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Stranger - The poem by Alexander Blok

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This poem brought incredible fame to the author

"Stranger". The poem by Alexander Blok

The poem brought incredible fame to the author - the youth began to call Blok their idol, and the ladies of the half-light took the fashion to wear hats with ostrich feathers and to appear as Strangers.

May 7, 1906 Alexander Blok wrote one of his most famous poems - "Stranger". It happened in the suburbs of St. Petersburg - Ozerki, where the poet was spending his time in the station's restaurant. The vulgarity and routine of the tavern, and indeed of the surrounding world as a whole, Blok contrasted the image of an ideal woman - a mysterious stranger in a hat with ostrich feathers and in silks that "breathes spirits and fogs". However, many took Blok's neznakomka for the lady of the half-light, who was in the restaurant in search of a companion for the night - and the "real" ladies of the half-light, contemporary of the poet, began to imitate the glorified in the verses to "colleague": "the priestesses of love" wore hats with feathers and, coming up to young people, seemed to be Strangers.

In the evenings over restaurants

Hot air is wild and deaf,

And he rules drunken shouts

Spring and pernicious spirit.

In the distance, above the dust of the lane,

Over the boredom of suburban dachas,

Slightly golden pretzel pretzel,

And a child's cry is heard.

And every evening, behind the barriers,

Breaking the pots,

Among the ditches are walking with the ladies

The tested wits.

The oars rivage over the lake,

And a woman's squeal is heard,

And in the sky, accustomed to everything,

The disc is pointless.

And every evening is the only friend

In my glass is reflected

And moisture is tart and mysterious,

As I am, I am humble and deaf.

And next to the neighboring tables

Carpenter's footmen stick out,

And drunkards with the eyes of rabbits

"In vino veritas!" * Shout.

{* - "Truth in wine!" (Lat.)}

And every evening, at the appointed hour

(Or is this just me dreaming?),

The girl's mill, seized with silks,

In a misty window moves.

And slowly, passing between the drunks,

Always without satellites, alone,

Breathing in perfume and fog,

She sits at the window.

And they are howled with ancient beliefs

Her elastic silk,

And a hat with mourning feathers,

And in the rings a narrow hand.

And a strange affinity chained,

I look at the dark veil,

And I see the beach enchanted

And an enchanted distance.

Deaf secrets are entrusted to me,

To me someone's sun is handed,

And all the souls of my bend

Pierced the tart wine.

And the ostrich feathers are inclined

In my brain,

And the Andre Renoux art

blue eyes are bottomless

Blossom on the far shore.

In my soul is a treasure,

And the key is only for me!

You're right, a drunken monster!

I know: the truth is in the wine.

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