In everything to the very essence. Analysis of the poem “In everything I want to achieve...” (B. L. Pasternak). Literary direction and genre

24.11.2020

"I want to achieve everything..."

I want to reach everything
To the very essence.
At work, looking for a way,
In heartbreak.

To the essence of the past days,
Until their reason,
To the foundations, to the roots,
To the core.

Always catching the thread
Fates, events,
Live, think, feel, love,
Complete the opening.

Oh if only I could
Although partly
I would write eight lines
About the properties of passion.

About iniquities, about sins,
Running, chasing,
Accidents in a hurry,
Elbows, palms.

I would deduce her law,
Its beginning
And repeated her names
Initials.

I would plant poems like a garden.
With all the trembling of my veins
The linden trees would bloom in them in a row,
Single file, to the back of the head.

I would bring the breath of roses into poetry,
Breath of mint
Meadows, sedge, hayfields,
Thunderstorms rumble.

So Chopin once invested
Living miracle
Farms, parks, groves, graves
In your sketches.

Achieved triumph
Game and torment -
Bowstring taut
Tight bow.

Boris Pasternak
In everything I want to get to the very essence...
Collection

* * *

Start time. 1912–1914

* * *

February. Get some ink and cry!

Write about February sobbingly,

While the rumbling slush

In spring it burns black.

Get the cab. For six hryvnia,

Through the gospel, through the click of the wheels,

Travel to where it's raining

Even noisier than ink and tears.

Where, like charred pears,

Thousands of rooks from the trees

They will fall into puddles and collapse

Dry sadness to the bottom of my eyes.

Underneath the thawed patches turn black,

And the wind is torn with screams,

And the more random, the more true

Poems are composed to the point of sobbing.

* * *

Like a bronze ash brazier,

The sleepy garden is strewn with beetles.

Level with me, with my candle

Blooming worlds hang.

And, as if in unheard of faith,

I'm crossing this night,

Where the poplar is faded gray

He hung the lunar boundary,

Where is the pond, like a revealed secret,

Where the surf whispers to the apple trees,

Where the garden hangs like a pile construction

And holds the sky before him.

1912, 1928

* * *

When the labyrinth is behind the lire

The poets will stare,

Indus will turn to the left,

The Euphrates will go to the right.

And in the middle between this and that

With terrible simplicity

Legend's Eden

He will call up his barrel formation.

He will rise above the alien

And he will make a noise: my son!

I'm a historical figure

He entered the Lesin family.

I am the light. That's what I'm famous for

That I myself am casting a shadow.

I am the life of the earth, its zenith,

Her starting day.

Dream

I dreamed of autumn in the half-light of glass,

Friends and you are in their buffoonish crowd,

And, like a falcon drawing blood from heaven,

The heart descended onto your hand.

But time passed, and grew old, and became deaf,

And, with the thread of the silver frame,

The dawn from the garden washed over the glass

Bloody tears of September.

But time passed and grew old. And loose,

Like ice, the silk of the chairs crackled and melted.

Suddenly, loudly, you faltered and became silent,

And the dream, like the echo of a bell, fell silent.

I woke up. It was dark like autumn

Dawn, and the wind, moving away, carried

Like a rain of straw running behind a cart,

A line of birches running across the sky.

* * *

I grew up. Me, like Ganymede,

They brought bad weather, they brought dreams.

Troubles grew like wings

And they were separated from the earth.

I grew up. And woven Compline

The veil enveloped me.

Let's parting words with wine in glasses,

The game of sad glass,

I grew up, and now my forearms are burning

The eagle's embrace is chilling.

The days are far away when the forerunner

Love, you floated above me.

But aren't we in the same sky?

That's the beauty of heights,

What, like a swan that has buried itself,

You are shoulder to shoulder with the eagle.

* * *

Everyone will wear a coat today

And they will touch the shoots of drops,

But none of them will notice

That again I washed down with bad weather.

The raspberry leaves will be covered with silver,

Tilted upside down.

The sun is sad today, like you, -

The sun is like you today, northerner.

Everyone will wear a coat today,

But we will also live without loss.

Nothing can replace us today

A clouded drink.

Railway station

Station, fireproof box

My separations, meetings and separations,

A proven friend and guide,

To begin is not to count the merits.

It used to be that my whole life was in a scarf,

The train has just been delivered for boarding,

And the muzzles of the harpies flutter,

The pairs covered our eyes.

It happened that I would just sit next to you -

And the lid. Prinik and retreat.

Goodbye, it's time, my joy!

I'll jump off now, guide.

It used to be that the west would move apart

In maneuvers of bad weather and sleepers

And he will begin to scratch the flakes,

So as not to fall under the buffers.

And the repeated whistle blows,

And from a distance another echoes,

And the train sweeps along the platforms

A dull multi-humped blizzard.

And now the twilight is already unbearable,

And now, following the smoke,

The field and the wind break away, -

Oh, I wish I could be one of them!

Venice

I was woken up early in the morning

Clicking the window glass.

A soggy stone bagel

Venice floated in the water.

Everything was quiet, and yet

In a dream I heard a scream, and he

Like a silent sign

The sky was still disturbing.

He hangs with a scorpion trident

Above the surface of silent mandolins

And an insulted woman,

Perhaps it was published far away.

Now he's quiet and with a black fork

The stalk stuck out in the darkness.

Big channel with a sideways grin

He looked around like a fugitive.

In the distance beyond the boat dock

In the remnants of the dream, reality was born.

Venice by Venetian

I threw myself from the embankments by swimming.

1913, 1928

Winter

I press my cheek to the funnel

Curled like a snail in winter.

“In places, those who don’t want to go to the side!”

Rushing noises, thunderous chaos.

“So the “sea is rough”?

Into the story

Curling with a tourniquet,

Where do they take turns without preparing?

So - into life? So - in the story of

How unexpected is the end? About the fun

Laughter, bustle, running around?

So the sea is really worried

And it subsides, unable to cope with the day?”

Is it the sound of shells?

Is there quiet gossip in the rooms?

Having quarreled with your shadow,

Is the fire roaring through the damper?

The sighs of the vents rise

And they look around - and cry.

The carriages are bitten by the black snoring,

A reckless driver gallops in a white cloud.

And unweeded drifts

A parapet is crawling onto the window.

Behind glasses of vitriol

Nothing happened and nothing has happened.

1913, 1928

Feasts

I drink the bitterness of tuberoses, the bitterness of autumn skies

And in them there is a burning stream of your betrayals.

I drink the bitterness of evenings, nights and crowded gatherings,

I drink the raw bitterness of the sobbing stanza.

Spawns of the workshops, we do not tolerate sobriety,

Enmity has been declared against a reliable piece.

The disturbing wind of the nights - those toasts from the cupbearer,

Which may never come true.

Heredity and death are the mainstays of our meals.

And the quiet dawn - the tops of the trees are burning -

An anapest burrows into a cracker like a mouse,

And Cinderella, in a hurry, changes her outfit.

The floors are swept, there is not a crumb on the tablecloth,

Like a child's kiss, the verse breathes calmly,

And Cinderella runs - on days of luck on the droshky,

And the last penny was handed over - and on my own two feet.

* * *

Rising from the rumbling rhombus

Before dawn squares,

My tune is sealed

Unstoppable rains.

Under clear sky don't look

Me in a crowd of dry colleagues.

I'm soaked to the skin from inspirations,

And the north has been my place to sleep since childhood.

He is all in the darkness and all - a semblance

Poems of heavy lips,

From the threshold he looks from under his brows,

Like the night, he is stingy with explanations.

I'm scared of this guy

But he alone guessed

Why someone unnamed -

I'm on loan from him somewhere.

Winter night

The day cannot be corrected by the efforts of the luminaries,

Do not lift the shadows of Epiphany veils.

It's winter on earth, and the smoke of the fires is powerless

Straighten the houses that lay flat.

Buns of lanterns and crumpets of roofs, and black

White in the snow - the doorframe of the mansion:

This is a manor's house, and I am its tutor.

I am alone, I sent the student to bed.

They are not waiting for anyone. But - keep the curtain tight.

The sidewalk is bumpy, the porch is swept away.

Memory, don't worry! Grow together with me! Believe

And assure me that I am one with you.

Are you talking about her again? But that's not what I'm excited about.

Who revealed the dates to her, who put her on the trail?

That blow is the source of everything. Until the rest,

By her grace, now I don't care.

The sidewalk is in the hillocks. Between the snow forks

Frozen bottles of bare black ice.

Rolls of lanterns, and on the pipe, like an owl,

Drowned in feathers, unsociable smoke.

Over the barriers. 1914–1916

Petersburg

How a second bullet is put into a bullet

Or they bet on a candle,

So this rumbling of the banks and streets

Peter discharged without misfire.

Oh, how great he was! Like a network of convulsions

Iron cheeks are covered,

When Petrov's eyes welled up,

Tearing them down, the bays in the sedge!

And the Baltic waves hit your throat like lumps

Melancholy, rolled up; when should they

Oblivion took over; when he introduced

The kingdom is with the empire, the region is with the region.

There is no time for inspiration. Swamp,

Whether it’s land, or sea, or puddle, -

A dream appeared to me here, and the scores

I’ll set him up right now and then and there.

He was overwhelmed with clouds, as if with business.

A stretched sail in bad weather

Prepared with drawing bristles

The royal fury struck.

In the doorways, over the Neva, on the clock, by the guides,

Devouring centuries, they stood

Trellis of insomnia in a feverish din

Planes, gear and arquebuses.

And they knew: there would be no reception. No mothers

No uncles, no bar, no servants,

While he's on the drawing frame

Wearing taiga swamps.

The waves are crashing. Walking bridges.

Cloudy. The sky above the buoy is flooded

Muddy, mixed with crushed graphite

Narrow whistles of steam clubs.

The cloudy day lost the boats.

The gear is as strong as a smoked knaster.

Bad weather smells like tar and docks

And cucumbers - longboat bark.

The sails are flying from the March clouds

Awry, wet flakes in the slush,

Melting in the channels of the Baltic slag,

The wheels smolder along the black tracks.

Cloudy. The boat block clicks.

The piers beat their icy hands.

The horse brought down the cobblestones loudly

It drives dully onto the wet sand.

* * *

Drawing drawing board

Bronze Horseman

From the rider - the wind

Moray inherited.

Profit channels,

Neva arrives.

He's a northern stylus

Causes trams.

Try it, lie down

Under a gray cloud,

Here they jump in practice

Over the barriers.

And the outskirts see:

Beyond Narvskaya, on Okhta,

The fog is breaking through

Torn off by a fingernail.

Peter waves his hat at them,

And splashes like an ensign

Purgi scratched,

A torn report.

Fellow citizens, who is this?

And who is tormented

Dissolved in the wind

Building panels?

Like a plan, like a land map

On thick papyrus,

He is the city above March

Scattered it and threw it away.

* * *

Clouds stood on end like hair

Above the smoky, pale Neva.

Who are you? Oh who are you? Whoever you are

The city is your imagination.

The streets rush like thoughts towards the harbor

The black river of manifestos.

No, both in the grave and in the shroud

You haven't found a place for yourself.

Flood waves cannot be contained by piles.

Their speech is like the hands of blind midwives.

It's you, the insane one, who is delirious,

You quickly mutter out loud.

Winter sky

Taken out of the smokiness like a solid piece of ice

A stellar stream that has been around for a week.

The skating club above is overturned:

The skating rink clinks glasses with the ringing sound of the night.

Step less, less often, speed skater,

When running, cutting off the step from above.

At the turn it will crash into a constellation

The screech of a skate into the Norwegian sky.

The air is shrouded in frozen iron.

Oh, skaters! It’s all the same there

What, like eyes with a snake's cut,

Night on earth, and like a domino;

What is the tongue of a stunned cop

The month freezes to the bracket; that mouths,

Like counterfeiters - with lava

The spirit of the captured ice is filled.

Soul

O freedwoman, if I remember,

Oh, if you forget, captive of years.

According to many, the soul and pilgrim,

In my opinion, it’s a shadow without any special features.

Oh, in the stone of verse, even if you have sunk,

Drowned, even if in the dust,

You fight like Princess Tarakanova fought,

When the ravelin was flooded in February.

Oh embedded! Striving for amnesty

Cursing the times, as they curse the watchmen,

The fallen years knock like leaves,

In the garden hedge of calendars.

* * *

Not like people, not weekly,

Not always, twice a century

I prayed to you: articulately

Repeat creative words!

And you can’t bear mixtures

Revelations and human bondage.

How cheerful do you want me to be?

What would you eat earth's salt with?

Blizzard

In a suburb where no one can go

Never set foot, only sorcerers and blizzards

I set foot in the demon-possessed district,

Where and how the dead sleep in the snow, -

Wait, in the suburb, where no one can go

No foot has stepped, only sorcerers

Yes, the blizzard stepped foot, up to the window

A piece of stray harness whipped him.

You can't see anything, but this suburb

Maybe in the city, in Zamoskvorechye,

In Zamość, and others (strayed at midnight

The guest stepped back from me).

Listen, in the suburb, where there is no one

No one set foot, only murderers,

Your messenger is an aspen leaf, he is lipless,

Silent, like a ghost, whiter than canvas!

He rushed about, knocked on all the gates,

He looked around, like a tornado from the pavement...

- This is not the same city, and the midnight is not the same,

And you are lost, her messenger!

But you whispered to me, messenger, for a reason.

In the suburb, where not a single two-legged...

I, too, somehow... I lost my way.

- This is not the same city, and the midnight is not the same.

Everything is in the crosses of the door, like in St. Bartholomew's

Night. Orders of the blizzard-conspirator:

Roll up the windows and seal the frames,

There, childhood is bristling with a Christmas tree.

A conspiracy rages on the leafless boulevards.

They vowed to destroy humanity.

To the gathering place, city! Out of town!

And the blizzard smokes like a torch over evil spirits.

Fluffs fall unbidden into your hands.

I'm scared in the deserted unbridled powder.

Snowflakes scurry around like hand-held lanterns.

You are recognized, branches! Passerby, you are recognized!

Hole of a wormwood, and seems to be in the music

Purgi: - Coligny, we found out your address! -

Axes and shouts: - You are recognized, prisoners

Comfort! - and on the door with chalk - crosswise.

That they became a camp, that they were raised to their feet

The scum of creation, blizzards - with a bang.

On holiday, the great-grandchildren will go to their forefathers.

Night of Bartholomew. Out of town, out of town!

1914, 1928

Ural for the first time

Without a maternity nurse, in the darkness, without memory,

At night bumping hands, Ural

The stronghold screamed and, falling dead,

Blind in agony, she gave birth in the morning.

Those who were accidentally hit rattled and overturned

Hulks and bronze massifs of some kind.

The passenger was puffing. And, somewhere from this

The ghosts of the fir trees fell shuddering.

The smoky dawn was soporific. Not otherwise:

It was sprinkled on them - factories and mountains -

Forest stove-maker, evil-tongued Gorynych,

Like opium to a fellow traveler by an experienced thief.

We woke up on fire. From the crimson horizon

Asians skied down to the forests,

They licked the soles and slipped them on the pine trees

The crowns were the invitation to marry into the kingdom.

And the pine trees, standing up and keeping the hierarchy

The furry monarchs have entered

On the crust covered with orange velvet

Cover made of damask and tinsel.

Ice drift

More about young shoots

Spring soil does not dare to dream.

Rolling out his Adam's apple from the snow,

It turns black along the river bank.

The dawn, like a tick, stuck into the bay,

And with meat you’ll only throw out the evening

From the swamp. How carnal

Expanse in the ominous north!

He's choking on the sun

And he drags this burden through the moss.

He slams her on the ice

And it vomits like pink salmon.

Drops until midday,

Then, the frost crumpled the earth,

Thundering ice floes massacre

And the stabbing of the wreckage.

And not a soul. Just one wheeze

The sad clang and knock of a knife,

And colliding blocks

Gnashing chewing.

* * *

I understood the purpose of life and I honor

That goal is like a goal, and this goal is

Admit that I can't bear it

To put up with the fact that it is April,

What days are bellows

And that spread out in a stripe

From spruce to spruce, from alder

To the alder, iron and oblique,

Both liquid and snowy,

Like coal in the fingers of a blacksmith,

The hissing stream pierced

Dawn without edge and end.

What is the church language in Berkovets,

That the bell-ringer was taken as a weighmaster,

What from a drop, from a tear

And my temples hurt from fasting.

Spring

Like kidneys, like sticky, swollen cinders

Stuck to the branches! April is warm.

Maturity pulls you out of the park,

And the replicas of the forest grew stronger.

The forest is pulled down the throat by a noose of birds

Larynx, like a buffalo with a lasso,

And groans in the nets, as he groans in sonatas

Steel gladiator organ.

Poetry! Greek sponge in suction cups

Be you, and between the sticky greens

I would put you on a wet board

Green garden bench.

Grow yourself lush butts and figs,

Take in the clouds and ravines,

And at night, poetry, I will squeeze you out

To the health of greedy paper.

Spring! Don't be away

To the river to the ice hole. In the city

Pieces of ice like seagulls

They float, shouting from three boxes.

The earth, the earth is agitated,

And spans under bridges

Flooded streets

They drain the sewage.

They float on them like matches,

Through the cold of the ice drift

Gardens and trains

And they don’t find the ford.

From a mug of blue with ice,

From the foam of petrels

You will feel sick. However, the house

All around is flooded with song.

And stop thinking about those

Who went fishing?

Sin is walking around the city

And the tears of the fallen are flowing.

Is only dirt visible to you?

Doesn't the tallow jump in your eyes?

Doesn't play in the ditches -

Like a trotter in apples?

Is it only the birds that sing?

Chirping in the blue sky,

Ice lemon lunch

Through the straw of the beam?

Look around and you will see

Until dawn, all day, everywhere,

With the head of Moscow, like Kitezh,

In light blue water.

Why are roofs transparent?

And crystal colors?

Like a reed, a brick peg,

Days rush into evenings.

The city is like a swamp, furnaces,

Scabs of snow are counting,

And February burns like cotton

Choking on alcohol.

Tormented by white flames

Vigilance of attics, obliquely

The intertwining of birds and branches -

The air is bare and weightless.

These days you're losing your name

Crowds of faces knock you off your feet.

Know that your friend is with them,

But you are not alone either.

Iwaka

She pulled the kokoshnik on

From the low downpour - a password.

The case is smoking like a cloud

Bugles burn in the branches.

And on the plush pillow

Sparkles in the shimmer

Torn lace

Talkative trees.

Amethyst earrings

And sapphire cones

It was impossible to exhibit

It doesn't come out of the ground.

To enchant the mountains

In the lilac lobes of the yar,

They were taken out of new

Ural case.

1916, 1928

Swifts

Evening swifts have no strength

Hold back the blue coolness.

She burst from vociferous breasts

And it flows, and there is no sweetness with it.

And the evening swifts have nothing,

So that there, up there, it detains

Their flowery cry: oh, triumph,

Look, the earth has fled!

Like a white key boiling in a cauldron,

The brunch moisture leaves, -

Look, look - there is no place for earth

From the edge of heaven to the ravine.

After the rain

There is a crush outside the windows, foliage is crowding,

And the fallen sky was not picked up from the roads.

Everything was quiet. But what happened first!

Now the conversation is no longer kind.

First, everything is headlong, out of order

Trees fell into the fence to dethrone them.

And the trampled park from the downpour - under the hail,

Then from the barns - to the log terrace.

Now you won’t be able to inhale the thick crepe.

And the fact that the veins of the poplar burst -

So the garden air is like an infusion of soda,

It sparkles with poplar bitterness.

From the glass of the balcony, both from the hips and backs

Chilled bathers - perspiration in streams.

The strawberry ice cream wedge sparkles,

And the hailstones spread with table salt.

Here the ray, having rolled from the web, lay down

In nettles, but it seems that this will not last long,

And the moment is not far away when its ember

It will light up in the bushes and blow out a rainbow.

Improvisation

I fed the flock with a key by hand

Under the flapping of wings, splashing and screaming.

I stretched out my arms, I stood on my toes,

The sleeve was rolled up, the night was rubbing against the elbow.

And it was dark. And it was a pond

And waves. - And I love you birds of the same breed,

It seemed they would rather kill than die

Loud, black, strong beaks.

And it was a pond. And it was dark.

The pots of midnight tar were burning.

And the bottom was gnawed by a wave

By the boat. And the birds squabbled at my elbow.

And the night rinsed in the throats of the dams.

It seemed that while the chick was not fed,

And females would rather kill than die

Roulades in a screaming, twisted throat.

On a steamship

Blue plumage of a drake

The dawn sparkled beyond Kama.

The bartender's dishes rattled.

The footman yawned, counting the boats.

In the river, at the height of a candlestick,

Fireflies swarmed with fireflies.

They hung like a sparkling thread

From the coastal streets. It struck three.

The footman tried to scrape it off with a napkin.

Floated stearin on bronze.

Hoary rumors creeping from time immemorial,

Night epic of reeds

Near Perm, in the breeze, in fast beads

Kama walked like lantern ripples.

Choking on a wave, by the hair

From flooding, for ships

I dived and swam brightly

There is a star in the lamp of the Kama waters.

The ship smelled of food

And zinc white varnish.

Dusk floated along the Kama with the overheard

Without uttering a splash, he swam.

Holding a glass in your hand, you are narrowed

They watched the game with their eyes

Slips of the tongue at dinner

But you were not attracted to their swarm.

You called your interlocutor to the story,

To the wave of days gone by before you,

So that the last strain

The last drop will sink in it.

There was a matinee. Jaws were cramping,

And the rustling of the leaves was like delirium.

Blue plumage of a drake

The dawn sparkled beyond Kama.

And the morning was a bloodbath,

Like the oil of the spilled dawn,

Extinguish the horns in the wardroom

And city lights.

From the poem (Two excerpts)

I loved the breath too

Early insomnia

From the park it descended into a ravine, and in the darkness

Flew out onto the archipelago

Glades buried in shaggy fog,

In wormwood and mint and quail.

And then the scope of adoration became heavier,

And thumped into the air and fell in a chill,

And settled down in the fields with dew.

And there it was dawn. Up to two

Riches flashed across the countless sky,

But the roosters began to get scared

It was dark and they tried to hide their fear,

But blank landmines were exploding in their throats,

And the fires went out, and, as if ordered,

With the face of a bug-eyed candlegas

A shepherd appeared at the edge of the forest.

I loved too, and she still

Alive, maybe. Time will pass

And something big, like autumn, one day

(Not tomorrow, maybe someday later)

Will light up over life like a glow, taking pity

Above the thicket. Over the stupidity of puddles languishing

Toad-like with thirst. Above the hare's trembling

Lawns with ears covered in matting

Last year's leaves. Above the noise like

On the false surf of the past. Me too

Loved, and I know: how wet the harvest is

From time immemorial they have been placed at the foot of the year,

So every heart is given love

Chilling news of the worlds at the head.

I loved you too, and she is still alive.

Still the same, rolling into that initial early hour,

Time stands, disappearing over the edge

Moments. This line is still thin.

The past still seems like a long time ago.

As before, having disappeared from the faces of eyewitnesses,

Reality goes crazy, pretending to not know,

That she is no longer a tenant with us.

And is this conceivable? Yes, that means it really is

All life is removed and does not last

Love, surprise, instant tribute?

1916, 1928

I was asleep. That night my spirit was on duty.

There was a knock. The light came on.

The story of a storm burst through the window.

He revealed it as he was, half dressed.

This is how the snow falls. That's how the cereal whispers.

This is how the mouths of the signs lisp.

There is the original, here there is the pallor of copies.

There's blood all over there, there's no blood here.

There, illuminated like a dead man,

From the window the wandering night light,

Lilac washes the windowsill

The chilled outline of a glacier.

And on the Geneva night, like in braids

Southerners, intertwined with the south

Fires of horns and apricots,

Orchestras, boats, laughing waves.

And, as if turning chestnuts,

Scooped the braziers into a pile

Men - arak, and townswomen -

Illuminated syrup.

And the chatter comes from below.

And from above, gasping for breath, an elm

The canvas of the marquise leaves one in awe

And the branches are drawn into the gas.

Look how the Alps are in a fever!

How true to home every step is!

Oh, be beautiful, for God's sake,

Oh, for God's sake, that's the only way.

When is yours a hundred times more beautiful?

Killer beauty

And only with her and until the morning with her

You are drenched in alienation,

That's atropine and belladonna

Someday sprinkled into melancholy,

And I, like you, will look bottomlessly,

And I, like you, will say: be patient.

Marburg

I shuddered. I went on and off.

I was shaking. I just made an offer -

But it’s too late, I drifted, and now I’m rejected,

What a pity for her tears! I am more blessed than the saint!

I went out to the square. I could be counted out

Secondly born. Every little bit

She lived and, without regard for me,

She rose in her farewell significance.

The flagstones were heating up, and the streets

He was dark-skinned and looked at the sky from under his brows

Cobblestones, and the wind, like a boatman, rowed

By linden trees. And all these were likenesses.

But anyway, I avoided

Their views. I didn't notice their greetings.

I didn’t want to know anything about wealth.

I struggled so as not to burst into tears.

Natural instinct, old sycophant,

Was unbearable to me. He sneaked side by side

And I thought: “Childish sweetness. Behind him

Unfortunately, you’ll have to keep an eye on both.”

“Take a step, and again,” my instinct told me.

And he led me wisely, like an old scholastic,

Through the virgin, impenetrable reeds

Heated trees, lilacs and passion.

“You’ll learn to walk, and then at least run,”

He repeated, and the new sun from its zenith

Watched them teach walking again

A native of the planet on a new planet.

Some were blinded by it all. To others -

That darkness seemed like it could gouge out your eyes.

The chickens were digging in the dahlia bushes,

Crickets and dragonflies ticked like a clock.

The tiles floated and the midday looked

Without blinking, on the roof. And in Marburg

Who, whistling loudly, made a crossbow,

Who silently prepared for the Trinity Fair.

Turned yellow, devouring the clouds, the sand.

The pre-thunderstorm played with the eyebrows of the bush.

And the sky sintered, falling into pieces

Hemostatic arnica.

On that day, all of you, from combs to feet,

Like a tragedian in the provinces plays Shakespearean drama,

I carried it with me and knew it by heart,

I wandered around the city and rehearsed.

When I fell before you, embracing

This fog, this ice, this surface

(How good you are!) - this whirlwind of stuffiness...

What are you talking about? Come to your senses! Gone. Rejected.

* * *

Martin Luther lived here. There are the Brothers Grimm.

Clawed roofs. Trees. Tombstones.

And he remembers all this and reaches out to them.

Everything is alive. And all this is also similar.

No, I won't go there tomorrow. Refusal -

More than goodbye. All clear. We're even.

The bustle of the station is not about us.

What will happen to me, old slabs?

Fog will spread out backpacks everywhere,

And they will put a month in both windows.

Longing as a passenger will slide through the volumes

And it will fit on the ottoman with a book.

Why am I afraid? After all, I, like a grammarian,

I know insomnia. We have an alliance with her.

Why did I, like the arrival of a sleepwalker,

Am I afraid of the appearance of habitual thoughts?

After all, the nights sit down to play chess

With me on the lunar parquet floor,

It smells like acacia and the windows are open,

And passion, as a witness, turns gray in the corner.

And the poplar is king. I'm playing with insomnia.

And the queen is a nightingale. I reach out to the nightingale.

And the night wins, the figures shun,

I recognize the white morning by sight.

Boris Pasternak is known not only as a lyricist poet, but also as a poet-philosopher, trying to find a place under heaven and ascend to the scaffold of knowledge alive. The search for the essence of existence is clearly visible in the poem “I want to reach everything,” written by Pasternak in 1956.

Already in the first lines it is clear that Boris Leonidovich is not ready to be content with the part, but wants to know the whole, to see the essence of life:

I want to reach everything
To the very essence.
At work, looking for a way,
In heartbreak.

To do this, you need to find out the essence of the past days, find their cause, roots and core, otherwise the answer will not be complete. Having learned the essence of what is happening, you can share it in poetry and prose, open up new melodies of knowledge to the reader and become for him a compass and guide in life.

The poet wants not to lose the thread of the search, while at the same time making discoveries, continuing to love, think and feel. Not everything can be seen, understood and conveyed to others at once; this requires time, calling and dedication. As an example, Pasternak shows his desire to write about the properties of passion, which lives in the soul of everyone, but does not reveal its true understanding to everyone.

Oh if only I could
Although partly
I would write eight lines
About the properties of passion.

In the poem I am analyzing, Pasternak says that poetry should reflect life in all its fullness of color. Poetry will enter the reader's soul if there are peals of thunder and the breath of mint in it. If the lines are written dryly, and the author cannot understand the reasons and purpose of writing, then poetry will not be in demand - it will be born dead and will not be able to come to life in the mind of the reader.

In his poems, Pasternak encourages us to look for the meaning of life, remain human at all moments and learn to evaluate our life path. The appeal is sent to both the ordinary reader and colleagues in the poetry workshop.

Finding the essence of life is not given to everyone, but by remaining in an eternal search, you can see the sparks of truth and achieve harmony. Relatively creative person This rule is mandatory, otherwise there will be nothing to write about and nothing to pass on to future generations.

The rhyme of the poem is harmonious, the lines are easy to remember, but with all the melodiousness they hide a deep meaning, which the great Russian poet is trying to convey to us in the harmony of the lyrics.

I want to reach everything
To the very essence.
At work, looking for a way,
In heartbreak.

To the essence of the past days,
Until their reason,
To the foundations, to the roots,
To the core.

All the while grasping the thread
Fates, events,
Live, think, feel, love,
Complete the opening.

Oh if only I could
Although partly
I would write eight lines
About the properties of passion.

About iniquities, about sins,
Running, chasing,
Accidents in a hurry,
Elbows, palms.

I would deduce her law,
Its beginning
And repeated her names
Initials.

I would plant poems like a garden.
With all the trembling of my veins
The linden trees would bloom in them in a row,
Single file, to the back of the head.

I would bring the breath of roses into poetry,
Breath of mint
Meadows, sedge, hayfields,
Thunderstorms rumble.

So Chopin once put
Living miracle
Farms, parks, groves, graves
In your sketches.

Achieved triumph
Game and torment
Bowstring taut
Tight bow.

They also offer a song based on poetry performed by Valentina Tolkunova.

samarapedsovet.ru

In everything to the very essence. Analysis of the poem “In everything I want to achieve...” (B. L. Pasternak). Literary direction and genre

"I want to achieve everything..."

See also Boris Pasternak - poems (Pasternak B. L.):

Boris Pasternak
In everything I want to get to the very essence...
Collection

* * *

Start time. 1912–1914

* * *

* * *

* * *

Dream

* * *

* * *

Railway station

Venice

Winter

Feasts

* * *

Winter night

Over the barriers. 1914–1916

Petersburg

* * *

* * *

Winter sky

Soul

* * *

Blizzard

Ural for the first time

Ice drift

* * *

Spring

Iwaka

Swifts

After the rain

Improvisation

On a steamship

From the poem (Two excerpts)

Marburg

* * *

samarapedsovet.ru

"I want to achieve everything..."

See also Boris Pasternak - poems (Pasternak B. L.):

Boris Pasternak In everything I want to get to the very essence... Collection

* * *

Start time. 1912–1914

* * *

* * *

* * *

Dream

* * *

* * *

Railway station

Venice

Winter

Feasts

* * *

Winter night

Over the barriers. 1914–1916

Petersburg

* * *

* * *

Winter sky

Soul

* * *

Blizzard

Ural for the first time

Ice drift

* * *

Spring

Iwaka

Swifts

After the rain

Improvisation

On a steamship

From the poem (Two excerpts)

Marburg

* * *

Boris Pasternak
In everything I want to get to the very essence...
Collection