Paustovo biography verses

By the anniversary of his birth, he began to write in the last grades of the gymnasium. These were poems, often imitative. In them, traces of the influence of Russian poets of the 19th and early 20th centuries are easily discovered in them. The lines of the young poet testified to the fact that he is a receptive reader and a diligent copyist. Here is the testimony of Paustovsky himself from the book “Golden Rose”, the chapter “Flowers from the Parts”: “When I was a gymnasium student, I, of course, wrote poetry, so many verses that I painted a thick common notebook in a month.

The poems were bad, elegant and, as it seemed to me then, quite beautiful. Now I forgot these poems. I remember only separate stanzas. For example, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh. The rain in the margins and in the edges, where the smoky-red sunset, is burning, the yellowed leaves are flying ... in poems and an unclear excitement, most of my poor and rather bitter youth, I soon quit poems.

including Gorky, the choice stopped on Bunin. A draft of the accompanying letter has been preserved: “Mn. Excuse me, maybe it’s too bold that I am writing to you. My long -standing dream was to send you several poems so that you say what you think about them. I will be incredibly grateful to you if you find time to read them and write a few words to anyone, I haven’t been printed anywhere.

I am far from the literary environment, I am far from the literary environment I would like to believe the life of a wandering, how difficult it was for me to turn to you out of fear that you would consider this performance by an example of that obsessiveness and unceremoniality, from which, I think, you have to suffer. ” But the main thing is in another! Bunin responded to the letter and poems that his father, frankly, seemed unlikely about the poems Bunin spoke briefly, finding that their author "sings from someone else's voice." The center of gravity of the response lies in another, namely, in the council, he carried bread to the Azov shores completely to the prose of the steppe of blue.

In his pupils, I saw the dump of deserts, firefly fires at the gentry at night. He carried Turkish captivity for a long time. In Istanbul lived, chained in chains. Then he left. I was looking for a share in the light. Found it in Kyiv fields. Hot and lazy, I dream of the south of the smoky seas, sapphire waves of snake bends, I am a young grandson, fanned by the sadness of my dreams.

The White Church is thrown. The image of the young man was meek and ancient defiled, the golden sheets were torn from him. The old garden shods cold gold gold. Someone wanders, sad, in a feudish church garden, someone's spurs ringing. I recall many stories about ancient battles, as if visible in vague delirium. Everyone has gone far. Only with a light frightening shadow the cat roams in the garden, and so close the hammer on iron sheets.

And the autumn wind is inclined, dressing in fogs of the forest and a destroyed house. At night, someone will come, desert huts will light up, the sky will again pour bloody heavy wine and pass, retreating, the soldiers will be tired and measured - the guns will brightly sparkle under fire.

They will drink cold, muddy water from the wells and will not remember those who have gone in anxiety and flour. The old man cried quietly and whispered about longing and hardships, fought with a wrinkled forehead against the church, stolen gender. The place of the food of the Kholm province. The rains covered the harsh Polish distance with a gloomy morning. On the dirty highway rumbled on the day and night of the cart.

Everything is grieves with sadness. Somewhere behind the forest with a distant annoying thunder, the batteries grumbled, our flag was fluttered over an abandoned barbed robe. And everything was approaching a hard, tested enemy. Children cried at night. Mom left them. Someone was in a hurry to bury the corpses of the dead, and a deep slippery hole scared. There is no need to regret here, you do not have to love here.

I recalled the rainbows of the shaky sea, bright laughter, captivity of patterned September gardens, pre -binding dreams, light -eyed dawns, and in the dawn - love intoxicated by flour. The place of dreams. September of the year.