Александр Блок. С рисунка К. Сомова (1907)
Alexander Blok (1880-1921)
His poetic activity was, as was his
life, evenly divided between 19th and 20th centuries.
Many of his works belong to 19th century Symbolist movement, which
he abandoned for Chekhovian melancholic realism. In later life, he defied this description
with resolutely futuristic “The Twelve” where he described marauding
revolutionaries as apostles led by the bloodied Christ. Brilliant, bibulous and
a compulsive womanizer, he died of anorexic dystrophy in post-revolutionary
Petrograd. A cult-inspiring figure in his lifetime, Blok is now submitted to
more critical examination. Yet, he defined poetic standards for the generations
of Russian poets to come.
Night. Street. Street lamp. A drugstore.
Light, which is senseless and dim.
To live here quarter a century more,
It all be the same, it seems.
Die and begin a life brand new,
Yet, it will all repeat.
Street, and a drugstore. Lamps, a few.
A river in midnight sleet.
Ночь улица фонарь
аптека
Бессмыссленный и
тусклый свет
Живи еще хоть четверть
века
Все будет
так—исхода нет.
Умрешь начнешь
опять сначала
И повторится все
как встарь
Ночь ледяная рябь
канала
Аптека улица
фонарь
Alexander Blok throughout his life was considered a visionary and certainly, many of his insights were ahead of his time. Unlike most symbolist mystics like Belyi these were informed not by his alleged trips to "the other side" but, similarly to Kafka, a keen interest in modern politics and technology. Here is his Aviator (1910-1912).
Alexander Blok throughout his life was considered a visionary and certainly, many of his insights were ahead of his time. Unlike most symbolist mystics like Belyi these were informed not by his alleged trips to "the other side" but, similarly to Kafka, a keen interest in modern politics and technology. Here is his Aviator (1910-1912).
Авиатор
Летун отпущен на свободу, Качнув две лопасти свои, Как чудище морское — в воду, Скользнул в воздушные струи. Его винты поют, .как струны... Смотри: недрогнувший пилот К слепому солнцу над трибуной Стремит свой винтовой полет... Уж в вышине недостижимой Сияет двигателя медь... Там, еле слышный и незримый, Пропеллер продолжает петь... Потом — напрасно ищет око; На небе не найдешь следа: В бинокле, вскинутом высоко, Лишь воздух — ясный, как вода... А здесь, в колеблющемся зное, В курящейся над лугом мгле, Ангары, люди, всё земное — Как бы придавлено к земле... Но снова в золотом тумане Как будто — неземной аккорд... Он близок, миг рукоплесканий И жалкий мировой рекорд! Всё ниже спуск винтообразный, Всё круче лопастей извив, И вдруг... нелепый, безобразный В однообразьи перерыв... И зверь с умолкшими винтами Повис пугающим углом... Ищи отцветшими глазами Опоры в воздухе... пустом! Уж поздно: на траве равнины Крыла измятая дуга... В сплетеньи проволок машины Рука — мертвее рычага... Зачем ты в небе был, отважный, В свой первый и последний раз? Чтоб львице светской и продажной Поднять к тебе фиалки глаз? Или восторг самозабвенья Губительный изведал ты, Безумно возалкал паденья И сам остановил винты? Иль отравил твой мозг несчастный Грядущих войн ужасный вид: Ночной летун, во мгле ненастной Земле несущий динамит? 1910 — январь 1912
AviatorThe flyer left for free to rumble By the gyrations of two blades, As the sea monster into abyss He slipped to ether's subtle waves. Propellers sing like strings of basses; The pilot, blind by Sun in sight, Unfazed, and over bleachers passing, He fasts his airscrew-driven flight... And so, on the high, in heavens, Shines is the engine's clear brass... We, hardly hear, and lose our vision In quiet aria of props... And then our eyes are vainly looking In heavens there are no tracks, Binoculars raised up to zenith Shew a clear air-- as ocean waves. And here, in the balm of summer O'er greenish plain a-smoking hearth, The hangars, people, lowly beings-- Are pressed to their Mother Earth. But once anew in golden mazes As if--a heavenly accord-- They're close, the moment of his glory And measly record of the climb. Ascension spiral now's lower, Sharp is the shining blades whirlwind, But suddenly... absurd and sullen The interruption into rhythm. The flying beast with stopped propellers Has hanged his profile angular... You now search by eyes that blossomed The foundations... in thin air! Tis' late, alas, on grass of valley-- The arc of wing is rumpled thin. His hand, more dead than steering lever Is weaved in wires of the machine. ...Why have you soared, brave explorer, In your disastrous maiden flight, That lioness, debauched and haughty, Would raise to you her violets-eyes? Or the riotous ecstasy You had imbibed with deadly flair, You craved for fall from sky--Icarus' And stopped propellers in midair? Or your demented brain was poisoned By future wars a ghastly sight: A nightly pilot in pitch darkness Who brings to earth her dynamite?
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