"Sonnet" Nikolai Gumilyov
I'm really sick: there's fog in my heart,
I'm bored by everything, people and stories,
I dream of royal diamonds
And the wide scimitar is covered in blood.It seems to me (and this is not a hoax)
My ancestor was a cross-eyed Tatar,
Fierce Hun... I am a breath of infection,
Having survived through the centuries, I am overwhelmed.I’m silent, I’m languishing, and the walls are receding -
Here is the ocean all in shreds of white foam,
Granite bathed in the setting sun,And a city with blue domes,
With blooming jasmine gardens,
We fought there... Oh, yes! I was killed.
Analysis of Gumilyov's poem "Sonnet"
Unlike the reflective contemplatives, whose images abound in the poetry of the Silver Age, the lyrical subject of Gumilev’s creativity is a man of action. The strong-willed principle dominates in him, and despite the variety of roles - conqueror and hunter, warrior and sailor - one thing remains unchanged: the courageous essence of the hero’s nature.
Gumilyov's work began with a poetic declaration of the conquistador, which was presented in the form of a sonnet. A brave and strong romantic who feels close to “chasms and storms” is ready to go his way to the end. In "Sonnet", published in 1912, the hero's mood changed. Boredom and “fog” in the soul, similar to illness, are reminiscent of the state of Pushkin’s Onegin, who suffered from “English spleen.”
The melancholy of inaction is accompanied by fantastic visions. First, some exotic details appear: “royal diamonds” and a bloody scimitar. Vivid “material” signs are replaced by images of warriors of the distant past, with whom the hero feels a family connection. The two time layers are brought together by a complex alloy of thirst for activity, craving for danger and the pursuit of luck, metaphorically designated as the “breath of contagion.”
The first terzetto, following the canons of the genre, synthesizes the feelings of the lyrical subject. The melancholy and silence in the foggy gray present is contrasted with the bright landscape of the past. The beautiful city, whose “blue domes” are bathed in the rays of the “sunset sun”, is surrounded by a double row of “white foam” of flowering gardens and ocean waters.
The last line of the sonnet unexpectedly interrupts the picturesque sketch. After the announcement of a duel with an unknown opponent, there is a pause, followed by a shocking reminder of one’s own death. The denouement offers a new look at the relationship between the present and the past: the fantastic images that flashed through the mind are not ancestors, but doubles of the lyrical subject. Plunging into imaginary spheres, the hero encounters a multi-layered structure that determines the deep qualities of his own nature.
The picture of a bizarre world in which variegated space-time layers are intertwined is presented in the classical form of the French type of sonnet.
The wandering of the lyrical “I,” covering various historical eras, is one of the leading motives in Gumilyov’s poetics. The mixture of times and spaces, concentrated in the soul of the hero, reaches its culmination in the poetic text "".
GIRAFFE
Today, I see, your look is especially sad,
And the arms are especially thin, hugging the knees.
Listen: far, far away, on Lake Chad
An exquisite giraffe wanders.
He is given graceful harmony and bliss,
And his skin is decorated with a magical pattern,
Only the moon dares to equal him,
Crushing and swaying on the moisture of wide lakes.
In the distance it is like the colored sails of a ship,
And his run is smooth, like a joyful bird's flight.
I know that the earth sees many wonderful things,
When at sunset he hides in a marble grotto.
I know funny tales of mysterious countries
About the black maiden, about the passion of the young leader,
But you've been breathing in the heavy fog for too long,
You don't want to believe in anything other than rain.
And how can I tell you about the tropical garden,
About slender palm trees, about the smell of incredible herbs?
- You are crying? Listen... far away, on Lake Chad
An exquisite giraffe wanders.
1907
| CROSS |
For so long the card lied to me behind the card,
That I could no longer get drunk with wine.
Cold stars of anxious March
They turned pale one after another outside the window.
In cold madness, in anxious excitement
I felt like this game was a dream.
“The whole bank,” he shouted, “I’m covering the card!”
And the card is killed, and I am defeated.
I came out into the air. Dawn shadows
We wandered so gently through the soft snow.
I myself don’t remember how I fell to my knees,
I press my golden cross to my lips.
Become free and pure, like the starry sky,
Accept your staff, Sister Poverty,
Wander the roads, beg for bread,
Conjuring people with the shrine of the cross! -
A moment... and in the cheerful and noisy hall
Everyone fell silent and stood up scared from their seats,
When I entered, inflamed, mad,
And silently put my cross on the map.
| *** |
In a dim, austere hall
The violins sang, you danced.
Groups of butterflies and lilies
On greenish silk,
As if they were alive, they said
With an electric sunset
And the shadow of the acacias lay
On canvas decorations.
You seemed like a bonbonniere
Above the elegant bookcase,
And, like little white cats,
Like children playing
Your little feet
Trembling on the parquet floor,
And golden beetles
Your name shone to us.
And when you said,
We loved distant things
You threw flowers at us
Unfamiliar art
In unclear words
Intoxicating our senses
And we believed that the sun
Just a Japanese invention.
1907
Dear boy, you are so cheerful, your smile is so bright,
Don't ask for this happiness that poisons the worlds,
You don't know, you don't know what this violin is,
What is the dark horror of the game starter!
The one who once took her into commanding hands,
The serene light of his eyes disappeared forever,
The spirits of hell love to listen to these royal sounds,
Mad wolves roam along the violinists' road.
We must forever sing and cry to these strings, ringing strings,
The maddened bow must forever beat, curl,
Both under the sun and under the blizzard; under the whitening breakers,
And when the west burns and when the east burns.
You will get tired and slow down, and the singing will stop for a moment,
And you won’t be able to scream, move or breathe, -
Immediately the rabid wolves in a bloodthirsty frenzy
They will grab your throat with their teeth and put their paws on your chest.
Then you will understand how viciously everything that sang laughed,
A belated but powerful fear will look into your eyes.
And the melancholy mortal cold will wrap around the body like a cloth,
And the bride will cry, and the friend will think.
Boy, move on! You won't find any fun or treasures here!
But I see you laughing, these eyes are two rays.
Here, wield a magic violin, look into the eyes of monsters
And die a glorious death, the terrible death of a violinist!
1907
| ON MY WAY |
Game time is over
Flowers don't bloom twice.
Shadow of a giant mountain
Fell on our way.
The area of despondency and tears -
Rocks on both sides
And the bare rock, -
Where the dragon prostrates himself.
Its sharp ridge is steep,
His sigh is a fiery tornado.
People will call him
The gloomy name "Death".
Well, let's turn back
Turn back the ships
To experience again
The ancient poverty of the earth?
No, no way, no way!
So the time has come.
Better than blind Nothing
What a golden yesterday!
Let's take out the treasure sword,
Gift of benevolent naiads,
To finally find
Never-blooming garden.
1907
It happened more than once, it will happen more than once
In our battle, deaf and stubborn
As always, you have now renounced me,
Tomorrow, I know, you will return submissively.
But don’t be surprised, my warring friend,
My enemy, captured by dark love,
If the groans of love are groans of torment,
Kisses are stained with blood.
Another unnecessary day
Gorgeous and unnecessary!
Come, caressing shadow,
And clothe the troubled soul
With your pearl robe.
And you came... you drive away
Ominous birds are my sorrows.
Oh mistress of the night,
No one can overcome
Victorious step of your sandals!
Silence flies from the stars,
The moon shines - your wrist,
And in a dream it was given to me again
The Promised Country -
Long-mourned happiness.
| CAPTAINS |
On the polar seas and on the southern ones,
Along the bends of green swells,
Between basalt rocks and pearl
The sails of the ships rustle.
The swift-winged ones are led by captains,
Discoverers of new lands,
For those who are not afraid of hurricanes,
Who has experienced maelstroms and shoals,
Whose is not the dust of lost charters -
The chest is soaked with the salt of the sea,
Who is the needle on the torn map
Marks his daring path
And, having ascended the trembling bridge,
Remembers the abandoned port,
Shaking off the strokes of the cane
Pieces of foam from high boots,
Or, having discovered a riot on board,
A pistol bursts from his belt,
So gold falls from the lace,
From pinkish Brabant cuffs.
Let the sea go crazy and whip,
The crests of the waves rose into the sky,
No one trembles before a thunderstorm,
Not one will furl the sails.
Are these hands given to cowards?
That sharp, confident look
What can he do against enemy feluccas?
Suddenly abandon the frigate,
A well-aimed bullet, a sharp iron
Overtake gigantic whales
And notice in the multi-starred night
Security light of beacons?
June1909
Christ said: “The poor are blessed,
The fate of the blind, the crippled and the poor is enviable,
I will take them to the villages above the stars,
I'll make them knights of the sky
And I will call them the most glorious of the glorious..."
Let be! I will accept! But what about those others?
Whose thought we now live and breathe,
Whose names sound like calls to us?
How will they atone for their greatness?
How will the will of balance pay them?
Il Beatrice became a prostitute,
Deaf and mute - the great Wolfgang Goethe
And Byron - a common jester... Oh, horror!
I believed, I thought, and the light finally shone for me;
Having created, the Creator forever surrendered me to fate;
I'm sold! I am no longer God's! The seller left
And the buyer looks at me with obvious mockery.
Yesterday rushes after me like a flying mountain,
And tomorrow awaits me ahead like an abyss,
I’m going... But someday the Mountain will fall into the Abyss.
I know, I know, my road is useless.
And if I conquer people by my will,
And if inspiration flies to me at night,
And if I know secrets - a poet, a sorcerer,
Ruler of the universe - the more terrible the fall will be.
And then I dreamed that my heart didn’t hurt,
It is a porcelain bell in yellow China
On the motley pagoda... hangs and rings welcomingly,
In the enamel sky, teasing flocks of cranes.
And the quiet girl in a dress of red silks,
Where wasps, flowers and dragons are embroidered in gold,
With legs drawn up, he looks without thoughts and dreams,
Listening carefully to the light, light ringing sounds.
1911
| POISONED |
“You’re completely, you’re completely snowy,
How strangely and terribly pale you are!
Why are you shaking when you serve?
Should I have a glass of golden wine?
She turned away sad and flexible...
What I know, I have known for a long time,
But I will drink, and I will drink with a smile,
All the wine she poured.
And then, when the candles are extinguished
And nightmares will come to your bed,
Those nightmares that slowly suffocate you
I will feel the deathly intoxication...
And I’ll come to her and say: “Darling,
I saw an amazing dream.
Ah, I dreamed of a plain without edge
And a completely golden horizon.
Know that I won't be cruel anymore
Be happy with whoever you want, even with him,
I'll go, far, far away,
I won't be sad and angry.
To me from paradise, cool paradise,
White reflections of the day are visible...
And it’s sweet to me - don’t cry, dear, -
To know that you poisoned me."
1911
| BY THE FIREPLACE |
A shadow was floating... The fireplace was burning down.
Hands on chest, he stood alone,
Fixed gaze directed into the distance,
Speaking bitterly about my sadness:
“I made my way into the depths of unknown countries,
My caravan traveled for eighty days;
Chains of formidable mountains, forest, and sometimes
Strange cities in the distance,
And more than once in the silence of the night
An incomprehensible howl reached the camp.
We cut down forests, we dug ditches,
In the evenings, lions approached us.
But there were no cowardly souls among us.
We shot at them, aiming between the eyes.
Ancient me dug out a temple from under the sand,
The river is named after me,
And in the land of lakes there are five great tribes
They obeyed me and respected my law.
But now I'm weak, as if in the grip of a dream,
And the soul is sick, painfully sick;
I learned, I learned what fear is,
Buried here within four walls;
Even the shine of a gun, even the splash of a wave
Nowadays we are not free to break this chain...”
And, melting in the eyes of evil triumph,
The woman in the corner listened to him.
September-October 1910
That country that could have been paradise
Became a lair of fire
We are approaching the fourth day,
We didn't eat for four days.
But there is no need for earthly food
In this terrible and bright hour,
Because the Lord's word
It nourishes us better than bread.
And blood-drenched weeks
Dazzling and light
Shrapnel is exploding above me,
Blades fly faster than birds.
Like thunder hammers
Or the waters of angry seas,
Golden heart of Russia
Beats rhythmically in my chest.
And it’s so sweet to dress Victory,
Like a girl in pearls,
Following a trail of smoke
Retreating enemy.
October 1914
Gone... The branches withered
Lilac blue,
And even a little siskin in a cage
Cried over me.
What's the use, stupid siskin,
What good is it for us to be sad?
She's in Paris now
In Berlin, maybe.
Scarier than scary scarecrows
Beautiful honest path,
And to us in our quiet corner
The fugitive cannot be returned.
From the Sign the Psalmist
In a cylinder on the side,
Big, bony, skinny,
Will come in for some tea.
The other day his girlfriend
She went to a cheerful home,
And now we are each other
We'll probably understand.
We don't know anything
Neither how nor why
The whole world is uninhabited
It is unclear to the mind.
And the song will be torn out by flour,
She's so old:
“You are separation, separation,
Alien side!
1914
I groaned from a bad dream
And he woke up, grieving heavily.
I dreamed that you love someone else,
And that he offended you.
I ran from my bed
Like a murderer from his scaffold,
And watched how dimly they glittered
Lanterns through the eyes of animals.
Oh, probably so homeless
Not a single person has wandered
On this night through the dark streets,
Like along the beds of dried up rivers.
Here I stand before your door,
There is no other way given to me,
Even though I know that I won't dare
Never enter this door.
He hurt you, I know
Even though it was just a dream,
But I'm still dying
In front of your closed window.
| WORD |
On that day, when over the new world
God bowed His face, then
Stopped the sun with a word
In short, they destroyed cities.
And the eagle did not flap its wings,
The stars huddled in horror towards the moon,
If, like a pink flame,
The word floated above.
And for the low life there were numbers,
Like livestock, livestock,
Because all shades of meaning
Smart number conveys.
Patriarch gray-haired, under his arm
Conquered both good and evil,
Not daring to turn to sound,
I drew a number in the sand with a cane.
But we forgot that it is shining
Only a word among earthly anxieties,
And in the Gospel of John
It is said that the word is God.
We set a limit for him
The meager limits of nature,
And like bees in an empty hive,
Dead words smell bad.
Summer 1919
| LOST TRAM |
I was walking down an unfamiliar street
And suddenly I heard a crow,
And the ringing of the lute, and distant thunder,
A tram was flying in front of me.
How I jumped on his bandwagon,
It was a mystery to me
There's a fiery path in the air
He left even in daylight.
He rushed like a dark, winged storm,
He got lost in the abyss of time...
Stop, driver,
Stop the carriage now.
Late. We've already rounded the wall,
We slipped through a grove of palm trees,
Across the Neva, across the Nile and Seine
We thundered across three bridges.
And, flashing by the window frame,
He cast an inquisitive glance after us
The poor old man is, of course, the same one
That he died in Beirut a year ago.
Where I am? So languid and so alarming
My heart beats in response:
“You see the station where you can
Should I buy a ticket to India of the Spirit?
Signboard... bloodshot letters
They say: “Green” - I know, here
Instead of cabbage and instead of rutabaga
They sell dead heads.
In a red shirt, with a face like an udder,
The executioner cut off my head too,
She lay with others
Here in a slippery box, at the very bottom.
And in the alley there is a boardwalk fence,
A house with three windows and a gray lawn...
Stop, driver,
Stop the carriage now.
Mashenka, you lived and sang here,
She wove a carpet for me, the groom,
Where is your voice and body now?
Could it be that you are dead?
How you moaned in your little room,
Me with a powdered braid
I went to introduce myself to the Empress
And I didn’t see you again.
Now I understand: our freedom
Only from there the light shines,
People and shadows stand at the entrance
To the zoological garden of the planets.
And immediately the wind is familiar and sweet,
And across the bridge it flies towards me
Horseman's hand in an iron glove
And two hooves of his horse.
The faithful stronghold of Orthodoxy
Isaac is embedded in the heights,
There I will serve a prayer service for health
Mashenki and a memorial service for me.
And yet the heart is forever gloomy,
It’s hard to breathe and it’s painful to live...
Mashenka, I never thought
How can you love and be so sad?
March 1920
| MY READERS |
Old tramp in Addis Ababa,
Conquered many tribes,
Sent me a black spearman
With greetings made up of my poems...
Lieutenant who drove gunboats
Under fire from enemy batteries,
All night over the south sea
He read my poems to me as a souvenir.
Man among a crowd of people
Shot the imperial ambassador,
Came to shake my hand
Thank you for my poems.
There are many of them, strong, angry and cheerful,
Killed elephants and people
Dying of thirst in the desert,
Frozen on the edge of eternal ice,
Faithful to our planet,
Strong, cheerful and angry,
They carry my books in a saddle bag,
They read them in the palm grove,
Forgotten on a sinking ship.
I don't insult them with neurasthenia,
I don’t humiliate you with my warmth,
I don’t bother you with meaningful hints
On the contents of an eaten egg.
But when bullets whiz around,
When the waves break the sides,
I teach them how not to be afraid
Don't be afraid and do what you need to do.
And when a woman with a beautiful face
The only dear one in the universe,
He will say: “I don’t love you,”
I teach them how to smile
And leave and never come back.
And when their last hour comes,
A smooth, red fog will cover your eyes,
I'll teach them to remember right away
All my cruel, sweet life,
And, appearing before the face of God
With simple and wise words,
Wait calmly for his trial.
Early July 1921
| *** |
Answer me, cardboard master,
What were you thinking while making the album?
For poems about the most tender passion
As thick as a real volume?
Cardboard maker, stupid, stupid,
You see, my suffering is over,
Sweetheart's lips were too stingy
The heart never trembled.
Passion sang a swan song,
She'll never sing again
Just like a woman and a man
Never understand each other.
"There are big stars in this world,
In this world there are seas and mountains,
Here Dante loved Beatrice,
Here the Achaeans sacked Troy!
If you don't forget now
A girl with huge eyes
A girl with skillful speeches,
The girl who doesn't need you
That means you are not worthy to live.”
1917
The nightingale rumbled in the garden all evening,
And a bench in a distant alley was waiting,
And spring languished... but it did not come,
I didn’t want to, or I was just scared of the branches.
Is it because it was unbearable to languish,
Is it because the piano was crying from afar?
I felt sorry for the nightingale, and the alley and the night,
And I felt painfully sorry for someone else.
Not yourself! I know how to be light when sad;
Not her! If he wants, let him be like that.
But why this day, like a sick child,
He was dying, not marked by God's hand.
1917
| *** |
When I was in love (and I am in love
Always - into an idea, a woman or a smell),
I wanted to make my dream come true
More bizarre than Rome under the popes.
I rented a room with one window,
Shelter of a seamstress, withered at her machine,
Where, probably, lived a shabby old gnome,
Eating a dropped sardine.
I moved the table to the wall, onto the chest of drawers
I placed the “Knowledge” almanacs nearby,
Postcards - so that even a Hottentot
The sacred became indignant.
She entered, calmly and lightly,
Then she stopped in amazement.
The glass in the window was shaking from the crowbars.
The alarm clock ticked angrily and monotonously.
And I said: “Queen, you are alone
They managed to embody all the luxury of the world;
Your days are like pink birds,
Your love is the music of the clavier.
Ah, god of love, transcendental poet,
He awarded you a very special mark,
And there are no people like you...” She responded
She nodded thoughtfully to me with her aigrette.
I continued (and stupidly behind the wall
The tune of a cracked organ sounded):
“I want to see you differently,
With the face of a godforsaken governess.
And so that you whisper to me: “I am yours”
Or again: “Come into my arms.”
Oh, the sweet cold of rough linen,
And tears, and a worn dress.
And when you leave, take some money: mother
You are sick, you need outfits...
How boring everything is, I want to play
Both by you and by yourself, without mercy"
She squinted and stood up in response;
Anger and suffering shone in the eyes:
“Yes, this is very subtle, you are a poet,
But I’ll come to you for a minute, goodbye.”
Ladies, now I'm taught
Try to come and you will find
Perfume, flowers, antique medallion,
Aubrey Beardsley strictly bound.
Spring 1911
If you meet me, you won't recognize me!
They'll name it - you'll hardly remember it!
I only spoke to you once,
I only kissed your hands once.
But I swear - you will be mine,
Even if you love someone else
Even if for many years
I won't be able to meet you!
I swear to you by the white temple,
What we saw together at dawn,
In this temple he married us invisibly
Seraphim with a flaming gaze.
I swear to you by those dreams,
What I see now every night
And with my great longing
About you in the great desert -
In that desert where the mountains rose,
Like your young breasts
And the sunsets glowed in the sky,
Like your bloody lips.
Summer 1919
In the section on the question I am looking for the title, text and artist of the song by line: asked by the author ability the best answer is Sonnet
I'm probably sick - there's fog in my heart,
I'm bored by everything - people and stories,
I dream of royal diamonds
And covered in blood, a heavy scimitar.
It seems to me, and this is not a hoax -
Fierce Hun, I am a breath of infection,
Having survived through the centuries, I am overwhelmed.
I am silent, I languish, and the walls recede,
Here is the ocean, all in shreds of white foam,
And a city with golden domes,
With blooming jasmine gardens.
We fought there - oh, yes, I was killed.
Nikolay Gumilyov
Answer from 22 answers[guru]
Hello! Here is a selection of topics with answers to your question: I am looking for the title, lyrics and artist of the song by line:
Answer from Alla R[guru]
Nikolay Gumilyov home
Sonnet
I'm probably sick: there's fog in my heart,
I'm bored by everything - people and stories.
I dream of royal diamonds
And the wide scimitar is covered in blood.
It seems to me (and this is not a hoax)
My ancestor was a cross-eyed Tatar,
Fierce Hun... I am a breath of infection,
Having survived through the centuries, I am overwhelmed.
I am silent, I languish, and the walls recede:
Here is the ocean all in shreds of white foam,
Granite bathed in the setting sun,
And a city with blue domes,
With blooming jasmine gardens,
We fought there... Oh yes! I was killed.
content:
The romantic heritage is visible in everything here: in the abstract,
“sublime” words that describe the world surrounding the hero (“path”,
"abyss", "abyss"); and in typically romantic symbols of what he strives for - “my star”, “blue lily”; finally, in the very figure of the conquistador, knight, tramp, looking for something unknown, existing only in legend, myth, dream.
The entire poem (we are still talking about its later edition) is a consistent “ciphering” by the poet of his destiny - his past, present and future - using a kind of romantic cipher. The distribution of grammatical tense forms is curious: I came out - I’m going - I’m growing - I’m laughing - I’m waiting - I’m coming - I’m calling - I’ll fight - I’ll get it; from the past - through the present - to the future tense.
At the same time, verbs of the perfect form frame the entire poem, and the absolute majority are verbs of the imperfect form, which report what happens constantly, regularly. But these verbs, in essence, do not report anything about real events, they only express some higher (emotional, symbolic) meaning of these events:
“went out” - “started doing something”, “going” - “keep doing it”,
“I laugh and wait” - “ready to overcome difficulties by doing something”, etc.
The same is true for nouns: “chasms and abysses” are some kind of “dangerous places”, “joyful garden” is “a place of rest”, “fog” is “unknown, uncertainty”. We will not learn anything intelligible about this; Moreover, it is not always clear what the author means - for example, what the “last link” is, what chain it is from, and what it means to “unchain.” It can be assumed that we are talking about the inevitability of death
as the last moment of life; but this remains only an assumption, which is partly confirmed by the further... development of the poem.
Thus, the poet is trying to create an image of himself as a person involved in some very important, emotionally significant process, ready to participate in it and accept any challenge. At the same time, he undertakes to achieve the impossible, fighting even with the inevitable - death.
As already said, this is a typical romantic figure; in fact,
Gumilyov did not add anything to this standard image.
Let us dwell briefly on the changes that the poet made when revising the poem. They are quite significant: for example, Gumilev tried to bring the form of his poem closer to the strict canon of the sonnet, in particular, he streamlined the rhyme scheme, which in the first edition differed in the first and second quatrains.
But more important are the semantic changes: for example, in the first edition there is no theme of death; the poet only says that what he is looking for may not exist in the world - and he is ready to create his dream, this will be his victory. In general, the first version of the poem is more focused on the future (suffice it to say that there are no forms of the past tense at all, and there are 4 forms of the future, and all of them are from perfective verbs, that is, they depict the future as something that will definitely happen) and is more “self-intoxicated” : the first three lines starting with “I” evoke a feeling of monotony, which is supported by multiple repetitions of this “I” in the future.
When reworking the poem, Gumilyov tried to avoid this monotony and removed repetitions of syntactic constructions (and lexical ones - “abyses”, which appear twice in the first edition). Thus, he somewhat “grounded” the image and emphasized his detachment from the image of the “conquistador”; moved the action of the poem from the “eternally present and necessarily future” to the framework of human life; Finally, I thought about the price that I would have to pay to make my impossible dream come true.
Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilyov
I'm really sick: there's fog in my heart,
I'm bored by everything, people and stories,
I dream of royal diamonds
And the wide scimitar is covered in blood.
It seems to me (and this is not a hoax)
My ancestor was a cross-eyed Tatar,
Fierce Hun... I am a breath of infection,
Having survived through the centuries, I am overwhelmed.
I’m silent, I’m languishing, and the walls are receding -
Here is the ocean all in shreds of white foam,
Granite bathed in the setting sun,
And a city with blue domes,
With blooming jasmine gardens,
We fought there... Oh, yes! I was killed.
Unlike the reflective contemplatives, whose images abound in the poetry of the Silver Age, the lyrical subject of Gumilev’s work is a man of action. The strong-willed principle dominates in him, and despite the variety of roles - conqueror and hunter, warrior and sailor - one thing remains unchanged: the courageous essence of the hero’s nature.
Gumilyov's work began with a poetic declaration of the conquistador, which was presented in the form of a sonnet. A brave and strong romantic who feels close to “chasms and storms” is ready to go his way to the end. In "Sonnet", published in 1912, the hero's mood changed. Boredom and “fog” in the soul, similar to illness, are reminiscent of the state of Pushkin’s Onegin, who suffered from “English spleen.”
The melancholy of inaction is accompanied by fantastic visions. First, some exotic details appear: “royal diamonds” and a bloody scimitar. Vivid “material” signs are replaced by images of warriors of the distant past, with whom the hero feels a family connection. The two time layers are brought together by a complex alloy of thirst for activity, craving for danger and the pursuit of luck, metaphorically designated as the “breath of contagion.”
The first terzetto, following the canons of the genre, synthesizes the feelings of the lyrical subject. The melancholy and silence in the foggy gray present is contrasted with the bright landscape of the past. The beautiful city, whose “blue domes” are bathed in the rays of the “sunset sun”, is surrounded by a double row of “white foam” of flowering gardens and ocean waters.
The last line of the sonnet unexpectedly interrupts the picturesque sketch. After the announcement of a duel with an unknown opponent, there is a pause, followed by a shocking reminder of one’s own death. The denouement offers a new look at the relationship between the present and the past: the fantastic images that flashed through the mind are not ancestors, but doubles of the lyrical subject. Plunging into imaginary spheres, the hero encounters a multi-layered structure that determines the deep qualities of his own nature.
The picture of a bizarre world in which variegated space-time layers are intertwined is presented in the classical form of the French type of sonnet.
The wandering of the lyrical “I,” covering various historical eras, is one of the leading motives in Gumilyov’s poetics. The mixture of times and spaces, concentrated in the hero’s soul, reaches its culmination in the poetic text of “The Lost Tram.”