingly wrote, sculpted, painted it, and among them such famous ones as N. Altman, K. Petrov-Vodkin, Yu. Annenkov, L. Bruni, N. Tyrsa, and each of these portraits is expressive in its own way. and peculiar. Akhmatova was a fascinating, spectacular model - her appearance so clearly and eloquently conveyed her personality, her wealth and spirituality, that next to this face others seemed vague and blurred. Osmerkin, somewhat departing from the general tradition, created a portrait-painting, emphasizing the peculiarity, significance of the personality with "internal effects", the depth of "subtext": the majestic atmosphere of the Sheremetev Palace, the mystery of the old garden, the unsteady light of the white night, poetic and alarming.

IN In the further existence of the portrait, the time and place of its creation began to play a special role, filling with new meanings, evoking associations conditioned not only by the audience, but also by the reader's perception: if Pushkin is the "sun of Russian poetry", then Akhmatova is her "white night" (E. Evtushenko). A poet in painting, a man selflessly in love with art, Osmerkin idolized Pushkin. And to

He treated Akhmatova with some special feeling - not only for her poems and human qualities, but also adoring her Pushkin's. The landscapes of St. Petersburg and the Sheremetev lime trees outside the window of the Fountain House, in which, according to legend, Kiprensky painted his famous portrait of the poet, were for the artist that powerful "cultural layer" in which, like a scroll, the Akhmatov theme of memory was unfolding, leading into the depths of time, history ...

After all, for her, the Fountain House, the garden is not only and not so much a home shelter (she did not know how to build nests), but a place for meetings with the Muse - "a dear guest with a pipe in hand."
And an unmourned shadow
I'll wander here in the night
When lilacs bloom
Star rays play, -

The work on the portrait was delayed by a session - the artist taught at the Leningrad Institute of Painting, Sculpture, Architecture, - the weather was not always happy: the sky was nodding, but the night dawn was needed. Anna Andreevna ordered a white dress especially for the portrait, they did not have time to sew it - she had to pose in a rental one, but this did not bother her.

" ... My model is happy, "Osmerkin noted in a letter dated July 2, 1940, adding sadly:" Her health is very poor. Yesterday she could hardly move because of her swollen legs ... I persuaded Vladimir Georgievich to take her somewhere, "where there is a yellow dandelion by the fence, burdock and quinoa."
This woman is sick
This woman is alone
Husband in the grave, son in prison
Pray for me.
A woman looking out of a window into a white night is both a poet, incomprehensible to the end in the secret of her gift, and a mother who spends months in prison lines, and a memory that could not be "killed to the end."

https://vk.com/id274314164

ME LIKE A RIVER ...

Blessed is he who has visited this world
In his fatal moments.
Tyutchev
ON THE. Oh-oh

Me like a river
The harsh era turned.
My life was changed. In a different direction
She flowed past the other,
And I don't know my shores.
Oh, how I missed many sights
And the curtain rose without me
And he fell in the same way. How many friends I am
I have never met my own people,
And how many outlines of cities
Could bring tears from my eyes
And I alone know the city
And groping him in a dream I will find.
And how many poems I have not written,
And their secret chorus roams around me
And maybe someday
Will suffocate me ...
I know the beginning and the end
And life after the end, and something
What now should not be remembered.
And a woman is kind of mine
I took the only place
My most legitimate name is
Leaving me a nickname from which
I have done, perhaps, all that is possible.
Alas, I'm not going to my grave.

But sometimes a crazy spring wind
Or a combination of words in a random book,
Or someone's smile will suddenly be pulled
Me into a failed life.
In a year like this, something would happen
And in this - it is: to ride, see, think,
And remember, and a new love
Enter, like in a mirror, with a dull consciousness
Treason and yesterday not the former
A wrinkle ...
…
But if I looked from somewhere
I'm on my present life,
I would have recognized envy at last ...

1945

Night visit

Everyone left and no one came back.
Not on deciduous asphalt
You will wait a long time.
You and me in Adagio Vivaldi
See you again.
The candles will turn dull yellow again
And sworn by sleep
But the bow won't ask how you got in
To my midnight house.
Will flow in a silent death moan
This half hour
You will read in my palm
The same miracles.
And then you are your anxiety,
Become destiny
Will lead you away from my doorstep
Into the icy surf.
1963

The poetics, the foundations of which were laid in the first poems of Akhmatova, reached the ultimate perfection in her heroic cycle "Requiem".

After achieving such perfection before the author of "Rosary" and "Requiem" a sad prospect loomed: until the end of his life to remain a hostage of his former poems. Akhmatova managed to emerge victorious from this situation by starting work on "Poem without a Hero" with its radically innovative and at the same time "remembering the glorious past" manner. Dialogue, an attitude towards a prosaic story and the ability to convey the inner through the outer have not disappeared, but now all this has become at the service of other goals. Previously, Akhmatova wrote both for a wide and for a close circle of readers, who knew, for example, that the line "Otimi both a child and a friend" meant not an abstract son and a father, but quite specific Lev and Nikolai Gumilyov, who fought at that time for that , "So that a cloud over dark Russia // Become a cloud in the glory of rays." Now the interests of a wide range are simply no longer taken into account. Akhmatova in "Poem ..." tells a story, the biographical keys from which are deliberately discarded, and the reader is forced to wander in the dark, endlessly speculating and hypothesizing. From the Maupassant novel, the author of Poem Without a Hero evolved to Joyce's super-mysterious novel.

And on Victory Day, gentle and foggy,
When the dawn is red like a glow
A widow at an unmarked grave
The late spring is busy.
She is in no hurry to get up from her knees,
Will die on the kidney, and stroke the grass,
And the butterfly from the shoulder to the ground,
And the first dandelion will fluff.

Analysis of the poem "In memory of a friend" by Akhmatova

Anna Andreevna Akhmatova saw both Tsarist Russia and Bolshevik Russia. A representative of the Silver Age of Russian poetry, in her mature years she created many works that are stunning in content and capacious in form. Among them, a special place is occupied by "In memory of a friend".

The poem was written in 1945, the poetess turned 56 years old. A. Akhmatova went through a series of evacuations during the war, she happened to find the blockade of Leningrad, her son, arrested on a far-fetched pretext, also ended up at the front. By genre - patriotic lyrics, by size - iambic pentameter with cross rhyme, without division into stanzas. The rhyme is open and closed. Eight lines created for Victory Day. That is exactly how, with a capital letter, she writes about this day. It is "gentle and hazy", without fanfare and loud phrases. "Dawn is Red" reminds of the blood shed on the battlefield. At this time, even spring is a widow. The whole world comes to its senses after the hardest test. Even nature participates in the grief of people. The unnamed soldier's grave - in 1945, not yet forgotten, but since no one came here today - spring, like a humble widow, is busy with tenderness and heartache, cleaning and decorating it. She is also a widow because these young men could start a new, peaceful life this spring. But they were taken away from the spring. The poetess chooses the image of a wife who has lost her husband, not a mother. The reader sees her on her knees: dying on the kidney, stroking the grass. She puts the first fragile butterfly of a peaceful spring on the ground without fear. "The dandelion will fluff up": boots will not step on it, a bullet will not whistle past, the earth will not be stained with blood. Blackened from grief, people are slowly learning to enjoy nature and "late spring". The repetition of the conjunction "and" enhances the expression.

The poems are verbal: he is in no hurry to get up, he will stroke him, he will sit down. Comparison by the type of tautology: the dawn is like a glow. Spring Widow is a metaphor. Impersonations: bustles, dies, fluffs up. The date of creation of the poem is autumn, November, the day of commemoration of St. Demetrius of Thessaloniki, a glorious warrior. Ecumenical parental Saturday is always timed to this day - a common memorial day for all those who died in the battles for the Motherland. Such a day of remembrance exists only in the Russian Orthodox Church, and initially they prayed for the soldiers of the Kulikovo field. The church, all living things - grieves, prays. "Friend" is everyone who has died. People hope that now, after the war, some completely different life will come.

Victory is a time when it is necessary to remember not only the living, but also the dead. In her short eighth-line poem A. Akhmatova turns to "In memory of a friend"

"In memory of a friend" Anna Akhmatova

And on Victory Day, gentle and foggy,
When the dawn is red like a glow
A widow at a nameless grave
The late spring is busy.
She is in no hurry to get up from her knees,
Will die on the kidney, and stroke the grass,
And the butterfly will sit on the ground from the shoulder,
And the first dandelion will fluff.

Analysis of Akhmatova's poem "In memory of a friend"

Akhmatova met the beginning of the Great Patriotic War in Leningrad. A few months later, the doctors insisted that the 52-year-old poet go to evacuation. Unwittingly, Anna Andreevna left her beloved city. This was followed by her wanderings - from Moscow to Chistopol, then to Kazan. The end point of the unhappy journey was Tashkent. Akhmatova was there for almost the entire duration of the war. She returned to Leningrad as soon as possible - in May 1944, almost four months after the lifting of the blockade. The poetess dedicated many poems to the terrible war. During the evacuation, her collection was even published. Among the works on the military theme - "In memory of a friend". Most likely, it is not addressed to any specific person. A good friend for Akhmatova is anyone who defended his native country from the Nazi invaders.

At the same time, the text under consideration clearly echoes the poem "Autumn in tears, like a widow ...", written in 1921 and dedicated to the executed Gumilyov, the first wife of Anna Andreevna. It calls autumn a widow. In "Memory of a Friend" spring is already becoming a widow. She fusses over an unmarked grave. Here, at the same time, they may mean both unknown soldiers and the burial place of Nikolai Stepanovich, which has not been clarified to this day. In addition, do not forget that Gumilyov was a warrior. After the outbreak of the First World War, he volunteered for the army. He had a chance to fight in Poland, Ukraine. The poet was awarded several awards, which Nikolai Stepanovich was proud of.

Of great importance is the date of writing "In memory of a friend" - November 8 - the day of the great martyr Demetrius of Thessaloniki according to the Orthodox calendar. In old Russian poems, he appears as an assistant in the fight against Mamai. Akhmatova actually draws a parallel, comparing the Mongol-Tatar troops with Hitler's army. There is one more important point - on the Saturday preceding the day of St. Demetrius, Orthodox Christians in Russia performed commemoration of all the dead. Naturally, Akhmatova, as a believer, could not but know about this. Her poem is a lament for those who died during the Great Patriotic War, defending their homeland, defending their personal freedom and the freedom of their country. It is Anna Andreevna's duty as a poetess and citizen to capture their feat in the lyrics. It is Akhmatova's duty as a mother, wife, and Christian to remember the soldiers who have gone forever.

In memory of Anna Akhmatova

I was not familiar with her. For the first and last time I saw her in a coffin in St. Nicholas Cathedral, in Leningrad. She was lying majestic, beautiful ... There were a myriad of people around. And in the cathedral itself, and around it. And silence. An unnatural, implausible silence. I have never seen such a quiet, sad, whispering, sorrowful crowd. Somewhere, beyond the fence, the blue militia overcoats flashed, but she had nothing to do.

I was with my mother and was afraid to go inside the cathedral with her, expecting the removal of the body. But my mother insisted that we come in. And we went in. It's hard to believe it, but from the very entrance to the coffin we walked in a few minutes. Nobody pushed us, didn't touch us. We walked between the silent people, along a narrow human corridor, and only a few steps before the coffin I heard a quiet: "Do not linger, please."

We said goodbye to Anna Andreevna and just as quietly, not hurt by anyone, went out into the cold, into another crowd.

In the evening, she was buried in the quiet Komarovo cemetery, buried in snowdrifts.

The day before, a somewhat confused director of the Komarovsky House of Creativity came to see me.

Anna Andreyevna will be buried tomorrow. She bequeathed to bury her here in Komarovo. But no one has yet arrived from the Writers' Union. Maybe you can help me find a place ...

We went to the cemetery. The director was agitated, he said that the earth was like a stone - that winter there were severe frosts, more than 30 degrees, - there are no good spades and there are no people, in a word ...

But people were still found, and spades too. The grave was dug, the paths were marked. The director calmed down.

I knew this cemetery in the forest well, not abandoned, even seemingly well-groomed, I often skied past it, but did not go beyond the fence. And it was always deserted here.

It was crowded on that clear frosty March evening. Most of them were from Leningrad, but there were also Muscovites. Cars were crowded along the road unusually. The bus with Anna Andreevna's body has not arrived yet. They waited, stamped their feet.

In a small domotdykhovsky bus, huddled closely to each other, sat down those who are older, and women.

And suddenly, in this silence, broken by a quiet conversation, among the sparkling snowdrifts and snow-covered fir trees a tall, smiling, radiant representative of the Moscow writers' organization appeared. Bent over in half, he squeezed himself into a bus full of people with difficulty and, rubbing his hands, gaily looked around at everyone sitting.

Well, who's younger? Who will warm a nonresident comrade with his warmth?

Although there were no seats, he still managed to push himself between someone. He looked at his watch.

We are late, late. Not good…

Everyone was embarrassed. They were silent.

There was still no bus with the body. When he appeared, awkwardly waddling along the potholes, the cheerful Muscovite perked up.

Well, the coffin has arrived. Let's start, perhaps - and, folding again in half, began to squeeze towards the exit.

For some reason I don't remember whether he said anything over the grave. I remember how Arseny Tarkovsky and Makogonenko spoke with the words of farewell, although almost nothing was heard. I remember the faces of those who spoke and listened - concentrated, looking inward - many, many faces.

Then they began to disperse, take seats in cars and buses. A mountain of wreaths and flowers formed over a small burial mound. And a few days later the cross appeared - Anna Andreevna was religious. The funeral offices do not make crosses. It was made by Alexey Batalov, a great friend of Anna Andreevna, who knew him as a boy, made in the carpentry workshops of Lenfilm, where he then staged the Oleshinsky film Three Fat Men.

In the evening we gathered in one of the rooms of the House of Creativity. Those who knew Anna Andreevna recalled their meetings with her, conversations, her difficult life path, her inexhaustible and inexhaustible talent until the last day, human charm, her ability to combine regal majesty with amazing simplicity inherent only to her. Everyone was sad, very sad.

There was no Muscovite. He was obviously already warming himself in the soft compartment of the international carriage of the Moscow Arrow.