Autumn cry of a hawk Joseph Brodsky analysis. Collection of scientific papers. The mythopoetic basis of the poem by I. A. Brodsky "Autumn cry of a hawk"

AUTUMN CRY OF THE HAWK (1975)

The northwest wind lifts it
gray, purple, crimson, scarlet
valley of Connecticut. He already
does not see the delicious promenade
dilapidated hens in the yard
farms, gopher on the boundary.

Spread on the air stream, alone,
all he sees is a ridge of sloping
hills and silver rivers,
curly like a living blade,
jagged steel,
beaded towns

New England. Dropped to zero
thermometers - like chests in a niche;
get cold, curbing the fire
leaves, church spiers. But for
hawk, this is not a church. Above
the best thoughts of parishioners,

he soars in the blue ocean, closing his beak,
with a metatarsus pressed to the stomach
- claws in a fist, like fingers -
feeling blowing with each pen
from below, sparkling in response with an eye
berry, holding to the South,

to the Rio Grande, to the delta, to the steamed crowd
beeches hiding in powerful foam
herbs whose blades are sharp,
nest, broken shell
in scarlet specks, smell, shadows
brother or sister.

A heart overgrown with flesh, down, feather, wing,
trembling with frequency,
exactly cuts with scissors,
driven by its own warmth,
autumn blue, her
increasing through

barely visible to the eye brown spot,
point sliding over top
spruce; due to the emptiness in the face
child frozen at the window,
couples getting out of the car
women on the porch.

But the updraft lifts it up
Higher and higher. In underbelly feathers
stings with cold. Looking down
he sees that the horizon has faded,
he sees, as it were, the first thirteen
states, he sees: from

chimney rises smoke. But just a number
pipe prompts lonely
the bird as it rose.
Where has it taken me!
He feels mixed with anxiety
pride. Flipped over

wing, it falls down. But the elastic layer
air returns it to the sky,
into colorless ice.
Evil appears in the yellow pupil
shine. That is, a mixture of anger
with horror. He again

is overthrown. But like a wall - a ball,
like the fall of a sinner - again in faith,
pushes him back.
Him, which is still hot!
What the hell. Everything is higher. into the ionosphere.
To an astronomically objective hell

birds where there is no oxygen,
where instead of millet - groats of distant
stars. What is for two-legged heights,
then for the feathered vice versa.
Not in the cerebellum, but in the sacs of the lungs
he guesses: not to be saved.

And then he screams. From bent like a hook
beak, similar to the screech of Erinyes,
breaks out and flies out
mechanical, unbearable sound,
the sound of steel digging into aluminum;
mechanical, because

meant for no one's ears:
human, breaking from a birch
squirrel, yapping fox,
small field mice;
so tears can't shed
nobody. Only dogs

muzzle up. A piercing, harsh cry
scarier, more nightmarish than D-sharp
diamond cutting glass
crosses the sky. And peace for a moment
as if shuddering from a cut.
Because it's warm up there

burns the space, like here below,
burns the hand with a black fence
without a glove. We, exclaiming "out,
there!" we see a tear at the top
hawk, plus web, sound
inherent, small waves,

scattered across the sky, where
there is no echo where it smells of apotheosis
sound, especially in October.
And in this lace, akin to a star,
sparkling, frozen,
hoarfrost, in silver,

downy feathers, the bird swims to the zenith,
in ultramarine. We see through binoculars from here
pearl, sparkling detail.
We hear: something is ringing above,
like broken dishes
like a family crystal

whose fragments, however, do not hurt, but
melt in the palm of your hand. And for a moment
again distinguish circles, eyes,
fan, rainbow spot,
dots, brackets, links,
spikelets, hairs -

former Freehand Feather Pattern,
a map that has become a handful of nimble
flakes flying up the hillside.
And, catching them with your fingers, kids
runs out into the street in colorful jackets
and shouts in English "Winter, winter!"

The northwest wind lifts it
gray, purple, crimson, scarlet
valley of Connecticut. He already
does not see the delicious promenade
dilapidated hens in the yard
farms, gopher on the boundary.

Spread on the air stream, alone,
all he sees is a ridge of sloping
hills and silver rivers,
curly like a living blade,
jagged steel,
beaded towns

New England. Dropped to zero
thermometers are like chests in a niche;
get cold, curbing the fire
leaves, church spiers. But for
hawk, this is not a church. Above
the best thoughts of parishioners,

He soars in the blue ocean, closing his beak,
with a metatarsus pressed to the stomach
- claws in a fist, like fingers -
feeling blowing with each pen
from below, sparkling in response with an eye
berry, holding to the South,

to the Rio Grande, to the delta, to the steamed crowd
beeches hiding in powerful foam
herbs whose blades are sharp,
nest, broken shell
in scarlet specks, smell, shadows
brother or sister.

A heart overgrown with flesh, down, feather, wing,
trembling with frequency,
exactly cuts with scissors,
driven by its own warmth,
autumn blue, her
increasing through

A barely visible brown spot,
point sliding over top
spruce; due to the emptiness in the face
a child frozen at the window,
couples getting out of the car
women on the porch.

But the updraft lifts it up
Higher and higher. In underbelly feathers
stings with cold. Looking down
he sees that the horizon has faded,
he sees, as it were, the first thirteen
states, he sees: from

The chimney rises smoke. But just a number
pipe prompts lonely
the bird as it rose.
Where has it taken me!
He feels mixed with anxiety
pride. Flipped over

Wing, it falls down. But the elastic layer
air returns it to the sky,
into colorless ice.
Evil appears in the yellow pupil
shine. That is, a mixture of anger
with horror. He again

Is overthrown. But like a wall - a ball,
like the fall of a sinner - back to faith,
pushes him back.
Him, which is still hot!
What the hell. Everything is higher. into the ionosphere.
To an astronomically objective hell

Birds where there is no oxygen
where instead of millet - groats of distant
stars. What is for two-legged heights,
then for the feathered vice versa.
Not in the cerebellum, but in the sacs of the lungs
he guesses: not to be saved.

Designed for no one's ears:
human, breaking down from a birch
squirrel, yapping fox,
small field mice;
so tears can't shed
nobody. Only dogs

They pick up their muzzles. A piercing, harsh cry
scarier, more nightmarish than D-sharp
diamond cutting glass
crosses the sky. And peace for a moment
as if shuddering from a cut.
Because it's warm up there

Burns space like down here
burns the hand with a black fence
without a glove. We, exclaiming "out,
there!" we see a tear at the top
hawk, plus web, sound
inherent, small waves,

Scattering across the sky, where
there is no echo where it smells of apotheosis
sound, especially in October.
And in this lace, akin to a star,
sparkling, frozen,
hoarfrost, in silver,

Downy feathers, the bird swims to the zenith,
in ultramarine. We see through binoculars from here
pearl, sparkling detail.
We hear: something is ringing above,
like broken dishes
like a family crystal

Whose fragments, however, do not hurt, but
melt in the palm of your hand. And for a moment
again distinguish circles, eyes,
fan, rainbow spot,
dots, brackets, links,
spikelets, hairs -

Former free feather pattern,
a map that has become a handful of nimble
flakes flying up the hillside.

Joseph Alexandrovich Brodsky

The northwest wind lifts it
gray, purple, crimson, scarlet
valley of Connecticut. He already
does not see the delicious promenade
dilapidated hens in the yard
farms, gopher on the boundary.

Spread on the air stream, alone,
all he sees is a ridge of sloping
hills and silver rivers,
curly like a living blade,
jagged steel,
beaded towns

New England. Dropped to zero
thermometers are like chests in a niche;
get cold, curbing the fire
leaves, church spiers. But for
hawk, this is not a church. Above
the best thoughts of parishioners,

to the Rio Grande, to the delta, to the steamed crowd
beeches hiding in powerful foam
herbs whose blades are sharp,
nest, broken shell
in scarlet specks, smell, shadows
brother or sister.

A heart overgrown with flesh, down, feather, wing,
trembling with frequency,
exactly cuts with scissors,
driven by its own warmth,
autumn blue, her
increasing through

barely visible brown spot,
point sliding over top
spruce; due to the emptiness in the face
a child frozen at the window,
couples getting out of the car
women on the porch.

But the updraft lifts it up
Higher and higher. In underbelly feathers
stings with cold. Looking down
he sees that the horizon has faded,
he sees, as it were, the first thirteen
states, he sees: from

chimney rises smoke. But just a number
pipe prompts lonely
the bird as it rose.
Where has it taken me!
He feels mixed with anxiety
pride. Flipped over

wing, it falls down. But the elastic layer
air returns it to the sky,
into colorless ice.
Evil appears in the yellow pupil
shine. That is, a mixture of anger
with horror. He again

meant for no one's ears:
human, breaking down from a birch
squirrel, yapping fox,
small field mice;
so tears can't shed
nobody. Only dogs

muzzle up. A piercing, harsh cry

diamond cutting glass
crosses the sky. And peace for a moment
as if shuddering from a cut.
Because it's warm up there

burns the space, like here below,
burns the hand with a black fence
without a glove. We, exclaiming "out,
there!" we see a tear at the top
hawk, plus web, sound
inherent, small waves,

scattered across the sky, where
there is no echo where it smells of apotheosis
sound, especially in October.
And in this lace, akin to a star,
sparkling, frozen,
hoarfrost, in silver,

whose fragments, however, do not hurt, but
melt in the palm of your hand. And for a moment
again distinguish circles, eyes,
fan, rainbow spot,
dots, brackets, links,
spikelets, hairs

"Autumn Cry of a Hawk" is a poem written in 1975 and considered one of Brodsky's most famous and mysterious works. Its most important feature is a clear plot. In the lyrics of Joseph Alexandrovich, he is quite rare (for example, in the "New Jules Verne", "Dedicated to Yalta", "Post aetatem nostram"). You can describe the events that are taking place through a couple of sentences. A hawk soars in the sky over the Connecticut River valley in late October. Against its will, the bird rises higher and higher - it is carried away by a strong wind. As a result, she dies due to lack of oxygen. Down and feathers falling from the sky, American children take for snow and begin to joyfully welcome the arrival of winter.

To one degree or another, "Autumn Hawk Cry" correlates with several literary works. Let's start with Baratynsky's poem "Autumn". In both texts, a number of landscape elements coincide, as well as the autumn-winter time vector. The cry of a hawk can be compared with the cry of despair suppressed by the lyrical hero of Baratynsky. There is also a reference to another poem by a Russian poet of the nineteenth century - "Babe". Brodsky's hawk turns out to be too high, although he does not want this, and cannot return to the ground. In Baratynsky, the flight of an "insignificant spirit" appears before readers. There is a version that Joseph Alexandrovich was not guided by any specific poems of his great colleague. According to some researchers, the genius of the twentieth century relied on the entire collection of "Twilight", published in 1842.

The plot of the "Autumn Cry of the Hawk" clearly correlates with the famous story of Icarus. Brodsky creates a new myth, while his message remains not completely clear. The poem is filled with realistic details that are not characteristic of the archaic - climate features, details from the world of geography and biology are mentioned. In addition, sometimes scientific vocabulary flashes. The poet seems to be trying to convince readers of the protocol accuracy of the description of the events that happened to the hawk. However, the realism of Joseph Alexandrovich is quite arbitrary. He makes mistakes both in relation to geography and in relation to the behavior of the bird. It turns out that with the help of supposedly accurate signs, Brodsky creates a symbolic picture.

Particular attention should be paid to how the poet tells directly about the cry of a hawk flying too high. The resulting sound is unique and original. Not a single living being on earth is capable of publishing something like this:

... A piercing, sharp cry
scarier, more nightmarish than D-sharp
glass-cutting diamond...

The dying cry of a bird is described by Iosif Alexandrovich by means of a comparison - "tears cannot flow to anyone like that." Brodsky paraphrases the popular Russian proverb, "A mouse's tears will shed to a cat." In his opinion, no one in the world deserves the suffering experienced by a bird on the verge of death - even the most hardened and malicious criminal.

The point of view, according to which the “Autumn Cry of the Hawk” is a poem about the poet, has become widespread.

Joseph Brodsky

The bird symbolizes the alter ego of Joseph Alexandrovich. In fact, before us is a romantic hero, similar to those that appear in the poems of Lermontov and Tsvetaeva. What is the key difference between Brodsky's work? Poet romantic hero paints not as a demon, priest, or prophet, but as a reflective renegade intellectual. If we consider the "Autumn Cry of the Hawk" primarily as a tragic story of the creator, it becomes clear why this particular poem was especially highly appreciated by many of Joseph Alexandrovich's colleagues in the workshop.