We present this work in honor of Defense of the Fatherland Day.
Denis Davydov Russian 1784 – 1839
Where are you, old friends of mine, True hussars by avocation, Comrades both in arms and wine, Champions of conversation?
Grayheads, I remember you, Dippers full, in blissful poses. Drinking while the fire burned through, Glowing like your own red noses!
Sprawled on hayricks for settees, Jaunty shakoes backward tilted, Hussar jackets to your knees, Sabres resting, carven-hilted.
Black-stained pipes between your teeth, Puffing, there you lay in clover, While the smoke, wreath after wreath, Floated lock and whisker over.
Tire re you drowsed and hugged your swords; Not a sound, while smoke curled densely, Not a murmur – drunk as lords, Drunk till you were almost senseless.
But as soon as dawn arrived Off to battle you rode daily With your shakoes to one side, In tire wind your jackets flailing.
Under riders horses fly, Sabres whistle, foemen slaying… Battle over, nightfall nigh — Dippers once again start playing.
Mat do I see now, though? God! War has given way to dancing; Like officials clad and shod. Through a waltz hussars go prancing.
They’ve grown wise, you’ll say to me… Listen to those home-bred Frenchmen: Jomini1 — just Jomini. But of vodka — ne’er a mention!
Where are you, old friends of mine, True hussars by avocation, Comrades both in arms and wine, Champions of conversation?
We present this work in honor of Holocaust Remembrance Day.
Itzik Feffer Russian 1900 – 1952
The generations-old wine has strengthened me in my wanderings. The angry sword of pain and sorrow has not destroyed my treasure.
My people, my faith and my flowering—it has not chained my freedom. From under the sword I’ve cried out: I am a Jew!
The clever twists of Rabbi Akiva, the wis- dom of Isaiah’s words nourishing my thirst and my love, and fought against hate.
The zest of the Maccabbean heroes and Bar Kokhba’s blood boils in mine. From all the burnings at the stake I’ve cried out: I am a Jew!
And may my enemies be pierced by spears, those who are preparing a grave for me. Be- neath the flag of freedom I’ll yet have no end of pleasure. I’ll plant my vineyards and be the architect of my fat. I’ll yet dance on my enemies graves. I am a Jew!
We present this work in honor of the 130th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Afanasy Fet Russian 1820 – 1892
In the darkness and still of a mysterious night I see a fond and welcoming spark, From the chorus of spheres, familiar eyes Shine upon a grave forgotten in the steppe.
The grass has faded, the desert is grim, A lonely tomb dreams an orphan’s dream, And only in the sky, like an eternal idea, The stars’ golden eyelashes sparkle.
And I dream you’ve risen from the dead, Unchanged since you departed the earth, And I dream a dream: we both are young, And you’ve looked at me as you did back then.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 265th birthday.
Mikhail Nikitich Muravyov Russian 1757 – 1807
Your evening is full of coolness— The shore is moving in crowds Like a magical serenade The voice is carried by the wave Reveal the goddess of grace Seeing enthusiastic piit. That spends sleepless nights Leaning on granite.
We present this work in honor of National Unity Day.
Mikhail Lomonosov Russian 1711 – 1765
on the birthday of her majesty, the sovereign empress Elisaveta Petrovna, autocrat of all Russia, in the year 1746
This very day, most blessèd Russia, A pleasing land in heaven’s eyes, This very day from holy heights Elisaveta’s given thee. To raise our Peter posthumously, To crush our foes’ o’erweening pride And cast them also into horror, To make thee safe from dire misfortunes, To place thee judge above the kingdoms And elevate thee o’er the clouds.
Oh child of Him who thunders above us, Mother of all the tribes of earth, Oh Nature, marvelous in actions, As if you judge me to be worthy To know the deepest of your secrets, And if the weak engine of thoughts May penetrate into your mansions, Present to me that fateful epoch And the stars’ whole course in order, As He most high gave us this token.
Through stormy clouds of former sadness, Which cruèl fate brought unto us, Oh, how the mountains wept for Peter And Pontus roared within its banks, Through changes dreadful for the Rossians, Through the dust that wars disturbed, I see that bright and radiant moment: There ’round the young Elisaveta Shine planets bearing happy fate, I hear the voice of Nature present.
How clear the sun when that first time Upon you shone its gleaming ray, Already fortune stretched her hand With love for all your pleasant ways, She held the crown above your head And elevated there before you The trophies of your fathers’ conquests, Most glorious to the ends of earth. How fortunate was Russia then When first upon the world you gazed!
Then from Poltava, filled with gladness, The sound of Rossian vict’ry roared, Then all the universe’s limits Could not contain the fame of Peter, Then the heads of vanquished vandals Bowed low as they were herded past, E’en when you were in swaddling clothes; Then it was that fate made known, The regiments of their descendants Would fall before you tremorously.
But lo, the various tongues and peoples From the great rivers and the seas Lift up harmonious exclamations, To you, their monarch and their lady, They spread out wide their hearts and hands, And many a time do they repeat: “Long live the great Elisaveta, Born on this day for Rossian glory, And may the heavens fortify her Through multitudes of happy years.”
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 265th birthday.
Dmitry Khvostov Russian 1757 – 1835
Inhabitant of hilly Olympus— Kheraskov! Inspired by Phoebus, Heralded conversant of the Muses; The sounds of your immortal lyre Proclaiming Moscow’s arduous captivity Yet once again elicit the tears of the Slavs. They, both loudly and harmoniously, Depict for us the indomitable spirit Of our ancestors, dauntless in adversity, To leaven our recent sorrows’ load.
Moscow! Vicious Napoleon, Hungrier than Attila, came to embody For the world an epitome of brutality; All the hayfields covered with corpses, Death, fire, looting proceed unimpeded, A shrine in the woods our only guidance; Rattled and shaken by Hell’s own breath, Kremlin itself is severed from the earth And racing through the expanse of air, Strikes the appearance of a fiery fortress.
The chronicler will document The dastardly deeds of these latter days; Progeny will give no credence to the bard, Believing his tale a work of imagination. Both the one and the other will represent That the Grand Caesar of the white lands, Having shifted the North after himself, Routing, trammeled the treacherous enemy, And the Russian is erasing with his mighty hand All trace of indecency from the face of the earth.
Poets Corner 