the poet [Theme] Page 4

Art in order to give a person aesthetic pleasure and in some way is a school for the development of human morality. It is in vain to argue that art is higher or even on a par with reality. The beauties of life (reality) are numerous, varied, nature is inexhaustible in the material of the development of the soul. The question is, why an artist? The numerous beauties of nature are not available to everyone, they are sometimes found in such nooks of life that you need a mirror to find and reflect these beauties. It is difficult for a person with a material outlook on life to comprehend himself, although it is even difficult to understand a particle, to distinguish the beautiful from the ugly, dirty and so on. An artist, on the other hand, is a person who possesses such a soul, who is able not only to perceive the ideal from life, but also to reflect it with a clear, understandable hint for everyone. These hints are particles from nature, selected and flattened into the idea that the creator asked. It is clear, understandable, capable of leaving the very impression that the poet felt from the life that gave him this idea.

Yes, you are a poet, much higher than other of those to whom you read your experiments, in which you tried to put the inner music on paper with the help of pen and ink, believe.

Every lover wants to hear only about his own love and considers only one of it worthy of speech, just as every poet willingly hears only his own poems.

"It's all Poetry," said The Inept Poet; being exceptionally mediocre, he used to see poetry in everything.

There is nothing more surprising and insane than real life itself, and the poet can only imagine its vague reflection, as if in a roughly polished mirror.

Mayakovsky here...
Look brighter - faces -
not a beautiful poet enough.-
I'll shout from this page:
Don't flip through the pages!
Resurrection!

Explanation of the quote:

I tried not to lie in any fact, nor in the fact of life, nor in the fact of creativity, but in the interpretation ... what's the interpretation? Philology is such a strange thing that any proposition expressed in it can be replaced by the opposite with the same measure of reliability and reliability. As for whom, and for me personally, it is convincing only to the extent that it is literature itself.
Of course, I will not seriously assert that "love" is the only true word that exhaustively describes my attitude to Mayakovsky. But if you list, as important as important, all the shades of the difficult feeling that the author feels for the hero, then this word will take its place and even, perhaps, not the last.
(author)

Faster than birds in their dreams.

Let your song sound like the quiet murmur of the Brook, ringing with a silver stream; Let hopes and desires boil in her with a key, And the strength is heard, and the laughter sounds alive; Let us forget to the young sounds And into the world of fantasy we will rush after you - Let us enjoy ourselves without thoughts and reflections And again we will live the dreams of young years - And then we will bless your creations, And we will tell you with delight: "You are a poet!" .. "

Poet!..

After yu's arrest. Tymoshenko western countries swept a real storm of protests. I now compare their silence about the shelling of hospitals, schools, kindergartens by artillery, the wounding and death of children and civilians of Donbass with the hysteria that erupted over the arrest of Tymoshenko, and I am getting scared. This is not just a double standard, but in general the complete absence of universal norms of morality, which is so fond of talking in the West. Once the famous Russian poet Konstantin Simonov wrote clever lines: "There is no other person's grief, who is afraid to confirm this, probably, or kills or prepares for murderers..."

There is no big difference between average and bad.

Poet in prison, sick, unshaven, emaciated,
Trampling with his foot the leaves of the poem unborn,
He watches in despair, as in the abyss, all trembling,
His soul slides down the terrible stairs.
Around teasing, laughing faces,
In consciousness wild, ridiculous swarming,
Drills The Brain of Somnenya, and The Causeless Fear,
Ugly, multifaceted, oppressed in the dark.
And this pernicious genius locked in a hole,
Among the swirling, mocking visions, -
A dreamer, terrified awakened from sleep,
Whose shocked mind is given to madness, -
Here is the image of the Soul that is immersed in darkness
And in the four walls of Reality beats.

As much as a poet can love. "

Woodpecker,