By right of memory
In genre and thematic terms, this is a lyrical and philosophical reflection, a “travel diary”, with a weakened plot. The characters in the poem are the vast Soviet country, its people, the rapid turn of their affairs and achievements. The text of the poem contains a humorous confession from the author, a passenger on the Moscow-Vladivostok train. The artist sees three distances: the vastness of the geographical expanses of Russia; the historical distance as the continuity of generations and the awareness of the inextricable connection of times and destinies, and finally, the bottomlessness of the moral reserves of the soul of the lyrical hero.
The poem "By Right of Memory" was originally conceived by the author as one of the "additional" chapters to the poem "Beyond the Distance - Distance", and acquired an independent character in the course of the work. Although “By Right of Memory” does not have a genre designation in its subtitle, and the poet himself, true to the concepts of literary modesty, sometimes called this work a poetic “cycle,” it is quite obvious that this is a lyric poem, the last big job author of "Vasily Terkin". It was completed and prepared for publication by the poet himself two years before his death.
In the introduction, Tvardovsky states that these are frank lines, a confession of the soul:
In the face of bygone pasts
You have no right to bend your heart, -
After all, these were paid
We pay the biggest price...
The poem is compositionally divided into three parts. In the first part, the poet with a warm feeling, a little ironically, recalls his youthful dreams and plans.
And where, which of us will have to,
In what year, in what region
Behind that rooster's hoarseness
Hear your youth.
These dreams are pure and lofty: to live and work...
A. T. Tvardovsky
By right of memory
In genre and thematic terms, this is a lyrical and philosophical reflection, a “travel diary”, with a weakened plot. The characters in the poem are the vast Soviet country, its people, the rapid turn of their affairs and achievements. The text of the poem contains a humorous confession from the author, a passenger on the Moscow-Vladivostok train. The artist sees three distances: the vastness of the geographical expanses of Russia; the historical distance as the continuity of generations and the awareness of the inextricable connection of times and destinies, and finally, the bottomlessness of the moral reserves of the soul of the lyrical hero.
The poem “By Right of Memory” was originally conceived by the author as one of the “additional” chapters to the poem “Beyond the Distance - Distance”; it acquired an independent character in the course of the work. Although “By Right of Memory” does not have a genre designation in its subtitle, and the poet himself, true to the concepts of literary modesty, sometimes called this work a poetic “cycle,” it is quite obvious that this is a lyric poem, the last major work of the author of “Vasily Terkin.” It was completed and prepared for publication by the poet himself two years before his death.
In the introduction, Tvardovsky states that these are frank lines, a confession of the soul:
In the face of bygone pasts
You have no right to bend your heart, -
After all, these were paid
We pay the biggest price...
The poem is compositionally divided into three parts. In the first part, the poet with a warm feeling, a little ironically, recalls his youthful dreams and plans.
And where, which of us will have to,
In what year, in what region
Behind that rooster's hoarseness
Hear your youth.
These dreams are pure and lofty: to live and work for the good of the Motherland. And if necessary, then give your life for her. Beautiful youthful dreams. The poet recalls with slight bitterness that naive time and the youths who could not even imagine how many difficult and severe trials fate was preparing for them:
We were ready to go
What could be simpler:
Love your native mother land,
So that for her through fire and water.
And if -
Then give your life...
Let’s just add on our own behalf.
Which is easier - yes.
But what is more difficult?
The second chapter, “The son is not responsible for his father,” is the most tragic in the poem, and in all of his work. The illegally dispossessed Tvardovsky family was exiled to Siberia. Only Alexander Trifonovich remained in Russia due to the fact that he lived separately from his family in Smolensk. He could not alleviate the fate of those exiled. In fact, he abandoned his family. This tormented the poet all his life. This unhealed wound of Tvardovsky resulted in the poem “By Right of Memory.”
The end of your dashing adversity,
Stay cheerful, don't hide your face.
Thank the father of nations.
That he forgave your father.
A difficult time that philosophers cannot understand fifty years later. But what can we say about a young man who firmly believes in official propaganda and ideology? The duality of the situation is reflected in the poem.
Yes, he could do it without reservations,
Suddenly - as soon as it gets hot -
Any of your miscalculations is a heap
Transfer to someone else's account:
To someone's enemy distortion
What the covenant proclaimed.
To someone's dizziness
From his predicted victories.
The poet seeks to comprehend the course of history. Understand what was the fault of the repressed peoples. Who allowed this state of affairs when one person decided the fate of nations. And everyone was guilty before him for the fact that they were alive.
In the third chapter of the poem, Tvardovsky asserts the human right to memory. We have no right to forget anything. As long as we remember, our ancestors, their deeds and exploits are “alive.” Memory is a person’s privilege, and he cannot voluntarily give up God’s gift to please anyone. The poet states:
Who hides the past jealously
He is unlikely to be in harmony with the future...
This poem is a kind of repentance from Tvardovsky for his youthful actions and mistakes. We all make mistakes in our youth, sometimes fatal ones, but this does not give rise to poems in us. A great poet even pours out his grief and tears into brilliant poetry.
And what are you trying to do now?
Bring back the former grace
So you call Stalin -
He was God -
He can get up.
Closing the lessons of age,
The thought comes naturally -
To everyone with whom I was along the way,
Treat the living and the fallen.
This is not the first time she has come.
So that the word has double control:
Where perhaps the living will remain silent,
So they will interrupt me:
- Allow me!
In the face of bygone eras
You have no right to bend your heart, -
After all, these were paid
We pay the biggest price...
And let me have that outpost,
That strict sentry sign
The pledge of non-evil speech
Living by right of memory.
Before departure
Do you remember, on a pre-autumn night,
It's been that way for decades now,
You and I smoked in the hay,
Disregarding the dangerous prohibition.
And we didn’t close our eyes until the light,
Although the smell of hay was not the same,
What in the sweltering nights of July
Doesn't let you sleep for a long time...
Then reading someone's lines out loud,
Then suddenly losing the connection of speeches,
We were going on a long journey
From my first youth.
We didn't feel sad
Friends - thinker and poet.
Throwing away our outback
In exchange for the whole wide world.
We lived by our cherished plan,
Suddenly seize
Before all sciences -
With all their countless reserves -
And don’t let it out of your hands.
The spirit of doubt was unknown to us;
We'll handle it well
And for their fathers and grandfathers
In addition, we’ll get...
We repeated that misfortune
We don't care
But they themselves were only waiting for happiness, -
That was the age taught.
We knew that it would be a hundredfold
We must repay our impulse
To delve into the wisdom of the world right away,
Having turned it to the bottom.
We were ready to go.
What could be simpler:
Don't lie.
Don't be a coward.
Be faithful to the people.
Love your native mother land,
So that for her through fire and water.
And if -
Then give your life.
Which is easier!
We'll leave it intact
Such is the covenant of the early days.
Let’s just add on our own behalf:
Which is easier - yes.
But what is more difficult?
These were our distances,
As it seemed to us, without embellishment,
When in an uncontrollable frenzy
We convinced each other of this,
There was no dispute between us.
And talking about the sciences to the fullest,
We dreamed together about
Oh, and what kind of pants we're wearing
We'll show up home later.
Marvel, father, cry, dear,
What kind of guest did God bring?
How will it pass, spreading
Moscow smell of cigarettes.
Moscow, the capital - the light is not near,
And you, dear side,
What she was, deaf, motionless,
She must be waiting for us on leave.
And farm gatherings,
And parties in succession,
And so that the Zagoryev girls
They ate us with their eyes,
They put their hands on us awkwardly,
Blazing with paint to the ears...
And there would be two friends there somewhere,
Within the walls of the capital's floors,
They waited with gentle reproach
Already at that hour you and I,
Like us in our hayloft
We were thinking about our departure...
And we didn’t seem to know
What's here, behind our backs,
The native land will be torn from its place
And spin in a round dance
Following the blizzard, a continuous...
Have you forgotten how at dawn
They notified us, friends,
About summer passing into autumn
The singing of young cockerels.
In some kind of suppressed sadness,
With his earnest hoarseness
It was as if they were having a funeral service
The end of our childhood days.
As if through force
They told their ritual tale
About something memorable that happened
Before us.
And it will be after us.
But then we're in the hayloft
They didn't listen to them that way
We yawned sweetly,
Marveling that it is day and we are not sleeping.
And in our hour before departure
There were no signs that
What gifts are in store for us?
Fate was in the future.
And where, which of us will have to,
In what year, in what region
Behind that rooster's hoarseness
Hear your youth.
Towards our expected fate
We didn’t set off on our journey at random, -
She is in accordance with our will
She called me to taste bread and salt.
How long ago?
A lifetime ago...
The son is not responsible for his father
The son is not responsible for his father -
Five words in a row, exactly five.
But what do they contain?
You young people don’t suddenly need a hug.
He dropped them in the Kremlin hall
The one who was one for all of us
Arbiter of earthly destinies,
Whom the peoples called
At the celebrations, the father's family.
To you -
From another generation -
Hardly to comprehend to the depth
Those short words are a revelation
For the guilty without guilt.
You will not be confused in any questionnaire
The once ominous graph:
Who was there in the world before you?
Your father, dead or alive.
In the clouds of midnight meetings
You weren't bothered by that question:
After all, you didn’t choose your father, -
The answer today is simple.
But in those years and five-year plans,
Those who are unlucky with the graph -
For an indelible mark
Submit your brow without complaint.
So that with shame and burning torment
Wearing it is the law.
Always be at hand - in case
Lack of class enemies.
Ready for the torture of being public
And sometimes to bitter bitterness,
When your friend is your bosom
At the same time, he won’t look up...
Oh, the years of unlovable youth,
Her cruel troubles.
It was the father, then suddenly he was the enemy.
And the mother?
But it is said: two worlds,
And nothing about mothers...
And here, where - beyond the flood
Those years - you were in a hurry barefoot,
You are called a brat
Not even a son, but a son...
How can a boy live with that nickname?
How to serve an unknown sentence -
Firsthand,
Not from the book
The author of these lines interprets...
You are here, son, but you are not from here,
What other reason do you have?
When your parent is in complete darkness,
Included in the same list.
If only you had such leaven
I dreamed of stepping into the forbidden circle.
And he shakes your hand with caution
Your bosom friend...
And suddenly:
The son is not responsible for his father.
That sign has now been removed from you.
Happy a hundred times:
I didn’t wait, I didn’t expect,
And suddenly - he’s not guilty of anything.
The end of your dashing adversity,
Stay cheerful, don't hide your face.
Thank the father of nations,
That he forgave your father
Native -
with unexpected ease
The curse was lifted. As if he
Unknown and strange to him
He saw it and repealed the law.
(Yes, he could, without reservations,
Suddenly - as soon as it gets hot -
Any of your miscalculations is a heap
Transfer to someone else's account;
To someone's enemy distortion
What the covenant proclaimed,
To someone's dizziness
From the victories he predicted.)
Son - for father? Doesn't answer!
Amen!
And as if unaware:
What if that son (and not son!)
Receiving such rights
And could you answer for your father?
Answer - even if not from science,
Let it come to the wrong end,
But maybe just by remembering my hands,
Which ones did my father have?
In knots of veins and tendons,
In the arms of crooked fingers -
Those who - with a sigh - are like strangers,
Sitting down at the table, he put it on the table.
And just like a rake, it happened
Clingy
spoons stalk,
So evasive and small,
He couldn't grasp it right away.
Those hands that by their own will -
Neither straighten nor clench into a fist:
There were no individual calluses -
Solid.
Truly - a fist!
And not otherwise, with that calculation
I've been hanging over the ground for years,
Sprinkled with my free sweat,
The dawn closed over her with the dawn.
And I’ll also add on my own behalf,
What, perhaps, in the hour of trouble itself
His peasant vanity,
Oh, how it jumped - my God!
And in those parts where frost hung
From the barracks walls and ceiling,
He might have been full of pride
That he suddenly passed for a kulak.
Did you get an error? Don't tell me -
He inspired himself, -
If so, it means he’s a resident,
The owner means, because...
Or maybe in great anguish
He left his house and yard
And the blind and wild one rejected
For a round number, the verdict.
And in the crowd of a horse-drawn carriage,
What he was carrying somewhere beyond the Urals,
Behaved proudly, aloof
From those whose share he shared.
In bulk with them in that heated vehicle -
A cart tied up in one,
Reach for children to their edge
He didn’t allow it, shedding a tear...
(Look how compassionate you are, -
I suddenly hear from afar, -
Again from the kulak bell tower,
Again to the enemy's mill. -
How long, Lord, how long
I can hear the echo of ancient years:
No mills, no bell towers
Long, long ago no longer in the world.)
From their gloating or fate
Shielding myself with my hunchbacked back,
Among the enemies of Soviet power
One who glorified this power;
Her assistant is naked,
Her support and fighter,
What's on the long-awaited land
With her he finally healed, -
He, thrown into destruction by her,
He did not reproach her with evil:
After all, the point is not in a small inflection,
When is the Great Turnaround...
And I believed that everything would fall into place
And the recount will not slow down,
As soon as - only Stalin personally
The Kremlin will read his letter...
(The man did not notice that from now on,
Ask for something or don’t ask,
Not Lenin, not even Kalinin
There was an addressee for all Rus'.
But the one for the purposes of communism
Showed a different scope
And on newspaper pages
I read entire letters from the republics -
Not only in prose, but in poetry.)
Or maybe differently
The man decided his fate:
Since there are no ways back to home,
We will not be lost in any region.
Decided - try without loss,
Let's confirm our decree.
And - be kind, Magnitka Mountain,
Enroll us in the working class...
But how and where will the father land,
It's not about the father, it's about the son:
The son is not responsible for his father, -
Provide him with a way.
Five short words...
But year after year
Those words faded away
And the title of son of an enemy of the people
Already under them it became legal.
And beyond one line of the law
Fate has already equaled everyone:
Son of a fist or son of a people's commissar,
The son of an army commander or a priest...
Marked from birth
A baby of enemy blood.
And everything seemed to be missing
The land of branded sons.
No wonder in the days of the bloody war
Another blessed her:
Without reproaching him with guilt,
That the bitter soul burned with poison,
The war provided the right
To death and even a share of glory
In the ranks of the fighters of our native land.
Granted the title of son
A soldier's military unit...
One fate was terrible:
In battle there is an abyss without a trace.
And having lived to the end
That way of the cross, half alive -
From captivity to captivity - under the thunder of victory
Follow with a double stamp.
No, you never wondered
In your destiny, motherland,
Gather under the sky of Magadan
Such an army of their sons.
Dont know,
Where does it all begin?
When did I manage to raise
Everyone that she kept behind the wire,
Beyond that zone, dear mother...
Among our holidays and everyday life
Not everyone could even remember
With what charter to mortal people
The visiting god called out to them.
He said: follow me
Leave your father and mother,
Everything is fleeting, earthly
Leave it and you will be in heaven.
And we, boasting of disbelief in God,
In the name of our own shrines
That sacrifice was strictly demanded:
Reject your father and reject your mother.
Forget where you came from,
And realize, don’t contradict:
To the detriment of love for the father of nations -
Any other love.
The task is clear, the cause is sacred, -
With that - straight to the highest goal.
Betray your brother on the way
And a best friend in secret.
And the soul with human feelings
Don't aggravate yourself, sparing yourself.
And bear false witness in the name
And commit atrocities in the name of the leader.
I am grateful to any fate,
Say one thing about how great he is,
Even if you were a Crimean Tatar,
Ingush il friend of the steppes Kalmyk.
Applaud all the sentences,
Which ones cannot be comprehended.
Slander the people with whom
Thrown into exile at the same time.
And in the stuffy crowd of outcomes -
No, not biblical, our days -
Exalt the father of nations:
He is beyond everything.
He knows better.
He announces the beginning
And all the ends, of course.
The son is not responsible for his father -
Law, which also means:
Father for son - head.
But I extinguished all the laws
For the best night.
And he is not responsible for his son,
Ah, neither for my son nor for my daughter.
There, at the silent Kremlin wall,
Fortunately, he doesn’t know
What a dashing misfortune father's
His afterlife sleep is covered...
Children have long since become fathers,
But for everyone's father
We were all responsible
And the trial lasts for decades,
And there is no end in sight.
About memory
To forget, to forget silently commanded,
They want to drown you in oblivion
Living reality. And so that the waves
They closed over her. True story - forget!
Forgetting relatives and friends
And so many destinies the way of the cross -
All that was an old dream,
A bad, wild fable,
So, forget her too.
But it was clearly true
For those whose life was cut short,
For those who have become camp dust,
As someone once said.
Forget - oh no, not with those together
To forget that we did not come from the war, -
Some that even this honor
The harsh ones were deprived.
They tell you to forget and ask with affection
Not remembering is a memory for printing,
So that inadvertently that publicity
The uninitiated should not be confused.
Forget about mothers and wives,
Their own - who knew no guilt,
About the children separated from them,
And before the war,
And without war.
And speaking of the uninitiated:
Where can I get them? Everyone is dedicated.
Everyone knows everything; trouble with the people! -
Not by this, but by this they know by birth,
Not by marks and scars,
So in passing, in passing,
Not myself
So through those who themselves...
And for nothing they think that memory
Doesn't value itself
That the duckweed of time will drag on
I love any true story
Any pain;
That this way and that - the planet is flying,
Counting down the years and days,
And what will not be exacted from the poet,
When behind the ghost of prohibition
He won’t say anything about what burns his soul...
No, all the old omissions
Now it’s my duty to finish speaking.
Inquisitive Komsomol daughter
Go and agree on your Glavlit;
Explain why and whose care
Classified as closed article
An unnamed century of bad memory of the matter;
Which one, not put in order,
Decided for us
Special Congress
In this sleepless memory,
Just on it
Put up a cross.
And who said that adults
Can't you read other pages?
Or our valor will decrease
And will honor fade from the world?
Or, having told aloud about the past,
We will only please the enemy,
Why pay for your victories?
Has it happened to us at exorbitant prices?
Is his slander new to us?
Or everything that makes us strong in the world,
With all the newness we have grown,
And then drenched in blood,
No longer worth the price?
And our business is just a dream,
And fame is the noise of empty rumor?
Then the silent ones are right,
Then all is dust - poetry and prose,
Everything is just like that - out of my head.
What is considered big today, what is small -
Who knows, but people are not grass:
Don't turn them all in bulk
In some who do not remember kinship.
Let the eyewitnesses of the generation
They will quietly go to the bottom,
Happy oblivion
It is not given to our nature.
Others simply stated that
It's like we're talking about a rainy day
All these were not welcome,
Throwing shadows at us.
But everything that happened is not forgotten,
Not out of the ordinary.
One lie is to our loss,
And only the truth comes to court!
And I’m not the same years old anymore -
I have no right to defer myself
Give.
It would be a weight off my shoulders -
Still have time without delay
Put the silent pain into words.
That pain that is hidden at times
And in old times it oppressed our hearts
And what we drowned out with thunder
Applause in honor of the father.
With utmost strength in every hall
They thundered because
That we are never alone
That father was applauded.
Always seemed to be nearby
Having passed his earthly shift.
The one who didn't like applause,
At least he knew their value.
Whose image is eternal and alive
The world was saved beyond mortal limits,
whom is your teacher
Father humbly called...
And, roughly doubling the names,
We proclaimed them as one
And they put it on the tablets.
As if the essence was the same.
And the fear is that everyone is at the head of the bed
The dashing one decided it was time,
We were taught to remain silent
Before the revelry is unkind.
He ordered in our silent lot
At the thought of turning over your license to the special sector,
Since then - like a recall of long-standing pain
For us, she barely appears.
No, give us a sign of the supreme will,
Give revelation of the deity.
And a special sigh is ready -
The limit of our daring:
Now, if Lenin rose from the grave,
I looked at everything that had happened...
He's behind all the little things
I would see the breadth and depth.
Or maybe he shrugged his shoulders
And he would say:
- Well well! -
So, this and that are guessing,
Anticipating this or that judgment, -
Like children who have played enough,
What is expected from the absence of the elders.
But everything that has become or will become
We can’t give it up, we can’t sell it out of our hands,
And Lenin will not stand to judge us:
He was not a god and is not alive.
And what are you trying to do now?
Bring back the former grace
So you call Stalin -
He was a god - He can stand up.
And that he is easy to remember
In the sublunary world, God the Father,
This is now evidenced by
His Chinese sample...
...Well, let it be in the hayloft,
Where we denied sleep that night,
Our distances seemed different, -
There is no reason for us to lament.
To measure everything with a reliable yardstick,
So as not to be apart from the real truth,
Multilateral verification
We walked - where anyone had to.
And experience is our venerable healer,
Sometimes freakishly cool, -
Brought to us by the will of the century
His healing infusion.
But we will continue to be as we were, -
What a sudden thunderstorm -
by people
one of those people
that people
Without hiding my eyes,
They look into your eyes.
Analysis of the poem “By Right of Memory” by Tvardovsky
Alexander Tvardovsky was not only a famous literary writer, but also successfully combined literary activity from journalism, which, in turn, left an imprint on the style of writing poems and poems, as well as on their themes and message to the reader.
At the end of 1970, Tvardovsky wrote the famous poem “By the Right of Memory,” which was based on the poet’s autobiography. The time of writing the autobiographical poem coincided with that period in history when writers were no longer discriminated against in their statements and mentions of political topics. Alexander Tvardovsky did not miss the opportunity to express his opinion about Stalin’s policies, and wrote “By Right of Memory.”
Tvardovsky’s poem can be divided into three parts, which are united by one main idea, with the help of which the writer tried to convey to the reader why this particular topic was chosen for writing the work.
First part
In it, the writer tells readers about his cherished dreams, says what he strived for and what goals he set for himself in his youth. During the poet's lifetime, only the first part of the autobiographical poem was published.
At the beginning, Tvardovsky introduces readers to two young guys from an ordinary village who have not yet encountered the harsh reality of life and problems, and still believe in a cloudless future and the fulfillment of their cherished desires. Their passion, youthful maximalism and desire to live give them a surge of strength, which they spend for the benefit of their homeland. In the same part, the author clearly hints that the young men will have to face a cruel reality and come down to earth from their rosy dreams.
The second part of the autobiographical poem
In the second part of Tvardovsky’s poem, any reader can feel in the most vivid colors the full severity of the author’s degree of despair and hopelessness. In this part, the poet completely and completely reflected his state of mind. He was depressed and broken by his family's exile in the cold embrace of icy Siberia, but there was nothing he could do to fix it. The poet was able to understand how this could happen, that the promises of political figures and their words mean nothing at all and never coincide with actions. Faith in ideology was forever undermined and forever left a heartbreaking mark on the author’s soul.
In the late 70s of the 20th century, the concept of “enemy of the people” was widespread among the people. To receive such a “title” it was enough not only to break the laws yourself or cross the line in statements addressed to political figures, but also to have parents for whose mistakes their children were responsible and punished. Soon, Stalin announced to the people that this was wrong, and “the son should not be held accountable for his father’s mistakes.” After such words, many people were finally able to breathe freely, but not Tvardovsky. He regarded such a step by the famous politician as a betrayal within the family circle. It turns out that now children have the right to “abandon” their parents, thereby forever breaking the blood connection. He addressed modern readers with a certain amount of irony:
“You will not be confused in any questionnaire
The once ominous graph:
Who was there in the world before you?
Your father, dead or alive."
The final part of the work “By Right of Memory”
Tvardovsky dedicated the third and final part of the poem “By Right of Memory” to the reader. The poet wanted to convey that no matter what happens, you cannot give up your past, your family or its actions. A person has no right to forget about his roots and start all over again.
After reading the poem, the reader’s heart cannot remain indifferent. the main idea and the underlying message literary work The point is that you cannot take bold steps towards a good future if you do not remember or do not want to know your past.
The work is a confession. It largely reflects the biography of the poet, and is considered a summation of the poet’s many years of thoughts. In the first part of the poem, the writer recalls his childhood with its bright hopes. He also remembered his friend, with whom he and he discussed the future life.
There were difficult times in the poet's life. He suffered and lived through hunger strike and war, during the time of Khrushchev. In the poem, the author pours out everything that lives and boils in his soul.
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Other writings:
- In Memory of a Mother The pages of the series “In Memory of a Mother” are imbued with true Russia, that small native land in which the poet grew up. He always remembered him, noting his relationship with Smolensk region. This cycle displays the completeness of Tvardovsky’s love for his mother, as for Read More......
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- A few months before starting work on the poem “By Right of Memory,” A. T. Tvardovsky wrote: “It seems that for the first time in a long time I felt the approach of a poetic theme, something that was not said and that I, and therefore not only me, need be sure to express it. Read More......
- Closing age lessons. The thought comes by itself - To everyone with whom it was along the way, Alive and fallen. A. Tvardovsky The great events that took place in our country were reflected in the work of Alexander Trifonovich Tvardovsky both in the form of their direct depiction and Read More ......
- I lived, I was - for everything in the world I answer with my head. A. T. Tvardovsky Times are changing, we already live in a democratic state, now works that were banned for seventy long years are being published with all their might. In particular, we became aware of nowhere Read More......
- The life of A. Tvardovsky occurred, perhaps, during the most tragic years in the history of the Russian people. He went through the entire war “with his people”; before his eyes, the country was overwhelmed Stalin's repressions, the poet survived the years of Khrushchev's thaw. He became one of the most significant poets who wrote Read More......
- The poem “By Right of Memory” was written in the mid-70s of the 20th century. The author wrote: “It seems that for the first time in a long time I felt the approach of a poetic theme, something that has not been said and that I, and therefore not only me, must necessarily express.” In Read More......
- The great events that took place in our country were reflected in the work of Alexander Trifonovich Tvardovsky both in the form of their direct depiction and in the form of individual experiences and reflections associated with it. In this sense, his work highest degree topical. In the late 60s, Tvardovsky writes Read More......
Annotation
The poem "By Right of Memory" (1967-1969, published in 1987) describes tragic fate Tvardovsky's father.
Tvardovsky Alexander Trifonovich
By right of memory
1. BEFORE DEPARTURE
2. THE SON IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE FATHER
3. ABOUT MEMORY
Tvardovsky Alexander Trifonovich
By right of memory
By right of memory
Closing the lessons of age,
The thought comes naturally:
To everyone with whom I was along the way,
To the living and the fallen, treat.
This is not the first time she comes
So that the word has double control:
Where perhaps the living will remain silent,
So they will interrupt me: “Allow me!”
In the face of bygone eras
You have no right to cheat your soul,
After all, these were paid
We pay the biggest price..."
And let me have that outpost,
That strict sentry sign
The pledge of non-evil speech
Living by right of memory.
1. BEFORE DEPARTURE
Do you remember, on a pre-autumn night,
It's been that way for decades now
You and I smoked in the hay,
Disregarding the dangerous prohibition.
And we didn’t close our eyes until the light,
Although the smell of hay was not the same,
What in the sweltering nights of July
Doesn't let you sleep for a long time...
Then reading someone's lines out loud,
Then suddenly losing the connection of speeches,
We were going on a long journey
From my first youth.
We didn't feel sad
Friends: thinker and poet,
Throwing away our outback
In exchange for the whole wide world.
We lived by our cherished plan
Suddenly seize
Before all sciences,
With all their countless reserves
And don’t let it out of your hands.
The spirit of doubt was unknown to us;
We'll handle it well
And for their fathers and grandfathers
We'll get more in addition.
We repeated that misfortune
We don't care
But they themselves were only waiting for happiness,
That was the age taught.
We knew that it would be a hundredfold
We must repay our impulse
To delve into the wisdom of the world right away,
Having turned it to the bottom.
We were ready to go,
What could be simpler:
Don't lie. Don't be a coward.
Be faithful to the people.
Love your native mother land,
So that for her through fire and water.
Then give your life.
Which is easier! We'll leave it intact
Such is the covenant of the early days.
Let’s just add on our own behalf:
Which is easier - yes. But what is more difficult?
These were our distances,
As it seemed to us, without embellishment,
When in an uncontrollable frenzy
We convinced each other of this,
There was no dispute between us.
And talking about the sciences to the fullest,
We dreamed together about
Oh, and what kind of pants we're wearing
Let's show up home
Then
Marvel, father! Cry, dear,
What guest did God bring?
How will it pass, spreading
Moscow smell of cigarettes.
Moscow, the capital, is not a near light,
And you, dear side,
What she was, deaf, motionless,
She must be waiting for us on leave.
And farm gatherings,
And parties in succession,
And so that the Zagoryev girls
Then they ate us with their eyes,
They put their hands on us awkwardly,
Blazing with paint to the ears.
And there would be two friends there somewhere,
Within the walls of the capital's floors,
They waited with gentle reproach
Already at that hour you and I,
Like us in our hayloft
We were thinking about our departure...
And we didn’t seem to know
What's here, behind our backs,
The native land will be torn from its place
And spin in a round dance
Following the blizzard, a continuous...
Have you forgotten how at dawn
They notified us, friends,
About summer passing into autumn
The singing of young cockerels.
There, behind the straw eaves,
He responded with a child's cry
And together I will be dashing.
In some kind of suppressed sadness,
With his earnest hoarseness
It was as if they were having a funeral service
The end of our childhood days.
As if through force
They told their ritual tale
About something memorable that happened
Before us. And it will be after us.
But then we're in the hayloft
They didn't listen to them that way
We yawned sweetly,
Marveling that it is day and we are not sleeping.
And in our hour before departure
There were no signs that
What gifts are in store for us?
Fate had on
Then
And where, which of us will have to,
In what year, in what region
Behind that rooster's hoarseness
Hear your youth.
Towards our expected fate
We didn’t set off on our journey at random,
She is in accordance with our will
She called me to taste bread and salt.
How long ago? A lifetime ago...
2. THE SON IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE FATHER
The son is not responsible for his father -
Five words in a row, exactly five.
But what do they contain?
You young people will not suddenly understand.
He dropped them in the Kremlin hall
The one who was one for everyone
Arbiter of earthly destinies,
Whom the peoples called
At the celebrations, the father's family.
From another generation
Hardly to comprehend to the depth
Those short words are a revelation
For the guilty without guilt.
You will not be confused in any questionnaire
The once ominous graph:
Who was there in the world before us?
Your father, dead or alive.
In the clouds of midnight meetings
You weren't bothered by that question:
After all, you didn’t choose your father,
The answer today is simple.
But in those years and five-year plans,
Who is unlucky with the graph?
For an indelible mark
Submit your brow without complaint.
So that with shame and burning torment
Wearing it is the law.
Always be at hand - in case
Lack of class enemies.
Ready for the torture of being public
And sometimes to bitter bitterness,
When your friend is your bosom
At the same time, he won’t look up...
Oh, the years of unlovable youth,
Her cruel troubles.
It was the father, then suddenly he was the enemy.
And the mother? But it is said: two worlds,
And nothing about mothers...
And here, where - beyond the flood
Those years - I would have hurried barefoot,
You are called a brat
Not even a son, but a son...
How can a boy live with that nickname?
How to serve an unknown sentence,
Firsthand,
