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Александр Блок. Стихотворения и поэмы
Russian Book. Publisher: Izdatel'stvo Eksmo OOO. Pages: 384. Year: 2021. Cover: Hardcover.
352 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1975
5 people are currently reading
57 people want to read
About the author
Alexander Blok
238 books146 followersAlexander Blok (Russian: Александр Александрович Блок) was born in Saint Petersburg, into a sophisticated and intellectual family. Some of his relatives were men of letters, his father being a law professor in Warsaw, and his maternal grandfather the rector of Saint Petersburg State University. After his parents' separation, Blok lived with aristocratic relatives at the Shakhmatovo manor near Moscow, where he discovered the philosophy of Vladimir Solovyov, and the verse of then-obscure 19th-century poets, Fyodor Tyutchev and Afanasy Fet. These influences would be fused and transformed into the harmonies of his early pieces, later collected in the book Ante Lucem.
He fell in love with Lyubov (Lyuba) Dmitrievna Mendeleeva (daughter of the renowned chemist Dmitri Mendeleev) and married her in 1903. Later, she would involve him in a complicated love-hate relationship with his fellow Symbolist Andrey Bely. To Lyuba he dedicated a cycle of poetry that brought him fame, Stikhi o prekrasnoi Dame (Verses About the Beautiful Lady, 1904). In it, he transformed his humble wife into a vision of the feminine soul and eternal womanhood (The Greek Sophia of Solovyov's teaching). Blok's few relatives currently live in Moscow, Riga, Rome and England.
During the last period of his life, Blok concentrated primarily on political themes, pondering the messianic destiny of his country (Vozmezdie, 1910-21; Rodina, 1907-16; Skify, 1918). Influenced by Solovyov's doctrines, he was full of vague apocalyptic apprehensions and often vacillated between hope and despair. "I feel that a great event was coming, but what it was exactly was not revealed to me," he wrote in his diary during the summer of 1917. Quite unexpectedly for most of his admirers, he accepted the October Revolution as the final resolution of these apocalyptic yearnings.
By 1921 Blok had become disillusioned with the Russian Revolution. He did not write any poetry for three years. Blok complained to Maksim Gorky that he had given up his "faith in the wisdom of humanity". He explained to his friend Korney Chukovsky why he could not write poetry any more: "All sounds have stopped. Can't you hear that there are no longer any sounds?".[2]. Within a few days Blok became sick. His doctors requested him to be sent for medical treatment abroad, but he was not allowed to leave the country. Gorky pleaded for a visa. On 29 May 1921, he wrote to Anatoly Lunacharsky: "Blok is Russia's finest poet. If you forbid him to go abroad, and he dies, you and your comrades will be guilty of his death". Blok received permission only on 10 August, after his death.[2]
Several months earlier, Blok had delivered a celebrated lecture on Pushkin, whom he believed to be an iconic figure capable of uniting White and Red Russia. His death and the execution of his fellow poet Nikolai Gumilev by Cheka in 1921 were seen by many as the end of the entire generation of Russians [2]. Nina Berberova, then a young girl, recalled about the mood at his funeral: "I was suddenly and sharply orphaned... The end is coming. We are lost."
http://russiapedia.rt.com/prominent-r...
He fell in love with Lyubov (Lyuba) Dmitrievna Mendeleeva (daughter of the renowned chemist Dmitri Mendeleev) and married her in 1903. Later, she would involve him in a complicated love-hate relationship with his fellow Symbolist Andrey Bely. To Lyuba he dedicated a cycle of poetry that brought him fame, Stikhi o prekrasnoi Dame (Verses About the Beautiful Lady, 1904). In it, he transformed his humble wife into a vision of the feminine soul and eternal womanhood (The Greek Sophia of Solovyov's teaching). Blok's few relatives currently live in Moscow, Riga, Rome and England.
During the last period of his life, Blok concentrated primarily on political themes, pondering the messianic destiny of his country (Vozmezdie, 1910-21; Rodina, 1907-16; Skify, 1918). Influenced by Solovyov's doctrines, he was full of vague apocalyptic apprehensions and often vacillated between hope and despair. "I feel that a great event was coming, but what it was exactly was not revealed to me," he wrote in his diary during the summer of 1917. Quite unexpectedly for most of his admirers, he accepted the October Revolution as the final resolution of these apocalyptic yearnings.
By 1921 Blok had become disillusioned with the Russian Revolution. He did not write any poetry for three years. Blok complained to Maksim Gorky that he had given up his "faith in the wisdom of humanity". He explained to his friend Korney Chukovsky why he could not write poetry any more: "All sounds have stopped. Can't you hear that there are no longer any sounds?".[2]. Within a few days Blok became sick. His doctors requested him to be sent for medical treatment abroad, but he was not allowed to leave the country. Gorky pleaded for a visa. On 29 May 1921, he wrote to Anatoly Lunacharsky: "Blok is Russia's finest poet. If you forbid him to go abroad, and he dies, you and your comrades will be guilty of his death". Blok received permission only on 10 August, after his death.[2]
Several months earlier, Blok had delivered a celebrated lecture on Pushkin, whom he believed to be an iconic figure capable of uniting White and Red Russia. His death and the execution of his fellow poet Nikolai Gumilev by Cheka in 1921 were seen by many as the end of the entire generation of Russians [2]. Nina Berberova, then a young girl, recalled about the mood at his funeral: "I was suddenly and sharply orphaned... The end is coming. We are lost."
http://russiapedia.rt.com/prominent-r...
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
May 5, 2017
I must admit. I am a romantic at heart. Spare me the fate of the world crap and give me a good love poem/story any day of the week.
I used to read Blok's poetry when I was seventeen and revel in it. I mean, sure it is a bit stalky and obsessive at times in that lurking in dark conners waiting for the woman you love to pass by so you may glance at her and then go die on her doorstep or under her window way, but I never minded that at seventeen.
And Blok is certainly a man who took romanticising a woman seriously. I mean, he idealised the woman he married so much, he wouldn't sleep with her (his feelings for the Beatuful Lady were too pure plus he was too busy having countless affairs with less perfect women) practically pushing her into the arms of his best friend and fellow poet who, whilst also thinking her a perfection, wasn't above shagging her.
Anywho, I am no longer seventeen but I still read Blok from time to time and enjoy it immensely.
One of my favourite Blok poems:
She came in from the cold
With a blush on her cheeks
Filling the room
With the aroma of fresh air and perfume,
Her clear voice and disrespectful
Chatter.
She immediately dropped a fat
Literary journal on the floor
And suddenly it felt
Like there was not enough room
In my large parlour.
All this was somewhat irritating
And pretty absurd.
But she wanted me
To read Macbeth to her.
Having barely reached the earth's bubbles,
Of which I cannot speak without excitement,
I noticed that she was also excited
And looking closely out the window.
It turned out that a large tortie cat
Was crawling along the edge of the roof
Trying to get to the kissing doves.
I was most upset because
It was not us but the doves that were kissing
And because the times of Paolo and Francesca have passed.
I used to read Blok's poetry when I was seventeen and revel in it. I mean, sure it is a bit stalky and obsessive at times in that lurking in dark conners waiting for the woman you love to pass by so you may glance at her and then go die on her doorstep or under her window way, but I never minded that at seventeen.
And Blok is certainly a man who took romanticising a woman seriously. I mean, he idealised the woman he married so much, he wouldn't sleep with her (his feelings for the Beatuful Lady were too pure plus he was too busy having countless affairs with less perfect women) practically pushing her into the arms of his best friend and fellow poet who, whilst also thinking her a perfection, wasn't above shagging her.
Anywho, I am no longer seventeen but I still read Blok from time to time and enjoy it immensely.
One of my favourite Blok poems:
She came in from the cold
With a blush on her cheeks
Filling the room
With the aroma of fresh air and perfume,
Her clear voice and disrespectful
Chatter.
She immediately dropped a fat
Literary journal on the floor
And suddenly it felt
Like there was not enough room
In my large parlour.
All this was somewhat irritating
And pretty absurd.
But she wanted me
To read Macbeth to her.
Having barely reached the earth's bubbles,
Of which I cannot speak without excitement,
I noticed that she was also excited
And looking closely out the window.
It turned out that a large tortie cat
Was crawling along the edge of the roof
Trying to get to the kissing doves.
I was most upset because
It was not us but the doves that were kissing
And because the times of Paolo and Francesca have passed.
September 22, 2010
Миры летят. Года летят. Пустая
Вселенная глядит в нас мраком глаз.
А ты, душа, усталая, глухая,
О счастии твердишь, - который раз?
Что' счастие? Вечерние прохлады
В темнеющем саду, в лесной глуши?
Иль мрачные, порочные услады
Вина, страстей, погибели души?
Что' счастие? Короткий миг и тесный,
Забвенье, сон и отдых от забот...
Очнешься - вновь безумный, неизвестный
И за' сердце хватающий полет...
Вздохнул, глядишь - опасность миновала...
Но в этот самый миг - опять толчок!
Запущенный куда-то, как попало,
Летит, жужжит, торопится волчок!
И, уцепясь за край скользящий, острый,
И слушая всегда жужжащий звон, -
Не сходим ли с ума мы в смене пестрой
Придуманных причин, пространств, времен...
Когда ж конец? Назойливому звуку
Не станет сил без отдыха внимать...
Как страшно всё! Как дико! - Дай мне руку,
Товарищ, друг! Забудемся опять.
2 июля 1912
Вселенная глядит в нас мраком глаз.
А ты, душа, усталая, глухая,
О счастии твердишь, - который раз?
Что' счастие? Вечерние прохлады
В темнеющем саду, в лесной глуши?
Иль мрачные, порочные услады
Вина, страстей, погибели души?
Что' счастие? Короткий миг и тесный,
Забвенье, сон и отдых от забот...
Очнешься - вновь безумный, неизвестный
И за' сердце хватающий полет...
Вздохнул, глядишь - опасность миновала...
Но в этот самый миг - опять толчок!
Запущенный куда-то, как попало,
Летит, жужжит, торопится волчок!
И, уцепясь за край скользящий, острый,
И слушая всегда жужжащий звон, -
Не сходим ли с ума мы в смене пестрой
Придуманных причин, пространств, времен...
Когда ж конец? Назойливому звуку
Не станет сил без отдыха внимать...
Как страшно всё! Как дико! - Дай мне руку,
Товарищ, друг! Забудемся опять.
2 июля 1912
February 24, 2023
Открыл заново для себя поэтов серебряного века. Блок, которого я раньше знал очень мало, открылся по-новому. Очень интересная рифма, емкость слов, эмоции. Впечатлил. На сегодняшний день - один из моих любимых поэтов.
August 23, 2007
very interesting poems, especially the less agit-prop ones, and also a very interesting biography. best way to fool your wife, when you're cheating on her: make her a divine object of a platonic 'cult.' crafty.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews