{"id":1857,"date":"2016-10-27T13:51:38","date_gmt":"2016-10-27T13:51:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/altocd.com\/northernflowers\/?p=358"},"modified":"2024-01-24T00:35:53","modified_gmt":"2024-01-24T00:35:53","slug":"nfpma9928","status":"publish","type":"product","link":"https:\/\/altocd.com\/northernflowers\/product\/nfpma9928\/","title":{"rendered":"Georgy Vasilievich Sviridov \u201cA Russia Flying Away\u201d"},"content":{"rendered":"

Lyudmila Shkirtil, mezzo\u2013soprano
\nYury Serov, piano
\nNatalia Sechkariova<\/strong>, flute (13\u201319)
\nAdil Feodorov<\/strong>, clarinet (13\u201319)<\/p>\n

Recorded at the St. Catherine Lutheran Church, St. Petersburg, June 11, 2004 (13\u201319),
\nJanuary 25, 2005 (1\u201312).
\nSound recording and supervision: Alexey Barashkin.
\nText: Northern Flowers
\nEnglish text: Sergey Suslov.
\nCover design: Anastassiya Evmenova & Oleg Fakhrutdinov<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
<\/td>\nGeorgy Vasilievich Sviridov<\/strong> (1915 \u2013 1998)
\nA Russia Flying Away<\/strong> (1977), a vocal poem to words by Sergey Yessenin<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\n

1.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

Autumn<\/td>\n\n

2:14<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

2.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

I Have Left My Beloved Home\u2026<\/td>\n\n

2:38<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

3.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

Guard Above Clouds, Open To Me\u2026<\/td>\n\n

2:40<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

4.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

Silvery Glittering Road<\/td>\n\n

2:09<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

5.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

A Russia Flying Away<\/td>\n\n

2:15<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

6.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

Simon, o Peter\u2026 Where Are You? Come Near\u2026<\/td>\n\n

3:04<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

7.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

Where Are You, Ancestral Home\u2026<\/td>\n\n

2:47<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

8.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

There, Behind The Milky Hills<\/td>\n\n

1:27<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

9.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

The Deathly Horn Is Blowing, Is Blowing!<\/td>\n\n

2:41<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

10.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

Hark, An Owl Is Hooting Autumn like<\/td>\n\n

2:04<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

11.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

Oh, I Believe That Happiness Exists!<\/td>\n\n

2:07<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

12.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

Homeland, It\u2019s A Happy And Imminent Hour!<\/td>\n\n

3:18<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

<\/td>\nBoris Alexandrovich Tchaikovsky<\/strong> (1925\u20131996)
\nThe Last Spring<\/strong>, a vocal cycle to words by Zabolotsky<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\n

13.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

A Joyful Mood<\/td>\n\n

3:13<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

14.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

Spring\u2019s Movements<\/td>\n\n

2:38<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

15.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

The Sun Is Up<\/td>\n\n

3:43<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

16.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

Green Beam<\/td>\n\n

1:51<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

17.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

September<\/td>\n\n

3:54<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

18.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

Autumn<\/td>\n\n

9:54<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n

19.<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

Who Responded To Me<\/td>\n\n

3:19<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

<\/td>\n\n

Total Time:<\/p>\n<\/td>\n

\n

58:05<\/p>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
We present for your attention two impressive vocal cycles of the second half of the 20th century written at approximately the same time by two great Russian composers, Georgy Sviridov and Boris Tchaikovsky. For all their striking individuality, these authors have very much in common. It is first of all their close ties to the national art, reliance on classical traditions, and creative attitudes that are extremely organic and integral. Both Sviridov and Tchaikovsky combine Innovations and originality with refined, perfected simplicity as a result of careful selection of their tools of expression. They both composed as if ignoring fashionable trends in music; they listened to their own tuning fork. And both addressed in their work the deepest and most difficult experiences that Russia had to face in the twentieth century.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Georgy Sviridov and A Russia Flying Away<\/strong><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Georgy Vasilievich Sviridov was born in Kursk Oblast in 1915. His initial education in music was at the musical school of Kursk, after which he studied at the First Musical Vocational College in Leningrad in 1932\u20131936.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
His debut was a cycle of songs to words by Pushkin in 1935. Already these early works quite clearly demonstrate catchy melodies, fresh melodies, and simple texture typical for Sviridov.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
In 1936 he entered Leningrad Conservatory to study with Dmitry Shostakovich. Sviridov\u2019s compositions of the Forties reveal a strong influence of the teacher from whom he learned much, both as a composer and as a person.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
The composer lived in Moscow from 1956 till his last day.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
The Soviet regime was benevolent to Sviridov. He was honored with numerous top awards and titles such as the Lenin Prize and the titles of National Artist of the USSR and Hero of Socialist Labor. For several years, he headed the Composers\u2019 Union of the Russian Federation.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
The composer\u2019s heritage of Sviridov includes music to musical comedies, films, and theatrical productions, such monumental symphonic vocal frescoes as Poem In Memoriam of Sergey Yessenin, Passionate Oratorio<\/em>, and Songs of Kursk<\/em>, cantatas for chorus and orchestra, symphonic suites, compositions for chorus a cappella, instrumental ensembles, pieces for piano, and several hundreds of songs.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Sviridov\u2019s place in the history of Russian music is primarily that of an author of vocal compositions. The artistic credo of composer was careful attention to poetic word, the inner symbolic sense of which is to be disclosed in music. The theme of Russia in the broadest sense, and the image of homeland at the landmarks of history run through Sviridov\u2019s works as his innermost idea.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
A Russia Flying Away<\/em>, a vocal poem to words by Sergey Yessenin<\/strong>, was written in 1977. One had to have a real courage and inner freedom to give such a title to a composition in the “Developed Socialism” era.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Yessenin has no poem of this name. Sviridov\u2019s title is a quotation from the poem The Dove of Jordan, “A swan is flying ahead\/Eyes full of grove\u2013great grief\/Is it not you weeping in the sky,\/A Russia that\u2019s flying away?\u201c The composer mostly selects verses of the young poet written in the years of a monstrous crisis (1917) and collapse of all the ideals and values of patriarchal Russia. Sviridov who had a rare sense of poetry shows us a totally strange Yessenin \u2014 nothing commonplace, and almost nothing of the Yessenin we had got accustomed to. It may even be said that the composer discovered this great Russian poet for us as something quite new. He created an amazing declaration of love for Homeland full of lament for the irrevocable, and delight in the beauty of the land \u2014 full of warmth, poetry, mysticism, faith, and chiming bells.<\/em><\/em><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
The composition based on fragmentary pieces of poetry is ultimately integrated in its form. The binding element is in the inner emotional contrast supported by a common motif line. Several symbolic images cemented with a generalizing idea alternate around one central symbol. Nearly all the tracks in the cycle follow one another without a break. Such architecture is very typical for the stylistics of \u201clate\u201d Sviridov, and relates A Russia Flying Away<\/em> to painting, to the composition of a Russian icon.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
This is how the author himself comments his musical poem in his diaries: \u201cAutumn\u201d and \u201cI Have Left My Beloved Home\u201d, landscape and lyric; \u201cO Guard Above Clouds, Open To Me\u201d is a fabulous legendary steed, a symbol of poetical creativity; \u201cSilvery Glittering Road\u2026\u201d symbolize the timeless path of an artist, the path of man; \u201cA Russia Flying Away\u201d is Russia depicted as a flying bird, a swan on the wing, Russia in its cosmic flight; \u201cO Simon, o Peter\u2026 Where Are You? Come Near\u2026\u201d is a fragment of an ancient legend; \u201cWhere Are You, Ancestral Home\u2026\u201d is a picture of revolutionary upheavals, and ruin of home; \u201cThere, Behind The Milky Hills\u201d is the space where ancestors\u2019 souls fly in the whirlwind of cosmic fire; \u201cThe Deathly Horn Is Blowing, Is Blowing!\u201d is the advent of the iron guest, a tragic monologue, a feeling of collapse of the archetypal peasant way of life; \u201cHark, An Owl Is Hooting Autumnlike\u201d is the poet again, eternity of poetry, eternity of the poet\u2019s advent; \u201cOh, I Believe That Happiness Exists!\u201d and \u201eO Homeland, It\u2019s A Happy And Imminent Hour!\u201d are limitless belief in Motherland, in its best spiritual powers, a solemn anthem, and belief in recovery of Homeland.\u201d <\/em><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Along with colossal late vocal cycles of Shostakovich, A Russia Flying Away<\/em> by Georgy Sviridov may be named among the most inspired pages of the 20th century Russian music. The composition challenging its performer with unbelievable difficulties in technique and musicianship is rightly considered to be a cornerstone of the last century\u2019s vocal repertoire.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Boris Tchaikovsky and The Last Spring<\/em><\/strong><\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Boris Alexandrovich Tchaikovsky (1925 \u2013 1996) was born in Moscow into a white\u2013collar family: his father was an expert in statistics and economic geography, and his mother was a medic. The parents were talented individuals who knew literature and art well, and passionately loved music. The ethical principles inherited from the parents became the composer\u2019s lifelong inner core.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Boris Tchaikovsky finished school, and the Gnessin College, and entered Moscow Conservatory in 1941, but his studies were interrupted by the war, and were not resumed until 1944. His Conservatory teachers were the eminent Vissarion Shebalin, Nikolai Myaskovsky, and Dmitry Shostakovich (Composition), and Lev Oborin (Piano).<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Upon graduation from the Conservatory in 1949, Boris Tchaikovsky found a job of a radio editor. In 1952 he decided to leave the job to devoted himself to composition of music. In 1969, Boris Tchaikovsky was awarded the USSR State Prize for his fundamental Second Symphony; in 1985, he was made National Artist of the USSR. In the last years of his life, 1989 till 1996, Boris Alexandrovich taught at the Russian Gnessin Academy of Music as Professor of Composition.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
The creative heritage of Boris Tchaikovsky is vast. The composer wrote four symphonies, a Symphoniette, a Chamber Symphony, concertos for clarinet, cello, violin, and piano with orchestra, six string quartets, numerous chamber pieces, vocal cycles, and soundtracks to more than 30 films.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
In 1958, not long before his death, Nikolai Zabolotsky wrote the poem Don\u2019t Let Your Soul Be Lazy<\/em>, which later became famous, a kind of manifesto for a whole generation of \u201cthe 60s people\u201d and an indispensable essay theme in any secondary school program in the Soviet Union. It would be hard to find an artist who has more keenly responded to these amazing lines in their works than Boris Tchaikovsky. Incessant labor of his ample heart, desire to perceive, to study the complicated and contradictory human nature, mysterious and inexhaustible depths of human soul; honesty and sincerity in life and creative work, and great mastery have made the name of Boris Tchaikovsky a synonym of high ideals in the art of music. And it is satisfying to see that interest in his music is growing worldwide year after year.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
The Last Spring<\/em>, a vocal cycle to words by Zabolotsky<\/strong>, was written in 1980. The composition was preceded by a long pause in the activity of Boris Tchaikovsky. Four years separate it from his previous works, a period when he wrote nothing but soundtracks to a few films. The Sevastopol Symphony<\/em> and The Last Spring<\/em> that appeared in 1980 marked a new phase in the composer\u2019s work, a crystallization of his style and manner. Like a drop of clear water, The Last Spring<\/em> reflected Boris Tchaikovsky\u2019s most essential composing achievements and attainments.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Nikolai Zabolotsky (1903\u20131958) is a separate “solar system” of the 20th century Russian poetry. The bright imagery of his poems, their enchanting beauty and depth, and light, weightless style have raised him to the galaxy of Russia\u2019s best poets. The poetry of Zabolotsky may be divided into two strictly delineated periods: the early period of denial of the classical “Pushkinian” tradition of Russian literature \u2014 and the later, mature one, when Zabolotsky, in a way, “revived” or brought back the spirit and style of classical Russian poetry. Zabolotsky surely was the poetic voice of the epoch. “Innovatorship” proved to be too “superficial” for the disasters and emotional stresses that his generation had to go though. In the proper sense of the word, he achieved the poetical harmony and simplicity of his last creative years through suffering \u2014 in his creativity, and even in his life (many years in Stalin camps and frustration in his private life of the last years.)<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Boris Tchaikovsky selected mostly the latest Zabolotsky\u2019s poems for his cycle, and builds a moving philosophical concept of the most essential: of life and death, love and beauty, nature and eternal flow of existence. The spiritual affinity and kindred individuality of Tchaikovsky and Zabolotsky are surprising indeed. Soulful simplicity, aspiration for beauty as the supreme harmony, love for nature and its primitive primeval mysteries, perception of man as a part of “inert” matter of the Universe, and manner of utterance, which is clad in strict classical forms, noble, and restrained, link the two authors.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
Being a great master of the chamber instrumental genre, the composer builds the vocal cycle according to the “suite” principle, alternating episodes (parts) of different nature. Tchaikovsky “embellishes” the score of The Last Spring<\/em> with voices of flute and clarinet. It is just embellishing, not an attempt for an ampler scope of the sound, nor an inclination to a symphonic turn. The instruments just add some colors and bring in some charm of diversity, but they never take over the leading function.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
The first parts of the cycle: A Joyful Mood<\/em>, Spring\u2019s Movements<\/em>, The Sun Is Up<\/em>, and Green Beam<\/em>, create a bright, elated atmosphere, they “breathe” optimism and belief in man and his ability to improve. The springtime awakening of nature, tiresome waiting for the warmth of the sun, musical pictures of the fairytale forest and the “white\u2013domed town” are depicted tersely, vividly, and very poetically. The music texture is transparent, and the language of the harmonies is remarkable for its fresh and rich fantasy.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
The fifth and the sixth part are about the advent of autumn followed by “sobering” sorrow. Autumn<\/em>, the cycle\u2019s earliest poem written in 1932, in the time of Zabolotsky\u2019s strong enthusiasm for “natural philosophy”, is interpreted by the composer with a very personal accent as the life\u2019s sunset, as a stupor, as a stop on a long way. Autumn<\/em> is without doubt the culmination of the whole cycle in its scale as well as in the size of musical information conveyed. Autumn<\/em> is the only part of The Last Spring<\/em> developing to the dramatic continuity rule. Tchaikovsky makes Zabolotsky\u2019s somewhat cold poem warmer, viewing it in the light of thoughts of man\u2019s loneliness and alienation from the live world of nature.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
The last part, Who Responded To Me<\/em> (a direct lyrical address rare for Zabolotsky) is a soft, poetical parting with spring, youth, and love full of warmth and beauty. The bright nature of the last bars in the instrumental trio postlude offers no consolation: happiness is too fragile and achievable.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\n
\u201e\u0421\u0435\u0432\u0435\u0440\u043d\u044b\u0435 \u0446\u0432\u0435\u0442\u044b\u201c<\/em><\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\n
Natalia Sechkariova<\/strong>, flute<\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\n
Ms. Sechkariova graduated from St. Petersburg Conservatory and finished her postgraduate studies with Professor G. Nikitin in 1990. Two years before, she became a winner of a prestigious international competition in Barcelona. Since 1989 she has been soloist of the Academic Symphony Orchestra of St. Petersburg Philharmonic, with which she has performed at the best venues of over thirty countries.<\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\n
Natalia Sechkariova actively performs both solo and in ensembles. She has appeared at such festivals as Musical Spring in St. Petersburg, From Avant\u2013Garde to Our Days, and Ways of Sound, and performed concertos for flute and orchestra with St. Petersburg\u2019s best ensembles.<\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\n
Ms. Sechkariova regularly records CDs, and teaches at St. Petersburg Conservatory.<\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\n
Adil Fyodorov<\/strong>, clarinet<\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\n
In 1971, immediately after graduation cum laude from the Rimsky\u2013Korsakov Conservatory, Adil Fyodorov became soloist of the Leningrad (St. Petersburg) Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra, and soon rose to the clarinet group leader. Mr. Fyodorov has performed with the Orchestra, in various chamber ensembles, and as soloist in the best concert halls of Russia, and has toured in over 30 countries.<\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\n
Adil Fyodorov is recognized in St. Petersburg as a chamber ensemble virtuoso. He has performed with N. Gutman, A. Lyubimov, Z. Vinnikov, B. Pergamenschikov, and A. Ugorsky, has recorded many CDs. Currently, he is a professor at the Rimsky\u2013Korsakov Conservatory in St. Petersburg.<\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n\n\n\n\n
\n
A Russia Flying Away to words by Sergey Yessenin<\/strong><\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\n<\/p>\n\n\n
\n
1. AUTUMN<\/strong>
\nQuiet is the juniper grove along the steep.
\nAutumn, that red\u2013haired mare, combs its mane.And the blue clang of its horseshoes can be heard
\nOver the blanket of the riverside.The wind, in monk\u2013like careful steps,
\nTramples leafage on road ledges,And it kisses, on a rowan tree,
\nThe red wounds of unseen Christ.3. O GUARD ABOVE CLOUDS, OPEN TO ME\u2026<\/strong>
\nO guard above clouds, open to me
\nThe azure door of day.
\nLast midnight, a white angel
\nDrove away my horse.God needs not what is not his.
\nMy horse is my might and support.
\nI can hear him neighing dolefully,
\nBiting his gold chain.<\/p>\n

I can see him writhing and rushing,
\nPlucking at his tight lasso,
\nAnd dun\u2013colored hairs fly off him,
\nTo the fog, as if from the moon.<\/p>\n

5. A RUSSIA FLYING AWAY<\/strong>
\nO my land of gold!
\nFair temple of autumn!
\nA flight of noisy geese<\/p>\n

Is rushing to the clouds.<\/p>\n

It is an innumerable host
\nOf transfigured souls
\nDriven up from sleepy lakes,
\nFlying to the garden of heaven.<\/p>\n

Flying, flying, flying to the heavenly garden.<\/p>\n

A swan is flying ahead,
\nEyes full of grove\u2013great grief.
\nIs it not you weeping in the sky,
\nA Russia that’s flying away?<\/p>\n

Fly on, fly on, don’t struggle,
\nAll things have their time and shore.
\nWinds flow down into the song,
\nAnd the song will sink into oblivion.<\/p>\n

Fly on, fly on, fly on, Golden Russia!<\/p>\n

7. WHERE ARE YOU, ANCESTRAL HOME\u2026<\/strong>
\nWhere are you, ancestral home,
\nThat warmed its back at the hillside?
\nO my little blue flower
\nIn never\u2013trampled sand \u2014
\nWhere are you?<\/p>\n

A rooster\u2019s crowing across the river.
\nA shepherd guarded flocks there,
\nAnd three distant stars
\nWere shining out of water.<\/p>\n

Time, a mill with a wing,
\nDrops the moon like a pendulum,
\nInto the rye behind the village
\nTo pour the unseen rain of hours.<\/p>\n

That rain, with its host of arrows,
\nHas whirled my home in clouds,
\nAnd struck down the sky\u2013blue flower,
\nAnd trampled on the golden sand.
\nWhere are you, ancestral home?<\/p>\n

9. THE DEATHLY HORN IS BLOWING, IS BLOWING!<\/strong>
\nThe deathly horn is blowing, is blowing!
\nWhat shall we, what shall we do now
\nOn the dirty thighs of muddy roads?<\/p>\n

Soon, a frost will whitewash with its lime
\nhis village, and these meadows.
\nNowhere can you hide from destruction,
\nNowhere can you hide from your foe.
\nHere he is! Here he is with a belly of iron
\nReaching our plains\u2019 throats with his paw\u2026<\/p>\n

The deathly horn is blowing, is blowing!<\/p>\n

11. OH, I BELIEVE THAT HAPPINESS EXISTS!<\/strong>
\nOh, I believe that happiness exists!
\nThe sun has not died out yet.
\nThe dawn is prophesying good news
\nBy its scarlet prayer\u2013book.<\/p>\n

Chime, chime, Golden Russia,
\nAnd surge, you incessant wind!
\nBlessed is he who has marked
\nYour pastoral sadness with joy.<\/p>\n

I love the murmur of wild waters,
\nAnd starshine upon the waves,
\nAnd blessed suffering,
\nAnd the blessing people.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n<\/td>\n

\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n
\n
2. I HAVE LEFT MY BELOVED HOME\u2026<\/strong>
\nI have left my beloved home,
\nLeft behind my azure\u2013blue Russia.
\nThe birches\u2019 three candles by the pond
\nAre burning as old mother\u2019s sorrow.That golden frog of a moon
\nNow lies sprawling over the quiet water.
\nWhite heirs are strewn in Father\u2019s beard
\nLike blossom of apple trees.I\u2019ll be back, but not soon, not soon!
\nBlizzards will sing and ring for long.
\nAn old maple tree on one leg
\nWatches over my sky\u2013blue Russia.And I know there is joy in it
\nFor those kissing the rain of leaves,
\nJust because that old maple tree
\nDoes resemble my head.4. SILVERY GLITTERING ROAD\u2026<\/strong>Silvery glittering road,
\nWhereto are you calling me?
\nA star is burning above me
\nAs a Holy Thursday candle.<\/p>\n

Are you kindling joy or sorrow?
\nOr are you steering towards madness?
\nHelp me love your coarse snow
\nTo the last \u2014 with my spring heart.<\/p>\n

Give me the dawn for a wood\u2013sledge,
\nAnd a willow\u2013branch for a bridle.
\nMaybe then I’ll drive myself
\nUp to the Lord’s gate.<\/p>\n

6. O SIMON, O PETER\u2026 WHERE ARE YOU? COME NEAR\u2026<\/strong>
\nO Simon, o Peter\u2026
\nWhere are you? Come near.
\nWhite willows started,
\n\u201cHe\u2019s there, ahead!\u201d<\/p>\n

O Simon, o Peter\u2026
\nWhere are you? I\u2019m calling!
\nSomeone is whispering,
\n\u201cCall out into the blue!\u201d<\/p>\n

I called \u2014 and the dark
\nPranced up aloud.
\nA red\u2013haired fisher
\nWalked out with a bag.<\/p>\n

\u201cFriend\u2026 Why\u2019re you here?\u201d
\n\u201cFollowing you.\u201d
\n\u201cWho are you?\u201d \u201cJudas!\u201d
\nMumbled the surf.<\/p>\n

8. THERE, BEHIND THE MILKY HILLS\u2026<\/strong>
\nThere, behind the Milky Hills,
\nAmong the heavenly poplars,
\nSilver\u2013jetted Aquarius
\nIs tilted down above us.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s the Ursa from the azure,
\nAs a ladle from a tub.
\nAnd the storm leaping up to the sky
\nHas saddled the moon.<\/p>\n

A whirling host of dead souls I dream of,
\nAnd a garden steaming milk.
\nLook, my granddad\u2019s dragging the sun
\nTo the sunset with a fish\u2013trap.<\/p>\n

10. HARK, AN OWL IS HOOTING AUTUMNLIKE\u2026<\/strong>
\nHark, an owl is hooting autumnlike
\nOver the road\u2019s vast this early hour.
\nMy head is shedding its leaves,
\nYea, the bush of my gold hair\u2019s fading.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s a \u201ckoo\u2013goo\u201d call of steppe and field.
\nHello, mother blue aspen!
\nSoon the moon will bathe in snow
\nAnd be seated in your son\u2019s sparse curls.<\/p>\n

Soon I\u2019ll be leafless and cold,
\nWith my ears full of star\u2013jingling.
\nYoungsters will sing without me,
\nOld folks listening without me.<\/p>\n

A new poet will come from the field,
\nWith a new whistle to sound the woods.
\nAutumnlike are the fits of the wind,
\nAutumnlike is the whisper of leaves.<\/p>\n

12. O HOMELAND, IT\u2019S A HAPPY AND IMMINENT HOUR!<\/strong>
\nO Homeland, it\u2019s a happy
\nAnd imminent hour!
\nThere\u2019 nothing better or nicer
\nThan your cow\u2013like eyes.<\/p>\n

To you, and your fogs,
\nAnd sheep in your fields,
\nI\u2019m carrying the sun in my hands,
\nLike a sheaf of oats.<\/p>\n

Be hallowed in Pentecost,
\nBe hallowed in Christmas,
\nFor vigil\u2013thirsty humans
\nTo get drunk with eternity.<\/p>\n

And not a single stone
\nThrown with a sling or bow
\nWill ever strike God\u2019s hands that
\nAre raised high above us.<\/p>\n

To you, and your fogs,
\nAnd sheep in your fields,
\nI\u2019m carrying the sun in my hands,
\nLike a sheaf of oats.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n

\n
The Last Spring<\/em> to words by Zabolotsky (1980)<\/strong><\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
\n<\/p>\n\n\n
\n
1. A JOYFUL MOOD<\/strong>
\nLet me a tiny lodge, starling,
\nSettle me in an old nestling\u2013box.
\nI will pledge my soul to you
\nFor your sky\u2013blue snowdrops.Start your serenade, starling!
\nThrough kettledrums and tambourines of History
\nYou\u2019re our first spring singer
\nFrom a birch\u2013tree conservatory.Open the show, you whistler!
\nThrow back your little pink head,
\nTearing up the shine of the strings
\nIn the very throat by the birch grove.I, too, would be willing to add my voice,
\nBut a wandering butterfly whispered to me,
\n\u201cHe who strains his throat in spring,
\nWill have lost his voice by summer.\u201dAnd the spring is so good, so good!
\nAll my soul is embraced in lilacs.
\nNow soul, raise up a nestling\u2013box
\nOver your spring gardens.3. THE SUN IS UP<\/strong>
\nHaving lit the roof\u2019s tiling
\nAnd warmed up the pine\u2013tree\u2019s wood,
\nThe spring\u2019s late sun
\nIs rising higher and higher.<\/p>\n

In the pinkish and brown smoke
\nOf the branches still defoliated,
\nA nightingale is clapping his wings \u2014 and singing,
\nAll pierced with oblique beams.<\/p>\n

How natural is this repetition
\nOf his phrases so laconic and slow.
\nSeems like this tiny being
\nIs now singing expressly for us!<\/p>\n

O deceits so beloved by my heart,
\nO delusions of my infant years!
\nCan\u2019t get rid of you on such a day,
\nWhen the meadows are in full green.<\/p>\n

Having lit the roof\u2019s tiling
\nAnd warmed up the pine\u2013tree\u2019s wood,
\nThe spring\u2019s late sun
\nIs rising higher and higher.<\/p>\n

5. SEPTEMBER<\/strong>
\nThe rain is pouring large peas,
\nThe wind\u2019s in fits, and the expanse is not clear.
\nAnd the disheveled poplar is cloaked
\nWith the silvery inside of its leaves.<\/p>\n

But look: through a hole in the cloud,
\nAs if through a stone\u2013slab arch,
\nA first beam is struggling to fly
\nInto this realm of fog and gloom.<\/p>\n

So the expanse is not curtained forever
\nWith clouds, and it was not in vain,
\nThe nut\u2013tree started to shine in late September
\nBlushing like a young maid.<\/p>\n

Now then, painter, snatch out
\nBrush after brush, and paint
\nThis girl for me on a canvass,
\nLet her be fire\u2013gold and garnet\u2013colored.<\/p>\n

Paint me a young princess in a crown,
\nUnsteady as a sapling tree,
\nWith a smile sliding uneasily
\nOn her tear\u2013strewn young face.<\/p>\n

The rain is pouring large peas\u2026<\/p>\n

7. WHO RESPONDED TO ME<\/strong>
\nWho responded to me in the heart of the forest?
\nWas it an old oak whispering to a pine tree,
\nOr was it a rowan that creaked far off,
\nOr was it ocarina singing of a goldfinch,
\nOr was it the robin my little friend
\nWho suddenly answered to me at the sunset?<\/p>\n

Who responded to me in the heart of the forest?
\nWas it you who recalled in spring
\nThe years we had that are gone,
\nAnd our troubles, and our hardships,
\nOur wanderings in distant lands \u2014
\nWas it you who had scorched my soul?<\/p>\n

Who responded to me in the heart of the forest?
\nMorning or evening, in cold and in heat,
\nI always hear some indistinct echo,
\nAs if some breath of boundless love,
\nLove that made my tremulous verse
\nStrive to you out the palms of my hands\u2026<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n<\/td>\n

\n<\/p>\n\n\n
\n
2. SPRING\u2019S MOVEMENTS<\/strong>
\nDear friend, every day
\nI am lost at that hillside.
\nA laboratory of spring days
\nCan be seen around.In every teeny\u2013weeny plant,
\nAs if in a live little retort,
\nSolar fluid is foaming
\nAnd boiling all by itself.Having studied these tiny retorts,
\nLike a chemist or a doctor,
\nA rook walks along the road
\nIn long violet feathers.He carefully analyzes
\nHis lesson by a notebook
\nAnd he gathers large nourishing worms
\nIn store for his children.And there, on hummocks under the aspens,
\nTo celebrate the sunrise,
\nHares have a round dance
\nWith ancient lamentations.Just like little children,
\nClasping their little paws together,
\nAre monotonously talking
\nOf their hare wrongs.<\/p>\n

And every moment these days,
\nOver the songs and dances,
\nThe sun\u2019s visage is blazing
\nFilling the earth with fairy\u2013tales.<\/p>\n

And probably it would bend over
\nOur ancient forest corner,
\nAnd it would smile unwittingly
\nAt our forest miracles.<\/p>\n

4. GREEN BEAM<\/strong>
\nGleaming in its golden mounting
\nFlush with the blue sea,
\nA white\u2013domed town is dozing,
\nReflected in the depth.<\/p>\n

It emerged from aggregation
\nOf a white ridge of clouds
\nWhere the sun blazes out of the water
\nFor a moment now and then.<\/p>\n

I will set off to see
\nThose distant lands,
\nI will find the road
\nTo the palace of white domes.<\/p>\n

I will open all the gates
\nOf those cloudy heights.
\nSomeone will cast me a green beam
\nFrom the setting eye.<\/p>\n

A beam that\u2019s like an emerald,
\nA key to golden happiness.
\nI will get you anyway,
\nMy feeble green beam.<\/p>\n

But bulwarks turn pale,
\nTowers are falling far away,
\nThe green beam\u2019s fading,
\nFar above the ground.<\/p>\n

Only he whose spirit is young,
\nAnd whose body\u2019s eager and mighty,
\nWill break into the white\u2013domed town
\nAnd snatch the green beam!<\/p>\n

6. AUTUMN<\/strong>
\nWhen the day is over, and Nature
\nCannot choose the lighting at its will,
\nThe ample spaces of autumn groves
\nRise in the air as neat clean houses.
\nHawks live there, and crows spend their nights,
\nAnd clouds roam high above like ghosts.<\/p>\n

The substance of autumn leaves has shrunk
\nAnd covered the entire ground. Far off there
\nA huge creature on four legs
\nIs walking to the misty village bellowing.
\nOx, Ox! Are you not king any more?
\nThe maple leaf reminds us of amber.<\/p>\n

The Spirit of Autumn, give me the power of pen!
\nThe air\u2019s build implies the presence of diamond.
\nThe ox has disappeared round the corner.
\nAnd the sun\u2019s mass,
\nA misty ball, is hanging over the earth
\nBlood\u2013staining the earth\u2019s edge in its twinkling.<\/p>\n

A big bird is flying below,
\nRolling its round eyes from under its eyelids.
\nA human is felt in its movements.
\nAt least, it surely is hidden
\nIn its embryo between the two broad wings.
\nA beetle has slightly opened his house between the leaves.<\/p>\n

The Autumn\u2019s Architecture. And the arrangement
\nTherein of the air space, the grove, the stream,
\nArrangement of animals and humans,
\nWhen little rings and curls of leaves
\nFly in the air \u2014 and a special light \u2014
\nThat\u2019s what we should choose from other signs.<\/p>\n

A beetle has slightly opened his house between the leaves
\nAnd is peeping out with his horns stuck out.
\nThe beetle has dug out various rootlets for himself
\nAnd is stowing them into a heap;
\nNext, he sounds his teeny\u2013weeny trumpet
\nAnd disappears again like a teeny\u2013weeny god.<\/p>\n

But then the wind comes. All that used to be clean,
\nAnd spacious, and shining, and dry,
\nAll this becomes gray, and hazy, and unpleasant,
\nAnd undistinguishable. The wind drives smoke,
\nRotates the air, throws leaves in heaps
\nAnd blows the surface of the earth up in powder.<\/p>\n

And then all nature starts to freeze.
\nA maple leaf rings like copper
\nHitting against a tiny twig.
\nAnd we must understand that it is just a sign,
\nSent to us all by Nature for some reason
\nOn entering another season.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

NF\/PMA 9928<\/h2>\n

Barcode: 4607053326581
\nPrice: \u00a310.99<\/p>\n","protected":false},"featured_media":135,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":[],"product_brand":[],"product_cat":[17],"product_tag":[],"class_list":["post-1857","product","type-product","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","product_cat-northern-flowers","content-wrap","first","instock","shipping-taxable","purchasable","product-type-simple"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/altocd.com\/northernflowers\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/product\/1857","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/altocd.com\/northernflowers\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/product"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/altocd.com\/northernflowers\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/product"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/altocd.com\/northernflowers\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1857"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/altocd.com\/northernflowers\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/135"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/altocd.com\/northernflowers\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1857"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"product_brand","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/altocd.com\/northernflowers\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/product_brand?post=1857"},{"taxonomy":"product_cat","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/altocd.com\/northernflowers\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/product_cat?post=1857"},{"taxonomy":"product_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/altocd.com\/northernflowers\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/product_tag?post=1857"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}