To the question Who knows the verse of Gabdulla Tukay Native Village, given by the author throw the best answer is
Answer from welfare[guru]
HOME VILLAGE
Our village stands on a steep hill.
A spring with cold water is at hand from us.
Everything around me is gratifying, I know the taste of water,
I love with my soul and body everything in my land.
Here God breathed my soul, I saw the light here,
For the first time I was able to read a prayer from the Koran,
For the first time here I heard the words of the prophet,
I knew his fate and the whole path is hard.
I remember forever the events of childhood,
There is no happier time, there is no more carefree fun.
I remember how it used to be, along the black furrow
I walked with my older brother after the plow.
I will see a lot - because life is still long,
And waiting for me, probably, the road is not alone.
But no matter where I am and no matter what I do,
You are in the memory and heart, dear side!
(1909)
Answer from Gulsim Khusainova[newbie]
I
Answer from Alena Boldysheva[newbie]
Thank you
Answer from Caucasian[newbie]
thank you very much
Answer from Ўlya Murzagaleeva[newbie]
Gabdulla Tukay (1886-1913)
Poem:
Home village:
Our village stands on a steep hill.
A spring with cold water is at hand from us.
Everything around me is gratifying, I know the taste of water,
I love with my soul and body everything in my land.
Here God breathed my soul, I saw the light here,
For the first time I was able to read a prayer from the Koran,
For the first time here I heard the words of the prophet,
I knew his fate and the whole path is hard.
I remember forever the events of childhood,
There is no happier time, there is no more carefree fun.
I remember how it used to be, along the black furrow
I walked with my older brother after the plow.
I will see a lot - because life is still long,
And waiting for me, probably, the road is not alone.
But no matter where I am and no matter what I do,
You are in the memory and heart, dear side!
Answer from Ivan Utkin[active]
.
Answer from Vika Kanivtsova[newbie]
Our village stands on a steep hill.
A spring with cold water is at hand from us.
Everything around me is gratifying, I know the taste of water,
I love with my soul and body everything in my land.
Here God breathed my soul, I saw the light here,
For the first time I was able to read a prayer from the Koran,
For the first time here I heard the words of the prophet,
I knew his fate and the whole path is hard.
I remember forever the events of childhood,
There is no happier time, there is no more carefree fun.
I remember how it used to be, along the black furrow
I walked with my older brother after the plow.
I will see a lot - because life is still long,
And waiting for me, probably, the road is not alone.
But no matter where I am and no matter what I do,
You are in the memory and heart, dear side!
Tukay G.Saz my gentle and sad: poems / G. Tukay. - Kazan: Megarif, 1999.- 143 p.
WATER
(According to a village boy)
I
Summer day. Hot air. In our river he is not himself.
I touch the waves with my hands and butt my head.
So he played, dived, laughed, maybe an hour or an hour and a half
And I thought that the heat would not soon take me apart.
Suddenly he was afraid of something - he quickly ran out of the water.
No one beside me, silence is all around.
I was about to leave and saw in three steps:
The terrible witch sat silently on the bridge.
And in the sun sparkles a golden scallop in his hand -
He, touching her hair, is reflected in the river.
The sorceress braided her braids, she jumped into the river,
And immediately a surging wave hid it.
Then quietly I crept up and saw: on the bridges -
The scallop forgotten by the witch that gleamed in her hands.
He looked around: quiet, empty, the comb lay next to him,
I grabbed it instantly and ran to the village.
Without looking back I rush, and the body is shaking, everything is trembling.
Ah, what a disaster! I see: Water runs after.
And he shouts to me: "Stop, thief! Wait, don't run away!
Stop! - shouts, not letting up, - Comb, comb, give me back!
I run, she follows me, I hear, chasing me.
I'm racing. A flicker in the eyes of the earth. The air is full of silence.
So we reached the village. Rushed through the village.
And then all the dogs climbed Vodyanaya.
"Woof" and "woof" rushes after her, and the dog's barking is loud,
Water was frightened, let's run back!
Fear has passed: and in fact the trouble has suddenly passed.
Hey, wicked old woman, you lost your comb forever!
I came home and showed this comb to my mother.
"I want to drink, I ran for a long time, I got tired," he said to her.
He told me everything right away. And, pulling the comb,
The mother stands, trembling, thinking about something to herself...
II
The sun has set in the sky. It became quiet all around.
Spiritual coolness of a summer evening enters the house.
I lie under the covers. But still can't sleep.
"Knock" yes "knock" I distinguish. Someone knocks on our window.
I'm lying, not moving, it's kind of scary to get up.
But in the darkness, shuddering from the knock, the mother immediately woke up.
“Who is there?” he asks loudly. “What are the important things?
What would have failed in place! So that it is not easy to take!"
"Water me. Tell me, where is my golden scallop?
In the afternoon I stole it on the river and your son sped away.
From under the covers I looked: the moonlight is standing in the window.
I myself tremble with fear: "God, where can I go?"
Mom found the comb and in an instant
The merman threw him down and slammed the window.
And, alarmed in earnest, cursing the old witch,
Mother, stepping up to my bed, began to take care of me.
Ever since my mother scolded me for stealing,
Never touched, you know, I'm someone else's nothing.
translation: A. Chepurov
KISONKA
Dream
Putting a stigma on her paws, she sleeps sweetly,
But with the squeaky mouse family, there is a war going on even in a dream.
I chased after a tailed mouse ... as if in reality
And, catching up, immediately dug into her throat ... as if in reality.
She dreams: now cats are catching sparrows on the roof
And they purr - apparently, they are glad that their fishing is successful ...
Dogs do not spoil the mood, they are not visible and not heard.
She sleeps in complete peace, seeing rainbow dreams.
Awakening
Kitty got up, yawned, opened her mouth wide,
She stretched, licked her lips and yawned again.
Here she moved her mustache, scratched her ear with her paw,
She arched her back, looked around the walls.
And again she closed her eyes. Silence is all around.
Reluctance to understand either good or bad.
She began to stretch again, driving away sleepy laziness, -
All cats and all people do this every day.
Clever thoughtfulness and surprise
Here she sat down beautifully, taking a smart look,
I thought about it - and at once the whole huge world was forgotten.
It is absolutely impossible to know the course of her thoughts:
Whether the progress of the tribes of cats occupies her mind,
Or the fact that mice themselves do not go into the paws of cats,
Or the fact that in vain the wings of birds grow fast,
Or the fact that she is forbidden to touch chickens and ducks,
She is not allowed to drink milk from a jug in the basement.
Whether he thinks about food - the one that was eaten yesterday,
Or that the stomach is empty, that it is time to eat.
Only chu! There was a barely audible sound somewhere -
And dreams were dispelled, the heart suddenly revived.
What's there? Maybe a sly mouse is crawling behind the stove?
Or maybe it's a rat chewing on a board under the floor?
Did a spider stretch a web here nearby?
And, having fallen into his paws, the fly groans there from torment?
What's happened? It is not known - only cats know.
You can only see how the lights flashed in her eyes.
Subtle observation
I got up, sensing an important thing: the natural gift did not go out!
Ears move quietly, each eye like a yellow ball.
There is definitely something nearby for a cat!
What, joy or sorrow? Here again there is a concern.
Waiting. The fire was already lit, dispersing the darkness in the house.
In front of the mirror, the hostess straightens her kalfak.
This evening the rich woman is invited to the house alone,
And on a visit, of course, she wants to be prettier.
That's why she didn't feed the cat, maybe:
For this reason, an important cat can be forgotten!
And the cat looks sad: again a hungry life!
Everything is ready to pierce her yellow eyes.
Hope and disappointment
Look! The smile of the stigma illuminates everything,
Let the whole world turn upside down, our cat doesn't care.
He knows a sharp word, a cunning kitty language.
But until the time he hides, in vain he is not used to chatting.
But one moment passed, she appears again.
What happened to the cat? Why is she sad?
I wanted to deceive people, smiling endlessly,
She kept hoping - for this she would be given meat to eat.
All in vain! That's why she looks sad
And again she grieves, again her soul hurts.
Suffering and the Unknown
So no one gave food! How she wants to eat!
He groans, meows plaintively - these torments cannot be endured.
Makes the stomach hungry. How to suffer!
On the face of sadness, despondency: it is difficult to get your own bread.
Suddenly, a sound was heard from her not far away.
In an instant, the kitty forgot about sadness, about longing.
What's the rustle? What is there - people or the fuss of mice and rats?
The eyes became large, the ears rose up.
Unknown Unknown! Who is her friend or foe?
What does this rustle promise her - a lot of evil or a lot of good?
pretending to be indifferent
Here they put a cup of warm sweet milk for her,
But the pretender does not seem to think about him.
Although he really wants to eat, although his soul is jumping,
Like a Sufi approaching food, without worry, without haste.
She wants to show that she is not hungry at all,
That she does not suffer from gluttony, that she is not greedy.
Because of greed, she was beaten more than once -
Her heart aches from those beatings even now.
Preparation for an attack and laziness from satiety
So she flattened her ears and lay down on the ground, -
Whatever stirs, jumps in an instant from around the corner.
Prepared for the hunt and does not take her eyes off the hole:
The gray mouse's thin tail appeared there now.
Or are the boys dragging a piece of paper, tied to a thread?
There is something. No wonder she quieted down - we know the feline disposition.
But look - the same cat, but what a careless look!
She lay down like a lazy person: after all, her stomach is full.
How blissfully this egoza cat is resting.
Imperceptibly closes golden eyes.
Let him sleep now. Don't disturb the cat, you rascals.
Games - after, but for now let him inspect dreams.
Motherhood
What mercy! The soul is touched!
Everyone looks at the cat family with affection without breathing.
Washes, licks the kitten's mother, pampers, trembles over him.
"Child," she purrs, "the light of my eyes, Janim!"
From a nimble frisky cat she became a mother,
And our kitty is full of maternal care!
From contemplation to pleasure
Here she stared at the point and did not take her eyes off it.
What is she thinking about right now?
Thoughts flash in my head - we will never know about them,
But in the eyes of her thoughts, a person notices.
Finally, she got tired of thinking about the question,
Pleasure, peace she surrendered again.
Fear - anger and just fear
Here, an evil stick is raised over a cat and a kitten,
As you know, poor cats are not spared by that stick.
The mother is afraid and the kitten - their temper is difficult to change,
But the fear of a kitten cannot be compared with maternal fear.
The mother cat is ready to beat a stick with a paw, bite a boot,
And the kitten was frightened - and started off with all its might.
Pleasure and anger
They gently stroke her back, scratch her sharp ear,
Ah, now the pleasure of this cat is great!
Our kitty is full of quiet joy and happiness,
She half-opened her mouth in tenderness.
Head tilted to one side, tears welling up in eyes.
Ah, happy moment! Where was the pain and fear!
It's amazing, wonderful to live in the world, they say,
So something like that, but in this world, is everything going smoothly?
Everything is fragile in this world! So, apparently, it happened:
Joy and sorrow under the moon never go apart.
A guest of some clumsy tail crushed her painfully
Or in vain on the back with a cane hit with all his might.
From the resentment of this heavy cat is full of malice,
She sharpens every tooth and every claw on the enemy.
The hair on it is on end, and every hair breathes with anger,
A terrible vengeance prepares every hair for the guest.
It's all over!
Here it is, the vicissitudes of fate! Our world is vanity of vanities:
Our funny kitty is no more in this world!
This news spread very quickly. And now
There, in the underground, it’s true, a holiday, a feast is now going on like a mountain.
Mice are jumping, rats are dancing: life will now go smoothly!
The oppressor cat sleeps in the grave, they say.
Obituary
You, cat, have gone to another world without knowing earthly joys.
I know that in holiness and faith you have already passed Sirat.
Fierce enemy of mice! Though there was a lot of evil in your affairs,
Sleep well in better world! Good and merciful Allah!
All your life you have guarded our house, our bread from mice,
And this will be credited to you in the book of righteous destinies.
As I remember you, cat, - pity takes over the heart.
Even the worms have grown bolder, and not just the mouse kind.
You have been to me more than once, my friend, a consolation in a sad hour.
I knew a lot of joys from your funny pranks.
And when my grandfather used to lie on the stove, snoring,
Next to you, and you dozed, all purring to yourself.
You used to be busy playing all day long,
Causing no pain to me, you scratched at times.
Byalishi stole in the kitchen, loving delicious food,
And for this they mercilessly beat you with a stick.
I, sobbing with pity, ran to my mother,
He begged her: "Don't, don't beat the poor cat!"
Life has gone irrevocably. You can't help but feel sorry for her.
In this world, friends are constantly separated.
May our merciful eternal Allah give you peace!
And if we meet in heaven, "meow-meow" sing to me!
translation: A. Shpirt
BOOK
When the soul is exhausted in the struggle,
When I hate myself
When I can't find a place in the world
And, tired, I send a curse to fate;
When beyond grief - grief at the door
And a clear day of rainy darkness is darker;
When in sadness the white light is not sweet,
When there is no strength in my soul, -
Then I look at the book
Imperishable pages rustle.
I am healed, I am happy, I am alive.
I drink you, joy of joys.
And the word I read then
Rises like a guiding star
Fearless heart, joyful soul,
And everyday vanity is alien.
And, reborn as a pure dream,
"Thank you," I say to that book.
And, straightened by faith in yourself,
I look into the distance with holy hope.
translation: M. Petrovykh
FINISHED WORK - PLAY!
One fine summer day, huddled in a corner,
The boy was preparing a lesson for the teacher in the morning.
He read a thick book without taking his eyes off,
And every word she repeated many times.
The sun glided through the closed window:
"Child, go outside, I've been waiting for you for a long time!
And the boy answered the sun: "Wait a minute, my friend!
And a day is enough for me to play, let's leave the conversation.
Until I finish, I will never run out into the yard!
But at that time a nightingale clicked under the window
And he repeated word for word: "I'm waiting for you soon!
You were diligent, but close your textbook and notebook,
It’s wonderful and bright outside, it’s time for you to play!”
But the boy said: "Wait, nightingale, my friend!
After all, if I go out into the yard, who will learn the lesson?
When I'm done, don't call me - I'll run out there myself.
I'll listen to your sweet song then."
And, having answered so, he fell silent, he took up the book
And again he is working on it, he is passionate about learning.
Here, with a branch, an apple tree knocks on a closed window:
"Child, go free, I've been waiting for you for a long time!
It must be boring to sit at the books in the morning,
It's time for you to play in the garden under a thick tree!"
But the boy said to her in response: "Oh, apple tree, my friend,
After all, if I go for a walk, who will learn the lesson?
Be patient a little more. Though nice in the yard
When the lessons are yours, there is no fun in the game!"
I had to wait a long time - things are over,
Notebooks, books and a pencil case disappeared from the table!
And the boy quickly runs into the garden: "Well, who called me?
Let's have fun!" And the fuss began.
Here the red sun sends a smile to him from heaven,
Here a branch of an apple tree gives him a ruddy fruit,
There the nightingale sang to him how happy he was.
And all the trees, all the flowers bowed!
translation: R. Moran
LOVE
There will be no flowers and herbs if it doesn't rain.
What should a poet do if inspiration does not come?
Everyone knows that, familiar with this simple truth,
Byron, Lermontov and Pushkin were inspired by beauty.
From your blinding teeth I lit my poems.
Is the pearl of the sea inferior to the pearl of the strings?
After all, until the blade of love cuts our hearts,
What is our heart? - Just a bunch of muscles.
I will leave all my fellow poets behind.
Scourge of love, whistle mercilessly and lead me forward!
I would give up the kingdom. What good is that kingdom to me?
Than to be the master of the world, it is better to become a slave to love.
Oh, how sweet are these torments, the torments of the secret fire!
Is there anyone in the world who understands me?
No! None of the lovers compare to me.
I love a hundred times more than Farhad loved Shirin.
translation: Sun. Christmas
NATIONAL MELODIES
Yesterday I heard - someone sang a song,
The one that is built by our people.
And I thought: how much sadness in her,
How unbelievably pathetic she is.
She worries her heart. lives in it
Tatars are a long-suffering soul.
In lingering sounds - three hundred years of oppression.
She's bitter and yet good.
Yes, we have experienced many hardships,
The tears we shed cannot be counted.
But fiery true love
The free chant carried through the ages.
I listened in amazement as I walked away
From the daily bustle of the earth,
And Bulgar appeared before me,
And Ak-Idel flowed before me.
I could not bear it, I went up to the singer,
He asked, gently touching his hand:
"Listen, brother, what song were you singing?"
The Tatar answered me: "Allyuki."
translation: V.Tushnova
PAIR OF HORSE
Horses in a team of steam, Kazan is my way,
And the driver is ready to pull the reins with a strong hand.
The evening light is quiet and gentle, everything shines under the moon,
The breeze blows cool and stirs the branches.
Silence all around, and only thoughts whisper something to me,
Sleep closes my eyes, dreams hover in silence.
Suddenly, opening my eyes, I see unfamiliar fields, -
What is called separation, I see for the first time.
Native land, do not be offended, beloved land, oh, I'm sorry,
The place where I lived with the hope of bringing benefits to people!
Oh, farewell, dear city, the city of my childhood!
Sweet home melted into the darkness - as if it was not there.
I'm bored, my heart yearns, it's bitter to think about my own.
My friends are not with me, and I think - we are together.
As if it were a sin, the coachman also became thoughtful, quieted down,
He does not praise beauties, nor golden rings.
Am I missing something, or am I missing something?
I am rich in everything, only relatives are absent, now I have become an orphan.
Everyone here is a stranger: who are these Mingali and Bikmulla,
Biktimir? Who knows their deeds and deeds?
I was separated from my family, life became unbearable for me,
And I miss the dear ones, like the sun, the moon.
And from these heavy thoughts I drooped my head,
And involuntarily tears flow - bitter spring of grief.
Suddenly a sonorous, young voice touched my ears:
"Hey, shakird, get up soon! Here is Kazan in front of you!"
I shuddered when I heard this, and my heart cheered.
"Well, let's go, faster, coachman! Drive your horses!"
I hear: the call to prayer wakes up early in the morning.
Oh, Kazan, you are sadness and cheerfulness! Luminous Kazan!
Here are the deeds of our grandfathers, here are sacred places,
Here, the lucky ones are waiting for the sweet Guria mouth.
Here is science, here is art, enlightenment is the hearth,
My friend lives here, heavenly light in her eyes.
translation: A.Akhmatova
POET
Let me grow old, helpless and gray,
And my camp will bend under the weight of difficult years,
I will never let my soul grow old,
She will stay strong and young.
While the fire of the verse lives in my chest,
I am fit to fight, I am stronger than old age.
The soul of the singer is clear, spring in the soul forever,
She does not know winters, she does not know snow.
Let me grow old - I will not become an old man,
That he prays to God and grinds with his tongue.
I won’t climb the stove, sighing heavily, -
I'll take the warmth I need from poetry.
And death will come to me - I will sing loudly,
And even Azrael will hear my song.
Let me go down to the ground - I will sing for the last time:
"I'm leaving, friends! I'm leaving you..."
translation: S. Lipkin
BROKEN HOPE
Now I began to see the colors of objects in a different way.
Where are you, half life? Youth flower withered.
If I now look at the sky of sad life,
I don't see a month, the full moon is shining.
And with whatever impulse I drive the pen now,
Sparks of passion do not sparkle and the soul is not ignited.
Saz my gentle and sad, you sounded too little.
I go out, and you grow old ... How can I part with you?
In the cage of the world it was crowded with the bird of my heart;
God created her cheerful, but alien to worldly vanity.
No matter how much I would yearn in the groves of my homeland,
All the trees there withered, life cannot be breathed into them.
And she, my friend, was killed by the cold of death,
The one that lit up the path of life with a smile.
My mother is in the grave. O my sufferer,
To an alien world, why did you give birth to a person?
From the time we parted, the formidable guard of love
Your son from the door of each furiously drove.
Your tombstone is warmer and softer than all hearts.
I will wet him with the sweetest and bitterest tear.
translation: A.Akhmatova
REFLECTIONS OF ONE TATAR POET
I sing, though my dwelling is cramped and old,
I'm not afraid, even though my beloved people are the Tatars,
Though today he pierces me with arrows,
I meet the blows with an unshakable chest.
I walk without bowing to the dust of the road,
I kick obstacles with a swing, -
To the young poet, if he took a pen,
Don't give in to temptation or fear.
We are not afraid of the enemy's evil howl, -
As in Rustam, the courage of a hero lives in us.
The poet has grief and sadness,
He is like the sea, and the sea knows no rest.
From goodness, I, like wax, soften and melt,
And, praising justice, I exude honey.
But I see a bad deed - I scold,
Wow, and I get angry as soon as I meet meanness!
Evil and vileness bring my anger to the limit -
As if a stick is poked importunately into the body.
"What are you doing?" - forced to scream.
"Ugh, fools!" - make you spit every now and then.
Let sometimes they shoot at me unexpectedly,
I do not shout: "This is a shot from the enemy's camp!"
"You made a mistake, comrade, take away the arrow,"
I speak as a friend, even though there is a wound in my chest.
My verse came out bitter, absorbing the bitterness of the heart.
He baked as if, and the pulp is raw.
You feel the nightingale in your chest, but into the light
A cat climbs, tearing the ear with meowing.
A bittersweet dish seems delicious to us,
Though I bravely mixed the cheerful with the sad.
Though I mixed sweetness and bitterness in verse,
I will complete my work if I am skillful.
Pushkin and Lermontov serve as models for me.
I am slowly climbing, my heart does not grieve.
I want to get to the top and sing
Even if you look at the steep - and your head is spinning.
The path is long, but it will take me to the goal.
Not a hunchback, I don't expect the grave to mend.
Somewhere dormant passions will break into the light.
And the grace of heaven will spread my wings.
translation: R. Moran
HOME VILLAGE
My village stands on an uncool hill.
A spring with cold water is at hand from us.
Everything around me is gratifying, I know the taste of water,
I love with my soul and body everything in my land.
Here God breathed my soul, I saw the light here,
For the first time I was able to read a prayer from the Koran,
For the first time here I heard the words of the prophet,
I knew his fate and the whole path is hard.
Remember forever the events of childhood,
There is no happier time, there is no more carefree fun.
I remember how it used to be, along the black furrow
I walked with my older brother after the plow.
I will see a lot - after all, life is still long.
And waiting for me, probably, the road is not alone;
But no matter where I am and no matter what I do -
You are in the memory and heart, dear side!
translation: V.Tushnova
NATIVE EARTH
Though I parted with you as a youngster, betrayed by a different fate,
Order, you see, I returned to you again.
These meadow lands, feelings beckoning from afar,
Tormenting memory, they returned me to my native expanse.
Let me grow up as an unfortunate orphan in this land,
Let humiliation torment my bitter youth, -
Those times have passed, they flew away like a bird,
I remember the days of the past, like a night with bad dreams.
Though your waves whipped - my boat did not go to the bottom,
Although your flame burned, it did not burn me,
And so I understood, my land, one truth,
That the soul equally accepts both your fire and the wave.
I realized that everything is sacred: both your barn and the stream,
And your threshing floor, and the steppes, and the roads among the fields,
And your spring, and autumn, hot summer, winter,
White stockings, bast shoes, onuchi, and scrip.
And shepherds, and rams - the whole native side.
I also love what is bad, even what you are poor in
translation: A.Akhmatova
NATIVE LANGUAGE
Oh how good native language, father and mother tongue,
I have learned many things in the world through you forever!
First, in this language, shaking the unsteadiness, the mother sang,
And then - my grandmother tried to appease me with a fairy tale.
Native language, you helped me understand and joy from an early age,
And the pain of the soul, when it gets dark in the eyes, the clear light fades.
You, my native language, helped me to say the first prayer:
"Forgive me, father and mother, be generous, my God!"
translation: A. Chepurov
ODD LOVE
One person at a very hot hour
"Heat, he says, I'm swimming now."
Here he took off his clothes,
He brought the bucket
I wanted to splash
But ... passed by.
I didn’t pour out a drop, let alone to the bottom!
The poor thing is afraid: the water is cold.
That puts a bucket, then raises a bucket -
And this way and that he tries on cunningly,
But trembling in the body - as much as a tooth on a tooth,
Until he became furious and aside - squish!
***
Here is my love:
The heart to the beloved all stretches again,
I dream of beauty in reality,
In dreams I call with a groan,
I can't live without her, my friends,
But as soon as I see a hare running.
I meet by chance, close my eyes,
As if a storm had scorched me;
I will write poems about the rays of these beads,
And I'm afraid to sign this verse ...
I heard, dear friends,
Departed like my queen.
Where is there to be a letter from her!
Doesn't know me, I'm glad for that too.
"Does not know" said. And maybe - how to know? -
Mind does not want to just show?
I don't even want to know about it!
I lay a verse under her legs like brocade.
Heavenly bliss I will expire
If she goes through the verse.
translation: I. Selvinsky
PRAISE TO THE CREATOR, SUBHAN-ALLAH!
I have been a school mentor since childhood
Taught the ancient to keep the vow:
We must thank Allah
Seeing the silhouette of the moon in the sky.
Since then, when the dark firmament
The moon, thin or round, will rise,
I look at her reverently.
"Praise be to the creator!" - and the heart will die.
My path does not lead to a deity.
But forget the custom? No you can not.
After all, sometimes those same words
With all my heart I say, my friends!
When in the crowd I suddenly recognize
My love, my beauty,
The language is numb. Where to find words?
After all, I stand in front of her as if rooted to the spot.
Like a new moon - eyebrows. Like the moon
The face is shining. How slim she is!
"Praise be to the creator," I whisper, "Subhan-Alla!" -
Oh my god, she's so charming.
But, noticing the girl, Kotbuddin,
Or another ignoramus, Shamsuddin,
They will never say high words
At least they will live, ignoramuses, to gray hair.
"Subhan-alla," I repeat without breathing,
When the beauty-soul goes.
And what did Kotbuddin say at the same time?
"Look! In the girl! Very good!"
translation: V.Ganiev
SHURAL
I
There is an aul near Kazan, named Kyrlay.
Even the chickens in that Kyrlai know how to sing... Wonderful land!
Although I'm not from there, but I kept love for him,
He worked on his land - he sowed, reaped and harrowed.
Is he reputed to be a big aul? No, on the contrary, it is small,
And the river, the pride of the people, is just a small spring.
This side of the forest is forever alive in memory.
Grass spreads like a velvety blanket.
There the people never knew neither cold nor heat:
The wind will blow in its turn, and the rain will fall in its turn.
From raspberries, strawberries, everything in the forest is variegated, variegated,
You pick up a full bucket of berries in an instant.
Often I lay on the grass and looked at the heavens.
Boundless forests seemed to me a formidable army.
Like warriors stood pines, lindens and oaks,
Under the pine - sorrel and mint, under the birch - mushrooms.
How many blue, yellow, red flowers intertwined there,
And from them the fragrance flowed in the sweet air.
Moths flew away, flew in and landed,
It was as if the petals were arguing and reconciling with them.
Bird chirping, sonorous babble were heard in silence
And filled my soul with piercing joy.
Here and music and dancing, and singers and circus performers,
Here boulevards and theaters, and wrestlers and violinists!
This fragrant forest is wider than the sea, higher than the clouds,
Like the army of Genghis Khan, noisy and powerful.
And the glory of grandfather's names rose before me,
And cruelty, and violence, and tribal strife.
II
I depicted the summer forest - my verse has not yet been sung
Our autumn, our winter, and young beauties,
And the fun of our festivities, and the spring Sabantuy ...
O my verse, do not excite my soul with remembrance!
But wait, I was daydreaming... Here is the paper on the table...
After all, I was going to tell you about the tricks of the shurale.
I'll start now, reader, don't blame me:
I lose all reason, only I remember Kyrlai.
III
Of course, that in this amazing forest
You will meet a wolf, and a bear, and an insidious fox.
Here, hunters often saw squirrels,
Now a gray hare will rush, then a horned elk will flash.
There are many secret paths and treasures here, they say.
There are many terrible beasts and monsters here, they say.
Many fairy tales and beliefs walk in their native land
And about gins, and about peri, and about terrible shurals.
Is this true? Endless, like the sky, the ancient forest,
And no less than in heaven, maybe in the forest of miracles.
IV
About one of them I will begin my short story,
And - such is my custom - I will sing verses.
Somehow in the night, when shining, in the clouds, the moon glides,
A jigit went from the aul to the forest for firewood.
I drove quickly on the cart, immediately took up the ax,
Knock and knock, he cuts down trees, and all around is a dense forest.
As often happens in summer, the night was fresh and damp.
Silence grew as the birds slept.
The woodcutter is busy with work, know he knocks for himself, knocks.
For a moment, the enchanted horseman forgot.
Chu! Some terrible cry is heard in the distance,
And the ax stopped in a swung hand.
And our agile woodcutter froze in amazement.
He looks and does not believe his eyes. What is this? Human?
Genie, rogue or ghost - is this twisted freak?
How ugly he is, involuntarily takes fear!
The nose is curved like a fishhook
Hands, legs - like branches, they will frighten even the daredevil.
Viciously flashing, the eyes in the black cavities are burning,
Even during the day, not like at night, this look will frighten.
He looks like a man, very thin and naked,
The narrow forehead is adorned with a horn the size of our finger.
He has half an arshin fingers on the hands of curves, -
Ten fingers are ugly, sharp, long and straight.
V
And looking into the eyes of a freak that lit up like two fires,
The woodcutter asked boldly, "What do you want from me?"
- Young horseman, do not be afraid, robbery does not attract me.
But although I am not a robber, I am not a righteous saint.
Why, when I saw you, did I let out a cheerful cry?
Because I'm used to tickling people.
Each finger is adapted to tickle more viciously,
I kill a man, making him laugh.
Well, move your fingers, my brother,
Play ticklish with me and make me laugh!
- Well, I'll play, - the woodcutter answered him. -
Only under one condition... Do you agree or not?
- Speak, little man, please be bold,
I will accept all the conditions, but let me play soon!
- If so - listen to me, how you decide - I don't care.
Do you see a thick, large and heavy log?
Forest spirit! Let's work together first.
Together with you, we will transfer the log to the cart.
Did you notice a big gap at the other end of the log?
There hold the log stronger, all your strength is needed! ..
Shurale squinted at the indicated place
And, without contradicting the horseman, the shurale agreed.
His fingers are long and straight, he put them in the mouth of the log...
Sages! Can you see the lumberjack's simple trick?
The wedge, pre-plugged, knocks out with an ax,
Knocking out, performs a clever plan in secret.
Shurale will not move, will not move his hand,
He stands, not understanding the clever inventions of man.
So a thick wedge flew out with a whistle, disappeared into the darkness ...
Shurale's fingers pinched and remained in the crack.
Shurale saw the deception, shurale yells, yells.
He calls the brothers for help, he calls the forest people.
With repentant prayer, he says to the jigit:
- Have pity, have pity on me! Let me go, dzhigit!
I will never offend you, dzhigit, or my son.
I will never touch your entire family, O man!
I won't hurt anyone! Do you want me to take an oath?
I will tell everyone: "I am a friend of a horseman. Let him walk in the forest!"
My fingers hurt! Give me freedom! Let me live on earth!
What do you want, zhigit, for the profit from the torment of the shurale?
The poor fellow cries, rushes about, whines, howls, he is not himself.
The woodcutter does not hear him, he is going home.
“Won’t the cry of the sufferer soften this soul?”
Who are you, who are you, heartless? What is your name, jigit?
Tomorrow, if I live to see our brother,
To the question: "Who is your offender?" - Whose name shall I call?
- So be it, I say brother. Don't forget this name:
I was nicknamed "Vgoduminuvshego" ... And now - it's time for me to go.
Shurale screams and howls, wants to show strength,
He wants to escape from captivity, to punish the woodcutter.
- I will die! Forest spirits, help me quickly
I pinched Vgoduminuvshiy, the villain ruined me!
And in the morning shurale came running from all sides.
- What's wrong with you? Are you crazy? What are you upset about, you fool?
Calm down! Shut up, we can't stand screaming.
Pinched in the past year, why are you crying this year
translation: S. Lipkin
Gabdulla Tukay is an outstanding Tatar poet. He was born in a small village in the Kazan province. At the age of three, Gabdulla was left a complete orphan: first his father died, and soon his mother. The boy grew up in foreign families. But, despite the difficulties and hardships, the poet recalled his rural childhood with gratitude, here he heard Tatar folk tales and legends, lyrical songs, historical legends.
Most likely, then in the village of Kyrlay he was told the legend of Shura-lesh, a goblin that can tickle a person to death. The impressionable boy remembered the images and plots of terrible and funny fairy tales. Simple and touching words of folk songs remained forever in his memory.
When Gabdulla was nine years old, relatives who lived in the city of Uralsk took him to them. Here the boy entered a madrasah (a Muslim school that trained teachers and priests), where he quickly learned to read and write in Tatar. In this madrasah there was also a so-called Russian class, in which education was in Russian, they studied Russian literature.
The future poet also entered the Russian class, where he enthusiastically read the works of Pushkin, Lermontov, Nekrasov.
After graduating from the madrasah, the nineteen-year-old youth began to collaborate with Tatar magazines and newspapers, on the pages of which his poems and articles appeared. In the same place, in Uralsk, Gabdulla Tukay's fairy tale poem "Shurale" was published. This tale about a young horseman who, thanks to his intelligence and resourcefulness, defeats an unlucky goblin, imbued with subtle humor, written in a light melodious verse, has become a favorite work of the Tatar reader. The fairy tale poem has been translated into many languages of the peoples of Russia and foreign countries. Based on this work, the composer F. Yarullin created the ballet Shurale, which is successfully performed on the stages of musical theaters. The poet himself in the notes to his poem said: “I wrote this fairy tale, using the example of the poets A. Pushkin and M. Lermontov, who processed the plots folk tales told by folk storytellers in the villages.
The poetry of Gabdulla Tukay was inspired by love for his Motherland. In poetry, he reflects on the traditions, customs and culture of the Tatar people, expresses hope for their enlightened, happy future.
HOME VILLAGE
Our village stands on a steep hill.
A spring with cold water is at hand from us.
Everything around me is gratifying, I know the taste of water,
I love with my soul and body everything in my land.
Here God breathed my soul, I saw the light here,
For the first time I was able to read a prayer from the Koran,
For the first time here I heard the words of the prophet,
I learned his fate and the whole path is hard.
I remember forever the events of childhood,
There is no happier time, there is no more carefree fun.
I remember how it used to be, along the black furrow
I walked with my older brother after the plow.
I will see a lot - because life is still long,
And waiting for me, probably, the road is not alone.
But no matter where I am and no matter what I do,
You are in the memory and in the heart, dear side!
When the soul is worn out in the struggle,
When I hate myself
When I can't find a place in the world
And, tired, I send a curse to fate;
When beyond grief - grief at the door
And a clear day of rainy darkness is darker;
When through tears the white light is not nice,
When there is no strength in my soul, -
Then I look at the book
Imperishable pages rustle.
I'm healed, I'm happy, I'm alive
I drink you, joy of joys.
And the word that I read then
Rises like a guiding star
Fearless heart, joyful soul,
And everyday vanity is alien.
And, reborn as a pure dream,
“Thank you,” I say to that book.
And, straightened by faith in yourself,
I look into the distance with holy hope.
Thinking about what we read
- Read the poem "Native Village" aloud, listen to its intonations. What can you say about the melody of the verse? What feelings does the author convey through the sound of the poem?
- What is the memory of Gabdulla Tukayu's native village? What images are imprinted for life? Why do you think?
- Which of the Russian poets did you read poems about your native village? Compare the poems of different poets about their small homeland. What unites these works?
- World poetry knows many poems praising and thanking the book. Remember the biography of the poet and think about why he is so grateful to the book.
Creative task
Reread the poem "The Book", noting the circumstances in which the book helps a person, saves him. Do you believe in the saving power of books? Prepare a detailed answer to this question.
"Home village". "Book"
Home village
Our village stands on a steep hill.
A spring with cold water is at hand from us.
Everything around me is gratifying, I know the taste of water,
I love with my soul and body everything in my land.
Here God breathed my soul, I saw the light here,
For the first time I was able to read a prayer from the Koran,
For the first time here I heard the words of the prophet,
I learned his fate and the whole path is hard.
I remember forever the events of childhood,
There is no happier time, there is no more carefree fun.
I remember how it used to be, along the black furrow
I walked with my older brother after the plow.
I will see a lot - because life is still long,
And waiting for me, probably, the road is not alone.
But no matter where I am and no matter what I do,
You are in the memory and in the heart, dear side!
Book
When the soul is worn out in the struggle,
When I hate myself
When I can't find a place in the world
And, tired, I send a curse to fate;
When beyond grief - grief at the door
And a clear day of rainy darkness is darker;
When through tears the white light is not nice,
When there is no strength in my soul, -
Then I look at the book
Imperishable pages rustle.
I'm healed, I'm happy, I'm alive
I drink you, joy of joys.
And the word that I read then
Rises like a guiding star
Fearless heart, joyful soul,
And everyday vanity is alien.
And, reborn as a pure dream,
“Thank you,” I say to that book.
And, straightened by faith in yourself,
I look into the distance with holy hope.
Thinking about what we read
1. Read aloud the poem "Native Village", listen to its intonations. What can you say about the melody of the verse? What feelings does the author convey through the sound of the poem?
2. What is the memory of Gabdulla Tukayu's native village? What images are imprinted for life? Why do you think?
3. Which of the Russian poets did you read poems about your native village? Compare the poems of different poets about their small homeland. What unites these works?
4. World poetry knows many poems praising and thanking the book. Remember the biography of the poet and think about why he is so grateful to the book.
Creative task
Reread the poem "The Book", noting the circumstances in which the book helps a person, saves him. Do you believe in the saving power of books? Prepare a detailed answer to this question.
