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Sofiluvu Sep 26
Oh ... you like Onegin in that book
Who cold and pride to pretty woman
But in the end he fall in love
I know it’s gonna take the time
Don’t worry I can wait
You were rejecting me too much
I think you really love me
But probably don’t know it yet
Forgive me for that strangest way
To show how really I can love
I really want you and afraid
So please stop making me to hesitate
And tell me what really feeling towards me?
Do I make your heart beat faster
Do you really want me as I want
And better stop it if you’r not
Shane Roller Mar 24
Dostoevsky dreams
And Pushkin lines
And rhymes...
Like Bolshevik bullets
Tear into me
Hot sleep!

Dead Tsars and Anastasia
Mean nothing to me
But I miss them

Aristocratic nonsense
But tiaras are pretty
With diamonds shining
In a Russian night

As kulaks die
The diamonds glitter
A worthy reminder
Of a beautiful time

When debutantes danced
And the little Tsarina

Could dream in peace
If I listen quietly
past the creaking of this cave
I hear a monster, violently,
digging its own grave.

If I wait a minute more
Its tears will fade away
And all that's left is stupid lore
A monster steeped in gray
(I miss Rian)
Jim Davis Oct 2018
Aleksandr Pushkin

The Poet
While still Apollo isn’t demanding
Bard at the sacred sacrifice,
Through troubles of the worldly muddling
He wretchedly and blindly shuffles;
His holly lyre is quite silent;
His soul’s in the sleeping, soft,
And mid the dwarves of the world-giant,
He, perhaps, is the shortest dwarf.

But when a word of god’s commands,
Touches his ear, always attentive,
It starts – the heart of the Bard native –
As a waked eagle ever starts.
He’s sad in earthly frolics, idle,
Avoids folks’ gossips, always spread,
At feet of the all-peoples’ idol
He does not bend his proud head;
He runs – the wild, severe, stunned,
Full of confusion, full of noise –
To the deserted waters’ shores,
To woods, widespread and humming loud…  

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, November 13, 2003
Pushkin is not listed under the Classics tab here in HP, thus I am posting this from
D Lowell Wilder Dec 2017
I shred the beets.
Heads of red flicks in the bowl
parged of white now rosé, blushes.
To say the word properly is to nestle the
tongue in the church of the mouth the nave
of clucks tucked under the roof of the palate to
squeeze conjoined shushes and birch noises.
To steam to steep
with the lazy roil of the soup.
Do you recall the crunch of the snow outside our dacha?
The days where ice coated crusts cut
The tureen beckons with its fractures.
To predict the future merely gaze into the soup.
How is this to see
a winter of bread and shavings
of fibers sewn rough
of tough, tough coughs that spray rose
petals in the dawn?
Some of my favorite poems are Russian - one in particular Я Вас любил by Pushkin still enchants me. It's a heady poem of deep emotion. This is a vegetable-based tribute.
M Padin May 2016
He looks hither, thither and then afar
to question the shocked silence of his fear.
Above him reigns a scintillating star,
wrought in the dark sky like an icy tear.

He moves between plots of freshly-dug earth
with the cautioned step of a wounded fox,
and discovers traces of that second birth
which calls pale men to the funerary box.

Dead, interred but yet forgotten so soon
no grave bore the name of him who once was.
Like a stolen kiss beneath a full moon,
these men were disposed of without a pause.

This is what terrified the aging Pushkin so.
Death itself inspired no unusual woe.
But he lamented those names lost in snow.
(c) 2016. All rights reserved.

The idea of for this poem occurred to men when I heard an anecdote about the Russian author Pushkin. Evidently, he had a terrible fear of un-marked graves. This poem, then, is an aesthetic reconstruction of an hypothetical scenario: Pushkin meeting the object of his fear.

— The End —