A century-old wolfhound rushes onto my shoulders to explain. Essay “A wolfhound is throwing itself on my shoulders. Analysis of Mandelstam’s poem “For the explosive valor of the coming centuries...”

"For explosive valor centuries to come..." Osip Mandelstam

For the explosive valor of the coming centuries,
For the high tribe of people
I lost even the cup at the feast of my fathers,
And fun, and your honor.
The wolfhound century rushes onto my shoulders,
But I am not a wolf by blood,
You better stuff me like a hat into your sleeve
Hot fur coats of the Siberian steppes.

So as not to see a coward or a flimsy filth,
No bloody blood in the wheel,
So that the blue foxes shine all night
To me in its primeval beauty,

Take me into the night where the Yenisei flows
And the pine tree reaches the star,
Because I am not a wolf by blood
And only my equal will kill me.

Analysis of Mandelstam’s poem “For the explosive valor of the coming centuries...”

At the moment of completion October revolution Osip Mandelstam was already a fully accomplished poet, a highly valued master. WITH Soviet power His relationships were contradictory. He liked the idea of creating a new state. He expected the degeneration of society, of human nature. If you carefully read the memoirs of Mandelstam’s wife, you can understand that the poet was personally acquainted with many statesmen- Bukharin, Yezhov, Dzerzhinsky. Stalin’s resolution in the criminal case of Osip Emilievich is also noteworthy: “Isolate, but preserve.” However, some poems are imbued with rejection of the Bolshevik methods and hatred of them. Just remember “We live without feeling the country beneath us...” (1933). Because of this open ridicule of the “father of the people” and his associates, the poet was first arrested and then sent into exile.

“For the explosive valor of the coming centuries...” (1931-35) - a poem somewhat close in meaning to the above. The key motive is tragic fate a poet living in a terrible era. Mandelstam calls it “the wolfhound century.” A similar naming was found earlier in the poem “Century” (1922): “My century, my beast...”. The lyrical hero of the poem “For the explosive valor of the coming centuries...” contrasts himself with the surrounding reality. He does not want to see its terrible manifestations: “cowards”, “flimsy dirt”, “bloody bones in a wheel”. A possible way out is an escape from reality. For lyrical hero salvation lies in Siberian nature, so the request arises: “Take me into the night where the Yenisei flows.”

An important thought is repeated twice in the poem: “... I am not a wolf by my blood.” This dissociation is fundamental for Mandelstam. The years when the poem was written were extremely difficult times for Soviet residents. The party demanded complete submission. Some people were faced with a choice: either life or honor. Someone became a wolf, a traitor, someone refused to cooperate with the system. The lyrical hero clearly considers himself to be in the second category of people.

There is another important motive - the connection of times. The metaphor comes from Hamlet. In Shakespeare's tragedy there are lines about a broken chain of times (in alternative translations - a dislocated or loosened eyelid, a torn connecting thread of days). Mandelstam believes that the events of 1917 destroyed Russia's connection with the past. In the already mentioned poem “Century,” the lyrical hero is ready to sacrifice himself in order to restore broken ties. In the work “For the explosive valor of the coming centuries...” one can see the intention to accept suffering for the sake of the “high tribe of people” who are destined to live in the future.

The confrontation between the poet and the authorities, as often happens, ended in victory for the latter. In 1938, Mandelstam was arrested again. Osip Emilievich was sent to a prison camp Far East, and the sentence was not too harsh for those times - five years concentration camp for counter-revolutionary activities. On December 27, he died of typhus while in the Vladperpunkt transit camp (the territory of modern Vladivostok). The poet was not buried until the spring, like other deceased prisoners. He was then buried in mass grave, the location of which remains unknown to this day.

Maybe you don't need me.

Night; from the abyss of the world,

Like a shell without pearls

I am washed up on your shore.

O. Mandelstam

Osip Emilievich Mandelstam knew the true value of himself and his creativity, he believed that he would influence “Russian poetry, changing something in its structure and composition.” The poet never betrayed himself in anything. He preferred the position of a prophet and priest to the position of living together and among people, creating what his people needed.

I have been given a body - what should I do with it?

So one and so mine?

For the joy of quiet breathing and living

Who, tell me, should I thank?

I am a gardener, I am also a flower,

In the dungeon of the world I am not alone.

His reward for his talented poetry was persecution, poverty and, ultimately, death. But truthful, paid at a high price poems that were not published for decades, cruelly persecuted, survived... and have now entered our consciousness as high examples of human dignity, unbending will and genius.

In transparent Petropol we will die.

Where Proserpine rules over us.

We drink mortal air in every breath,

And every hour is our hour of death.

In St. Petersburg, Mandelstam began to write poetry; he returned here for a short time; he considered this city “his homeland.”

I returned to my city, familiar to tears,

To the veins, to the swollen glands of children.

I came back here, so swallow it quickly

Fish oil from Leningrad river lanterns.

Mandelstam was a childishly open and joyful person, going towards people with a pure soul, who did not know how to lie or pretend. He never traded his talent, preferring freedom to satiety and comfort: well-being was not a condition for creativity for him. He didn’t look for misfortune, but he didn’t chase happiness either.

Ah, heavy honeycombs and delicate networks,

It's easier to lift a stone than your name repeat!

I have only one concern left in the world:

Golden care, how to relieve the burden of time.

Like dark water, I drink clouded air.

Time was plowed by the plow, and the rose was earth.

The poet knew and was not indifferent to the price that had to be paid for the blessings of life and even for the happiness of living. Fate beat and tore him pretty hard, repeatedly brought him to the last line, and only a happy accident saved the poet at the decisive moment.

December solemnly shines over the Neva.

Twelve months have been singing about the hour of death.

No, not Straw in ceremonial satin

Tastes a slow, languid peace.

According to Akhmatova, Mandelstam at the age of 42 “became heavy, gray, began to breathe poorly - he gave the impression of an old man, but his eyes still shone. The poems kept getting better. Prose too.” The poet’s physical decrepitude was interestingly combined with poetic and spiritual power.

My eyelashes prickle, a tear wells up in my chest.

I feel without fear that there will be a thunderstorm.

Someone wonderful is trying to hurry me to forget something.

It’s stuffy, and yet I still want to live until I die.

What gave the poet strength? Creation. “Poetry is power,” he told Akhmatova. This power over oneself, illnesses and weaknesses, over human souls, over eternity gave strength to live and create, to be independent and reckless.

For the explosive valor of the coming centuries,

For the high tribe of people

I lost even the cup at the feast of my fathers,

And your fun and honor.

Vek-wolfhound rushes onto my shoulders.

But I am not a wolf by blood,

You better stuff me like a hat into your sleeve

Hot fur coats of the Siberian steppes.

The poet sincerely tried to merge with the times, to fit into the new reality, but he constantly felt its hostility. Over time, this discord became more and more noticeable, and then deadly.

My age, my beast, who can

Look into your pupils

And with his blood he will glue

Two centuries of vertebrae.

In life, Mandelstam was not a fighter or fighter; he was aware of doubts and fear, but in poetry he was an invincible hero, overcoming all difficulties.

Chur! Don't ask, don't complain!

Tsits! Don't whine! Is it for this reason that commoners

The dry boots trampled, so that I would now betray them?

We will die like foot soldiers.

But we will not glorify either robbery, day labor, or lies!

Critics accused Mandelstam of being out of touch with life and its problems, but he was very specific, and this was the worst thing for the authorities. This is how he wrote about the repressions of the 30s:

Help me, Lord, to get through this night:

I'm afraid for my life - for your slave,

Living in St. Petersburg is like sleeping in a coffin.

“Poems should be civil,” the poet believed. His poem “We live without feeling the country beneath us...” was tantamount to suicide, because about the “earthly god” he wrote:

His thick fingers are like worms, fat

And the words, like pound weights, are true.

The cockroaches are laughing,

And his boots shine.

They could not forgive the poet for this, the authorities destroyed him, but poetry remained, survived and now tells the truth about its creator.

Where there is more sky for me - there I am ready to wander,

And clear melancholy does not let me go

From the still young Voronezh hills

To the all-human ones - becoming clearer in Tuscany.

Maybe you don't need me.
Night; from the abyss of the world,
Like a shell without pearls
I am washed up on your shore.
O. Mandelstam

Osip Emilievich Mandelstam knew the true value of himself and his creativity, he believed that he would influence “Russian poetry, changing something in its structure and composition.” The poet never betrayed himself in anything. He preferred the position of a prophet and priest to the position of living together and among people, creating what his people needed.

I have been given a body - what should I do with it?
So one and so mine?
For the joy of quiet breathing and living
Who, tell me, should I thank?
I am a gardener, I am also a flower,
In the dungeon of the world I am not alone.

His reward for his talented poetry was persecution, poverty and, ultimately, death. But the truthful poems, paid at a high price, not published for decades, cruelly persecuted, survived... and have now entered our consciousness as high examples of human dignity, unbending will and genius.

In transparent Petropol we will die.
Where Proserpine rules over us.
We drink mortal air in every breath,
And every hour is our hour of death.

In St. Petersburg, Mandelstam began to write poetry; he returned here for a short time; he considered this city “his homeland.”

I returned to my city, familiar to tears,
To the veins, to the swollen glands of children.
I came back here, so swallow it quickly
Fish oil from Leningrad river lanterns.

Mandelstam was a childishly open and joyful person, going towards people with a pure soul, who did not know how to lie or pretend. He never traded his talent, preferring freedom to satiety and comfort: well-being was not a condition for creativity for him. He didn’t look for misfortune, but he didn’t chase happiness either.

Ah, heavy honeycombs and delicate networks,
It's easier to lift a stone than to repeat your name!
I have only one concern left in the world:
Golden care, how to relieve the burden of time.
Like dark water, I drink clouded air.
Time was plowed by the plow, and the rose was earth.

The poet knew and was not indifferent to the price that had to be paid for the blessings of life and even for the happiness of living. Fate beat and tore him pretty hard, repeatedly brought him to the last line, and only a happy accident saved the poet at the decisive moment.

December solemnly shines over the Neva.
Twelve months have been singing about the hour of death.
No, not Straw in ceremonial satin
Tastes a slow, languid peace.

According to Akhmatova, Mandelstam at the age of 42 “became heavy, gray, began to breathe poorly - he gave the impression of an old man, but his eyes still shone. The poems kept getting better. Prose too.” The poet’s physical decrepitude was interestingly combined with poetic and spiritual power.

My eyelashes prickle, a tear wells up in my chest.
I feel without fear that there will be a thunderstorm.
Someone wonderful is trying to hurry me to forget something.
It’s stuffy, and yet I still want to live until I die.

What gave the poet strength? Creation. “Poetry is power,” he told Akhmatova. This power over oneself, illnesses and weaknesses, over human souls, over eternity gave strength to live and create, to be independent and reckless.

For the explosive valor of the coming centuries,
For the high tribe of people
I lost even the cup at the feast of my fathers,
And your fun and honor.
Vek-wolfhound rushes onto my shoulders.
But I am not a wolf by blood,
You better stuff me like a hat into your sleeve
Hot fur coats of the Siberian steppes.

The poet sincerely tried to merge with the times, to fit into the new reality, but he constantly felt its hostility. Over time, this discord became more and more noticeable, and then deadly.

My age, my beast, who can
Look into your pupils
And with his blood he will glue
Two centuries of vertebrae.

In life, Mandelstam was not a fighter or fighter; he was aware of doubts and fear, but in poetry he was an invincible hero, overcoming all difficulties.

Chur! Don't ask, don't complain!
Tsits! Don't whine! Is it for this reason that commoners
The dry boots trampled, so that I would now betray them?
We will die like foot soldiers.
But we will not glorify either robbery, day labor, or lies!

Critics accused Mandelstam of being out of touch with life and its problems, but he was very specific, and this was the worst thing for the authorities. This is how he wrote about the repressions of the 30s:

Help me, Lord, to get through this night:
I'm afraid for my life - for your slave,
Living in St. Petersburg is like sleeping in a coffin.

“Poems should be civil,” the poet believed. His poem “We live without feeling the country beneath us...” was tantamount to suicide, because about the “earthly god” he wrote:

His thick fingers are like worms, fat
And the words, like pound weights, are true.
The cockroaches are laughing,
And his boots shine.

They could not forgive the poet for this, the authorities destroyed him, but poetry remained, survived and now tells the truth about its creator.

Where there is more sky for me - there I am ready to wander,
And clear melancholy does not let me go
From the still young Voronezh hills
To the all-human ones - becoming clearer in Tuscany.

Breathe and live
Who, tell me, should I thank?
I am a gardener, I am also a flower,
In the dungeon of the world I am not alone.
His reward for his talented poetry was persecution, poverty and, ultimately, death. But truthful poems, paid at a high price, unpublished for decades, cruelly persecuted, survived. and have now entered our consciousness as high examples of human dignity, unbending will and genius.
In transparent Petropol we will die.
Where Proserpine rules over us.
We drink mortal air in every breath,
And every hour is our hour of death.
In St. Petersburg, Mandelstam began to write poetry; he returned here for a short time; he considered this city “his homeland.”
I returned to my city, familiar to tears,
To the veins, to the swollen glands of children.
I came back here, so swallow it quickly
Fish oil from Leningrad river lanterns.
Mandelstam was a childishly open and joyful person, going towards people with a pure soul, who did not know how to lie or pretend. He never traded his talent, preferring freedom to satiety and comfort: well-being was not a condition for creativity for him. He didn’t look for misfortune, but he didn’t chase happiness either.
Ah, heavy honeycombs and delicate networks,
It's easier to lift a stone than to repeat your name!
I have only one concern left in the world:
Golden care, how to relieve the burden of time.
Like dark water, I drink clouded air.
Time was plowed by the plow, and the rose was earth.
The poet knew and was not indifferent to the price that had to be paid for the blessings of life and even for the happiness of living. Fate beat and tore him pretty hard, repeatedly brought him to the last line, and only a happy accident saved the poet at the decisive moment.
December solemnly shines over the Neva.
Twelve months have been singing about the hour of death.
No, not Straw in ceremonial satin
Tastes a slow, languid peace.
According to Akhmatova, at the age of 42, Mandelstam “became heavy, gray, began to breathe poorly - he gave the impression of an old man, but his eyes still shone. The poems kept getting better. Prose too.” The poet’s physical decrepitude was interestingly combined with poetic and spiritual power.
My eyelashes prickle, a tear wells up in my chest.
I feel without fear that there will be a thunderstorm.
Someone wonderful is trying to hurry me to forget something.
It’s stuffy, and yet I still want to live until I die.
What gave the poet strength? Creation. “Poetry is power,” he told Akhmatova. This power over oneself, illnesses and weaknesses, over human souls, over eternity gave strength to live and create, to be independent and reckless.
For the explosive valor of the coming centuries,
For the high tribe of people
I lost even the cup at the feast of my fathers,
And your fun and honor.
Vek-wolfhound rushes onto my shoulders.
But I am not a wolf by blood,
You better stuff me like a hat into your sleeve
Hot fur coats of the Siberian steppes.
The poet sincerely tried to merge with the times, to fit into the new reality, but he constantly felt its hostility. Over time, this discord became more and more noticeable, and then deadly.
My age, my beast, who can
Look into your pupils
And with his blood he will glue
Two centuries of vertebrae.
In life, Mandelstam was not a fighter or fighter, he knew that we had doubts and fear, but in poetry he was an invincible hero, overcoming all difficulties.
Chur! Don't ask, don't complain!
Tsits! Don't whine! Is it for this reason that commoners
The dry boots trampled, so that I would now betray them?
We will die like foot soldiers.
But we will not glorify either robbery, day labor, or lies!
Critics accused Mandelstam of being out of touch with life and its problems, but he was very specific, and this was the worst thing for the authorities. This is how he wrote about the repressions of the 30s:
Help me, Lord, to get through this night:
I'm afraid for my life - for your slave,
Living in St. Petersburg is like sleeping in a coffin.
“Poems should be civil,” the poet believed. His poem “We live without feeling the country beneath us.” was tantamount to suicide, because about the “earthly god” he wrote:
His thick fingers are like worms, fat
And the words, like pound weights, are true.
The cockroaches are laughing,
And his boots shine.
They could not forgive the poet for this, the authorities destroyed him, but poetry remained, survived and now tells the truth about its creator.
Where there is more sky for me - there I am ready to wander,
And clear melancholy does not let me go
From the still young Voronezh hills
To the all-human ones - becoming clearer in Tuscany.

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For the explosive valor of the coming centuries,
For the high tribe of people -
I lost even the cup at the feast of my fathers,
And fun, and your honor.
The wolfhound century rushes onto my shoulders,
But I am not a wolf by blood:
You better stuff me like a hat into your sleeve
Hot fur coats of the Siberian steppes.

So as not to see a coward or a flimsy filth,
No bloody bones in the wheel;
So that the blue foxes shine all night
To me in its primeval glory.

Take me into the night where the Yenisei flows
And the pine tree reaches the star,
Because I am not a wolf by blood
And only my equal will kill me.

Analysis of the poem “For the explosive valor of the coming centuries” by Mandelstam

O.E. Mandelstam, who initially accepted the events in Russia in 1917 as a grand experiment in the name of the happiness of the people, by 1930 found himself in a state of deep mental crisis caused by the persecution and persecution of the poet.

The poem “For the explosive valor of the coming centuries...” written in 1931 is a sample civil lyrics Mandelstam, dedicated to the topic little man, caught in the merciless red wheel of history (“No bloody bones in the wheel”), but who has not lost his dignity.

The image of a lyrical hero

The lyrical hero of the poem is original: the reader does not know who he is addressing in the work (“take him away,” “cram him in”), so the poem takes on a prayerful intonation. The lyrical subject becomes a way of expression main idea: resigning himself to the inevitability of fate, the fight against the “wolfhound century,” he seeks to escape from the cruel reality, while recognizing his invincibility (“Because I am not a wolf by blood
And only my equal will kill me")

Basic images

O.E. Mandelstam's Acmeism is based on the concept of a cultural-historical thing, on the ability to depict various historical eras through a series of subject images. In the poem “For the explosive valor of the coming centuries...” the symbols of the thingness of Mandelstam’s poetics were a hat in the sleeve of a fur coat, blue foxes, the Yenisei, pine trees, a wheel and a star. Using these images, the poet conveys the contrast of the world that surrounds the lyrical hero (“flimsy mud” and “primitive” beauty of nature). The author emphasizes how very different the lyrical subject is from the surrounding reality - he is “not a wolf by blood,” he is not broken and did not become a traitor. Inner strength is concentrated in his nobility.

Sound recording

Features are also present at the phonic level. Firstly, this is an alliteration to the sound “sh” in the first stanza: “lost”, “bowl”, “hat”, “fur coat”. The reader gets the impression that the poetic text is dissonant, pronounced in one continuous stream of speech. This enhances emotional coloring poems. Secondly, the hissing sound “s” and “ts” is the basis of alliteration in the second stanza. The soundscape in this passage highlights the differences between the noble, pure landscapes of nature and the deformed human society in which there is no place for beauty and dignity.

Rhythmics

The rhythmic organization of the text is strict. The poetic size of the anapest, in accordance with the literary tradition, emphasizes the heaviness inner experiences lyrical hero. Cross rhyme and masculine rhyme enhance the overall impression of monotony in the narrative.

Thus, O.E. Mandelstam’s poem is the embodiment of the theme of human fate against the background historical events. Going back from time, finding its continuation in and in, this idea inner strength of man is also realized in Mandelstam’s work.