im lucky..my mum has no idea about mothers day...bcos she doesnt need...i just buy presents her whenever i visit and kiss her hands and eyes...heheh

so...im not paying lots of money for a bunch of plowers and making her always happy..

u too..try..it ll work

Back to track , friends.
This is all about Russian poetry.
I think we forgot about this and I want to remind to you.
I want to dedicate these poems to all my friends, especially to them who is in love with Russian poetry.
Did you miss our beloved Anna Akhmatova?

I Will Leave Your White House

I will leave your white house and tranquil garden.
Let life be empty and bright.
You, and only you, I shall glorify in my poems,
As a woman has never been able to do.
And you remember the beloved
For whose eyes you created this paradise,
But I deal in rare commodities --
I sell your love and tenderness.
****

The Lord Is Not Merciful

The Lord is not merciful to reapers and gardeners.
A ringing rain slants down
And wide cloaks are going to color
The sky reflected in the water.

There's an underwater kingdom of meadows and cornfields,
And undulating streams sing out, sing out,
On the swelling branches plums are bursting
And the flattened grasses rot.

And through the dense scrim of water
I see your dear face,
The hushed park, The Chinese Pavilion
And the circular porch of the house.
*****

He Whispers

He whispers: ' I'm not sorry
For loving you this way --
Either be mine alone
Or I will kill you.'
It buzzes around me like a gadfly,
Incessantly, day after day,
This same boring argument,
Your black jelousy.
Grief smothers -- but not fatally,
The wide wind dries my tears
And cheerfullness begins to soothe,
To smooth out this troubled heart.
*****

Ah You Thought

Ah -- you thought I'd be the type
You could forget,
And that praying and sobbing, I'd throw myself
Under the hooves of bay.

Or I would beg from the witches
Some kind of root in charmed water
And send you a terrible gift --
My intimate, scented handkerchief.

Damned if I will. Nither by glance nor by groan
Will I touch your cursed soul,
But I vow to you by the garden of angels,
By the miraculous icon I vow
And by the fiery passion of our nights --
I will never return to you.
*****

Instead Of Wisdom

Instead of wisdom -- experience, a flat,
Unsatisfying drink.
And there was youth -- like the Sunday prayer...
Could I ever forget it?

So many deserted roads walked
With him who was not dear to me,
So many bows I made in church
For him, who loved me...

I've become the most forgetful of all the forgetful,
Quietly the years sail by.
Those unkissed lips, unsmiling eyes
Will never return to me.
*****

Memory Of Love

Memory of love, you are painful!
I must sing and burn in your smoke,
But for others -- you're just a flame
To warm a cooling soul.

To warm a sated body,
They needed my tears...
For this, Lord, I sang,
For this I received love's communion!

Let me drink some kind of poison
That will make me mute,
And turn my infamous fame
Into radiant oblivion.
*****


ANNA AKHMATOVA

For Bliss, with love - and for all poetry lovers - two poems of Alexandr Blok, one of our favorite poets:

I Wait For You...

And a heavy dream of everyday reflection
You'll throw out -- the loving one and sad.
Vl. Soloviev

I wait for you. The years in silence pass
And as the image, one, I wait for you again.

The distance is in flame -- and clear one as glass,
I, silent, wait -- with sadness, love and pain.

The distance is in flame, and you are coming fast,
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet,

And will initiate the challenging mistrust
By changing features, used, at long awaited end.

Oh, how I will fell -- so low and so pine,
Unable to overcome my dreams' continued set!

The distance is such bright! And azure is so fine!
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet.

4 June 1901, Shakhmatovo



All Valor I Forgot and Noble Deeds

All valor I forgot and noble deeds
And glory on this grief-filled earth,
While in a simple frame your face
Glowed before me on the desk.

The hour arrived, you left the house.
I flung the cherished ring into the night.
You pledged yourself to someone else,
And I forgot your lovely face.

The days flew by, a cursed swirling swarm...
Liquor and passion tortured my existence...
I recollected you inside the church,
Called out to you as I would to my youth...

I called. You would not look around,
I wept, but you were pitiless.
Sadly you wrapped yourself in a sky blue cloak
Went out the door into the damp night.

I do not know, my sweet and tender one
Where you found shelter for your pride...
I sleep quite soundly, and I dream about the cloak
You wore, as you went out into the night...

I dream no more of tenderness or glory,
They all have passed, my youth is gone!
With my own hand I've taken off my desk
Your face, inside its simple frame.

30 December 1908

Thank you so much my dear Sibel!
I was reading this now and wanted to share with you

Darling, It's Frightening

Darling, it's frightening! When a poet loves
he might be an unshriven god enruptured.
And chaos creeps again up to the light,
as in the far off ages of the fossils.

His eyes weep tons of billows and he's swathed
in cloud, so that you'd take him for a mammoth.
He's out of date. He knows it's no more use.
His days are over now and he's illiterate.

He sees the way his neighbours hold their weddings,
how they get roaring drunk and sleep it off,
how they call common roe -- that pickled frogspawn, --
once she's been married off, the best pressed caviare.

And how they manage to squeeze in a snuff-box
life that is like a pearly dream by Watteau.
They take revenge on him; perhaps it's only
because, while they are twisting and contorting,

while sniggering bourgeois comfort lies and flatters
and they rub shoulders with the drones and crawl,
he's raised a girl like you from earth and used her,
like a Bacchante from her amphora.

And thawing of the Andes melts in kisses
and morning's on the steppe, beneath the dominion
of stars that fall in dust, as night goes stumbling
with bleat growing ever paler, through the village.

And round the straw bed's fevered pain breathe all
the exhalations of the ancient pit
and all the vestry's gloomy vegetation.
And chaos splashes up out of jungle.

Boris Pasternak

One more Russian classic for all poetry lovers

Wait for Me

Wait for me and I'll come back,
But wait with might and main,
Wait throughout the gloom and rack
Of autumn's yellow rain.
Wait when snowstorms fill the way,
Wait in summer's heat,
Wait when, false to yesterday,
Others do not wait.

Wait though from that far off place
No letters come to you.
Wait when all the others cease
To wait, who waited too.
Wait for me and I'll come back.
Do not lightly let
Those who know so well the knack
Teach you to forget.

Let my mother and my son
Believe that I have died;
Let my friends, their waiting done,
At the fireside,
Lift the wine of grief and clink
To my departed soul.
Wait, and make no haste to drink
Alone amongst them all.

Wait for me and I'll come back,
Defying death. When he
Who could not wait shall call it luck
Only, let it be.
They cannot know, who did not wait,
How in the midst of fire
Your waiting saved me from my fate.
Your waiting and desire.
Why I still am living, we
Shall know, just I and you:
You knew how to wait for me
As no other knew.

Konstantin Simonov

You are right , it was good morning with this beautiful poem.
Thank you so much, dear Sibel.
And this is for you.Good evening, sestrichka!

Last Love

Love at the closing of our days
is apprehensive and very tender.
Glow brighter, brighter, farewell rays
of one last love in its evening splendour.

Blue shade takes half the world away:
through western clouds alone some light is slanted.
O tarry, O tarry, declining day,
enchantment, let me stay enchanted.

The blood runs thinner, yet the heart
remains as ever deep and tender.
O last belated love, thou art
a blend of joy and of hopeless surrender.

Fyodor Tyutchev
Trans. Vladimir Nabokov

Good evening to you, dear Bliss, with one of my favorites

My Friends Light up the Candles for me Still


My friends light up the candles for me still,
And in the smoke, your image is outlined,
And I don't want to know that time will heal,
That everything will pass away with time.

No longer will I ever lose my verve,
For any burden on my soul and any pain,
Unknowingly, she took along with her –
At first, into the port, then on the plane.

Inside my soul there are deserted lands.
What are you seeking in this fruitless blur?!
There are just fragments of old songs and webs,
And all the rest she took along with her.

Inside my soul are goals without means.
Go dig inside, - you'll find there, by chance,
Two simple phrases and unfinished scenes,
And all the rest is now in Paris, France.

My friends light up the candles for me still,
And in the smoke, your image is outlined,
But I don't want to know that time will heal,
That everything will pass away with time.

1967

Vladimir Vysotsky

Translation by Andrej Kneller

Thank you my dear Sibel!
Dobroe utro sestrichka! Eto vot tebe, dumayu bolshe ponravitsya.

Мне каждый вечер зажигают свечи

Мне каждый вечер зажигают свечи,
И образ твой окуривает дым,-
И не хочу я знать, что время лечит,
Что все проходит вместе с ним.

Я больше не избавлюсь от покоя:
Ведь все, что было на душе на год вперед,
Не ведая, она взяла с собою -
Сначала в порт, а после - в самолет.

Мне каждый вечер зажигают свечи,
И образ твой окуривает дым,-
И не хочу я знать, что время лечит,
Что все проходит вместе с ним.

В душе моей - пустынная пустыня,-
Так что ж стоите над пустой моей душой!
Обрывки песен там и паутина,-
А остальное все она взяла с собой.

Теперь мне вечер зажигает свечи,
И образ твой окуривает дым,-
И не хочу я знать, что время лечит,
Что все проходит вместе с ним.

В душе моей - все цели без дороги,-
Поройтесь в ней - и вы найдете лишь
Две полуфразы, полудиалоги,-
А остальное - Франция, Париж...

И пусть мне вечер зажигает свечи,
И образ твой окуривает дым,-
Но не хочу я знать, что время лечит,
Что все проходит вместе с ним.

1967, ред. 1968

Владимир Высоцкий

To dear Duda!

I buried love and doomed myself to be
Its monument. Above the recent grave
Upon myself I carved a dozen lines,
Beyond my strength and posthumously brave.

Love, like a runner in the marathon,
Had reached the tape but yet had lost all breath.
My love had lost the spirit and the soul
And body, lacking spirit, fell to death.

Firm as a stone, I stand amidst the graves
And all I ask is this - Let me alone!
And untoward inscriptions upon me
Do not attempt! For I am not a stone....

Konstantin Simonov

S dnem rojdeniya, rodnaya!