Dear Slavica,
Thank you for your efforts and good job.Of course I appreciate Fatih's and Celal's beautiful translation too.
And this is for you. I think it will be interesting for you as it was for me, even I knew the story.

It’s pointless trying to fight against certain habits, but we can tell you how the statue of ‘the guy in the jacket’ came to be on Krasnyi Vorota Square.

PRESENT: The classics, alas, are not at the top of many people’s lists nowadays. Poetry has become an exotic subject for the elite in many cases. It’s not only the unenlightened few who confuse Pushkin with Lermontov, but also so-called ‘with it’ people. The present day cultural attitude could be summarised with a phrase from a popular comedy ‘Gentlemen of Luck’ when one of the characters honours the statue of Lermontov with the title ‘the guy in the jacket’. It’s pointless trying to fight against certain habits, but we can tell you how the statue of ‘the guy in the jacket’ came to be on Krasnyi Vorota Square.

HISTORY: Tsar Nikolai I did not like Lermontov. When word was sent in 1841 that Lermontov had been killed in a dual, the emperor uttered the famous phrase that jarred even upon other members of the royal family: ‘the dog deserved it’. A monument to Lermontov was not erected under a tsarist government, but do not think that this decision was at all biased. It did not happen simply.

In the eighties of the 19th century, which was around 75 years since Lermontov’s birth, plans were discussed to erect a monument to the poet. There were lots of arguments about where the site should be and three options were suggested: in Moscow, where the poet was born; in St. Petersburg, where he spent most of his life; or in Pyatigorsk, near to which the fatal dual took place.

As a result, four statues of Lermontov were made: two in St. Petersburg, one in Pyatigorsk and one more in Penza – the village Tarkhana is in the Penza region where Lermontov spent his childhood with his grandmother. Moscow at that time was overlooked although Lermontov said the following about Moscow in his poem ‘Sashka’:

Moscow! Moscow!
I love you as a son,
As a Russian,
Warmly, ardently,
And tenderly!

In 1942, the 100-year anniversary of his death, a decree was issued to erect a monument. The war, however, interrupted the plans. It was only in 1964 on the 150-year anniversary of his death that the capital was ready to go ahead with the plans once more. The site was decided upon without any problems - Krasnyi Vorota Square (it had one time been called Lermontov Square), not far from his birthplace. Now the actual project had to be decided upon.

The project had commenced in 1941. A series of sketches were done by the famous Soviet sculptor Ivan Dmitriyevich Shadrom – the creator of the world-famous sculpture ‘The Rock – the proletarian’s weapon’.
In 1952 a competition to design a monument to Lermontov was announced and then another competition in 1958. Out of the 48 projects, the jury choose 42, but none of them were considered to be appropriate for the genius poet. They decided to announce a new competition, in which artists would be invited to partake by the Ministry for Culture.

As a result two projects were organised by the sculptors Motovilov and Brodsky, and they were commissioned to continue with their separate projects. The competition continued up to 1961 when new projects also entered into the running. Not one of the projects, however, was deemed to be an acceptable embodiment of Lermontov. After all this, two projects were chosen to continue working – one belonged to Brodsky and the other to Stempkovsky. It seemed that someone who would be asked to finish the project. But – in 1964 it was declared that not one of the new projects was worthy and Brodsky’s was decided upon. The winner was commissioned to complete the statue within one month.

They planned for the opening to take place in the autumn of 1964 on the 150-year anniversary of the poet’s death. But the sculptors were not able to complete it in such a short time and the opening took place in June 1965.
The bronze figure of Lermontov was surrounded by a lattice engraved with images from his works: ‘Demons’ and ‘The Sail’, and engraved with quotes from his poetry. It was finally completed and Moscow had its own statue of Lermontov.

PRESENT: And so it is that the bronze Lermontov, standing with his hands behind his back, looking down at his feet, is called ‘the guy in the jacket’. It is a sad story and one of much suffering that lies behind this statue. It would in fact be worth immortalising the words: ‘I watch our generation with sadness’, on the lattice around the statue. This is indeed a universal and timeless phrase, irrespective of year, century or generation.

Petr Yashkin

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you Cyrano!!!
Great job.Good investigation...

Dear Sophie,
I was surching for the turkish translation of "The Monogram" but unfortunately couldn't find. Thank you so much. It is one of my favourites. Doesn't matter how many times I read, it is always like I read it first time.
With best regards,
Bliss

You are welcome, my dear friends.Thank you for your warm words.
I love you all!!!

Thank you all!!
It was great gift for me on Valentine's Day.
And I wish you all the best in this wonderful world.

This doesn't belong to russian poetry of course but today I wanted to send this to you because I love all of you.

Dear Lord,

Every single evening
As I'm lying here in bed,
This tiny little Prayer
Keeps running through my head.

God bless all my family
Wherever they may be,
Keep them warm and safe from harm
For they're so close to me.

And God, there is one more thing
I wish that you could do,
Hope you don't mind me asking
Please bless my computer too.

Now I know that it's unusual
To Bless a motherboard,
But listen just a second
While I explain it to you, Lord.

You see that little metal box
Holds more than odds and ends,
Inside those small compartments
Rest so many of my friends.

I know so much about them
By the kindness that they give,
And this little scrap of metal
Takes me in to where they live.

By faith is how I know them
Much the same as you,
We share in what life brings us
And from that our friendships grew.

Please take an extra minute
From your duties up above,
To bless those in my address book
That's filled with so much love.

Wherever else this prayer may reach
To each and every friend,
Bless each e-mail inbox
And each person who hits send.

When you update your Heavenly list
On your own CD-ROM,
Bless everyone who says this prayer
Sent up to GOD.com.

AMEN

Hello my dear friends,
As you know I am little behind, for 12 hours, I think.And because of that I can give myself permission to continue about our beloved Alexandr Sergeevich Pushkin.I hope you'll love this and hope sombody can translate to turkish.There is no english either.I am very sorry for this but I think my russian-speaker classmates will appreciate this.

Дельвиг Антон Антонович

ПУШКИНУ

Кто, как лебедь цветущей Авзонии,
Осененный и миртом, и лаврами,
Майской ночью при хоре порхающих,
В сладких грезах отбился от матери, -

Тот в советах не мудрствует; на стены
Побежденных знамена не вешает;
Столб кормами судов неприятельских
Он не красит пред храмом Ареевым.

Флот, с несчетным богатством Америки,
С тяжким золотом, купленным кровию,
Не взмущает двукраты экватора
Для него кораблями бегущими.

Но с младенчества он обучается
Воспевать красоты поднебесные,
И ланиты его от приветствия,
Удивленной толпы горят пламенем.

И Паллада туманное облако
Рассевает от взоров - и в юности
Он уж видит священную истину
И порок, исподлобья взирающий!

Пушкин! Он и в лесах не укроется:
Лира выдаст его громким пением,
И от смертных восхитит бессмертного
Аполлон на Олимп торжествующий.

1815 (?)
******
Огарев Николай Платонович
НА СМЕРТЬ ПОЭТА

(По перечтении "Е<вгения> 0<негина>")

Зачем душа тоски полна,
Зачем опять грустить готова,
Какое облако волна
Печально отразила снова?
Мечтаний тяжких грустный рой
Поэта глас в душе поэта
Воззвал из дремоты немой.
Поэт погиб уже для света,
Но песнь его еще звучит,
Но лира громкими струнами
Звенит, еще с тех пор звенит,
Как вдохновенными перстами
Он всколебал их перед нами.
И трепет их в цепи времен
Дойдет до позднего потомства,
Ему напомнит скорбно он,
Как пал поэт от вероломства
И будет страшный приговор
Неумолим. Врагов поэта
В могилах праведный укор
Отыщет в будущие лета,
И кости этих мертвецов,
Уж подточенные червями,
Вздрогнут на дне своих гробов
И под согнившими крестами
Истлеют, прокляты веками.
Но что ж! но что ж! поэта нет!
Его ж убийца - он на воле,
Красив и горд, во цвете лет,
Гуляет весел в сладкой доле.
И весь, весь этот черный хор
Клеветников большого света,
В себе носивший заговор
Против спокойствия поэта,
Все живы, все - а мести нет.
И с разъяренными очами
Им не гналась она вослед,
Неся укор за их стопами,
Не вгрызлась в совесть их зубами...
А тот, чья дерзкая рука,
Полмир цепями обвивая,
И не согбенна и крепка,
Как бы железом облитая,
Свободой дышащую грудь
Не устыдилась своевольно
В мундир лакейский затянуть, -
Он зло, и низостно, и больно
Поэта душу уязвил,
Когда коварными устами
Ему он милость подарил
И замешал между рабами
Поэта с вольными мечтами.
Из лавр и терния венец
Поэту дан в удел судьбою,
И пал он жертвой наконец
Неумолимою толпою
Ему расставленных сетей;
Земля, земля, зачем ты губишь
Прекрасных из твоих людей!
Одну траву растишь и любишь,
И вянет злак среди полей;
Или, враждуя с небесами
Враждой старинною твоей,
Ты имя избранных меж нами
Гнетешь страдальчества цепями.
Пускай теперь слеза моя,
И негодуя и тоскуя,
Как дар единый от меня
Падет на урну гробовую;
И если в форме неземной,
Перерожденный дух поэта
Еще витает над страной
Уж им покинутого света -
Мою слезу увидит он
И незаметными перстами
Мне здешней жизни краткий сон
Благословит, с его скорбями
И благородными мечтами,

1837
******

Тютчев Федор Иванович


29-ое ЯНВАРЯ 1837


Из чьей руки свинец смертельный
Поэту сердце растерзал?
Кто сей божественный фнал
Разрушил, как сосуд скудельный?
Будь прав или виновен он
Пред нашей правдою земною,
Навек он высшею рукою
В ''цареубийцы'' заклеймен.


Но ты, в безвременную тьму
Вдруг поглощенная со света,
Мир, мир тебе, о тень поэта,
Мир светлый праху твоему!..
Назло людскому суесловью
Велик и свят был жребий твой!..
Ты был богов орган живой,
Но с кровью в жилах... знойной кровью.


И сею кровью благородной
Ты жажду чести утолил-
И осененный опочил
Хоругвью горести народной.
Вражду твою пусть Тот рассудит,
Кто слышит пролитую кровь...
Тебя ж, как первую любовь,
России сердце не забудет!..

Май - июль(?) 1837
*******

Есенин Сергей Александрович
ПУШКИНУ


Мечтая о могучем даре
Того, кто русской стал судьбой,
Стою я на Тверском бульваре,
Стою и говорю с собой.

Блондинистый, почти белесый,
В легендах ставший как туман,
О Александр! Ты был повеса,
Как я сегодня хулиган.

Но эти милые забавы
Не затемнили образ твой,
И в бронзе выкованной славы
Трясешь ты гордой головой.

А я стою, как пред причастьем,
И говорю в ответ тебе:
Я умер бы сейчас от счастья,
Сподобленный такой судьбе.

Но, обреченный на гоненье,
Еще я долго буду петь...
Чтоб и мое степное пенье
Сумело бронзой прозвенеть.

<1924>
******
Anna Akhmatova
Pushkin
1943
Who knows what’s to be the famous!
With what price had he bought adeptness,
Legality or highest good
About all – so sly and sagest –
To jest, to be secretly mute,
And call a foot ‘a little foot’?


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, July, 2002

Dear Sophie,
Thank you for the poem. How did you know he is one of my favourites?
And this is for you:

Odysseas Elytis

"GIFT SILVER POEM"

I know that all this is worthless and that the language
I speak doesn't have an alphabet

Since the sun and the waves are a syllabic script
which can be deciphered only in the years of sorrow and exile

And the motherland a fresco with successive overlays
frankish or slavic which, should you try to restore,
you are immediately sent to prison and
held responsible

To a crowd of foreign Powers always through
the intervention of your own

As it happens for the disasters

But let's imagine that in an old days' threshing-floor
which might be in an apartment-complex children
are playing and whoever loses

Should, according to the rules, tell the others
and give them a truth

Then everyone ends up holding in his
hand a small

Gift, silver poem.

Translated by Marios Dikaiakos


“I LIVED THE BELOVED NAME...”

I lived the beloved name
In the shade of the aged olive tree
In the roaring of the lifelong sea

Those who stoned me live no longer
With their stones I built a fountain
To its brink green girls come
Their lips descend from the dawn
Their hair unwinds far into the future

Swallows come, infants of the wind
They drink, they fly, so that life goes on
The threat of the dream becomes a dream
Pain rounds the good cape
No voice is lost in the breast of the sky

O deathless sea, tell what you are whispering
I reach your morning mouth early
On the peak where your love appears
I see the will of the night spilling stars
The will of the day nipping the earth’s shoots

I saw a thousand wild lilies on the meadows of life
A thousand children in the true wind
Beautiful strong children who breathe out kindness
And know how to gaze at the deep horizons
When music raises the islands

I carved the beloved name
In the shade of the aged olive tree
In the roaring of the lifelong sea.

Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard

"I believe that note started the custom of exchanging love messages on Valentine's Day. It was written on the day I died, February 14, 269 A.D. Now, every year on this day, people remember. But most importantly, they think about love and friendship."

The point of Valentine's Day is "Love and Friendship".
You are right Mltm.
Religion doesn't matter.

Thank you , my dear Sibel!!!
I will try to find the translation but till that will be done this is for you:

Nobody has been able to say “I love you” in a more passionate, desperate, deep and yet elegant and tasteful way. That is what distinguishes Alexander Pushkin from any person in the world, alive or dead. He was a genius, and no renowned person in Russia is worshipped more. Pushkin pours out our Russian soul - gleeful, suffering, generous, confused, glorious and unsure…

A CONFESSION


To Alexandra Ivanovna Osipova


I love you - love you, even as I

Rage at myself for this obsession,

And as I make my shamed confession,

Despairing at your feet I lie.

I know, I know - it ill becomes me,

I am too old, time to be wise...

But how?.. This love - it overcomes me,

A sickness this in passion's guise.

When you are near I'm filled with sadness,

When far, I yawn, for life's a bore.

I must pour out this love, this madness,

There's nothing that I long for more!

When your skirts rustle, when, my angel,

Your girlish voice I hear, when your

Light step sounds in the parlor - strangely,

I turn confused, perturbed, unsure.

You frown - and I'm in pain, I languish;

You smile - and joy defeats distress;

My one reward for a day's anguish

Comes when your pale hand, love, I kiss.

When you sit bent over your sewing,

Your eyes cast down and fine curls blowing

About your face, with tenderness

I childlike watch, my heart o'erflowing

With love, in my gaze a caress.

Shall I my jealousy and yearning

Describe, my bitterness and woe

When by yourself on some bleak morning

Off on a distant walk you go,

Or with another spend the evening

And, with him near, the piano play,

Or for Opochka leave, or, grieving,

Weep and in silence pass the day?..

Alina! Pray relent, have mercy!

I dare not ask for love - with all

My many sins, both great and small,

I am perhaps of love unworthy!..

But if you feigned love, if you would

Pretend, you'd easily deceive me,

For happily would I, believe me,

Deceive myself if but I could!

1826


What means my name to you?.. 'Twill die

As does the melancholy murmur

Of distant waves or, of a summer,

The forest's hushed nocturnal sigh.

Found on a fading album page,

Dim will it seem and enigmatic,

Like words traced on a tomb, a relic

Of some long dead and vanished age.

What's in my name?.. Long since forgot,

Erased by new, tempestuous passion,

Of tenderness 'twill leave you not

The lingering and sweet impression.

But in an hour of agony

Pray speak it, and recall my image,

And say, "He still remembers me,

His heart alone still pays me homage."

1830