I am back here in the family native analysis. The poem "I'm here again, in my own family" Yesenin Sergey Alexandrovich

I'm here again, in my own family,
My land, thoughtful and gentle!
Curly dusk behind the mountain
The snow-white hand waves.

Gray hair on a cloudy day
Float disheveled past,
And evening sadness me
Irresistibly worried.

Above the dome of the church domes
The shadow of the dawn fell below.
O other games and amusements,
I won't see you again!

Years have sunk into oblivion
And then you went somewhere.
And only still water
Noise behind the winged mill.

And often I'm in the evening mist,
To the sound of a broken sedge,
I pray to the smoking earth
About irrevocable and distant.

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You are now reading the verse I am here again, in the native family, poet Yesenin Sergey Alexandrovich

("I'm here again, in my own family")
x x x

I'm here again, in my own family,
My land, thoughtful and gentle!
Curly dusk behind the mountain
The snow-white hand waves.

Gray hair on a cloudy day
Float disheveled past,
And evening sadness me
Irresistibly worried.

Above the dome of the church domes
The shadow of the dawn fell below.
O other games and amusements,
I won't see you again!

Years have sunk into oblivion
And then you went somewhere.
And only still water
Noise behind the winged mill.

And often I'm in the evening mist,
To the sound of a broken sedge,
I pray to the smoking earth
About irrevocable and distant.

Yesenin's poetry is one of the most autobiographical and autopsychological in Russian literature, almost all of the poet's poems are permeated with autobiographical motifs. Yesenin said: "As for the" autobiographical information "- they are in my poems." This hero was born and raised in a village, in the natural world, and therefore everything natural is dear to him. Then he breaks away from his "small homeland", goes to the city, which turns out to be a "foreign world" for him. The bright and multi-colored world of Yesenin's poetry is fading: "The golden hay of those hair // Turns into grey colour..." ("I have never been so tired"). It is characteristic that in Yesenin's poetry there are almost no urban landscapes. In the city, the Poet does not find a place for himself, dreams prodigal son, to return: "I will return when the branches spread / / In spring, our white garden" ("Mother's Letter"), - to cure the soul by merging with nature. But the village has changed, it has become different. And when he tries to change himself, to adapt to life in a big and alien world for him, he becomes ridiculous, unnecessary, and eventually dies, having survived a crisis of faith.

"It is difficult to find in all Russian poetry an example of such self-absorption, the concentration of a lyrical poet on his inner world. This is the great dignity of Yesenin the lyricist and the source of his weaknesses and suffering"4. Great dignity, because the soul, the fate of each person is no less important and instructive than the fate of an entire state. The source of weakness and suffering, because the feelings and experiences of the hero are hypertrophied, as if isolated from the world, and behavioral reactions in many ways cease to be adequate. As a result, the hero is seized by anxiety, melancholy, fraught with a psychological breakdown.

All Yesenin's work is, as it were, a lyrical autobiographical novel, the hero of which is the image of the Poet - the poet of the ancient, "wooden", rural world. The tragedy of Yesenin is the tragedy of a Russian person who has absorbed and poetically expressed folk ideas about the ideal country of peasant happiness - "Inonia". When the utopian character of this dream was exposed, a crisis of faith set in, it became pointless to live on. Autobiography and autopsychologism lyrical hero Yesenin's poetry, in particular, allows us to regard Yesenin's poetic works as "arguments" in resolving the dispute about the murder or suicide of the poet. And in his poems, his motive for death sounds constantly, and it intensifies as the poet approaches the tragic end of his life. The very word "death" occurs in his poetry about 400 times. It can be argued that Yesenin foresaw his "black death" (like M.Yu. Lermontov). And it can also be argued that the source of the drama of the lyrical hero lies not in the social and ideological sphere, but in the psychological, "mythical" sphere, that ideal image of Russia for Yesenin, which did not stand the test of reality.
Yesenin's poetry is based on Slavic mythology: the central concept of the poetic views of the Slavs (according to A.N. Afanasiev) is the image of a tree - it personifies world harmony, the unity of all things. The tree is a mythological symbol denoting the universe, world harmony. But the tree is also a sign of a person merged with the world. Just as in the tree-universe the top is the sky, the sun; the bottom is the roots, a parallel is born with standing man: his head is a peak that goes into the sky; legs are roots that feel the strength of the earth, outstretched arms, like branches, embrace the world around.

“I am here again, in my own family ...” Sergei Yesenin

I'm here again, in my own family,
My land, thoughtful and gentle!
Curly dusk behind the mountain
The snow-white hand waves.

Gray hair on a cloudy day
Float disheveled past,
And evening sadness me
Irresistibly worried.

Above the dome of the church domes
The shadow of the dawn fell below.
O other games and amusements,
I won't see you again!

Years have sunk into oblivion
And then you went somewhere.
And only still water
Noise behind the winged mill.

And often I'm in the evening mist,
To the sound of a broken sedge,
I pray to the smoking earth
About irrevocable and distant.

Analysis of Yesenin's poem "I'm here again, in my own family ..."

In 1912, Yesenin left his native village of Konstantinovo in the Ryazan province and settled in Moscow in order to succeed in the literary field. Cut off from his roots, from his beloved nature, from his usual life, the poet, throughout his entire work, did not stop talking about village life. The motive of the small homeland organically fit into his theme of Rus', which became the main one in the lyrics. The inescapable longing for Konstantinovo is already evident in early poems. One of them - "I'm here again, in my own family ...", dated 1916. According to most literary critics, it was written after Yesenin's vacation, spent with his friend, the poet Nikolai Klyuev, in the village of Konstantinovo.

The poem tells about the return to his native land. A trip to places where childhood passed, where every corner is familiar, where everything is saturated with memories, acts on the lyrical hero as a kind of therapy. Falling to the sources, he is cleansed, gaining strength, at least for a while he forgets about life's hardships. This is not spoken directly in the work, but is read through the lines.

The nostalgic atmosphere is created by the poet with the help of numerous epithets. Yesenin calls his native land thoughtful and tender, dusk - curly, a mill - winged, sedge - broken. Surprisingly well-chosen adjectives are the special charm of the descriptions created by Sergei Alexandrovich. Blok called Yesenin's early poems wordy. However, sometimes redundancy a large number of images were not only appropriate, but necessary. “I am here again, in my own family…” is just such a case.

The poem garnered mixed reviews from contemporary critics of the poet. It received a negative assessment from Alexander Redko. According to him, there are "strange expressions" in the work. The reviewer, hiding under the pseudonym "V. Gor.", on the contrary, called the lines excellent. One of Yesenin's most perfect poems was "I'm here again, in my own family ..." Alexander Vronsky. He noted the presence of the motif of the irrevocable past, to which Sergei Aleksandrovich subsequently turned more than once. Only rarely did he manage to be so lyrical, sincere later. According to Vronsky, “I am here again, in my own family ...” is an example of remarkable craftsmanship.

It's evening. Dew Where the cabbage beds Winter sings - haunts Under a wreath of forest chamomile Dark night, can't sleep Tanyusha was good, there was no more beautiful in the village, Behind the mountains, behind the yellow valleys Again spread patterned Play, play, talyanochka, raspberry furs. IMITATION OF THE SONG The scarlet light of dawn wove out on the lake. Matushka walked through the woods to the bathhouse, The reeds rustled over the backwater. Trinity morning, the morning canon, A cloud tied lace in a grove, A flood of smoke Throws bird cherry snow, Bagels hang on the wattle fences, KALIKI The evening smoked, a cat dozes on a beam, Beloved land! My heart is dreaming I’ll go to the skufje as a humble monk The Lord came to torture people in love, AUTUMN The winds don’t shower the forests, IN THE HOUSE Along the village, along the crooked path Goy you, Russia, my dear, I’m a shepherd, my chambers are my side, side, The melted clay dries, I smell God's rainbow - Prayers are walking along the road, You are my abandoned land, The drought of the seeding has drowned out, The black howl that smells of sweat! Swamps and marshes, Behind the dark strand of woods, In the land where the yellow nettles I am here again, in my own family, Do not wander, do not crush in the crimson bushes The road was thinking about the red evening, Night and field, and the cry of roosters ... O edge rains and bad weather, DOVE A silver-bell, Hewn drogs sang, It was not in vain that the winds blew, COW Under the red elm porch and yard, HERD THE MISSING MONTH About merry comrades, Spring does not look like joy, Scarlet darkness in the black sky Farewell, dear forest, The mountain ash has reddened Your voice is invisible, like smoke in a hut. Furtively in moonlight lace Where mystery always slumbers, Clouds from the foal FOX O Russia, flap your wings, I'll look in the field, I'll look at the sky - It's not the clouds roam behind the barn Wake me up early tomorrow, Where are you, where are you, father's house, Oh Mother of God, O arable lands, arable lands, arable lands, The fields are compressed, the groves are bare, Green hairstyle I am delirious through the first snow, Silvery road, Open to me, guardian beyond the clouds, Oh, I believe, I believe, there is happiness! Songs, songs, what are you screaming about? Here it is, stupid happiness I danced, wept the spring rain, Oh muse, my flexible friend, I am the last poet of the village My soul is sad about heaven, I'm tired of living in my native land Oh God, God, this depth - I left my dear home, It's good for the autumn freshness SONG ABOUT THE DOG The golden leaves are spinning Now my love is not the same In autumn, the owl roars SONG ABOUT BREAD THE HOOLIGAN All living things have a special purpose Mysterious world, my ancient world, Are you my side, my side! Do not swear. Such a thing! I do not regret, I do not call, I do not cry, I will not deceive myself, Yes! Now it's decided. No return Drinking here again, fighting and crying Rash, harmonica. Boredom... Boredom... Sing, sing. On the accursed guitar This street is familiar to me, Young years with hammered glory, A LETTER TO MOTHER I have never been so tired. Now I can’t scatter this sadness. I have only one fun left: The blue fire swept, You are as simple as everyone else, Let you be drunk by others, Darling, let’s sit next to me, I’m sad to look at you, You don’t torment me with coolness Evening drew black eyebrows. We are now leaving little by little PUSHKIN Low house with blue shutters, SON OF A BITCH Golden grove dissuaded Blue May. A glowing warmth. TO KACHALOV'S DOG Unspeakable, blue, tender... SONG Dawn calls out to another, Well, kiss me, kiss me, Farewell, Baku! I won't see you. I see a dream. The road is black. The feather grass is sleeping. Dear plain, I will not return to my father's house, Above the window is a month. Under the window wind. Bless each work, good luck! It can be seen that this has been done forever - The leaves are falling, the leaves are falling. Burn, my star, do not fall. Life is a deception with charming longing, Rash, talyanka, loudly, rash, talyanka, boldly I have never seen such beautiful ones Oh, how many cats in the world You sing me that song that before In this world I am only a passer-by PERSIAN MOTIVES Oh, you sleigh ! And horses, horses! The snow jam is crushed and pricked, You hear - the sleigh is rushing, you hear - the sleigh is rushing. Blue jacket. Blue eyes. The snow twirls briskly, In the blue evening, in the moonlit evening Do not twist your smile, pulling your hands, Poor writer, is it you Blue fog. Snow expanse, The wind whistles, the silver wind, Small forests. Steppe and gave. Flowers tell me - goodbye, Addition1

ღ “I am here again, in my own family…” S. Yesenin....✿⊱╮

I am here again, in my native family, My land, thoughtful and tender! Curly twilight behind the mountain Waves a snow-white hand. The gray hairs of a cloudy day Float disheveled past, And the sadness of the evening excites me irresistibly. Above the dome of the church domes The shadow of the dawn fell below. O friends of games and amusements, I shall never see you again! Years have sunk into oblivion, And then you have gone somewhere. And only as before the water Noises behind the winged mill. And often I am in the evening mist, To the sound of a broken sedge, I pray to the smoking earth For those who are irrevocable and distant.

The nostalgic atmosphere is created by the poet with the help of numerous epithets. Yesenin calls his native land thoughtful and tender, dusk - curly, a mill - winged, sedge - broken. Surprisingly well-chosen adjectives are the special charm of the descriptions created by Sergei Alexandrovich. Blok called Yesenin's early poems wordy. However, sometimes redundancy, a large number of images turned out to be not only appropriate, but necessary. “I am here again, in my own family…” is just such a case.