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Эдуард Багрицкий. Стихотворения и поэмы
Романтическая поэзия Эдуарда Багрицкого - страстное утверждение революционных идеалов, философии нового века, раздумье о его трудных, тревожных путях.
В книге представлено многообразное творчество талантливого советского поэта. В нее вошло все значительное, сохраняющее художественную ценность, позволяющее понять всю сложность поэтической эволюции Багрицкого.
В книге представлено многообразное творчество талантливого советского поэта. В нее вошло все значительное, сохраняющее художественную ценность, позволяющее понять всю сложность поэтической эволюции Багрицкого.
- GenresPoetry
416 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1983
1 person is currently reading
7 people want to read
About the author
Eduard Bagritsky
6 books3 followersEduard Bagritsky (Russian: Эдуард Георгиевич Багрицкий; November 3, 1895 – February 16, 1934) was an important Russian and Soviet poet of the Constructivist School.
He was a Neo-Romantic early in his poetic career; he was also a part of the so-called Odessa School of Russian writers (which also included Isaak Babel, Yuri Olesha, Valentin Katayev, Vera Inber, Ilya Ilf and Yevgeni Petrov, among others). A large number of this school's writers were Odessa natives who often incorporated Ukrainian inflections and vocabulary into their writing.
Born Eduard Dzyubin (Russian: Эдуард Георгиевич Дзюбин; Ukrainian: Дзюбін) in Odessa, most of his creative career took place in Moscow. After his early death from asthma, his friends helped to publish several of his works posthumously to provide financial assistance to his family. Isaac Babel, for example, planned to write a screenplay based on Bagritsky's long poem "Duma about Opanas" (the script was never finished and was eventually lost).
Bagritsky was heavily influenced by the Russian Revolution and Civil War. His poetry often touches on the subjects of violence, revolutionary morality, sexuality and its interethnic sociological problems. His worldview was extremely unsentimental, and earned him much invective from detractors from all sides who saw his poetry as vindictive toward both his Jewish origins and the host Russian culture.
In his book Russian Poet/Soviet Jew: The Legacy of Eduard Bagritskii (2000), Maxim D. Shrayer investigated the path of this major Jewish poet writing in the Russian language and examined Bagritsky's contested legacy. The book included English translations of Bagrtisky's works, among the his long poem February (1933–34).
In his poetry of the last period of his life Bagritsky managed to covertly criticise the growing oppressive Stalinist regime. He died in Moscow in 1934, aged 38.
He was a Neo-Romantic early in his poetic career; he was also a part of the so-called Odessa School of Russian writers (which also included Isaak Babel, Yuri Olesha, Valentin Katayev, Vera Inber, Ilya Ilf and Yevgeni Petrov, among others). A large number of this school's writers were Odessa natives who often incorporated Ukrainian inflections and vocabulary into their writing.
Born Eduard Dzyubin (Russian: Эдуард Георгиевич Дзюбин; Ukrainian: Дзюбін) in Odessa, most of his creative career took place in Moscow. After his early death from asthma, his friends helped to publish several of his works posthumously to provide financial assistance to his family. Isaac Babel, for example, planned to write a screenplay based on Bagritsky's long poem "Duma about Opanas" (the script was never finished and was eventually lost).
Bagritsky was heavily influenced by the Russian Revolution and Civil War. His poetry often touches on the subjects of violence, revolutionary morality, sexuality and its interethnic sociological problems. His worldview was extremely unsentimental, and earned him much invective from detractors from all sides who saw his poetry as vindictive toward both his Jewish origins and the host Russian culture.
In his book Russian Poet/Soviet Jew: The Legacy of Eduard Bagritskii (2000), Maxim D. Shrayer investigated the path of this major Jewish poet writing in the Russian language and examined Bagritsky's contested legacy. The book included English translations of Bagrtisky's works, among the his long poem February (1933–34).
In his poetry of the last period of his life Bagritsky managed to covertly criticise the growing oppressive Stalinist regime. He died in Moscow in 1934, aged 38.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
January 29, 2021
update: added the original
***
Our black bread, our faithful wives
With pallid impotence infected us...
The hoof and the stone have tried our years,
The herbs of immortals have poisoned our waters, -
Our lips were bitter and tainted by poison...
The knife isn't handy
The pen isn't fitting,
The spade brings no honor,
The fame is no glory:
We're rusty leaves
Of the oaks also rusty...
A breath of wind.
A breath of North -
And down we fall.
Upon whose path we now scatter?
Whose feet will trample down our rust?
Will trumpet players tread on us?
Will foreign constellations rise?
We are the fallen comfort of the rusty oaks...
The comfort banished in our chilly flight...
We soar into the night!
We soar into the night!
Like ripened stars we fly...
Above us trumpet players thunder,
Above us constellations rise,
Above us foreign banners flutter...
A breath of wind.
A breath of North -
Take off with them,
Fly off with them,
Chase them and rush them,
Roll on through the fields
And sing through the steppes!
With gleam of the sword touching the cloud,
With thud of the hoofs in the thick of the woods,
With song of the trumpet receding, then loud...
От черного хлеба и верной жены
Мы бледною немочью заражены...
Копытом и камнем испытаны годы,
Бессмертной полынью пропитаны воды,-
И горечь полыни на наших губах...
Нам нож - не по кисти,
Перо - не по нраву,
Кирка - не по чести
И слава - не в славу:
Мы - ржавые листья
На ржавых дубах...
Чуть ветер,
Чуть север -
И мы облетаем.
Чей путь мы собою теперь устилаем?
Чьи ноги по ржавчине нашей пройдут?
Потопчут ли нас трубачи молодые?
Взойдут ли над нами созвездья чужие?
Мы - ржавых дубов облетевший уют...
Бездомною стужей уют раздуваем...
Мы в ночь улетаем!
Мы в ночь улетаем!
Как спелые звезды, летим наугад...
Над нами гремят трубачи молодые,
Над нами восходят созвездья чужие,
Над нами чужие знамена шумят...
Чуть ветер,
Чуть север -
Срывайтесь за ними,
Неситесь за ними,
Гонитесь за ними,
Катитесь в полях,
Запевайте в степях!
За блеском штыка, пролетающим в тучах,
За стуком копыта в берлогах дремучих,
За песней трубы, потонувшей в лесах...
***
Our black bread, our faithful wives
With pallid impotence infected us...
The hoof and the stone have tried our years,
The herbs of immortals have poisoned our waters, -
Our lips were bitter and tainted by poison...
The knife isn't handy
The pen isn't fitting,
The spade brings no honor,
The fame is no glory:
We're rusty leaves
Of the oaks also rusty...
A breath of wind.
A breath of North -
And down we fall.
Upon whose path we now scatter?
Whose feet will trample down our rust?
Will trumpet players tread on us?
Will foreign constellations rise?
We are the fallen comfort of the rusty oaks...
The comfort banished in our chilly flight...
We soar into the night!
We soar into the night!
Like ripened stars we fly...
Above us trumpet players thunder,
Above us constellations rise,
Above us foreign banners flutter...
A breath of wind.
A breath of North -
Take off with them,
Fly off with them,
Chase them and rush them,
Roll on through the fields
And sing through the steppes!
With gleam of the sword touching the cloud,
With thud of the hoofs in the thick of the woods,
With song of the trumpet receding, then loud...
От черного хлеба и верной жены
Мы бледною немочью заражены...
Копытом и камнем испытаны годы,
Бессмертной полынью пропитаны воды,-
И горечь полыни на наших губах...
Нам нож - не по кисти,
Перо - не по нраву,
Кирка - не по чести
И слава - не в славу:
Мы - ржавые листья
На ржавых дубах...
Чуть ветер,
Чуть север -
И мы облетаем.
Чей путь мы собою теперь устилаем?
Чьи ноги по ржавчине нашей пройдут?
Потопчут ли нас трубачи молодые?
Взойдут ли над нами созвездья чужие?
Мы - ржавых дубов облетевший уют...
Бездомною стужей уют раздуваем...
Мы в ночь улетаем!
Мы в ночь улетаем!
Как спелые звезды, летим наугад...
Над нами гремят трубачи молодые,
Над нами восходят созвездья чужие,
Над нами чужие знамена шумят...
Чуть ветер,
Чуть север -
Срывайтесь за ними,
Неситесь за ними,
Гонитесь за ними,
Катитесь в полях,
Запевайте в степях!
За блеском штыка, пролетающим в тучах,
За стуком копыта в берлогах дремучих,
За песней трубы, потонувшей в лесах...
Displaying 1 of 1 review