Contemporary poets of the 21st century. The best poems of modern poets. Eduard Lukoyanov "Green Line"

Four young Russian poets who did not become “VKontakte stars”

Text and photo selection: Alexander Solovyov

Instant popularity is the lot of pop stars. And that's okay. Including poetry. But, unfortunately, sometimes it is precisely by those young pop poets, whose names are well-known and whose texts are in plain sight, that the entire poetry of twenty-year-olds is judged as a whole - and they not only judge, but draw unfavorable conclusions. To correct this imbalance, we asked a student from the School of Philology at the National Research University Higher School of Economics Alexandra Solovyova talk about four recently published original books by Russian poets who began their journey in the tenth years of the 21st century.

How often does this happen in any conversation about, the choice of several representative figures turns out to be incomplete, incorrect - poetic practices are too numerous and different from each other, too many authors (not even tens) choosing extremely different ways letters. And if in the generation of the 90s we have already learned to at least somehow classify poets (although sometimes it seems that it is in vain): “New epic”, “New sincerity”, etc., then with the generation of 20-30 year olds this turns out to be almost impossible. However, since the amount of text is limited, you will still have to stop at just a few figures. If possible, preference will be given to authors who have recently published collections that can still be found and become familiar with a more or less complete selection.

1. “Key to the tower. Russian Gothic"

M.: ARGO-RISK, 2017. Series “Generation”

When people talk about 24-year-old Rostislav Amelin, they often cannot resist inappropriately looking for parallels with his father’s poetry, which is quite strange. Maxim Amelin is deeply rooted in tradition and is guided in many ways by the Russian 18th century, and Rostislav is one of the most experimental poets of his generation: his texts are unlike each other, addressing a variety of, sometimes contradictory, traditions. The word “experimental” in this case is not a cliché, but a statement of fact - R. Amelin never stops at any one method of poetic expression, for each new poem he looks for a new form, so the latest book really resembles a laboratory for rebooting poetry.

And yet, for all its mosaic, there is something that unites all (or almost all) texts presented in the book. This is a search for non-obvious connections connecting the elements of the universe. There is nothing separate, everything is connected to everything. However, the search for hidden connections is a common place in the poetry of 20-30 year olds, but Amelina is distinguished by her breadth of coverage and unobtrusive intonation of speaking, for herself or to herself. The above poem demonstrates this quite clearly.

Mandelstam ate, ate the cherry from Khlebnikov’s cake, but didn’t swallow the bone, spat it out
rolled, the bone rolled on the asphalt, fell into the sewer
the rat runs, runs, the bone falls, falls on its head
the rat looks up, looks up, there is nothing, light, light at the end of the tunnel
She lowers her head and sees: a bone. bone. grabs it with his mouth and runs away
The rat is running and running along the embankment of Vasilyevsky Island
The Theban Sphinx smiles and asks the reflection opposite:
who stands on four legs in the morning, eight in the afternoon, and sixteen in the evening?
the reflection answers him: cherry tree. and now my, my question!
who walks at night without legs, and at dawn stands on one?
The Theban Sphinx smiles and answers: cherry tree!
The rat with the bone runs and runs and doesn’t understand anything at all
runs to the black river. to the black river
puts the bone in a hole, in a hole, covers it, hides it, and then dies
a year passes, a year passes, a slender tree grows, opens its buds, raises branches with leaves
Caterpillars crawl on them, birds peck at them, cherries are tied
a new baker comes up, picks it and doesn’t eat, picks it and doesn’t eat it
he makes cakes, cakes, puts a cherry on each one
sometimes bakes pies filled with cherries with pits
and the new, new Mandelstam comes to visit, but doesn’t eat, doesn’t eat cakes
he picks cherries from them, spits the pits, spits out the window

2. Galina Rymbu “Mobile space of revolution”

M: ARGO-RISK, 2014. Series “Generation”

It seems that no conversation about young poetry can be done without 27-year-old Galina Rymbu. She belongs to the circle of left-wing poets, who largely inherit the style of Kirill Medvedev - direct social statements in free verse. However, these poets differ quite greatly from each other, and at first glance it is quite difficult to unite them.

Rymbu’s poetry demonstrates the penetration of the social into the personal, registering problems that consumer society is accustomed to keeping silent about: violence, alienation, poverty. However, its accusatory pathos does not seem anachronistic; the language of description is adequate to modern times. At the same time, Rymbu’s poems often combine sociality with the almost intimate - a direct counter-argument to supporters of the separation of the personal and the political. Something similar can be found in the poetess Oksana Vasyakina (“Wind of Fury”), who harshly actualizes the feminist agenda, and Lida Yusupova (“Dead dad”), who analyzes violence as a social phenomenon.

The above poem is from Rymbu’s latest collection “Space Prospect”:

on the territory of CHPP-5 we lit a fire of a prohibited scale;
we succeeded because then, in the late 90s
it was possible to enter there freely,
in the early autumn of 1999, my dad and I walked there among the waste pits,
small industrial dumps, crooked trees and copper searches;

dad always said: “it’s better to find copper than to find aluminum”
“aluminum” can be handed over when it really sucks”;
and he affectionately called her “honey” when he found her.

we had black bags where we put old cables -
Dad is big, and I am smaller,
that time we were lucky and we scored a lot,
I came across thick cables with a lot of copper inside,
Dad said: “We’ll be tired of cleaning them with knives, let’s set them on fire”;

we collected branches and some other flammable debris
dad started making a fire and throwing cables there,
the rubber burned beautifully on them, and copper remained, which
we used chopsticks to pull them out of the fire; I found it nearby
old work helmet and played with it, put it there,
and the fire flared up more and more, dad threw and threw there
cables, which we were lucky with that day; we chatted and burned copper
and were already imagining how dad would buy himself a little drink,
I’ll buy myself some marmalade, we’ll give the rest to my mom for groceries,
but then we saw a fire truck approaching us
with the siren turned on, firefighters got out of the car and started yelling:
“What are you, *? this is the territory of CHPP-5
and you lit a fire here of a prohibited scale,
Let's call the cops right now and go to the station,
you will pay a fine"
and dad calmly said: “No need, the child is with me.”
We'll put it all out and go home. We don’t need a fine.”
and then I realized that now I need to be a child as much as possible,
say so that they would fall behind, and said: “no need,
We’ll put everything out honestly, and give the money for the copper to mom,”
they looked and said: “okay, * with you” and left.

and then we went to a scrap metal collection point that had just opened nearby
and they made a good profit there, dad drank a little on the way to the house,
I carried a box of marmalade and also ate it on the go
black mouth and black hands, and when
we came home and gave mom money,
she was very happy and asked:
“why do you smell like fire?”

3. Eduard Lukoyanov “Green Line”

St. Petersburg: Word order, 2017

28-year-old Eduard Lukoyanov belongs to the same circle of left-wing poets, but he is very far from, for example, the poetry of Rymbu. His poems, in the absence of a language adequate to the reality being described, generally refuse to explain or describe anything, replacing description with indicating and combining elements of speech. This, in the words of Pavel Arsenyev, “deictic writing” becomes a constant technique of Lukoyanov’s poetry and can be traced both in the description of a love experience and in the conversation about the political agenda, persistently referring us to something outside the text and outside the language, and ultimately results in the top note of experience and clear poignancy. It seems that none of the young poets offers a more radical criticism of language.

The collection also includes the poem “Kenya,” for which Lukoyanov received the Arkady Dragomoshchenko Prize in 2016.

the pattern was wooden birds there are heathers
Czech speech in the gorge of snake gerunds
who bent down to take apart what he himself created for some reason
so and so for such and such it is unlikely that the one I am not afraid of
I'm afraid that the stones will leave no stone unturned
that a draft will unwind the wire of the last weather vane
what are your bones like your knees for someone who is far away
where are you from? I’m from Tskhinvali, and you and I are from Moscow.

***
children are practicing in the cellar: we are having a boy
we will have a girl, we will have a son, we will have a daughter,
we will have a soldier of the internal troops. two girls laughing
two girls are given to young Chechens, we will have bird cherry,
her flowers are white, her smell is white, her girls give themselves over to the bird cherry,
she falls prostrate into a glass of wild garlic. nowhere, outside
weeded the brass knuckles on the forehead-ba-ba. in the cellar children practice:

I will be the mother, you will be the father. winter has come. tk-tk-tk. ts-ts-ts-ts.

4. Gleb Simonov “The Selected Branch”

M: ARGO-RISK, 2017

New York poet and photographer Gleb Simonov (b. 1986) is not too clearly present on the map modern poetry. The collection of “The Selected Branch” is a selection (or rather, selections - the book contains several sections) from the last five years.

Simonov's poems are very laconic and precise, they leave the impression of sketches, individual photographs that capture part of reality, but in the collage made up of them, a reflection of the universe as a whole can be discerned. This is poetry, devoid of an observer, equal to the part of the world that it describes, coinciding with it and speaking in the voices of what falls into its lens - the role of the poet comes down to choosing the right perspective. Between individual remarks there are pauses filled with silence - no less important component of these poems than the spoken speech. All this makes Simonov in common with another poet of his generation, Vasily Borodin, who is close to him in the way of poetic speaking, and, in part, with Gennady Aigi, whose influence is sometimes discernible behind some of the poems from this book.

or ice -
or lumps of soapy dust
finely flowing as is
through the lattice barriers
into a silent stagnant swamp.
—
just behind the line -
bird cliff
sways in the wind.

hand reaching to the ground
(giving hand to the ground) -
do you feel it? - warm. tags
on the sides
long field where
rpm -
do you see? - coming
herbal mistress
guess -
along the sickle in the rib

Of course, many wonderful poets were forced not to be named: , Victor Lisin, Nikita Sungatov, Dina Gatina, Alexey Porvin, and many more. However, it seems that from the presented sample it is already possible to draw a conclusion about the incredible diversity of poetic practices of young poetry. Certainly enough for every poet to find his reader.

Young poets performed in the square

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Attention!

Ekaterina Likovskaya

what is born from the earth goes into the earth,
everything that wandered finds a home again,
every mermaid dreams of sea foam,
Each octave dreams of the note “C”.
yes, everything will return - this is the law of nature.
to the boy in a colorful jacket - a paper kite.
What is born by water will go under water.
what is born of the soul -
remains in it.

Long live the world in which

Hello, patterned path
twisted like a ribbon of lace.

no one needs anyone!

Unraveling the knots, quickly
preparing a second skin.

Long live the world in which
no one owes anyone!

A stitch that has become a mountain path,
another one that became a river.

Long live the world in which
nothing is easier.

Hundreds of drawn stories
and there is no favorite among them.

Long live the world in which
I don't need a name anymore
sounding too proud.

Let it be named
you - this world in which
nothing is new.

You are your own height and root,
You are your own cloak and spinner.

Long live the world in which
you don't know fear anymore.

The fog swirls higher and higher,
it's getting more and more difficult
breathe, and other people's faces
are becoming paler.

Below is a cardboard city
looms under the dead rock.

Long live the world in which
no one cries for anyone.

The cold flows through my collar,
The wind closes my eyelids.

Long live the world in which
we are all leaving forever,

where is death, which is like the sea,
kisses her softly on the lips.

Long live the world in which
no one loves anyone
no one, no one's grief,
no one has power over anyone,

no one is happy.

And then - a raven on a branch,
sits, straining his throat:

Long live the world in which,
long live the world in which!

Long live the world in which,

long live the world in which,
long live the world in which

Tell me, candle, about love and sadness.
I don’t want to guess and tell fortunes now,
I'm standing on the edge. You melt the edges.
The two of us are in silence. Only you only me.

Human, bitter fate across
from above gave me strength in the amount of three.
These elementals until the Day of Judgment
They promised to protect and nourish me.

The first force is with me from the first word,
the power of bitter wormwood and forest paths,
the power of a twig, a grain, a strand of hair
or - piercing wax with a sharp needle.

To cause pestilence and to destroy livestock, to heal.
This force is the mighty force of the Earth.

And the second element is at the core of the foundations,
let's call it the liquid substance of dreams,
where I have conversations not only with people,
it is a strange spring reflecting the world.

The third power is in you. Primordial Fire,
warmth and peace - be careful, don’t touch -
tamed titan. And I don't want to know
what happens when a candle is knocked over.

Oh, don’t fool your brains with a vision, a shadow,
only you can help me today,
only you only me. The two of us are in silence.
I already have three.
Give me the fourth one.

That fourth force is Air and Spirit,
to bind together the power of the two,
to let me into a dream, where is my witchcraft
He will create the old world and complete it,
and fill it with energy, life, fire,

and then, giving praise to the Four,
I will enter all the doors, I will melt into everything,
I can break this circle and start...
But for this, fulfill the request, candle:

take me all, to the end, to the end
and wipe away impatience and bitterness from your face,
I want to learn your silence
and calm flame,
as if from outside.

© Ekaterina Likovskaya

Alexander Filatov

Goodbye

There are no complaints about the buttons - they are sewn tightly,
Another thing is white light - one tablet,
Second glass, fourth day of sleepless vigils -
And instead of peace there is rubbish of inconsistencies.
A veil dances in the eyes, an indistinct dance,
This is the country of Goodbye, I am a Goodbye man,
It warms you up here after all the somersaults
The hot breath of rebel asphalt.

When clearing, the fog is much clearer,
That only the Ocean is important, and only with Her,
And the rest is carried away on the gray waves -
Fog and space in Africa are albino.

Thoughts are spinning - the mind doesn’t knit needles,
There is nothing for the wheels to catch on in the fog,
Everything is out of place - an inadequate picture:
I rushed upward and became superficial, like mud,

I rushed upward and came off my feet -
Not life and not even a sketch - a slanted collage,
Where the universe sways like a drunk.
Oh, goodbye, I want to go to other countries!

So, the result: the soul is waiting in Paris, but the body
Either I barely crawled, or I started sweating
Fly so high that you fall low
And a red-hot brain can’t cope with correspondence.

The triggers are cocked. Time It.
The ringing of the alarm clock will drive away the gloom from the platform.
The world will stop according to schedule.
And Dosvidaniya will hear “Goodbye!”

© Alexander Filatov

Polina Sineva

Eurydice

You flashed ahead, in the crowd, then disappeared from view.
Ice was moving again from the north onto the mainland.
Thrace, Crete, Sumer and dark Atlantis
went under the water and came out of the water again.

The hot desert sand burned my feet.
The warlike Horde rushed past.
Mecca, Turin, California, and their shrines remained behind.
Maybe I'm not there? It was never?

The hysterical dogs of the convoy started barking.
Ladoga, the terrible ice cracked under me.
And I really wanted white... No, not white - blue.
Remember, you promised.

I got bread with the taste of earth and snow,
tomorrow with the taste of bread and quinoa.
I was behind to give birth to a new man
and with him in her arms I again caught up with your tracks.

All this was a long time ago. How the planet has grown!
Our children have scattered to the sides of the Earth.
How many times have you crossed the edge of the world?
and we haven't arrived yet.

Somewhere in the gardens, August is probably ripening like an apple,
The water from the well breathes cold in the morning.
Life never goes away. Life goes by. No, it seemed.
It’s scary: suddenly I’ll never grow old and die.

Somewhere in a forgotten house the arrows are turning,
on the floorboards - the light of the day going into eternity...
Please turn around - I don't care what happens.
Look at me.

Things

The abyss of a blank sheet shines,
and the day is bright, blinding and ominous.
But viscous, thick blackness,
as the truth stands behind every thing.

When they came into being,
when they bared their teeth like animals -
I saw that things are doors,
plugged holes into the void.

Their ribs, their peeling mouths
bulging in cardboard and plywood,
screaming about touch and size,
raping the pupil to the point of nausea.

The varnish fades and the glue shows through,
and there, inside - sand, grass and clay,
steps, night, and the smell of mothballs,
and again the door, and the back door behind it.

© Polina Sineva

Sima Radchenko

Neighbour

After all, the point, you yourself understand, is not that
that he won't play in his A minor,
hearts will not bark, dissatisfied with the cat,
who screams heart-rendingly in the corridor,
and it's not what the plumber said,
squeezing the grinder in shaking fingers,
that the dead man had been lying there for a week,
until his guests missed him
(yes, not relatives, but his sidekicks -
when I didn’t call for a bottle on Saturday),
but the fact that he lay, just like that, lay,
while you got up and went to work,
while I was teaching a sketch with my child,
and so on - endlessly, in the usual circle.
And you returned to warmth and comfort,
and we loved each other in the evenings.

Invisible

Suddenly the lights in the house went out. There is no light - and there is also nothing to do...
The parents held a meeting. Eventually, candles were found on the shelf.
The fire broke out as a weak sprout through the thickness of the night, weightless and thin.
And in the darkness, viscous and thick, it suddenly became clear: there was a child in the house.

It turned out that he had been here for a long time, and spoke quite well, and about a lot of things,
but somehow everything was not up to him - “go away and don’t get in the way, for God’s sake.”
But this evening, in the fragile silence, dad could not bury himself in the TV.
And fabulous shadows ran up the wall and walked along the cornices.

And mom didn’t stand at the stove and didn’t order the toys to be put away.
And fairy fairies and cats circled around the sofa and pillows,
without unclenching his strong paws and arms - and in a waltz, and gallop, and skip!
And mom and dad suddenly turned into a simple-minded girl and boy...

He told them everything, and they had never heard anything like this before.
About how motley herds wander across the blanket of the glow of the night,
that the neighbors have a baby who cries when dreams are bad,
that if you listen closely, dashing warrior drops will jump from the rooftops,
that in the evenings the backs of the planets are covered with twilight haze...

And in the morning... in the morning they turned on the light again. And again the child became invisible.

© Sima Radchenko

Dana Sideros

Excerpt from the poem "Rush Hour"

I have huge dreams
the black heart of the industrial zone,
glass snowball
in the dim light of night lamps.
I see him, a stranger,
he sows minutes like grains,
minutes of April
buries
in the prickly empty January.

I'm dreaming
how he waters
frozen ground in July
mine, unhappened, hot,
thoughtless, colorful.
I see through the thickness of the earth,
minutes sleep in it, like bullets,
molded and crushed
seeds of war.

I dream:
my seeds
grow a fathom
bullets turn into bombs,
tossing and turning, singing,
and the first flickering day
breaks through at midnight and soot,
burning with green fire
January patient is uncomfortable.

And the noisy crowns of weeks
explode
and take off
on slender trunks,
they shine, breathe and speak.
Honey days are blooming
my unlived May,
unfulfilled June,
last October.

This is where I always wake up
with a vague sense of loss
and after the whole day I don’t know
where to stick yourself.

Well what do you want to ask?
Would I like them back?
Yah…

© Dana Sideros

Ilya Turkov

I go out, outside there is a call back
grumbling rain permeates the evening,
he is old and gray, and it seems that he is eternal,
and it doesn’t seem to stop.

I'm standing on the street, and the street is empty,
streams flow down the deserts of windows,
and the world is already habitually quiet and wet,
uglier than a fallen leaf.

Almost indistinguishable from the ground
a thick mixture above the edge of the horizon.
Such is the landscape of the era and season.
A passerby appears in the distance.

And then the second one appears,
both wander stooped, without looking back,
dozens appear behind them
the same. The line is endless.

Tired infantry going nowhere
walks along broken sidewalks,
a drunkard from a bar joins them,
and water pours more and more from the sky.

Workers, hangers and junkies
in the company of politicians, lawyers,
priests, poets, atheists,
friends, lovers, enemies
are already very close to me,
and whether it’s the cold or the humidity,
but for some reason it became very scary,
as if there was nothing worse.
I'm standing. They look up to me.
Up close they are more clumsy and stooped.
I hear every voice in this hum
in many ways very similar to silence.

© Ilya Turkov

Alexey Tsvetkov

Disheveled ice being raked from the platform
More persistent than mouse fuss.
Under the frozen dome is your plane
Turned on the side lights.

I look, between melancholy, initially simple,
And shyness is strange for two,
How do you, without saying goodbye, like a green star
You rise above my world.

Above the dark planet in the arteries of the rivers
Confusion shakes the scales.
In the control room the eyelid is pulsating,
Frustrated for days and hours.

In the smoky hall the scoreboard flashes.
Silence grows from the noise.
The window opening cuts the wing
Like two different windows.

And I need to wipe away the feverish sweat
And write life forever,
As if forever in my firmament
Your star did not rise.

turn on the hydrant and the water is solid
neither wash your face nor fill a bucket
and the pump gnawed through the belts
the crowbar is dull and cannot take the pickaxe
because water is as strong as death
at least cancel it completely

all the events in it were reflected separately
at least throw the piano onto your neighbor from the balcony
he's as good as new, unharmed
and the tongue in the mouth is unbearably white
apparently we drank diluted chalk
and now we eat it like this

a useless sound emerged from the water
air does not pass into the blind reeds
your pipe has choked
granite will ring along the edges of the bucket
but there is no harm in frozen time
for star and animal plants

because the lime brain is blind
because the world is mountain wax
hardens easily
and in the well circle is more faithful than you
forever reflected his features
this rock water

© Alexey Tsvetkov

Anton Sergeev

Perhaps the mechanism is now broken
And it became clear: winter has no end.
From somewhere a train leaves for Lhasa,
And here it’s snowing, and it’s blowing your head off,

The head is swept and whirled by the wind,
The snowstorm blows snowflakes under the crown,
Before you even have time to step out the door -
Spattered to the core by the snowstorm this morning.

My head is so full this morning,
Let's say that I suddenly found myself somewhere,
Let's say it's a bistro, and you're chewing biscuits,
And creams are whiter than the snows of Tibet,

And the tablecloth turns white, it turns white in my eyes,
Winter licks the cornea with its tongue,
It carries you up to your neck in a snowdrift,
And, as if from an old dream, hearing:

“Come here, to the free cash register” -
It will seem like the roads are drowning in the snow,
"Last! Last train to Lhasa!”
Now you won't have time. And you will involuntarily shudder

The hurricane will sweep away the weather vanes and roofs,
He will pull the cables on Bankovsky with a wild boom -
Will rip out the throats of griffins -
Heartbroken with blood
The tongueless golden-wings will come forth;
Tongueless and wild
They will howl silently,
They will collapse into the water,
And the stone will waste the water,
If fragile
If with a crystal ringing
The earth's axis accidentally breaks,
If the sad earthly string bursts
And the air will flow freely and terribly...

Don’t pull back your hand, hear me, don’t.
This is painful and more than serious.

The bridge circles over the canal,
There are little animals on it,
That pom-pom lanterns grow from heads,
Spas is also circling on the little blood at a distance.
The whole city groans in constant circling,
Moaning, spinning, enduring -
Where to go.
By secret:
Rotation is the basis of everything,
The beauty of dynamic transformations,
Eternity of the eternal
And the simplicity of the simple.
And what does all this bullshit revolve around?
So that the cats on Bankovsky will feel cute?
Continuously and subtly
Heart to Heart
The earth's axis passes through our hands.

The ball was given as a gift for the fifth summer of life.
A tennis ball is bouncy, cheerful, bright.
You can admit: you were happy about him like a crazy person.
Actually, what? Like an ordinary guy giving a gift.

If you go into the yard, be sure to have it in your pocket.
A round rubber friend is definitely needed
In every game. He flew through the windows - it’s normal,
It scared the cats and jumped through the puddles in a funny way.

The adults ate, laughed, fished -
We went to the lake one day at the end of the week,
A tennis ball accidentally jumped into the bushes
And I found myself lost forever by you.

Last thing - I cried into my pillow at night,
Mother promised to buy a designer set in an aprashka store,
I didn’t understand the reasons, the depth of sadness:
The ball is lonely, dark and scared there.

He grew up, got stronger and left the country a long time ago,
It’s fun to remember childhood troubles now.
Khule: successful, married and generally a winner! —
Life flows measuredly, clearly, smoothly.

Just grab (oh, Brodsky) your knees with your hand,
You smoke half the night, slowly drink beer,
Knowing that somewhere on the other side of the universe
The ball still lies lonely in the nettles.

Evening in the river drowned the sound
Sleepy cars and turned on the lights
Soft and moist. Moon circle
Hanging on an alder branch. No

There are no sighs, no melancholy.
Just a vague sadness-shadow,
Like a premonition of those years,
What hasn't passed yet; those

Failed dreams, meetings,
For which I am still alive.
Every word of yours, speech
The quiet river and the slope of the willows

Just for the sake of
One evening the distance thickened,
And he warmed your hands
Who was hopelessly waiting for you,

Whoever made his way to you sang
Your songs and moaned from
Your pain and sins, deeds
Free, involuntary. Look: here

Evening in the river drowned the sound
Sleepy cars and turned on the lights.
Listen with your hands to the warmth of your hands
A friend who is not... not there.

Slide 2

Introduction

Russian literature of the twentieth century has an extremely complex, even tragic, history. This is due to fundamental changes in the life of the country that began at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries.

• Russia has experienced three revolutions: 1905, February and October 1917;
• Russian-Japanese War of 1904-1905;
• First world war 1914-1918;
• Civil War

The internal political situation in our country at that time was extremely difficult.

Slide 3

The turn of the century was marked by significant scientific discoveries. They revolutionized ideas about the knowability of the world. This led to the search for an explanation of new phenomena through religion and mysticism.

The philosopher Nikolai Berdyaev described this time as follows:

“This was the era of the awakening in Russia of independent philosophical thought, the flourishing of poetry and the sharpening of aesthetic sensitivity, religious anxiety and quest, interest in mysticism and the occult. New souls appeared, new sources were discovered creative life…».

So, one dominant worldview has been replaced by a diversity of opinions and ideas in all areas of life.

Slide 4

Trends in twentieth-century literature

• Realism (Tolstoy L.N., Chekhov A.P., Korolenko V.G., Kuprin A.I., Bunin I.A. Gorky A.M. and others.
• Modernism
• Symbolism (V. Bryusov, A. Blok)
• Acmeism (N. Gumilyov, A. Akhmatova)
• Futurism (V. Khlebnikov, V. Mayakovsky)
• Imagism (S. Yesenin).