Pushkin's duel. Painting by Adrian Volkov.
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin He is surely the best known and most admired Russian poet, but he was also a novelist and playwright. And last day 6 they are already counted 239 years from his birth in Moscow. Of aristocratic origins, he is considered the father of modern russian literature. And he was also in love with Spain. Today I want to dedicate this article to him because one of his poems, The prisonerBesides being one of my favorites, it also inspired me for one of my novels. So there goes my memory of his figure with 6 others.
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
Alexander Pushkin belonged to a family of Russian aristocrats, but through his veins ran the blood of a black page who had served Tsar Peter I the Great. It was her grandmother and her caregiver, whom she appreciated the most, who taught her and transmitted the passion for Russian folk tales and poetry. He was a very precocious reader and did not hesitate to take the volumes from his father's library, in addition to attending the literary gatherings that were held at his home.
At twelve he was admitted to the newly created Imperial Lyceum (which much later was called the Puskhin Lyceum), and it was there that he discovered his poetic vocation. His teachers encouraged him to publish his first poems and he did so in the magazine Vestnik Evropy.
His poetry in those younger years was more sentimental than ideological, but some of the poems he wrote as Freedom o The people caught the attention of Tsarist secret services. This put him in the spotlight and he was accused of subversive activities, forcing him to go into exile. He was in Ukraine and Crimea. That experience marked him and was reflected in his main poems as The Prisoner of the Caucasus o The bandit brothers.
Marriage with Natalia Goncharova, and because of defending his honor, he died at just 37 years of age from a gunshot wound at the hands of a French soldier in a duel. But he was already considered the father of the Russian literary language and the founder of modern Russian literature. The Russian government decided to hold a secret funeral to avoid possible riots and political demonstrations by its admirers.
Construction
His work contains a mixture of realism, history, romanticism and satire and among its most important titles are Boris Godunov, Eugene Onegin, Poltava, The Bronze Horsemen, The captain's daughter o The queen of spades.
Su love for Spain began when he found for his inspiration the literature of the Golden Age. He was fascinated with the figures of Don Juan and Don Quixote. And two of his works, the drama The stone guest and the poem The poor gentleman, they drink from those sources.
7 chosen poems
Thirsty rush your tender moan
Thirsty rush your tender moan,
your intimacy that intoxicates me
and burning, the tongue of sweet desire,
passion whose wine does not satisfy.
But cut with that story,
hide, shut up your dream:
its flame that burns I fear,
I am afraid to know your secret.
Of the night zephyr
Of the night zephyr
ether flows.
bubble,
flees
the Guadalquivir.
The golden moon came out,
Silence ...! Hey!… Guitar to the sound.
The Spanish girl in love
He has looked out on his balcony.
Of the night zephyr
ether flows.
bubble,
flees
the Guadalquivir.
Take off, angel, the mantilla!
What a clear day show yourself!
By the iron railing
teach the divine foot!
Of the night zephyr
ether flows.
bubble,
flees
the Guadalquivir.
It was in his homeland, under that blue sky
It was in his homeland, under that blue sky
she, the withered rose ...
At last he died, a breath was you,
adolescent shadow that nobody touches;
but there is a line between us, it is an abyss.
I tried, in vain, to fan my feeling:
death said the lips with dark cynicism,
and, I attended her indifferently.
Whom I then loved with a fervent soul,
to whom I gave my love in suspense,
with so much infinite, loving sadness,
with silent martyrdom, with delirium.
What happened to love and grief? Oh in my soul
for the naive, the poor shadow,
for the happy memory of the lost days,
I have no tears, no music that names her.
The prisoner
I am behind bars in a damp cell.
Raised in captivity, a young eagle,
my sad company, flapping its wings,
next to the window his pitanza itches.
The pike, throws it, looks at the window,
as if he thinks the same as me.
His eyes call me and his scream,
and uttering wants: Let's take flight!
You and I are free as the wind, sister!
Let's run away, it's time, do white between clouds
the mountain and the navy shines blue,
where we only walk the wind. ..and me!
I sacrifice everything to your memory
I sacrifice everything to your memory:
the accents of the inspired lyre,
the cry of a burned young woman,
the trembling of my jealousy. Of glory
the brightness, and my dark exile,
the beauty of my clear thoughts
and revenge, stormy dream
of my fierce sufferings.
The singer
Did you cast the nocturnal voice next to the grove
of the singer of love, of the singer of his sorrow?
in the morning hour, when the fields are silent
and the are sad and simple of the panpipe sounds,
Haven't you heard it?
Did you find in the barren wooded darkness
to the singer of love, to the singer of his sorrow?
Did you notice her smile, the trace of her crying,
your gentle gaze, full of melancholy?
Haven't you found it?
Did you sigh attentive to the still voice
of the singer of love, of the singer of his sorrow?
When you saw the young man in the middle of the woods,
when crossing his dull gaze with yours,
Have you not sighed?
I loved her
I loved her,
and that love maybe
it's still in my soul, it burns my chest.
But confuse her more, I don't want to.
Let this love of mine not bring you pain.
I loved her. Without hope, with madness.
Voiceless, by jealousy consumed;
I loved her, without deceit, with tenderness,
so much so that I hope God wants it,
and that another, love has him like mine.