I want to see what you feel. Comparative analysis of I. Brodsky's poem and D. Arbenina's song

14.04.2019

“I've always said that fate is a game. / Why do we need fish, since there is caviar. / That the gothic style will win as a school, / as the ability to stick around without being pricked. / I am sitting by the window. Outside the window is an aspen. / I loved a few. However, it is strong "...

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The poem by I. Brodsky, dated 71st, is dedicated to L.V. Lifshits, close friend poet, a person who turned out to be able to understand and accept the poet as he was. This is a philosophical reflection on the place of man in the world, in the country, in his own life, the theme of protest against the leveling of the human personality. Each person is unique, and aligning everyone to a single standard, as any government wants at all times, is simply deadly for the ego.

Brodsky is an innovator of verse not only in subject matter, but also in rhythm, in rhymes, in metaphors; in Brodsky, content and form become equal to themselves, that is, that inalienable structure that we previously put in quotation marks.

One of the striking features of Brodsky's poetry is the use of the stylistic device of paraphrase - a phenomenon, in general, not typical for Russian poetry (a forest is part of a log, the whole maiden is a knee). Paraphrase is usually defined as a stylistic substitution simple word or phrases with a descriptive construction, and semantically - as an expression in a roundabout way of what could be said simply by conventional linguistic means. Brodsky's main requirement for a word is accuracy, expressiveness and complete adequacy to expressed thoughts and feelings.

The most complex speech constructions, branched syntax, bizarre phrasal periods are based on verse music, supported by it. The current lyricism was not sluggish, but a high lyrical wave, a huge lyrical mass under great pressure.

This is what the poet's idea of values is connected with: they are seen not in life, but, perhaps, in the soul of the poet. With earthly "values", the matter is not very important. That is why there are vulgarisms, rudeness, the neighborhood of high and low, a patchwork of white and black.

One of the distinctive features lyric hero - a complete, almost painful lack of pride and self-confidence. The whole being of the hero is in one way or another subordinated to eternal and abstract categories, while at the same time surrounded and suppressed by everyday problems:

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But it is precisely this burden, intentionally or unconsciously, that Brodsky imposes on him - to cope with all failures through not physical, but spiritual achievements:

Citizen of the second-rate era, proudly

I recognize as second-class goods

your best thoughts, and the days to come

I give them as an experience of dealing with asphyxiation.

He chose this path for his hero, and therefore for himself - after all, Brodsky was as close to his alter ego as no one else, he served him as a kind of guide through the world of Words. The result of this connection was a deep, but not hopeless loneliness:

My song was devoid of motive

but you can't sing it in chorus. No wonder

what is my reward for such speeches

no one puts their feet on their shoulders.

I sit in the dark. And she's no worse

in the room than the darkness outside.

The lyrical hero resigns himself to this - this is the quality of his soul - but not from powerlessness, but from the consciousness of all the expediency of such loneliness, due to the expectation of a miracle (a miracle of art - later Joseph Brodsky will formulate this more clearly). It is a logical and painless way out, the road further. Brodsky does not consider the way forward to be a betrayal of his former convictions, old feelings, although the evolution of the lyric hero throughout the poem is clearly visible to us:

I wrote that in the light bulb there is the horror of the floor.

That love, as an act, is devoid of a verb.

What Euclid did not know, that, descending on the cone,

the thing acquires not zero, but Chronos.

This is already a reflection of one of the main life principles hero - after all, “space for me is really less and less expensive than time. Not because it is less, but because it is a thing, while time is a thought about a thing. Between a thing and a thought, I say, the latter is always preferable. " And thought is always expressed in words, especially since all his works are united by the idea of the superiority of language over time.

It is important to note that Brodsky avoids the use of adjectives and almost never rhymes them - the rarest thing in Russian literature (Tsvetaeva's school, which he surpassed in this). Here we see the same escapism of the literal, rationally comprehended meaning, which spreads in a stream of associations. At the same time, the poem is practically devoid of epithets.

"... Citizen of the second-rate era, proudly
I recognize as second-class goods
your best thoughts, and the days to come
I give them as an experience of fighting asphyxiation ... "

Joseph Brodsky is a poet who has the modesty to assert that his genius poems are "second-rate goods", but he gives them to his readers, present and future, "as an experience of fighting asphyxiation."

These lines also seemed interesting: "... the gothic style will win as a school,
as the ability to stick around, avoiding a prick ... ". "Poets are sometimes strange prophets" (Kuzmin) - Brodsky anticipated the "ready" movement: in our time, indeed, in youth culture appeared "the gothic style ... as the ability to stick around, avoiding the prick." The modernity of this poem, the relevance of its theme is confirmed by the fact that already in the 21st century the words were set to the music of the famous cult group "Night Snipers". Diana Arbenina is a wonderful performer, her songs are real, without falsity, maybe that's why she was interested in Brodsky's poems. Music conveys the pain of a person exhausted from misunderstanding and loneliness, the same extremely collected and frank, sharply brutal, like poetry. Something has gone irrevocably, something unexpectedly opened ... In this song, Arbenin sings equally categorically about desert loneliness, cold incomprehension, accompanied by an equally elastic, harsh guitar accompaniment. The rhythmic but quiet guitar intro swells into a scream. The smooth, viscous sounds of the soprano saxophone at the end of the verses emphasize loneliness and a kind of doom. The performer changed the text: the chorus was the final lines of each stanza of the poem (I am sitting at the window. Outside the window is an aspen. / I loved a few. However, strongly. / I am sitting by the window. I washed the dishes. / I was happy here, and no longer I will and so on). Thanks to such a rearrangement, the song beginning appears, the song composition becomes clearer and more logical. In terms of the emotions and the strength of the expression of the lyric hero's feelings, Brodsky's poems sound stronger in the performance of Diana Arbenina, because music is able to "finish" everything, supplement the sensations, "finish" the image created by the poet. Although, to be honest, I really like these poems performed by Brodsky himself, since now there is an opportunity to hear them. ">">

Joseph Brodsky

In the Dark by the Window (1961)

Book: Joseph Brodsky. Poems and poems

In the dark by the window, on edge of darkness the strip of canvas touches the flowers. And, like a moth, a gaze rushes to her from the corner, sharper than a needle, chlorophyll is stronger. Both will shudder - but let them: having become one movement, not a threat, but sadness rushes to them, and from the fetters of forgetting the rustle of the century will return: far from sewing and growing on credit. Passion is always ahead, where space is shallow. Ariadne knocks in the back with a spinning wheel in her chest. And into the hole from the needle, blunting the point, rivers pour from the mist that swallowed it. Light up a candle or light in a light bulb. Darkness on the shoulder of those in whom no memory who, deaf to the past and simple to the future, directs his spirit into premature growth. Like earth, like water under a heavenly mist, in every feeling there is always the force of life with a needle. And, involuntarily seized with fear, the one at whom you direct your gaze from the corner will shudder like a mouse. Light up a candle at the edge of the dark. I want to see what you feel in this house at night, where the window hides, like a tablecloth with a spot of darkness, a canvas. Put a glass on the tablecloth so that it does not suddenly fall, so that through the table-idol, like salt, appears, imperceptible through the window, a dazzling Path - as if wine is pouring and the chest heaves. The wind, the wind has come, rustling by the window. The trunk is hidden behind the square of the canvas. And the flowers flutter behind him at the edge of darkness, like a heart in his chest. Natural darkness sets in again, like the movement of the mind from the metaphor backwards, and the radiance of the star on the brass axles drowns out the sounds of driving along the entire distance.

In the dark by the window
at the edge of darkness
strip of canvas
touches flowers.
And like a moth out of the corner
rushes to her
look sharper than a needle,
chlorophyll is stronger.
Both will shudder - but let:
becoming one movement,
not a threat, but sadness
rushes to them,
and from the bonds of oblivion
the rustle of the century will return:
far from sewing
and before growth on credit.

Passion is always ahead
where space is shallow.
Behind the spinning wheel in the chest
Ariadne knocks.
And into the hole from the needle
blunt the point
rivers flow from the darkness,
swallowed it.
Light up the candle
or in a light bulb.
Darkness over the shoulder
those in whom there is no memory,
who is deaf to the past
and simple for the future,
directs its spirit
into premature growth.
Like earth, like water
under the heavenly haze,
in every feeling always
life force with a needle.
And, unwittingly embraced
fear, shudder like a mouse,
the one you look at
you will rush from the corner.
Light up the candle
at the edge of darkness.
I want to see
what you feel
in this house at night,
where hides the window,
like a tablecloth with a stain
darkness, canvas.
Put a glass on the tablecloth
so that he does not suddenly fall,
so that through the table-idol,
appeared like salt,
inconspicuous through the window,
dazzling Path -
like wine is pouring
and the chest heaves.
The wind, the wind has come
rustles by the window.
The trunk is covered
for the square of the canvas.
And the flowers tremble
behind him
at the edge of darkness
like a heart in a chest.
Natural darkness
comes again
like a movement of the mind
back from the metaphor,
and the radiance of the star
on brass axles
dampens the sounds of driving
along the entire distance.

The poem by I. Brodsky, dated 71st, is dedicated to L.V. Lifshits, a close friend of the poet, a person who turned out to be able to understand and accept the poet as he was. This is a philosophical reflection on the place of man in the world, in the country, in his own life, the theme of protest against the leveling of the human personality. Each person is unique, and aligning everyone to a single standard, as any government wants at all times, is simply deadly for the ego.

One of the striking features of Brodsky's poetry is the use of the stylistic device of paraphrase - a phenomenon, in general, not typical for Russian poetry (a forest is part of a log, the whole maiden is a knee). A paraphrase is usually defined as a stylistic device for replacing a simple word or phrase with a descriptive construction, and semantically - as an expression in a roundabout way of what could be said simply by conventional linguistic means. Brodsky's main requirement for a word is accuracy, expressiveness and complete adequacy to expressed thoughts and feelings.

One of the distinctive features of the lyrical hero is visible here - a complete, almost painful lack of pride and self-confidence. The whole being of the hero is in one way or another subordinated to eternal and abstract categories, while at the same time surrounded and suppressed by everyday problems:

I am sitting by the window. I washed the dishes.

I was happy here, and I won't be.

But it is precisely this burden, intentionally or unconsciously, that Brodsky imposes on him - to cope with all failures through not physical, but spiritual achievements:

Citizen of the second-rate era, proudly

I recognize as second-class goods

your best thoughts, and the days to come

I give them as an experience of dealing with asphyxiation.

My song was devoid of motive

but you can't sing it in chorus. No wonder

what is my reward for such speeches

no one puts their feet on their shoulders.

I sit in the dark. And she's no worse

in the room than the darkness outside.

The lyrical hero resigns himself to this - this is the quality of his soul - but not from powerlessness, but from the consciousness of all the expediency of such loneliness, due to the expectation of a miracle (a miracle of art - later Joseph Brodsky will formulate this more clearly). It is a logical and painless way out, the road further. Brodsky does not consider the way forward to be a betrayal of old beliefs, old feelings, although the evolution of the lyric hero throughout the poem is clearly visible to us:

I wrote that in the light bulb there is the horror of the floor.

That love, as an act, is devoid of a verb.

What Euclid did not know, that, descending on the cone,

the thing acquires not zero, but Chronos.

This is already a reflection of one of the main life principles of the hero - after all, “space for me is really both less and less expensive than time. Not because it is less, but because it is a thing, while time is a thought about a thing. Between a thing and a thought, I say, the latter is always preferable. " And thought is always expressed in words, especially since all his works are united by the idea of the superiority of language over time.

"... Citizen of the second-rate era, proudly
I recognize as second-class goods
your best thoughts, and the days to come
I give them as an experience of fighting asphyxiation ... "
Joseph Brodsky is a poet who has the modesty to assert that his genius poems are "second-rate goods", but he gives them to his readers, present and future, "as an experience of fighting asphyxiation."

These lines also seemed interesting: "... the gothic style will win as a school,
as the ability to stick around, avoiding a prick ... ". "Poets are strange prophets sometimes" (Kuzmin) - Brodsky anticipated the "ready" movement: in our time, indeed, "the Gothic style ... as the ability to stick around, avoiding a prick" has appeared in youth culture.

The modernity of this poem, the relevance of its theme is confirmed by the fact that already in the 21st century the words were set to the music of the famous cult group "Night Snipers". Diana Arbenina is a wonderful performer, her songs are real, without falsity, maybe that's why she was interested in Brodsky's poems.

Music conveys the pain of a person exhausted from misunderstanding and loneliness, the same extremely collected and frank, sharply brutal, like poetry. Something has gone irrevocably, something unexpectedly opened ... In this song, Arbenin sings equally categorically about desert loneliness, cold incomprehension, accompanied by an equally elastic, harsh guitar accompaniment. The rhythmic but quiet guitar intro swells into a scream. The smooth, viscous sounds of the soprano saxophone at the end of the verses emphasize loneliness and a kind of doom.

The performer changed the text: the chorus was the final lines of each stanza of the poem (I am sitting at the window. Outside the window is an aspen. / I loved a few. However, strongly. / I am sitting at the window. I washed the dishes. / I was happy here, and no longer I will and so on). Thanks to such a rearrangement, the song beginning appears, the song composition becomes clearer and more logical.

In terms of emotions and the power of expression of the lyrical hero's feelings, Brodsky's poems sound stronger in the performance of Diana Arbenina, because music is able to "finish" everything, supplement the sensations, "finish painting" the image created by the poet. Although, to be honest, I really like these poems performed by Brodsky himself, since now there is an opportunity to hear them.

(analysis by Lyudmila Skorokhodova)

You get used to the pain. It is too easy to hide it under the guise of ostentatious love of life. You need to pour out light-hearted jokes, be witty, moderately sarcastic, sympathetic, easy to communicate. And no one will guess that your heart bursting with unbearable pain.

I do not like to hang my problems on others, it is better to go through everything alone. After all, it is much more pleasant for people to see a cheerful and comfortable person next to them. I'm used to being comfortable.

The emptiness is more difficult to hide. She inexorably creeps away from the center of the chest, entangling all desires with black threads, leaving behind an impenetrable abyss. Dark and deaf, which can no longer be filled with anything. Recently, emptiness is everywhere. Inside me. Around. Others.

I felt that gradually, as if drop by drop, she was draining me. It is like a desert - hot, dry, lifeless. I should have experienced insane, primal horror, but the range of my feelings was too small. Only slight tingling, echoes of those sensations that previously haunted me. It seems to be called phantom pain, when a person continues to feel the amputated part of the body, and this causes him suffering. Something similar happened to me. Feelings and emotions gradually separated, but continued to remind of themselves. And I do not know what could have happened when the phantoms would have left me, leaving an empty dispassionate shell.

I made a dangerous journey, Deaton warned us of the consequences, but I made my choice. I didn't know what was happening with Allison and Scott, maybe the same as with me, or maybe something completely different. I promised myself every day that I would try to figure it out, but I always put off the conversation until later. I changed my mind at the last second, and it began to seem to me that this knowledge was superfluous. Why should I know about their darkness?

Today I stayed for extra classes and returned home alone. Now it was easier for me to be alone, so as not to imitate feelings and emotions. I didn’t want anyone to know about my, so to speak, illness. Conversations and attempts to help would begin. Pointless and pathetic. I didn't want all of this.

It was already dark outside, an anthracite sky without a single star stretched overhead, steam escaped from the mouth, which in the blink of an eye dissolved in silence and was born with a new exhalation.

My gait was noiseless, the rubberized dense sole deadened every step, and I could only hear my own breathing, increasing from fast walking. A sudden crunch under my feet made me freeze in place and look down. An ordinary puddle, in a groove of poorly laid asphalt, which has already managed to be covered with a thin crust of ice. This is usually at first glance, but as if enchanted, I stepped back a step and squatted down, staring blankly into the crack that had formed. The ice cracked under my weight, literally warmed up into a mush, and the muddy water flooded the crystal plates, as well as the toe of my boot. I quickly pulled off my gloves, stuffed them into my jacket pockets, and held out my hand, fingers touching ice water... The pads burned with cold, but I did not withdraw my hand. Too little. I completely dipped my palm into the water, feeling my hand go numb and crushed ice and sharp small stones cutting through my skin. I pushed harder so they went deeper. Cutting pain and numbness. Two perfectly different shades that filled the void for a few seconds. Emptiness is worse than pain.

Stiles? - A surprised and slightly agitated voice was heard very close by.

I froze, relieving the pressure on my hand, but still not pulling my palm out of the water, and turned to the voice that I recognized instantly. Seeing its owner, I only looked at it for a second, and then returned to my stupid for everyone normal people occupation.

Are you back? - I asked absently.

The answer did not bother me, but I could not ignore its appearance.

As you can see, Derek replied. - What are you doing here?

Nothing. ”I shrugged.

There was silence, after which he squatted down next to me, looking at my already pretty frozen palm, immersed in the water.

Is this called "nothing"? He asked with a bitter grin.

Cold, - when I said these words, I felt my lips tremble. I'm probably really cold.

I shook my head.

Stiles. ”Derek plunged his hand into the water and gripped my numb fingers tightly. - Enough.

He pushed me to my feet, supporting me as if I were made of porcelain.

Thank you, - I whispered with trembling lips, and looked into his eyes.

Caring, worried, slightly angry with my behavior. So many emotions forgotten by me. I saw them in his eyes, every one of them, but I wanted to see more.

Why did he come back? After all, he has already abandoned everything in this city, including me. So selfish. Selfishly left and returned selfishly. Without asking, without consulting, I simply presented it with a fact - here I am not, and now I am already there again.

I know what is happening to you, "he said gently, and squeezed my cold-bound hand in his big hot palms." I came back to help.

I frowned, not knowing how to react to his words. The fingers gradually warmed up, the painful numbness subsided, and I felt a pleasant tingling sensation at their very tips.

What for? - now I was interested in his answer. I wanted to see and know. - What do you feel?

Guilt, ”Derek replied without hesitation.

Yes, damn it, guilt, - he abruptly pulled me to him, and quickly whispered, burning my cheek with his breath. - Because this happened to you. I didn’t think it would happen that way. I thought you would be better, easier, safer without me. I was wrong. I was supposed to be your support, but I was the catalyst for your problems. I should have arrived earlier. As soon as I first heard vague rumors about your changes.

He fell silent, resolutely grasped my face in his hands and, without hesitation, pressed his pale lips to his. This kiss was desperate, passionate and inevitable, like a tsunami wave that was looming and sweeping away everything in its path. There was no way to stop him.

I didn't answer right away. Frozen like an idol, trying to catch own emotions... But his pressure was so strong that I could no longer resist it. Derek kissed me like this kiss could bring me back to life.

The thought struck me as funny, and through the kiss I smiled. Sincerely. For real. And then he thought he looked like fucking Snow White. He slept in his crystal coffin, poisoned by an evil witchcraft, indifferent to the whole world, and humbly awaited salvation. And here he is, mine Prince Charming... Appeared so suddenly and broke the curse with a kiss true love.

I looked up from his lips and burst out laughing.

I'm Snow White, ”I blurted out, looking at the discouraged Derek. - You are my prince.

The emptiness gradually parted. I physically felt her give up, go away, dissolve, and almost forgotten feelings come in her place. Anger for leaving and leaving me. The joy of being back. Excitement that is next to me again.

We barely made it to my house. We quietly made our way into the bedroom, fell on the bed neatly made in the morning and kissed until exhaustion, unable to get enough of each other. His strong hands on the body, bites on the neck, requests for forgiveness. I needed more. I wanted to absorb all his feelings and emotions. I missed them. On them and on him.

Breathing was long ago lost, lips and neck were burning from burning kisses, and my heart was beating frantically in chest like a wild bird breaking out of bone captivity. Next to him, I felt alive. Really alive. Not a phantom and not a shadow of the former self. The stub of my decayed soul flared up again, still very weakly, but, nevertheless, it dispelled the darkness that had thickened around my heart. And that was just the beginning.