28 May 1877
Born in Kyiv Maximilian Voloshin – poet of the Silver Age.
All of Rus' is a bonfire. An unquenchable flame. From edge to edge, from century to century It hums, it roars... And the stone cracks. And each torch is a person.
He was raised by a mother who was known for her eccentricity: she had short hair, wore men's suits, and was a reckless smoker. She specifically asked local boys to fight her son—to instill fearlessness in him.
At 20, Voloshin enrolled in the law faculty of Moscow State University, but was expelled for participating in student unrest. He then began traveling around Europe and self-educating himself: he attended lectures at the Sorbonne and studied drawing in Parisian studios.
I came out uninvited, I came unbidden, I pass through the world in delirium and in dreams: Ah, how nice it is to be Max Voloshin – To me!
At 26, he began publishing in magazines, and at 33, he published his first collection of poems. He maintained his style between symbolism (understatement and mystery) and acmeism (precision of word and image).
After the outbreak of World War I, he sent a letter to the Russian Minister of War, refusing military service and participation in the "bloody slaughter." He dedicated his second collection to the horrors of war.
He viewed the revolution with equal disgust, calling it a "nervous-religious disease." He considered violence and mass murder a historical sin of Russia, for which retribution would follow.
She succumbed to a daring conspiracy, Gave herself to a robber and a thief, She set fire to the fields and grain, Destroyed an ancient dwelling And she went away, disgraced and poor. And the slave of the last slave
He refused to emigrate and remained in Koktebel, which he considered his hometown. During the Civil War, he sided with neither side, hiding both Whites and Reds in his home.
And I stand alone between them In roaring flames and smoke And with all their strength I pray for both of them.
By 1923, he had already been publicly harassed and no longer hoped for his poetry to be published. He wrote "for the drawer." He died in August 1932 due to worsening asthma.
I buried myself in the tomb My poems, But listen carefully – do you hear a bird singing? He is alive - my poem!
