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The meaning of Suleiman Stalsky in a literary encyclopedia. The meaning of Suleiman Stalsky in the literary encyclopedia Recognition and awards

SULEYMAN STALSKY

- a wonderful national poet of Dagestan. Lezgin by nationality. R. in the village of Ashaga-Stal (hence Stalsky, in Lezgin Stal Sulejman), Kasumkent district, DASSR, in a poor peasant family. Having lost his parents early, S. from the age of 13 worked for hire: as a laborer for landowners, a worker in the Baku oil fields, and a digger on the construction of a bridge across the Amu Darya. He first performed in 1905-1909, challenging folk wandering singers (ashugs) to a competition. S. composed his poems orally. Of the pre-revolutionary works of S., the most famous are: "Mullahs", "Judges", "Foremen". In these works, S. acted as a debunker of the mountain nobility and henchmen of the Russian autocracy - tsarist officials. Organically connected with the Lezgi poor, S. was the spokesman for her thoughts and moods, her zealous defender. During the period of the most severe colonial oppression of the mountain peasantry and its exploitation by local feudal lords and the Muslim clergy, the songs of S. played an important revolutionary role—they awakened the consciousness of the working masses and called for a struggle against the power of the landowners. S. accepted the Great October Socialist Revolution as the desired fulfillment of his dream - he welcomed her with new, joyful verses. Particularly popular were his poems-songs: “Perish, old world”, “Worker”, “January 21st”, “After the death of Lenin”. At the first congress of writers of Dagestan, S. was elected a delegate to the All-Union Congress of Soviet Writers. At this congress, A. M. Gorky called Stalsky the Homer of the 20th century. Since that time, S.'s creative activity has increased even more. He created a number of new works on a wide variety of topics: about the socialist restructuring of the Lezgin aul, about new forms of labor, about great victories, achievements on the front of socialist construction, about love for the motherland, about the Red Army, about the Bolshevik Party, about the Stalin Constitution. Particularly remarkable are S.'s cycle of songs about Comrade Stalin, the greatest leader of the proletarian revolution, songs about Kirov, Sergo Ordzhonikidze, and Soviet heroics. Distinctive feature these works - deep sincerity, emotional richness. His songs acquire great organizational political significance. S. also created a number of major works. The first of them is the poem "Dagestan". The poem covers three periods of the history of Dagestan: the years of the struggle of the Dagestan highlanders with the Russian

106 autocracy for its independence, the years of colonial oppression and, finally, the period civil war and the socialist flourishing of the DASSR. S.'s poem was created for the 15th anniversary of the Sovietization of Dagestan. His second major work is "A Poem about Sergo Ordzhonikidze, a beloved associate and friend of the great Stalin." This poem is built as a legend about a hero-bogatyr. The rhythmic structure of the poem, with the skillful use of the refrain, brings it closer to the best examples of ancient mountain epic songs. The refrain in the poem is used not only as an external device, but also as a semantic completion of each stanza. The poem is rich in metaphors, comparisons and images. It was created for the 50th anniversary of Sergo Ordzhonikidze. The third poem - "Thoughts about the Motherland", which is an example of genuine Soviet patriotism, is dedicated to the 20th anniversary of October; it contains more than five hundred poetic lines. S. enriched the poetic dictionary of Lezgin poetry, his poetic expressions were included in colloquial Lezgins, have become folk sayings. S.'s favorite form of verse is the usual ashug rubai: three rhymed lines, one free (in various combinations). Before the revolution, S. angrily scourged the oppressors of the people, he was a poet of people's grief. Great October made him a poet of popular joy. Before last days During his life, the poet vigilantly followed the events of our reality, our achievements, and immediately responded to them with truly folk inspired and sensitive songs. A few days before his death, S. wrote a poem dedicated to the elections to the Supreme Soviet. In it, he called on the working people of Dagestan to cast their votes for the leader of the peoples, Comrade Stalin. S. was put forward as a candidate for deputy to the Supreme Soviet by the workers of the Kasumkent and Derbent regions of Dagestan. Poetry for S. was not a profession - he was a member of the Ashaga-Stalsky collective farm. comrade Kirov until his death and was engaged in agriculture. In 1934, the Central Executive Committee of the DASSR awarded S. the title of People's Poet of Dagestan. At the X All-Dagestan Congress of Soviets, he was elected a member of the DagTsIK. In 1936, the Central Executive Committee of the USSR awarded S. the Order of Lenin. S.'s poems have been translated into many languages Soviet Union. Translations into Russian were published by Ch. arr. in Pravda and Izvestia. A number of poems S. set to music. Bibliography: I. To Lezginsk. lang.: Lezgin poets, Center. ed. peoples of the USSR, M., 1927; Collection Lezgi literature, Makhach-Kala, 1934; Fav. poems, Makhach-Kala, 1934. Per. in Russian lang.: Dagestan anthology, M. - L., 1934; Poems and songs, M., 1936; Shairi, Pyatigorsk, 1936; Poem about Sergo Ordzhonikidze, Pyatigorsk, 1936; A story about yourself, Pravda, 1936, 20/IV, No. 110; Son (excerpt from a posthumous poem about Stalin), Pravda, 1937, 5/XII, No. 334; Selected songs and poems, translated from Lezgi, edited by Effendi Kapiev, intro. essay by P. Pavlenko, ed. "Soviet writer", [M.], 1938. II. Effendi Kapiev, Dagestan anthology, M. - L., 1934; His own, Suleiman Stalsky, preface to the book. "Poems and songs of Stalsky", M., 1936; His own, At Suleiman Stalsky, Komsomolskaya Pravda, 1937, 20/IV, No. 90; Fatuev R., Singers

107 countries of the mountains, "Literaturnaya Gazeta", 1934, No. 26; His own, Great ashug, Literaturnaya Gazeta, 1936, 15/X, No. 58; His own, Suleiman Stalsky, Literaturnaya Gazeta, 1936, 5/II, No. 7; His own, Poem about Sergo Ordzhonikidze, Literaturnaya Gazeta, 1936, 15/XI, No. 64; Him, Literature of the peoples of Dagestan, "Literary critic", M., 1936, No. 11; Lugovskoy Vl., Suleiman Stalsky, "Literary Critic", M., 1936, No. 12; His own, Suleiman Stalsky, Literaturnaya Gazeta, 1937, 30/IX, No. 53; Tregub S., Homer of the 20th century, Komsomolskaya Pravda, M., 1936, 27/VII, No. 172; Our Suleiman, editorial of Dagestanskaya Pravda, Makhach-Kala, 1936, No. 92. R. Fatuev

Literary encyclopedia. 2012

Biography

Suleiman Gasanbekov was born on May 18, 1869 in the Dagestan village of Ashaga-Stal, his parents were Lezgins living in poverty. The birth of the future poet was unusual: having quarreled on the eve of the birth, Suleiman's father drove his pregnant wife out of the house, and the woman had to give birth in a barn. The mother, barely alive after giving birth, was not even allowed to see the baby: the baby was fed by a neighbor, and the unfortunate woman had to leave home. Soon she died with some villagers who sheltered her, never having seen her son.

Apparently, the father's resentment against the boy's mother was very strong, as he continued to take it out on his son. From the age of four, Suleiman was loaded homework, and when the father married a second time, he completely became something like a servant, an "errand boy."

Suleiman became an orphan at the age of eleven. From the age of 13 he was forced to become a hired worker, worked as a laborer in Derbent, Samarkand, Ganja and Baku. The poet often recalled that all his youth had passed in his work, but one day he woke up and realized that he was already thirty years old. Soon Suleiman got married, his chosen one was the daughter of a ranger from the neighboring village of Orta-Stal.

First creativity

All this time, busy with work and organizing his life, Suleiman Gasanbekov did not even think about poetry. But one day a Lezgi ashug poet came to the village where he lived with his wife. Ashugs are a Caucasian version of a minstrel or troubadour, that is, wandering singers who accompany themselves on some simple instruments and perform folk songs.

For Suleiman, the performance of the ashug was a real revelation: he suddenly realized that he himself could express his thoughts in this way. On the same evening, he composed his first poems in Azerbaijani, subsequently reciting them in both Dagestan and Lezgi. The novice poet was not good at writing, and therefore he collected the composed poems and songs in memory, retelling them to friends and neighbors.

The first real poems by Suleiman Stalsky are considered to be "The Nightingale", composed in 1900.

On an apple tree, in dense foliage,
The unchanging nightingale sings,
O inspiring nightingale!
Eat away from the world
Careless, you are happy now.
Oh, you don't care about us
Blessed nightingale!
Are you ready to despise people
Ringing in the garden in a hundred frets.
But, coward, you run from the cold.
Be ashamed, arrogant nightingale!
Wait where are you?
Drop your fears!
Tell me how you lived.
Perhaps you had to starve?
Be frank nightingale.
But this winter you are not dear,
It was a winter day for you is not strict.
You saved all your colors,
My incomparable nightingale.
Here comes the hawk... Hide away
In the thick shade, in the forest night!
Can I help you
My bold nightingale?
You don't know the end of the call
You don't know how to calm down
You are like a gramophone
The beauty of the universe nightingale!
Forget carelessness!
Find a nest! Stay with me!
And the sounds of Suleiman in the chest
Pour in, priceless nightingale!

Soon, the work of the novice poet spread throughout Dagestan, poems were passed from mouth to mouth. At the same time, his pseudonym also came to Suleiman: not knowing his last name, people called him by his place of birth: first Ashaga-Stalsky, and then simply Stalsky.

Since 1909, the biography of Suleiman Stalsky mentions his competitions with the famous ashugs, in which he never lost his face in the dirt.

After the revolution, the talented Dagestan poet, who glorified freedom and ridiculed slavery and the rich, received serious attention. All the joy of the common people about the change of power was expressed in the simple and sincere verses of Suleiman Stalsky. The speech at the All-Union Livestock Congress was important for the poet: Joseph Stalin himself listened to his poems from the presidium. Translations of poems from the Lezgi language into Russian began to appear in various newspapers, most often in Pravda and Izvestia.

Already in 1927, the "Collection of Lezgi Poets" was printed in Moscow. It includes poems by Suleiman Stalsky. His work was highly valued by Russian-speaking poets of that time for genuine sincerity and Caucasian ability to play with words.

In 1934, from Dagestan, Suleiman Stalsky was elected a delegate to the first All-Union Congress of Writers. Maxim Gorky, who highly appreciated the work of Stalsky, called him "Homer of the 20th century." Gorky and Stalsky in the photo below.

Recognition and awards

From 1917 to 1936, the poetic biography of Suleiman Stalsky includes many poems and poems dedicated to Stalin, Ordzhonikidze, Dagestan, the Red Army, life in the USSR, the Bolsheviks. Since at that time Stalsky kept all his works exclusively in memory, the well-known Lezgi linguist Gadzhibek Gadzhibekov took up recording his poems. For several hours, and sometimes for several days, Gadzhibekov wrote down poems that Suleiman Stalsky dictated to him, who knew how to keep in his head thousands of lines composed at different times. In 1936, in his article on Stalsky, Gadzhibekov spoke out against calling Suleiman an ashug. Suleiman Stalsky himself also protested against the title of ashug, calling himself an independent poet and author.

In 1934, Stalsky was declared People's Poet of Dagestan, and in 1936 the poet was awarded the Order of Lenin.

Memory

Suleiman Stalsky died on November 23, 1937 in Makhachkala (Dagestan). In memory of the people's poet, in the year of his death, the Dagestan village of Samurkent was renamed Stalskoe, the name has been preserved to this day. in 1969, the Kasumentsky district of Dagestan was renamed the Suleiman-Stalsky district - this event was timed to coincide with the centenary of the birth of the poet, in the same year a commemorative stamp with a portrait of Stalsky was issued. In addition, streets in Dagestan, Rostov-on-Don, Omsk, Novorossiysk are named after the poet, the Republican Prize in the field of literature and the State Lezgin Musical Theater are Stalsky. A memorial bust of Stalsky was erected in Makhachkala.

This is how a song is born

In 1957, a feature film was shot by the Baku film studio, screening the biography of Suleiman Stalsky, under the title "This is how a song is born." The movie was filmed in the Azerbaijani language, and Rza Tahmasib also acted as directors. The plot was based on lifetime stories and memories of Suleiman himself, stories of his family and friends, as well as "Parables about Stalsky" - small Dagestan instructive and funny stories, the main character of which was the poet. Such parables became a part of Dagestan folklore from the 1930s until the war. The role of Suleiman Stalsky was played by actor Konstantin Slanov. A frame from the film is pictured below.

It is noteworthy that the film was released in color, although this was a rarity for the Azerbaijani cinema of that time.

Story about yourself

My mother was pregnant with me when my father kicked her out of nowhere and married someone else. I was born to my uncle, in a barn. Offended by my father's act, my relatives took it out on me: not even giving me a taste of mother's milk, they wrapped me in tattered matting and threw me at my father's gate. And so my life began out of resentment.
A neighbor who had a dead child at that time, out of pity, breast-fed me, calling me a puppy. I stayed with her until the age of seven. Then one day my father saw: an adult boy in a neighbor's yard. "Bah, that's my son!" - and took it in his saklya.
Saklya was full of children, an unsociable stepmother hid corn cakes from me, I grew up, as I was born, in a barn, next to a buffalo. I don't remember anything about that time, except for the smell of manure. Then my father got sick and went crazy. For days on end, he collected stones from the streets and hid them from people, calling it wealth ... Suddenly he turned gray, his eyes turned yellow. The father died, leaving six children in his mother's arms and heaps of river cobbles scattered around the yard ...
I can't name a single exact date. Those were not such times. In the whole district, only two people knew the letter, and even then the head of the post office and the foreman. I was probably a thirteen-year-old boy when I left my aul. In Derbent, a rich man “looked after” me. I took care of his three-verst vineyards, guarded the stables, chopped wood, cleaned the yard. For four years I worked as a laborer for this man, not noticing neither winter nor summer. And when I quit, it turned out that again I had nowhere to put myself, and my pockets were still empty.
Then I returned to my village. But in Ashaga-Stal there were always more laborers than necessary, and for a long time I had to do day work with my neighbors. I was young. It is very humiliating, friends, to ask your neighbors for daily work. People said that nearby, in Ganja, the British rent land from the king, where they extract some kind of roots. They need workers. And so, together with others, I soon left for Ganja.
For two years I worked on the plantations, lived hand to mouth, suffered from malaria, and finally, unable to stand it, ran away. It was a real trap. Not only did I save nothing, but I also owed money at the tavern where they fed us cow intestines. From Ganja - I don't remember how - I got to Samarkand. There I got a job as a laborer in a depot and worked for several years in a row. Then for about a year he worked on the construction of the railway and more than a year at the construction of a bridge across the Syr Darya.
I saw and learned a lot in those years. I learned that everywhere and everywhere it was equally difficult for a working person, that it was impossible to get away from oneself, that poor people both in the Syr Darya and in Ashaga-Stal were equally unhappy. Then I was drawn home ... But there was little money left.
I got stuck in Baku and hardly got a job in the oil fields. I worked there for about two years. I lived very modestly. And when a certain amount of money had accumulated with sin in half, it turned out that I was already a thirty-year-old man, I had a beard, and I was already getting old. Gotta have a family. It was a very difficult job. But I was lucky for the first time in my life. In the village, I found a complete orphan - the daughter of a poor traveler. We were married, and I settled in the village forever.
With our own hands, together with my wife, we built a small saklya. They were malnourished, lacked sleep, started a garden. The garden was guarded by my wife, and at that time I was harvesting wheat from people.
One day I was returning home for dinner. On one of the streets I noticed that a lot of people had gathered, and I was surprised: “What happened?” In the middle of the street, wandering ashugs (folk singers) sat with tambourines in their hands and sang songs about a nightingale longing for the sun. Silver and copper were thrown into the hem of the ashugs. I stood with the people, listened: “Damn it, it's all been on my mind for a long time! Hold on, hold on!”
- These are my words! I shouted.
- Where are you, miserable! - they answered me. - Look at yourself, do these words fit your nose, you nightingale! ..
I returned home ashamed.
“Anyone can sing about a nightingale,” I said to my wife at home, and, taking a hat in my hands instead of a tambourine, for the first time in my life I began to compose poetry.
... In love with flowers without memory,
Don't you notice
Suffering, torments of poverty,
And crying, and moaning, nightingale! ..
These are the lines from my first song, which I put together by the end of the same day. I read it to my friends, but my friends didn't believe me:
- In this case, compose a song about the foreman.
Most of my friends were landless otkhodniks. They disappeared for years in the oil fields in Baku and only occasionally came to the village for the summer. They were almost real workers.
“The world,” they said, “is scales deliberately confused. Look, Suleiman, make no mistake. On these scales, day and night, our brother is weighed on a piece of bread, on a yard of coarse calico, and sometimes for a lifetime. Be brave, check all the weights...
I used to compose my songs in the field, while working. Returning to the village in the evening, I often joined my friends and on the way repeated what was composed during the day. I did not even notice how my songs began to be sung in the village. My new business turned out to be difficult and very hectic.
Once, while relaxing by a spring, I sang a song about the king's judges. The mullah, who heard my song, poked me in the chest with a stick and began to shout:
- Where is it heard that the poor people taught the king's judges? You! Lousy tail! Your job is to trail behind, and to think for you, thank God, is entrusted to the head.
It burned me.
- Do such hands grow on the tail? I cried, seizing the mullah and lifting him over the spring. My comrades laughed... Mulla turned white and rushed off to the village. The foreman came for me. They took me to the office, interrogated me and tried to put me in jail. But friends came. They swore on the Koran that Suleiman showed the strength of his hands not from evil. They let me go, with a stern warning that I would never again compose "dirty" songs...
But the poet cannot be silent. He will not be able to hide from the world, to keep his heart for himself.
Once, my old friends, who had just returned from Baku, came to me. They told me a sad story. There was a workers' strike in the oil fields, but it ended in failure, and my friends were fired as instigators. I composed a song about the strike.
So from time to time I composed songs, just like hot, scalding food is swallowed carefully in a small piece ...
Five years have passed. And then one spring I hear that the tsar has been overthrown, that everyone is now equal, that freedom has come. Months have passed, I look around - everything is the same. “What kind of freedom is this,” I think. “The same judges still sit in the courts, the rich of the village still rule over us!” And then time rolled on. Either the British, or the Denikinists, or the Bicherakhites—who called them?
At that time I did not yet know about the Bolsheviks. I thought a lot. People passed by my sakli and asked for my advice. But I was not always in a hurry to answer. I knew that the tongue is not a leg: if you stumble with your tongue, you often remain lying on the ground, unable to get up.
Once invaders came to Kasum-Kent and hanged three of my fellow villagers. For what? It turns out that they were Bolsheviks and came from Baku to help us.
"Oh," thought i am earth ours, our mountains, and the people who are being killed are also ours... What is it? This means that the Bolsheviks are ourselves, and strangers are in charge here.
On the same day, I met my former owner on the street.
“Suleiman,” he said, “why didn’t you compose a song in honor of Kazim Bey, or are you saving it for the Bolsheviks?”
I said nothing.
“This world is a wheel,” the owner added, “it turns all the time ...
“It doesn’t turn right,” I interrupted him.
- Wait, wait, your neck is asking for a hook!
- No, - I answered. - The hook loves bacon, and my neck is full of corns!
On that day, one drop in my blood spoke Bolshevik. I did not interfere with her, I gave her free rein. Her voice became native.

Holding a staff behind his back, with a leisurely, calm step, he walks along the path. Autumn. Already faded and heavy sunflowers silently stand aside. Long lashes of pumpkins and cucumbers tangle at the feet. They crawl onto a neighboring haystack, climb over the dilapidated logs and reach for the roof of the shed, under which stands a brand new M-1, flashing headlights.
- Good morning, Suleiman-holo, - a passing rider waves his hat. - How are you?
- Well, - says Suleiman, - not bad. Don't you know how it's threshed?
The rider reports that the threshing will probably end by evening and that the brigade of Suleiman's son, Bagautdin, is still ahead.
- Thank you, - says Suleiman, - this is good news, I'm satisfied.
He thinks. They begin to get restless. He goes into the garden and suddenly, returning halfway, sits down on the edge of a log. Then he goes to the shed, kicks a sheep's skull lying near the car with his foot and, unable to stand it, calls his son.
- Musaib, - he calls softly, - wa, Musaib! Call the driver. Say: Suleiman wants to go to the Akhtyn region. Is it possible, please? - And since the doctors forbid him to travel, he, as if justifying himself to himself, whispers: - Doctor-motor, who cares. Here's another!..
Half an hour later, he is already sitting in the car, heading to the distant collective farm of his name.
The road runs through the gardens. At the end of the village, Suleiman suddenly touches the driver's shoulder and hisses.
- Stop the car, - he says, - again this damned buffalo climbed into the collective farm garden! We must kick him out.
The country road turns into a wide highway. The car is speeding towards the mountains. Workers on the bridge greet the poet, raising their hands. The pioneer detachment, which went out into the field for a walk, salutes his car, lining up in a line. Women at the springs wave their handkerchiefs and shout enthusiastically: “Steel-Suleiman!” Shepherds on the mountains throw up their hats and run across to meet him.
The fame of this man and the love for him are unheard of, extraordinary.
Having learned from passers-by that the threshing began on the Stalsky collective farm only yesterday, Suleiman hurries the driver.
- I should have disobeyed these doctors, - he says gloomily. - Is the collective farm fulfilling the task of the government later than everyone else? Shame and disgrace on my head!
On the outskirts of the village, surrounded by high stacks, threshers work. A yellow blizzard of straw rages over them, and Suleiman, infected by the ebullient spirit of threshing, suddenly takes off his hat.
- Kumagula! - he shouts, having caught up with the people. - Let the work be argued!
- Hooray, Suleiman! - the collective farmers greet him, trying to shout down the threshing machine.
He approaches everyone in turn and, calling each by name, shakes hands with dignity.
- I'm not happy, - he says, shaking his head, - we'll talk later.
Stepping aside, he asks about something the chairman of the collective farm. They sit on the running board of the car and have a long talk here about the shortcomings of the job. Suleiman smiles and deliberately slowly, in a businesslike way, looks at grains of wheat in his palm.
“Mashallah,” he mutters, “better every year.
The thresher is silent. Collective farmers quit work for lunch break and all gather around the car. The chairman stands up, obviously meaning to open the meeting, but here Suleiman is ahead of him with a characteristic movement of his hand:
- Meetings are not required. I came to you for half an hour. The people of Ashagasthal have already finished threshing, and you have just begun. That's my concern, comrades!
We'll finish in a few days! the assembly hums.
“Friends,” Suleiman says, straightening up and very calmly, “I ask you for one thing: do it so that I don’t have to blush in my old age.
- Suleiman-holo, - says the old quality inspector, - don't even worry. My son Amirkhan and all the foremen gave their word to finish the threshing within five days.
After waiting for the threshing machines to work again, Suleiman gets into the car. He rides back, a little tired, but calm and peaceful.
At home, he finds guests. A journalist who has arrived from Moscow and a young Dagestan writer want to talk to him.
Suleiman invites guests to the garden. Here, under the huge centuries-old hazel trees, sitting on the carpet and resting after a tiring journey, he talks with them, surprising them with the tact and wisdom of a person who combines the spontaneity of an illiterate peasant, and the talent of a great poet, and the logic of a philosopher.
- I am a Soviet poet, not a Lezgin one, - he says, - I sing about the Komsomol, but the Komsomol is not only in Lezgistan. I sing about the Red Army, and the Red Army is the same in Moscow and Samarkand, and the same in the mountains and on the plain. We have one homeland.
- I used to be nothing. Look - there is my old saklya. The whole aul is above, and only my hut is below, under the mountain, like a dog's shelter under the steps. And now? How did it happen that now I am taller than everyone in the village? I am like a buried, rusty weapon, which the Communist Party and the Soviet government have unearthed, polished and sharpened sharply. I now know the value of this life. I know what is good, what is bad, where is the enemy, where is the friend. And there are millions of people like me in our homeland... You go and try what they tell you.
“Soviet power was not easy for us,” they will tell you. “Lenin and Stalin mined it for us like fire, throwing it from palm to palm. Is there even one person among the working people all over the world who would not value her as his heart, who would allow anyone to joke with her? Let vile enemies tremble in their nests. Our power is mighty, but we will not leave a single snake hole in our fertile land.
This is what Suleiman says, looking directly into the eyes of his interlocutors and listening to his voice. Around it are extensive collective farm gardens. They are restless. They sing like an organ - from many birds and cicadas, and Suleiman, raising his index finger, draws the attention of the guests to this eternally young, all-conquering and immortal music of nature ...

In 1937, on November 23, in his native village of Ashaga-Stal, at the very threshold of the Kyurinsky mountains in South Dagestan, Suleiman Stalsky died at the age of sixty-eight. A. M. Gorky called his wonderful songs "pearls of poetry", and their author - "Homer of the XX century."
On November 26, in the capital of Dagestan - in Makhachkala - the funeral of the poet took place on a large square near the sea.
Dzhambul, having learned about the death of the national poet of Dagestan, said: “Suleiman died, but his death is not terrible for his songs. They are immortal, like the people in the depths of which they were born.

Biography [ | ]

Suleiman Stalsky was born on May 18, 1869 in the village of Ashaga-Stal (hence Stalsky) in the Kyurinsky district of the Dagestan region, into a poor peasant family. By ethnicity - Lezghins. His mother died early, and until the age of 7 the boy grew up in the arms of a compassionate neighbor. When he was eleven years old, his father died. Orphaned early, from the age of thirteen he worked for hire. Was an oilfield worker in Baku, worked in Samarkand for railway, worked for the rich. Years of wandering were not in vain. Suleiman knew life well and became known as an ashug (wandering singer), challenging other folk singers in 1909.

Poetic activity Suleiman Stalsky began with poetry in Azerbaijani. He began writing poetry at an early age. “Here are my books,” Suleiman pointed to his fellow villagers, “they have all the songs that I composed in their heads.” "Hey! The song is out! - he shouted to the villagers when he invented fresh poems, and not surprised at such an intrusion of poetry into everyday life, the peasants always simply and cheerfully gathered around their neighbor to listen to his new song [ ] .

His first song "Nightingale" dates back to 1900. Before the revolution, he angrily scourged the oppressors of the people. Suleiman knew the songs of Etim Emin well, which, during his lifetime, merged with nameless folk art. Suleiman continued the work of Etim Emin with his social songs for the poor. But his motives for escaping from the surrounding life sounded not of desperation, but of irony. Great October made him a poet of popular joy. His poems began to appear in newspapers, were published in 1927 in the "Collection of Lezgi Poets" published in Moscow.

In the book “Life lived cleanly”, Natalia Kapieva noted: “ The famous linguist Gadzhibek Gadzhibekov, under the dictation of Stalsky, recorded his songs, starting from those created in 1900. The recordings lasted for hours. Sometimes for whole days. Suleiman memorized thousands of his lines».

Feeling the power of Stalsky's talent, Gadzhibekov was categorically against assessing his work as ashug. In the article “People's Poet Suleiman Stalsky” (“Dagestanskaya Pravda”, April 21, 1936), he wrote: “ Many of our writers have a wrong idea about Suleiman as an ashug. Stalsky himself repeatedly expressed an energetic protest against calling himself an ashug. And he's right. In fact, Stalsky is a poet, and he has never been an ashug».

Stalsky was elected as a delegate to the First All-Union Congress of Soviet Writers. At this congress, A. M. Gorky called him "The Homer of the 20th century", after which Stalsky created a number of works on a wide variety of topics, including the Red Army, the Bolshevik Party, the Stalin Constitution, about the wonderful life in the USSR. A distinctive feature of these works is deep sincerity, emotional richness.

Stalsky also created a number of major works: the poem "Dagestan", "The Poem about Sergo Ordzhonikidze, the beloved associate and friend of the great Stalin", "Thoughts about the Motherland".

Suleiman Stalsky enriched the poetic dictionary of Lezgin poetry, his poetic expressions entered the spoken language of the Lezgins and became folk sayings. But poetry for Stalsky was not a profession - he was a member of the Ashaga-Stalsky collective farm and until his death was engaged in agriculture.

The poems of Suleiman Stalsky were translated into many languages of the peoples of the Soviet Union. A number of poems have been set to music.

The eponymous album of the project "Communism" was recorded on the verses of Suleiman Stalsky. The album was recorded in March 1988 (dated 1937) and contains only songs based on Stalsky's verses. All music - Letov and K. Wo (a mixture of thrash-punk and avant-garde post-punk with the use of works by pop orchestras).

Parables about Suleiman of Stalsky[ | ]

There are many parables about Suleiman Stalsky. Here are two of them.

The parable of Suleiman and the young man[ | ]

Suleiman sits barefoot on the threshold of the sakli, unbuttoned the collar of his beshmet and bent his knees like an old man, he holds a staff in his hands. In front of him, on the clay floor, a hot square of the sun sparkles, preventing him from looking at his interlocutor.

You came to visit me, and you start an argument, ”he says. “Yesterday and today are the same. Rest, do not get tired, like some doctor! You are a poet, you must understand: a horse leaves - a green field remains; the hero leaves - his glory remains, I am not a hero, and the glory of a living poet, of course, is not the glory of a hero. It is fickle, like a fire, the flame of which must be maintained all the time: otherwise the flame fades and ceases to illuminate the face. I'm still alive, why do you advise me to idle? Leave. A poet must be generous like a nightingale. I'm not sick ... There are many miracles in the world, and you, of course, do not know everything. There are different kinds of poets. Rain equally waters the earth, but neither poppies nor flowers grow in the desert.

The desert doesn't count. It's something dead, Suleiman.

The desert is the desert, young man! The dead is always cold, and the deserts are sometimes hot and full of life, full of all sorts of snakes and scorpions. Note: the desert is worse than old age. This is a disease, rust, barrenness of the soul, and it is more difficult to cure it than to cure old age... There are different poets, just like the soil! The speaker sows, the listener reaps. You listen. I will tell you why I am not afraid that my heart will be empty, and why I am tireless. Youth means a lot, but youth alone, young man, means nothing. A real poet's soul should boil like a garden. Good words grow on tall trees, and they need to be grown. A poet is one who is highly experienced and young at heart. His love must be generous, like the sun in summer (the branches of the garden bloom under the sun!), his hatred must be fierce, like a river in a thunderstorm (the roots of the garden feed on moisture!). Without this, life will die out, and the garden of the soul will soon turn into a desert. In my youth, I heard that true love and honest hatred are like two wings, one and that eagles soar on them. The stronger the wings, the higher the flight of the eagle. Fly! my teachers told me. Never forgive even a small offense to your enemies, for with each forgiven offense you drop one feather from the wing of hatred and descend lower. If all heroes are falcons, then the poet must be an eagle: fly, open your wings wider! And now I say the same to everyone who asks me for inspiration: Fly! This is the law with which the song begins ... "

(From Efendi Kapiev's book "The Poet")

The parable of how Suleiman composed a poem on the roof of the sakli[ | ]

“One fine summer day, Suleiman Stalsky was lying on the roof of his hut and looking at the sky. Birds were chirping around, streams were murmuring. Everyone would have thought that Suleiman was resting. That’s what Suleiman’s wife thought.

- Khinkal (the favorite national dish in Dagestan) is ready and already on the table. Time to have lunch. Suleiman did not answer or even turn his head.

After some time, Aina called her husband a second time:

Khinkal is getting cold, soon it will not be eaten!

Suleiman did not move. Then the wife brought dinner to the roof, so that Suleiman, since he so wanted to, had lunch there. She served him dinner, saying:

You haven't eaten anything since morning. Try, what a delicious khinkal, I have prepared.

Suleiman got angry. He jumped up and shouted at his diligent wife:

You always interfere with my work!

But you lay there and did nothing. I thought…

No, I'm working. And don't bother me anymore.

Indeed, on this day, Suleiman composed his new poem.

Awards [ | ]

USSR postage stamp dedicated to Suleiman Stalsky

Memory [ | ]

Named after Suleiman Stalsky:

Notes [ | ]

Suleiman Stalsky // Great Soviet Encyclopedia: [in 30 volumes] / ed. A. M. Prokhorov - 3rd ed. - M.: Soviet Encyclopedia, 1969.
Lyutsian Ippolitovich Klimovich. Heritage and modernity: essays on nat. literatures. - Owls. writer, 1975. - S. 120.

The meaning of Suleiman Stalsky in a literary encyclopedia. The meaning of Suleiman Stalsky in the literary encyclopedia Recognition and awards

See also interpretations, synonyms, meanings of the word and what SULEYMAN STALSKY is in Russian in dictionaries, encyclopedias and reference books:

Biography

First creativity

Recognition and awards

Memory

This is how a song is born

Popular site articles from the section "Dreams and Magic"

When do you have prophetic dreams?

Biography [ | ]

Parables about Suleiman of Stalsky[ | ]

The parable of Suleiman and the young man[ | ]

The parable of how Suleiman composed a poem on the roof of the sakli[ | ]

Awards [ | ]

Memory [ | ]

Notes [ | ]

The meaning of Suleiman Stalsky in a literary encyclopedia. The meaning of Suleiman Stalsky in the literary encyclopedia Recognition and awards

See also interpretations, synonyms, meanings of the word and what SULEYMAN STALSKY is in Russian in dictionaries, encyclopedias and reference books:

Biography

First creativity

Recognition and awards

Memory

This is how a song is born

Popular site articles from the section "Dreams and Magic"

When do you have prophetic dreams?

Biography [ | ]

Parables about Suleiman of Stalsky[ | ]

The parable of Suleiman and the young man[ | ]

The parable of how Suleiman composed a poem on the roof of the sakli[ | ]

Awards [ | ]

Memory [ | ]

Notes [ | ]

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