Category Archives: Poetry, Poets, Writers

Like a bridge over troubled waters (Simon and Garfunkel YouTube)


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Like a bridge over troubled waters

Simon & Garfunkel – Bridge over troubled water (with lyrics)

Ce- ti doresc eu tie dulce Romanie- Veta Biris


Ce- ti doresc eu tie dulce Romanie- Veta Biris

this day in the yesteryear: John Milton Publishes Areopagitica (1644)


John Milton Publishes Areopagitica (1644)

Best known for his epic poem Paradise Lost, Milton, a 17th-century English poet, was also a writer of several political and moral pamphlets. More than two decades before his poetic masterpiece was published, Milton wrote Areopagitica, his best known prose work. One of the great arguments in favor of the freedom of the press, it was published in 1644 in response to his dissatisfaction with the strict censorship of the press exercised by Parliament. For what is the pamphlet named? More… Discuss

Haiku: biking, poetic thought by George-B (The smudge and other poems Page)


Haiku: biking, poetic thought by George-B.
The smudge and other poems Page

Left leg, right leg, left…
The bicycle is rolling…
right leg-left leg-right…

Bicycle ride

Bicycle ride


AMÁLIA canta ” AVÉ MARIA FADISTA ” de Gabriel de Oliveira e Música: Vianinha

quotation: Of all lies, art is the least untrue. Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880)


Of all lies, art is the least untrue.Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880) Discuss

Historic musical bits: #PrayersForParis Imagine – The Beatles – John Lennon


Imagine – The Beatles – John Lennon

today’s birthday: Esaias Tegnér (1782)


Esaias Tegnér (1782)

Tegnér was the most popular of the Swedish romantic poets. An optimistic nationalist in his youth, he wrote the militant anti-Russian Svea and Axel, followed by Frithjof’s Saga, which is based on collections of Scandinavian sagas and is considered the masterpiece of the Swedish Gothic tradition. The son of a pastor and a bishop himself, his sermons and speeches are classics of the Swedish language. Subject to periods of madness, he composed what epic poem in an asylum? More… Discuss

make music part of your life: TE DEUM – F. J. HAYDN (Gregorian Chant Lyrics Latin/English)


TE DEUM – F.J.HAYDN

 

Original Best of Leonard Cohen (1975 compilation)


Original Best of Leonard Cohen (1975 compilation)

Access here: The LibriVox Free Audiobook Collection


The LibriVox Free Audiobook Collection

LibriVox – founded in 2005 – is a community of volunteers from all over the world who record public domain texts: poetry, short stories, whole books, even dramatic works, in many different languages. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain in the USA and available as free down

The LibriVox Free Audiobook Collection

The LibriVox Free Audiobook Collection (Click to access the Website!)

today’s birthday: John Keats (1795)


John Keats (1795)

Considered one of the greatest English poets, Keats worked as a surgeon’s apprentice before devoting himself entirely to poetry at age 21. During a few intense months in 1819, he produced many of his greatest works, including “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” “Ode to a Nightingale,” and “To Autumn.” His Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and Other Poems is perhaps the greatest single volume of poetry published in England in the 19th century. Tragically, Keats died at just 25 from what disease? More… Discuss

quotation: Two cheers for Democracy: one because it admits variety and two because it permits criticism. E. M. Forster


Two cheers for Democracy: one because it admits variety and two because it permits criticism.

E. M. Forster (1879-1970) Discuss

quotation: “To some men of early performance it is useless. …” Thomas Hardy


Thomas Hardy

To some men of early performance it is useless. To others, who are late to develop, it just enables them to finish the job.

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) Discuss

today’s birthday: Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772)


Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772)

One of the most versatile and influential figures in the English Romantic movement, Coleridge was a poet and critic who perfected a sensuous lyricism in his poetry that was echoed by many later poets. His most famous works include “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” and “Kubla Khan.” Known for his influential lectures on Shakespeare, he later wrote Biographia Literaria, the most significant work of general literary criticism of the Romantic period. To what drug was Coleridge addicted? More… Discuss

today’s birthday: Virgil (70 BCE)


Virgil (70 BCE)

Virgil was a Roman poet and the author of the Eclogues, the Georgics, and the Aeneid, widely regarded as one of the greatest long poems in world literature. The Aeneid, Rome’s national epic, tells the legendary story of the Trojan hero Aeneas, whose descendants become the founders of Rome. What later poet portrayed Virgil as the guide to Hell in his great literary classic The Divine Comedy? More… Discuss

Paul Simon and Friends (1/6) “Father and Daughter” (2007): Happy Birthday Paul!


Paul Simon and Friends (1/6) “Father and Daughter” (2007) HD

Poezii care vor trai intotdeauna: Vasile Alecsandri – Mioriţa


Vasile Alecsandri – Mioriţa

Don’t Think Twice It’s All Right – Bob Dylan


Don’t Think Twice It’s All Right – Bob Dylan

Georges Brassens: La Parapluie


Published on Feb 20, 2013

Je tenais a partager l’amour que j’ai pour cet artiste et cette chanson.

Paroles:

Il pleuvait fort sur la grand-route,
Elle cheminait sans parapluie,
J’en avait un, volé sans doute
Le matin même à un ami.
Courant alors à sa rescousse,
Je lui propose un peu d’abri
En séchant l’eau de sa frimousse,
D’un air très doux elle m’a dit oui.
Un petit coin de parapluie,
Contre un coin de Paradis.
Elle avait quelque chose d’un ange,
Un petit coin de Paradis,
Contre un coin de parapluie.
Je ne perdait pas au change,
Pardi!
Chemin faisant que se fut tendre
D’ouïr à deux le chant joli
Que l’eau du ciel faisait entendre
Sur le toit de mon parapluie.
J’aurais voulu comme au déluge,
voir sans arrêt tomber la pluie,
Pour la garder sous mon refuge,
Quarante jours, Quarante nuits.
Un petit coin de parapluie,
Contre un coin de Paradis.
Elle avait quelque chose d’un ange,
Un petit coin de Paradis,
Contre un coin de parapluie.
Je ne perdait pas au change,
Pardi!
Mais bêtement, même en orage,
Les routes vont vers des pays.
Bientôt le sien fit un barrage
A l’horizon de ma folie.
Il a fallut qu’elle me quitte,
Après m’avoir dit grand merci.
Et je l’ai vue toute petite
Partir gaiement vers mon oubli.
Un petit coin de parapluie,
Contre un coin de Paradis.
Elle avait quelque chose d’un ange,
Un petit coin de Paradis,
Contre un coin de parapluie.
Je ne perdait pas au change,
Pardi!

Georges Brassens: La Prière Paroles Par Francis Jammes


La Prière Paroles
Par Francis Jammes

Par le petit garçon qui meurt près de sa mère
Tandis que des enfants s’amusent au parterre
Et par l’oiseau blessé qui ne sait pas comment
Son aile tout à coup s’ensanglante et descend
Par la soif et la faim et le délire ardent
Je vous salue, Marie.

Par les gosses battus, par l’ivrogne qui rentre
Par l’âne qui reçoit des coups de pied au ventre
Et par l’humiliation de l’innocent châtié
Par la vierge vendue qu’on a déshabillée
Par le fils dont la mère a été insultée
Je vous salue, Marie.

Par la vieille qui, trébuchant sous trop de poids
S’écrie: ” Mon Dieu ! ” par le malheureux dont les bras
Ne purent s’appuyer sur une amour humaine
Comme la Croix du Fils sur Simon de Cyrène
Par le cheval tombé sous le chariot qu’il traîne
Je vous salue, Marie.

Par les quatre horizons qui crucifient le monde
Par tous ceux dont la chair se déchire ou succombe
Par ceux qui sont sans pieds, par ceux qui sont sans mains
Par le malade que l’on opère et qui geint
Et par le juste mis au rang des assassins
Je vous salue, Marie.

Par la mère apprenant que son fils est guéri
Par l’oiseau rappelant l’oiseau tombé du nid
Par l’herbe qui a soif et recueille l’ondée
Par le baiser perdu par l’amour redonné
Et par le mendiant retrouvant sa monnaie
Je vous salue, Marie.
**********************************************************

Francis Jammes

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
 

 
Francis Jammes.

Francis Jammes (French pronunciation: ​[ʒam];[1] born 2 December 1868 in Tournay, Hautes-Pyrénées – died 1 November 1938 in Hasparren, Pyrénées-Atlantiques) was a French poet. He spent most of his life in his native region of Béarn and the Basque Country and his poems are known for their lyricism and for singing the pleasures of a humble country life (donkeys, maidens). His later poetry remained lyrical, but also included a strong religious element brought on by his “conversion” to Catholicism (more a return to the faith as he had always been a Catholic).

Biography

He was a mediocre student and failed his baccalauréat with a zero for French.[1]

 
Francis Jammes by Jean Veber

The young author’s first poems began to be read in Parisian literary circles around 1895, and they were appreciated for their fresh tone which broke considerably from symbolist tendencies of the period. Jammes fraternised with other writers, including André Gide (with whom he travelled to Algeria in 1896), Stéphane Mallarmé and Henri de Régnier. His most famous collection of poems — De l’angélus de l’aube à l’angélus du soir (“From morning Angelus to evening Angelus”) — appeared in 1897 in the Mercure de France; Le Deuil des Primevères (“The Mourning of Primulas”) (1901) was also well received. While working up to that point as a notary’s clerk, the author was thenceforth able to live from his writings. In 1905 Francis Jammes, influenced by the poet Paul Claudel with whom he became close, “converted” to Catholicism (in actuality a return to being a practicing Catholic)[1] and his poetry became more austere and occasionally more dogmatic.

In the eyes of Parisian literary circles, Francis Jammes was generally considered a solitary provincial who chose to live a life of retreat in his mountainous Pyrenees, and his poems never became entirely fashionable. The author sought nomination to the Académie française several times, but was never elected.

Jammes was the original author of Georges Brassens‘s song La Prière (“The Prayer”). The lyrics were taken from the poem Les Mystères douloureux (“The Agonies of Christ”) published in the collection L’Église habillée de feuilles (“The Church Clothed in Leaves”) (1906); Brassens changed some of the words to make the text more rhythmic.

Jammes was known to have an ardent passion for field sports, especially game hunting. He was known to have also been a believer in the conservation of endangered species.

Thirteen poems from his cycle Tristesses (“Sorrows”), were set to music by composer Lili Boulanger in 1914 under the title Clairières dans le ciel (“Clearings in the Sky”) a title Jammes had given to an assorted collection of poetry of which Tristesses was a part. The whole cycle was composed for soprano, flute and piano by Michel Bosc.

Works: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29523

 

MUSIC DIVINE: Gabriel Fauré – In Paradisum – Requiem in D Minor Op. 48


Gabriel Fauré – In Paradisum – Requiem in D Minor Op. 48

quotation: The charity that is a trifle to us can be precious to others. Homer


The charity that is a trifle to us can be precious to others.

Homer (900 BC-800 BC) Discuss

*Let the sun fall down* Kim Richey


*Let the sun fall down* Kim Richey

Song: A Place Called Home, by: Kim Richey 2002


Published on Oct 26, 2013

Lyric Video
Song: A Place Called Home
By: Kim Richey

historic musical bits: Horowitz plays Schumann Blumenstück (1966 live)


Horowitz plays Schumann Blumenstück (1966 live)

La Prière – Georges Brassens (1965) (“Je vous salut Marie…”)


La Prière – Georges Brassens (1965)

Et Si Tu N’Existais Pas – Joe Dassin Lyrics


Et Si Tu N’Existais Pas – Joe Dassin Lyrics

Jacques Brel – Ne Me Quitte Pas


Jacques Brel – Ne Me Quitte Pas

Carpenters – Bless the Beasts and the Children (Original Soundtrack version)


Carpenters – Bless the Beasts and the Children (Original Soundtrack version)

quotation: Love may be or it may not, but where it is, it ought to reveal itself in its immensity. Honore de Balzac


Love may be or it may not, but where it is, it ought to reveal itself in its immensity.

Honore de Balzac (1799-1850) Discuss

today’s birthday: Jorge Luis Borges (1899)


Jorge Luis Borges (1899)

Borges was an Argentine poet, essayist, and short-story writer. Much of his work is rich in fantasy and metaphorical allegory, including the story collection Ficciones, which won him an international following. In the 1920s, Borges was afflicted by a worsening hereditary blindness and was totally blind by the mid-1950s. Forced to abandon the writing of long texts, he began dictating his works. What literary movement is Borges credited with establishing in South America? More… Discuss

The man does better who runs from disaster than he who is caught by it. Homer


The man does better who runs from disaster than he who is caught by it.

Homer (900 BC-800 BC) Discuss

quotation: The good befriend themselves. Sophocles


The good befriend themselves.

Sophocles (496 BC-406 BC) Discuss

Antony singing If It Be Your Will (sometimes , people find their voice, and once in a while they recognize genius)


Antony singing If It Be Your Will (poem and song by the genius of Leonard Cohen )

Just a Thought: “So long as we adapt without giving up or giving in.”


Just a Thought:  “So long as we adapt without giving up or giving in.”

By George-B, July 1, 2015.

quotation: A mother is a mother still, The holiest thing alive. Samuel Taylor Coleridge


A mother is a mother still,

The holiest thing alive.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834) Discuss

quotation: “To endure is greater than to dare;…” – William Makepeace Thackeray


To endure is greater than to dare; to tire out hostile fortune; to be daunted by no difficulty; to keep heart when all have lost it—who can say this is not greatness?

William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863) Discuss

quotation: Criticism, that fine flower of personal expression in the garden of letters. Joseph Conrad


Criticism, that fine flower of personal expression in the garden of letters.

Joseph Conrad (1857-1924) Discuss

quotation: “It’s extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts….” (Joseph Conrad (1857-1924))


It’s extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts. Perhaps it’s just as well; and it may be that it is this very dullness that makes life to the incalculable majority so supportable and so welcome.

Joseph Conrad (1857-1924) Discuss

quotation: The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. Kate Chopin


The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings.

Kate Chopin (1851-1904) Discuss

today’s birthday: Pearl S. Buck (1892)


Pearl S. Buck (1892)

Buck was raised in China by her American missionary parents and left the country but a few times before she was 40. She drew upon her experiences there in her Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, The Good Earth, which describes the struggles of a Chinese peasant and his slave wife. Together with Sons and A House Divided, it forms a trilogy, part of the body of work that earned Buck the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1938. Buck also wrote five novels under what pseudonym? More… Discuss

quotation: Words are but wind; and learning is nothing but words; ergo, learning is nothing but wind. Jonathan Swift


Words are but wind; and learning is nothing but words; ergo, learning is nothing but wind.

Jonathan Swift (1667-1745) Discuss

today’s birthday: George Orwell (1903)


George Orwell (1903)

Best known by his pseudonym George Orwell, Eric Arthur Blair was a British novelist and essayist famed for his scathingly satirical and frighteningly political novels: the anti-Soviet fable Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, a prophetic novel that portrays the catastrophic excesses of state control over the individual. Orwell was distrustful of all political parties and ideologies, and this sentiment is reflected in much of his work. What are some of his other novels? More… Discuss

Haiku – Words, poetic thought by George-G (The Smudge ans other poems) (“Words know the meaning…”)


Haiku – Words, poetic thought by George-G
(The Smudge ans other poems)

Words know the Story,
what has been, is, will be.
Words – learn the meaning.

©By George -B

quotation: The best of men cannot suspend their fate: The good die early, and the bad die late. Daniel Defoe


The best of men cannot suspend their fate:

The good die early, and the bad die late.

Daniel Defoe (1660-1731) Discuss

today’s birthday: Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811)


Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811)

A prolific writer whose works fill more than a dozen volumes, Stowe was an American novelist and humanitarian. Spurred to action by the passage of the Fugitive Slave Act, she began writing an antislavery novel, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, which became an instant and controversial best-seller. Its impact on Northerners’ attitudes toward slavery was significant, swaying much of the public to support, or at least sympathize with, the abolitionist cause. What else did Stowe write? More… Discuss

poetry: Aleksandr Pushkin: The Bronze Horseman A Petersburg Story 1833


 

Aleksandr Pushkin

Aleksandr Pushkin

The Bronze Horseman

A Petersburg Story

1833INTRODUCTION

The incident, described in this story is based on a truth.
The details of the flood are taken from the contemporary magazines.
The curious ones can consult the record, prepared by V. I. Berkh.

PROLOGUE

On a deserted, wave-swept shore,
He stood – in his mind great thoughts grow –
And gazed afar. The northern river
Sped on its wide course him before;
One humble skiff cut the waves’ silver.
On banks of mosses and wet grass
Black huts were dotted there by chance –
The miserable Finn’s abode;
The wood unknown to the rays
Of the dull sun, by clouds stowed,
Hummed all around. And he thought so:
‘The Swede from here will be frightened;
Here a great city will be wrought
To spite our neighborhood conceited.
From here by Nature we’re destined
To cut a door to Europe wide,
To step with a strong foot by waters.
Here, by the new for them sea-paths,
Ships of all flags will come to us –
And on all seas our great feast opens.’ 

An age passed, and the young stronghold,
The charm and sight of northern nations,
From the woods’ dark and marshes’ cold,
Rose the proud one and precious.
Where once the Finnish fisherman,
Sad stepson of the World, alone,
By low riverbanks’ a sand,
Cast into waters, never known,
His ancient net, now on the place,
Along the full of people banks,
Cluster the tall and graceful masses
Of castles and palaces; and sails
Hasten in throng to the rich quays
From all the lands our planet masters;
The Neva-river’s dressed with rocks;
Bridges hang o’er the waters proud;
Abundantly her isles are covered
With dark-green gardens’ gorgeous locks… 

By the new capital, the younger,
Old Moscow’s eclipsed at once -
Such is eclipsed a queen-dowager
By a new queen when her time comes.
I love you, Peter’s great creation,
I love your view of stern and grace, 
The Neva wave’s regal procession,
The grayish granite – her bank’s dress,
The airy iron-casting fences,
The gentle transparent twilight,
The moonless gleam of your nights restless,
When I so easy read and write
Without a lamp in my room lone,
And seen is each huge buildings’ stone
Of the left streets, and is so bright 
The Admiralty spire’s flight,
And when, not letting the night’s darkness
To reach the golden heaven’s height,
The dawn after the sunset hastens –
And a half-hour’s for the night.
I love your so sever winter’s 
Quite still and fresh air and strong frost, 
The sleighs race on the shores river’s,
The girls – each brighter than a rose,
The gleam and hum of the balls’ dances,
And, on the bachelors’ free feast,
The hissing of the foaming glasses
And the punch’s bluish flaming mist.
I love the warlike animation
Of the play-fields of the god Mars,
And horse-and-footmen priests’ of wars 
So homogeneous attraction,
In their ranks, in the rhythmic moves,
Those flags, victories and rended,
The glitter of those helmets, splendid,
Shot through in military strives.
I love, O capital my fairest,
Your stronghold guns’ thunder and smoke,
In moments when the northern empress
Adds brunches to the regal oak
Or Russia lauds a winning stroke
To any new and daring foe,
Or, breaking up the light-blue ice,
The Neva streams it and exults,
Scenting the end of cold and snow.

City of Peter, just you shine
And stand unshakable as Russia!
May make a peace with beauty, thine,
The conquered nature’s casual rushes;
And let the Finnish waves forget
Their ancient bondages and malice
And not disturb with their hate senseless
The endless sleep of Peter, great!

The awful period was that,
It’s fresh in our recollection…
This time about, my dear friend,
I am beginning my narration.
My story will be very sad.


PART ONE

On Petrograd, sunk into darkness,
November breathed with fall cold’s harshness.
And, splashing, with the noisy waves
Into the brims of her trim fences,
The Neva raved, like the seek raves
In a bed, that has become the restless.
Now it was very dark and late;
The rain stroke ‘gainst the window’s flat.
And the wind blew with sadly wailing.
Right at this time, from being a guest
Evgeny, for his nightly rest,
Came home. This name was most prevailing
In our young hero’s name choice.
It sounds pleasantly. Of course,
With it my pen’s had long connections
It needn’t the special commendations,
Though in the times, in Lithe gone,
It might have been the most attractive
And under Karamzin’s pen, fine,
Sung in some legends, our native;
But now it is forgotten by 
The world and rumors. Our guy
Lives in Kolomna: he’s in service,
Avoids the rich ones, and ne’er sad is
For his kin which had left the world,
Or for the well-forgotten old.

So, he is home – our Evgeny,
Took off his greatcoat, undressed,
Lay in his poor bed, but oppressed 
He was by his thoughts, so many.
What did he thought of? Well, of that
That he was poor and that his bread, 
His honour and his independence
Just by hard work must be achieved, 
That God should send to him from heavens
More mind and money. That do live 
Such idle, fully happy creatures –
The lazy-bones, quite ludicrous,.
Whose life is absolutely light!
That he had served for two long years;
And that the weather, former fierce,
Hadn’t come less fierce, that the flood
In the Neva is getting higher,
The bridges might be got entire,
And that his sweet Parasha’s place
For two-free days wouldn’t be accessed.
There sighed Evgeny with his soul,
And dreamed as dreams a real bard:

“To marry then? Of course it’s hard. 
But why don’t marry, in a whole?
I’m of the young and healthy sight,
Ready to work for day and night;
I’ll someway find the good repose,
The simple and shy place, at last,
Parasha will be there composed. 
The year or, may be, two will pass –
I’m in position, to my dear 
I’ll give all family to bear
And bring our children up, at once...
Such we’ll start life, at last repose,
With hand-in-hand, such we’ll come both,
And our grandsons will bury us...” 

Thus he did dream. And a great sadness
Embraced his soul in that night,
He wished the wind’s weep to be lesser,
Rain’s siege of windows – not so tight.
At last his sleepy eyes were closed...
And now the night is getting gray –
That night, so nasty and morose, 
And it is coming – the pale day
The awful day! During the night
Neva had strived for sea ‘gainst tempests
But, having lost all her great battles,
The river ceased the useless fight…
And in the morn on her shores proud,
Stood people in a pressed in lot
And saw the tall and heard the loud 
Fierce waters’ mountains, it had brought.
But by the force of airy breathing
Blocked from the Gulf, the wide Neva
Came back – the wrathful one and seething -
And flooded islands, near and far;
The weather grew into the cruel,
Neva – more swelling and more brutal,
Like in a kettle boiled and steamed,
And then, as a wild creature seemed,
Jumped on the city. And before it,
All ran away from its strait path,
And all got emptied there; at once.
The waters flew into the cellars,
And raised up to the fence of canals –
And, like Triton, Petropol sails
Sunk in the water till his waist. 

Siege and assault! The evil waters
Thrust into windows, like slaughters.
The mad boats row into a glass.
The stalls are under the wet mass.
The wrecks of huts, the logs, roofs’ pieces,
The stores of the tread, auspicious,
The things, carried the pale want from,
The bridges got away by storm,
The coffins from the graveyards - float,
Along the streets!
                               The populace
Sees God’s great wrath and waits for death.
All is destroyed: bread and abode.
And how to live?
                           The monarch, blessed, 
Tsar Aleksandr, in a good fashion,
Still governed Russia that year, dread,
And from the balcony he, sad 
And pale, said: “Ne’er the God-made nature
Can be subdued by any tsars.”
And, in a thought, looked at the evil’s 
With his full of deep sadness eyes.
The streets turned into the fast rivers,
Running to made lakes, dark and grievous,
The Palace was an island, sad,
That loomed over the blackened waters.
The Tsar decreed – from end to end,
Down the shortest streets and longest,
On danger routs over the waves,
His generals set into the sailing –
To save the drawing and straining
On streets and in their homes-graves.

Then on the widest Square of Peter,
Where with his glass a new pile glittered,
Where on its porch, too highly placed,
With their paw raised, as if they’re living,
Stood two marble lions, overseeing.
On one of them, as for a race,
Without his hat, arms – tightly pressed,
Awfully pale – no stir appeared –
Evgeny sat. And there he feared
Not his own death. He did not hear
How the wrathful roller neared,
Greedily licking his shoes’ soles,
And how flagged him the rain coarse,
And how the fierce wind there wailed,
Or how it’d blown off his hat.
His looks of deepest desperation
Were all set on a single place
Without a move. The waves, impatient, 
Had risen there, like tallest crags,
Lifted from waked deeps in a madness,
There wreckage swam, there wailed a tempest …
O, God! O, God! – Right on that place,
Alas! so close to the waves,
And by the shores of the Gulf Finnish,
A willow-tree, a fence unfinished
And an old hut: there they must be –
A widow and her child Parasha –
His soul’s dream … Or does he see
It in a dream? … And, like the usher 
Of dreams – a sleep, is our life none –
Just Heavens make of Earth a fun?  

And he, like under conjuration,
Like in jail irons’ limitation,
Cannot come down. Him around
Only black waters could be found!
And turned to him with his back, proudest,
On height that never might be tossed,
Over Neva’s unending wildness,
Stands, with his arm, stretched to skies, lightless, 
The idol on his brazen horse. 


PART TWO

But now, sated with distraction
And tired of its rude attack,
Neva, at last, was coming back,
Looking at ruins with satisfaction
And leaving with a little attention
Its prey behind. A reprobate,
With his sever and low set,
Thus, thrusting in a village, helpless,
Breaks, slaughters, robs all and oppresses:
The roar, rape, swore, alert and wails!...
And, under their large booty posted,
Afraid of chases and exhausted,
The robbers speed to their old place,
Losing their loot along the road.

The waves were gone, the pavement, broad,
Was opened, and Evgeny, stressed, 
With heart half-dead and stifled throat,
In a hope, fear and awful pains,
Runs to the stream, just now restrained.
But, in the winning celebration,
Waves still were boiling with a passion,
As if to flames, under them fanned;
They still were with white foam covered,
And Neva’s breast was heavily moved,
Like the steed’s one after a race.
Evgeny sees a boat here;
He runs to it – a find, revered, –
He calls a boatman at once –
The boatman, a guy quite careless,
Just for ten kopeks, with great gladness,
Takes him into the waves’ wild dance.

And for a long with these waves, close,
The much trained rower was in fight,
And to sink deeply mid their rows,
The scuff, with its brave sailors both,
Was apt all time… The other side
Is reached, at last. And the frustrated
Runs through the so well-known street
To his old places. He doesn’t meet
A thing, he’d known. The view’s rated
As the worst one! All’s in a mess –
All is failed down or swept or stressed:
The little houses are bent down,
Some – shifted, some – razed to their ground
By awful forces of the waves;
The bodies, waiting for their graves,
Are lying round, like aft fight, merciless.
Our poor Evgeny – his mind’s flamed – 
Half-dead under the tortures, endless,
Runs there where the inhumane fate
Would give him the unknown message,
As if a letter, sealed to bear;
He’s now in the suburbs’ wreckage,
There is the Gulf, the house is near… 
But what is this? He stopped, frustrated,
Went back, returned a little later…
He looks… he walks … he looks once more.
There is the place their house for
And willow-tree. The gates were here –
They’re swept… But where’s the house, o grace? 
And full of troubles, hard to wear,
He walked and walked around the place. 
Told to himself in voices loud –
And suddenly, as if all’s found,
Struck his forehead and fell in laugh.
The night embraced the city, stuffed
With all its woe. And still for hours
A sleep was running from each house –
The folk recalling the past day.
Now, through the clouds, weak and pale,
The morn ray flashed o’er the mute city
And did not found e’en a trace
Of the past woe. The dawn, witty,
Had safely screened the doing, base.
The former life had got its place.
Along the streets now free of flooding,
With cold indifference, folks are moving.
Just having left his lodge of night,
The clerk is going at his site.
The petty tradesman, very dauntless, 
Is opening his cellar – wet, 
Robbed by the waves’ impudent set –
Intending to revenge his losses
On brothers-humans. From the yard
Is pulled the boat, full of mud.
Count Khvostov, a pet of Zeus,
Now is singing his songs, deathless,
To the Neva shores’ former plight.

What’s of Evgeny, our poor hero? …
Alas! His agitated mind,
Against the immense woe’s billow
Didn’t stand untouchable. The wind’s
And Neva’s noise was always growing 
In his poor ears. Mute and half-blind,
With awful thoughts, he was a-roaming, 
Being quite tortured by some dream.
A week, month passed by as a stream,
At his past home he wasn’t returning
And his landlord, when the rent’s time
Had gone, gave his corner to some
Bard, sunk in a poverty unduly.
Evgeny didn’t come for his stuff
And soon became a stranger, fully,
To world: his day wasn’t long enough
For walk; he slept on wharfs till morning
His bread was one a beggar has,
He wore the dirt and rotten dress.
The evil children, with cries joyful, 
Sometimes threw stones to his back,
Often the coachmen’ whips, wrathful,
Stung his thin body – for his track
Was cast without choosing direction –
He seemed to notice nothing else –
He was quiet deafened and oppressed
By noise of inner agitation. 
And thus he strayed in his life’s mist – 
Not humane being, nor some beast –
Not fish, nor flesh – not living creature,
Nor ghost of dead … But once he slept 
By Neva’s wharf – the summer’s features
Were now like autumn’s. The wind, bad,
Was breathing there. The roller, sad,
Was splashing its complain and groan
And striking ‘gainst the steps of stone,
Like the offended at the door
Of justice that doesn’t hear him more.
The poor waked up. All was gloom round:
Falling the rain, wind wailing loud,
And it was answered through the night
By some alone distant guard...
Evgeny got up in a hurry, 
He recollected his all flurry,
Stood on a spot, began to walk 
And stopped again, almost choked, 
Intently gazing him around
With a wild terror on his face... 
It seemed that he himself had found
By a big house where were placed,
With their paw up, as if quite living,
Two marble lions, overseeing,
And in the height, strait o’er him posed,
Over the rock, fenced with cast iron, 
With arm stretched into the skies, sullen, 
The idol sat on his bronze horse.

Evgeny startled. Became clear
The strange thoughts, torturing his mind –
He named the place where played the flood,
Where ran the waters-spoilers, fierce, – 
Merging in one rebellious stream, –
The lions, square and, at last, him,
Who stood without a move and sound –
The cooper head piercing black skies –
Him, by whose fatal enterprise
This city under sea took ground...
He’s awful in the nightly dark!
In what a thought his brow’s sunk!
What a great might in it lies, hidden!
And what a fire’s in this steed!
O, proud horse, where do you speed!
Where will you down your bronze hoofs, flittin’?
O, karma’s mighty sovereign!
Not thus you’d reared Russia, sullen,
Into the height, with a curb, iron,
Before an abyss in your reign?

The poor madman circled around
The foot of the black idol’s mass,
He gazed into the brazen face 
Of the half-planet’s ruler, proud.
And was his breast oppressed. He laid
On the cold barrier his forehead.
His eyes were veiled with a mist-cover,
His heart was all caught with a flame,
His blood seethed. Gloomy he became
Before the idol, looming over, 
And, having clenched his teeth and fist,
As if possessed by evil powers,
“Well, builder-maker of the marvels,”
He whispered, trembling in a fit,
“You only wait!...”- And to a street,
At once he started to run out –
He fancied: that the great tsar’s face,
With a wrath suddenly embraced,
Was turning slowly around...
And strait along the empty square
He runs and hears as if there were,
Just behind him, the peals of thunder,
Of the hard-ringing hoofs’ reminders, –
A race the empty square across,
Upon the pavement, fiercely tossed;
And by the moon, that palled lighter,
Having stretched his hand over roofs,
The Brazen Horseman rides him after –
On his steed of the ringing hoofs.
And all the night the madman, poor,
Where’er he might direct his steps,
Aft him the Bronze Horseman, for sure,
Keeps on the heavy-treading race.

And from this time, when he was going,
Along this square, only by chance,
A sense of terror was deforming 
His features. And he would then press
His hand to heart in a great fastness,
As if to make its tortures painless,
Take off the worn peaked cap at once,
Didn’t turn from earth his fearful eyes
And try to pass by.
                                  A small island’s
Seen in the sea quite near a shore.
A fisherman, the late catch for,
Would sail to it with his net, silent,
Sometimes – and boil there his soup, poor;
Or an official clerk would moor
To it in a boat-walking Sunday’s.
The empty isle. Seeds don’t beget
There any plant. A player, sightless,
The flood, had pulled there a ghost, sad, 
Of an old hut. The water over,
It had been left like a bush, black.
Last spring, by a small barging rover,
It was conveyed to the shore, back –
Destroyed and empty. By its entry,
They’d found the poor madman of mine
And, for a sake of the Divine, 
Buried his corpse in that soil, scanty. 


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, March, 2004 - March, 2005
© Copyright, poetryloverspage.com, 2004-2005

today’s birthday: Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin (1799)


Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin (1799)

Among the giants of Russian literature, Pushkin was a poet and writer whose masterpieces include the poem The Bronze Horseman, the drama The Stone Guest, and his verse novel Eugene Onegin, which contains witty descriptions of 19th-century Russian society. Pushkin established the modern poetic language of Russia, using Russian history for the basis of many works, but his career was cut short when he died after a duel with a young Frenchman. How old was he when he died? More… Discuss

quotation: I believe there’s no proverb but what is true; Miguel de Cervantes


I believe there’s no proverb but what is true; they are all so many sentences and maxims drawn from experience, the universal mother of sciences.

Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616) Discuss