In honor of Victory Day, we present this work by one of modern Russia’s most widely-loved poets.

To river came a woman fair.
A beauty with her auburn tresses.
My flame for her one word expresses –
I wrote it on the parched sand there.

She read it out aloud to me.
“I love you too…” she answered dearly.
Her words came clearly:
“Darling, darling…”
my mind lost then its liberty.

I sat with her upon the sand.
The sun upon our backs was blazing.
Beneath, the rustling pines were gazing.
The rooks’ cry came from distant land.

And for her I some lines composed.
Across our Rapids I was swimming
to fetch a bunch of daisies, brimming,
which I then at her feet disposed.

She laughed and then she read my palm.
She tore the petals from the flowers.
So were my vows possessed of powers,
Or was this superstition’s balm?

And many years have passed since then.
Again, I see – though
eyes are shuttered –
that written word, not even muttered,
is made indelible by pen.

In honor of Defense of the Fatherland Day, we present this work by one of Russia’s great martyred poets.

The eternal entrance into Eden
Is not locked with seven precious seals;
It has no charms nor light of heaven,
And the people don’t know that it is.

It’s a doorway in a wall forgotten —
Stones, moss and nothing more else,
Near stands a beggar; and the rotten,
Keys are hanging at his gaudy waist.

Paladins ride by in agitation,
Trumpets wail, and minted silver chant;
Nobody spares his attention
To the Peter — the Apostle, the saint.

They dream: There, by Sepulchre of Savor,
Paradise will open doors for us;
At the footing of the Mount Thabor
The committed hour will thrust.

So by the armored monster goes;
In the air the trumpets ring and wail;
The Apostle in the tattered cloth,
Like a beggar, looks and poor and pale.

I fell in love with you, just when had seen you, dearest,
I still recall the simplest talk around us,
You were just one the mute, and speech of fire, fierce,
In lost of sounds words, were send me by your eyes.

Days by the days were sunk. The year had passed since then.
And spring is sending us its living rays, once more,
The flowers are set in fairy dress again,
But I’m? I’m still in love with you as was before.

And you’re, as in the past, the silent one and sad;
Only your look sometimes is glowing and speaking,
Not in such way, sometimes, the moon – an empress, great, –

Is hiding her bright face behind a mound, pricking? –
Yet, and behind the rock, with her forehead inclined,
From darkness, narrow, she sheds the gorgeous light.

In honor of the First Day of Chanukah, we present this work by one of Russia’s most famous Jewish poets.

How I remember solstice days
Through many winters long completed!
Each unrepeatable, unique,
And each one countless times repeated.

Of all these days, these only days,
When one rejoiced in the impression
That time had stopped, there grew in years
An unforgettable succession.

Each one of them I can evoke.
The year is to midwinter moving,
The roofs are dripping, roads are soaked,
And on the ice the sun is brooding.

Then lovers hastily are drawn
To one another, vague and dreaming,
And in the heat, upon a tree
The sweating nesting-box is steaming.

And sleepy clock-hands laze away
The clock-face wearily ascending.
Eternal, endless is the day,
And the embrace is never-ending.

Do you need an explanation
what the Russian God can be?
Here’s a rough approximation
as the thing appears to me.

God of snowstorms, God of potholes,
every wretched road you’ve trod,
coach inns, cockroach haunts, and ratholes –
that’s him, that’s your Russian God.

God of frostbite, God of famine,
beggars, cripples by the yard,
farms with no crops to examine –
that’s him, that’s your Russian God.

God of breasts and… all sagging,
swollen legs in bast shoes shod,
curds gone curdled, faces dragging –
that’s him, that’s your Russian God.

God of brandy, pickle vendors,
those who pawn what serfs they’ve got,
of old women of both genders –
that’s him, that’s your Russian God.

God of medals and of millions,
God of yard sweepers unshod,
lords in sleighs with two postilions –
that’s him, that’s your Russian God.

Fools win grace, wise men be wary,
there he never spares the rod,
God of everything contrary –
that’s him, that’s your Russian God.

God of all that gets shipped in here,
unbecoming, senseless, odd,
God of mustard on your dinner –
that’s him, that’s your Russian God.

God of foreigners, whenever
they set foot on Russian sod,
God of Germans, now and ever –
that’s him, that’s your Russian God.

We present this work in honor of the Russian holiday, National Unity Day.

I built myself a monument, eternal and miraculous,
It’s higher than the Pyramids, than metal it is harder;
Swift winds and thunder cannot knock it down
The flight of time cannot demolish it.

Thus I won’t really die! The part of me that’s largest
Will baffle death, and will escape decay,
My fame will grow, and never wither,
As long as Slavs are honored in this world.

And word of me shall spread from the White Sea to the Black,
Where Volga, Don, Neva and Ural rivers flow,
Each member of the countless tribes will know
How from obscurity I found my way to fame,

By daring first in lively Russian speech
To celebrate the virtues of Felitsa,
To talk of God with intimate simplicity,
And with a smile announce the truth to kings.

O Muse! take pride in your well-earned rewards,
Disdain all those who show disdain for you,
And with an easy and unhurried hand,
With dawn eternal crown your brow.