By life tormented, and by cunning hope, When my soul surrenders in its battle with them, Day and night I press my eyelids closed And sometimes I'm vouchsafed peculiar visions.…
The 19th century Russian poet Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet, a man born of noble blood, is considered to be among the best lyricists in Russian literature. A great friend of Leo Tolstoy, Fet was a deep thinking, often fatalistic poet who wrote a number of poems on the grim subject of death, although he framed these verses to make death sound like something to look forward to. Later in his life he translated many of Schopenhauer’s works into Russian. Some doubts surround the exact date of birth but reports suggest that he was born on the 5th December 1820 which was two years before his Russian nobleman father Afanasy Shenshin married the divorcee Charlotta Foeth in Germany. He was therefore placed into the category known as a raznochinet, literally a person who does not belong to any particular class or state. He was not allowed to take his father’s name of Shenshin and, not surprisingly, all of this was a source of great distress to Fet for the whole of his life. As soon as he was old enough he was sent away to a boarding school in Estonia and from there he moved to Moscow University in 1838 to study philology. He began writing poetry while at university and was able to publish his first collection in 1840, called The Lyrical Pantheon. Fet really came to the attention of the literary world in 1842 when his poems were seen regularly in magazines such as Moskovityanin and Otechestvennye zapiski, all of which received a great deal of praise from all quarters. It was another ten years before a second collection came out and this was unusual in that it contained verse and love lyrics composed using mostly nouns and adjectives. This unconventional method of writing was much admired later on by Symbolists such as Annensky, Ivanov and Bely. In an attempt to somehow re-establish the noble rights that he had been denied he joined the Russian Army in 1845, transferring to the Guards eight years later. Serving in St Petersburg gave him plenty of opportunity to mix with Russian literary figures such as Turgenev and he was soon working on his third collection of poetry. This included a preface by Turgenev and what appeared to be a death wish poem called To Death. Fet wrote it in a way that made death sound almost like an attractive proposition. He was married to the sister of a literary critic by 1857 and, in the same year, produced a poem which became a favourite of Leo Tolstoy. Tolstoy later became a good friend, both expressing great distaste for liberal critics. Here is that poem – Upon a Haystack on a Southern Night: Three years later Fet and his wife acquired a country estate and he finally began to live the life of a nobleman without the formality of rank, although this was rectified later by none other than Tsar Aleksandr II himself. The tsar recognised the unfortunate circumstances of Fet’s birth and conferred upon him a hereditary nobleman’s rights and privileges. These were enhanced in 1889 when he was made a Kammerherr, a rank equivalent to a Lord Chamberlain, which the Tsar felt would compensate him further for earlier wrongs. Afanasy Afanasevich Fet died on the 3rd December 1892, aged 71.
Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet şiirleri
I always s like the northern birches: Their view, so downcast and grave, The fever, which poor souls scorches, Cools like the mute speech of a grave.…
I have come to you, delighted, To tell you that sun has risen, That its light has warmly started To fulfil on leaves its dancing;…
My face turned upwards to the sky One summer night I lay upon some hay A lively close-knit starry chorus Was flickering all around.…
I wake. Yes, it's a coffin lid.-With effort I reach my hands out and I call For help. Yes, I recall the tortures Of dying.-Yes, this is no dream!-…
Nightingales, a sigh, a whisper In a shady nook And the lullaby in silver Of a lazy brook.…
To sighs of morning air, that froze,- (With her lips opened for a say), How curiously has smiled the rose On a September fleeting day!…
Upon a haystack in lands of South, I lay, while facing skies of night, The choir of stars, alive and couth, Was trembling, spread at every side.…
What grief! The alley's end Is lost in snow again today, And once again, the silver snakes Are crawling through the snow.…
When you were reading those tormented lines In which the heart's resonant flame sends out glowing streams And passion's fatal torrents rear up,- Didn't you recall a single thing?…
While lounging in a chair, I looked up at the ceiling Where, teasing my imagination, A circle hangs above the quiet lamp, And spins just like a ghostly shadow.…
With one firm thrust to force the boat of living From off the sands, and, by a wave tossed high, Be toward a new life borne, a new beginning, To feel the wind from scented shores s…