Oh! It looks as pretty suitable place, don't you think, my precious friends

Boop, welcome to the club of poetry lovers

Well...Seems everybody liked Tatyana and her letter to Onegin. So I decided to continue the story.
... Onegin refused Tatyana's love and left the village. But he met her again after couple of years. Shy, poor and simple village girl became beautiful princess, "unapproachable goddess". Onegin felt in love... It was his turn in writting letters...

Letter of Onegin to Tatyana


I foresee all: how the revelation
Of my sad secret will cause offence.
For what a bitter condemnation
Is revealed within your haughty glance!
What do I wish for? And with what aim
Do I open up my soul to you?
And to your spiteful mocking laughter
Perhaps giving cause I'll rue hereafter.

In the past having met you quite by chance,
Seeing in you that spark of tenderness
I did not dare to entrust myself
To it, and shrugged off the sweet romance;
Besides, my repellent liberty
I did not wish then to abandon.
And yet another thing came to part us...
A most stupid sacrifice, poor Lensky ...
From all things that to my heart were dear,
I then had wrenched my heart away;
A stranger to all, bound to no one,
I thought to myself: freedom and rest
Are better than all that happiness.
My God! My God! How was I mistaken!
And how has the heart within me been stricken!

No, no! Each minute to have a glimpse
Of you, to follow you everywhere,
To catch with my adoring eyes,
The smile of your mouth, your looks, your hair;
Only to listen to you, and to understand
In my very soul your complete perfection,
Before you to suffer my crucifixion,
To grow pale, and perish... Ah, that is bliss!

But that is denied me: only for you,
I drag myself hopefully everywhere;
The day is precious, and the hour too,
But I waste in boredom's cruel vanity
The days which by fate are allotted me.
They are such a weary misery!
I know that my days are numbered already,
But in order to give them some small scope
I must in the morning be assured
Of seeing you each day, and of having your word...

I fear that this my humble prayer
By your fierce eye may be construed
As but a cunning trick to lure
You, and I hear your angry sneer.
But if you knew, how terrible
Is the torture of love's rabidness,
To burn ― and yet with reason's curb
To staunch the blood-letting in the soul;
To wish to fall and embrace your knees,
And sobbing, head upon your feet,
To pour forth prayers, confessions, pleas,
All, all, that words can yet control,
Although meanwhile with pretended coldness
To fortify ones looks and speech,
To hold a reasonable conversation,
And look on you with suppressed elation!...

Yet so be it: no longer have I
The strength to fight against this foe;
The die is cast, I am at your mercy,
I submit to my fate, be it yes or no.

Does this story continue, glikia mou? And how? Please don't keep me waiting here

XXXIII.
There is no reply. He composes another.
To a second and yet to a third letter
Still no reply. He goes to a soirée,
She is there. As the room he enters freely
She walks towards him, and so fiercely!
She ignores his presence, no word is spoken,
Alas! How is she now fortified
With the deepest winter's cold and pride!
She scarce holds back the indignation
Behind her lips' enforced compression!
Onegin devours her with his looks:
Where, where is compassion, where confusion?
Where a trace of tears? .. No stain, no sign!
In her face only the remnants of anger shine.

XXXIV.
And perhaps there was a secret fear
That her husband or the world would guess
Her foolish folly or her past tenderness...
All that Onegin knew of her.
There was no hope. He leaves the gathering
Cursing his hopeless lunacy,
And plunging more deeply into madness
He renounces the world and its society.
Then locking himself in his silent study
He remembers the time, not so long since,
When cruel depression and bitterness
Had pursued him through the world's noisiness,
Had caught him and dragged him by the collar,
And shut him away in the darkest corner.

XXXV.
He started to read without much thought.
He got through Gibbon and Rousseau,
Manzoni, Herder and Chamfort,
De Staël and Bichat and Tissot,
The sceptic Bayle he read also,
And all the works of Fontenelle,
And of Russians many whom we know,
Not one rejecting - all were well.
He read the periodicals and journals
Which tell us how we ought to think,
But now they tell me my work stinks,
Although in the past some madrigals
Of criticism would come my way:
E sempre bene, as they say.

XXXVI.
What then? It was the usual tale.
His eyes were reading but his mind
Strayed far; dreams, wishes, melancholy,
Crowded into his wandering brain.
Between the rows of printed lines
He read with spiritual eyes
Alien meanings. And in them he
Was plunged in reverie completely.
Secret traditions, half-lost memories
Of passionate gloomy histories,
And totally disconnected dreams,
Threats, explanations, premonitions,
Or from a long tale some lively nonsense,
Or a young maiden's letter's innocence.

.......................................

Enjoy Sophie!

Oh Bliss! Thank you so much!

Before reading this, i was smiling maliciously here, happy that he got a good lesson. But now, hmm, i feel bad for him...
Oh well... life gives us what we deserve, right?

Oh, dear Sophie, but this not all yet!
Sure he will get what he deserved, just be patient!

Hello my dear poetry lovers,

I have been reading all your post over and over, and i wanted to post some lyrics of Alla Pugacheva's songs. Unfortunately, I don't have their translation in English.

Алла Пугачева
Два пути

Мы в этой жизни только гости:
Немного погостим
И станем уходить,
Кто раньше, кто поздней.

Всё поначалу было просто,
Чем дальше - тем трудней,
И жизнь летит быстрей,
И мы бежим по ней.

Как свеча горяча,
Стекает струйкой воска
Тихо жизнь моя,
И нет пути назад.

Никогда не клянись,
Не обещай что проживёшь
Как надо жизнь,
Взгляни судьбе в глаза.

Мы в жизнь приходим по закону
Всевластвущей судьбы
На смену тем, кто был,
И тем, кто не успел.

Всё будет как угодно Богу,
И, может, я спою
Всё то, что до меня
Ушедший не допел.

Два пути не пройти,
И от судьбы,
Как ни старайся, не уйти,
И жизнь возьмёт своё.

А назад не смотри,
Не вспоминай свои ошибки
На пути,
Иди - и всё пройдёт.
Иди... иди...
Иди...

Нам в жизни так бывает больно,
Израненной душой
Стремимся к небесам,
Ища спасенья там.

И можно быть судьбой довольным,
Но так и не понять,
Что есть ты на земле,
Отдавшись в небеса.

А душа улетит,
И всё забудет,
Ну а Бог ей всё простит,
Была б душа легка.

Просто так надо жить,
Чтоб неустанно радость
И любовь дарить
Всем тем, кто здесь в гостях.


I will come with the translation, if I find one. There is a lot of sense in this song. I can try to translate it in english by myself. I hope to succede in doing it.

See you later,
Mella

Hello my dear friends,
Thank you Mella for this beautiful song.It is one of my favourites.I will try to find the translation too.
Dear Sophie, you are very welcome.Yes, you are right. "What goes around comes around".
Here is the the continuation of the poem(novel)

XXXVII.
So gradually in a drowsy lack
Of thought and feeling he declines,
While fancy in his slumbering mind
Deals out the colourful tarot pack.
At first he sees, in the melting snow
As if resting there for the night,
A youth unmoving, a sorry sight,
And a voice he hears: "He's dead you know."
Then next some ancient enemies,
Slanderers and malicious cowards appear,
And a swarm of young and faithless beauties,
And a circle of comrades seems to leer;
Then, at the window of a rural home
She sits, always she, and she alone!

XXXVIII.
He was so accustomed to lose his way
In this that he almost went doolally,
Or else took up the poet's staff.
And truly, that would have been a laugh!
But indeed, by some hypnotic folly,
The structure of a Russian verse
He nearly at that time had grasped,
(This foolish, wooly headed scholar).
As a poet he even looked the part
When alone, and seated in a corner,
In front of him the chimney flamed,
While he crooned softly: Benedetta
Or Idol mio, and dropped his slipper
Or book in the fire, and ate his supper.

XXXIX.
The days sped past ― and with the warmth
Went winter, spring began to rally.
He did not become a poet or corpse,
And neither did he go doolally.
The spring revives him. At long last
His close pent rooms where he had passed
The long winter like a mouse or marmot,
With its cosy fire and double windows,
One bright clear morning he leaves, and goes
Along the Neva in a fast sledge.
The sun reflects on the criss-crossed ice
In sparkling blues; the dirty sludge
Is melting in the trampled street.
But where are hastening his horses' fleet

XL.
Horses? Reader, you have guessed it
Already, and it is as you conjecture.
He hastens to her, to his Tatyana,
This incorrigible freak and romancer.
He enters like one already dead,
There is not a soul in the entrance hall.
To the next room. Further. But ahead all
Is empty. He opens a door. What's this?
He stands on the edge of a precipice.
The princess is before him and alone,
Sitting, in simple clothes, and ashen,
Some letter she is reading, silently,
And the tears fall from her continually;
Her cheek is leaning upon her hand.



Enjoy for now.

I wish to have Turkish transaltion.

Hey come ooooon!!!
Please please please post more! I got excited here!

Thanks for your suport, dear Bliss.
Thank you, dear Mella, for your contribution.
We are all loking foreward to Eglish translation of this wanderful song. So we could give the chance Cyrano for translating it to Turkish

I'm glad you woke up, my friends!

My dear Sophie! You're so imapatient!
OK... What else I can do but fulfill your wish!

XLI.
Who would not see her silent suffering
In that brief instant and not understand?
Who would not know in the princess's glance
The former Tanya, her simplicity.
In a spasm of remorseful pity
Yevgeny fell down at her feet;
She shuddered, but she does not greet
Him; her gaze fixes on him silently,
Without surprise and without anger...
His frail and wasted countenance,
Beseeching look and dumb insistence
Is clear to her. That simple Tanya,
With the dreams and ideals of former years,
Arises within her and annuls her fears.

XLII.
She does not seek to make him stand,
And not withdrawing from him her eyes
From his greedy lips she does not prize
Her senseless and unconscious hand.
What at this moment are her dreams? ...
A long and silent interval
Then passes. Then quietly she speaks:
"Enough; stand up. To you I shall
Declare my thoughts quite openly.
Onegin, you remember, surely,
That hour, when in our garden alley,
Fate brought us close, and unprotestingly
I heard the sermon that you thought to preach.
But now it is my turn to teach.

XLIII.

Onegin, I was then much younger,
And better it seems, though not so sound,
And then I loved you; you well might ponder
Within your heart what reply I found.
What answer? Only fierce rejection.
Is it not so? For to you nothing new
Was there in a love that was simple and true.
And now? My God! My blood congeals
When I think of that cold look of yours,
That heartless lecturing... But at least
I do not fault you. In that hour so fateful
You acted with genuine nobility,
You were just in the crisis which conquered me,
And with all my soul I am ever grateful.

XLIV.
For then ― is it not true ― in that rural waste
Far from the world's ignoble fuss,
I did not appeal to you... why now do you thus
Pursue me with this unseemly haste?
Why now should I be your occupation?
Is it not that now, in society
I must appear, that I have a station,
That I am rich and amongst nobility,
That my husband in the wars was wounded,
And therefore the court still honours us?
And because you know that my fall from grace
Would be seen by all and notorious,
And to you it would bring a general renown,
And pleasant success would your efforts crown?

For epilogue - you have to wait a little more...