The Confessions of a Christian. Book 2.
#1 Ode to Saint Matron of Moscow
There’s tomb. There memory will save
All virtues and conscience.
And the tale of unhurried days
Poet will proclaim to simple hearts.
She’s gone. And she is back,
And Heaven is back with her
To spread best of the best
And to make us to love truth.
Is world the mutable or constant,
And limited or there’s no limits –
Is it for people or for comets?
The question however is strange.
Only God alone can resolve it,
Or even resolved in the days of creation.
And faith surviving all doubts
Will overpower them and outweigh.
#3 To Holy Memory of Nun Antonia from Nunnery of Tolgsk.
Antonia? Yes, and the great one.
To herself attentively rigorous.
To everyone lucid and simple,
And never saying in vain.
To fight the devil is a task
For executioner or for tears?
Life is gone. She is no more.
Peace and light are in her tomb.
#4 To Friend at the Table.
Don’t remind me Apicius.
Let God save you from it.
Now I am happy only for that
That my table does not suit for orgies.
I don’t grudge the wines and dishes,
I am always willing to share them.
But do know, my friend, that not the vessels
Are the best decorations for the feasts.
There is better to be appropriate word,
Memoirs about those
Who in my inclement age
Were loved by joy and success,
Whose dust is not far from here,
Whose memory is every new celebration,
About whom my tears dropped
To trembling porphyry of wine,
Which is about to boil up
Like speech of young ones,
Like blood that in heart of old man
Who is driving out the death knowing it,
But not giving to it up.
And from bottle brought
To us by vain commerce
We drink nectar and bloody and foamy
According to dates and words.
#5 On Tomb of Lieutenant.
He was military chap and was reading
All that his leisure time permitted.
And to this book he paid
One jiffy. And what remained?
To remember him happily.
We knew him, we were blessed.
Someone will be woken
By his memory in midnight,
And tear sweet and soft
Will fall to the abyss of universe.
I see far away hills. There is fog on them.
Purple dawn with its wing
Already covered silent meadows,
And they sleep in their cool dream.
Nun goes for water with bucket
Holding little girl by the hand,
And it seems to them –
The Lord is coming! The Lord is coming!
I don’t hear their steps. And soon
They approach holy spring.
Their eyes are joyful and humble
And pacify my soul.
As soon as sunny beam touches the mountain stream
And clears the roaring of water
Which is all-days indisputable sovereign
Of thoughtful plains –
Sunshine comes to the dales,
And to the raised stone of rocks,
And the people of nearest villages
Convene to daily prayer.
Bells are barely heard,
And trembling flocks of birds
Taking on the wing are blessing roofs,
And then are kissing the ground.
And for whom? For God or men,
Or for their hunter,
Or for vale that feeds them?
In short fall unmoved
Their swarm of shadows is everywhere,
Children are scaring them.
And I think that I will be
The same shadow when I will die.
So was often. And why
To replace sun and moon?
But that’s the will of God.
And for what it is only God knows.
He is Lord of them. And rare freedoms
In his creation occurring by miracle
Bring to Him their different fruits
When serving to their own law.
I’m thirsty for new impressions,
And they have tightness in my chest
In queue of wonderful insights.
But the past attracts me
More strongly than passions of this moment.
And among the unintelligible wishes of now
My past is singing me old songs.
Our sorrows are alien to you?
But what is your sorrow then?
You are saddly that Providence
Does not send you prophetic dreams?
It’s a sin to be discontented with Heaven.
You must admit that Heaven is wise.
And ignorance is happiness for us,
Because it’s bliss of new-borne infants.
#11 About Death.
Wind fell silent. And on the leaves of dawn
Dew still sways.
And voices of midnight birds
Still are heard to mortal ear.
And behold horizon is expanded
And enlivened by tender blush.
And being overwhelmed by silence
I woke form my thoughts
About fear and sorrow,
About subject of my long prayers
To Lord of everyone by which
He bought my love, sorrow and soul.
Among a much of tempests in my soul
I found the one omen
About Thee- Eternity! But word
Touches it in vain.
And my mind captivated by thin freeze
And penetrating to its substance
Does not feel it
Darkened by its bliss.
And what is given to mortal
In his weakness and pride
Which is near to him, and what from now
Is his salvation.
O, Inspiration! – only Thee
Can explain Thy enigma.
And I am used to love Thee
Without hope and doubt.
When wine was filling this cup,
In its purple and foamy stream
One moment I see
Something that reminded me
Our love. And after that in cold night
After perusal of newspapers and magazines,
Of works of Holy Fathers, and of sinful annals,
And of boredom of latter-day sophistics,
Sitting before the fire I remembered
Rapture and horror of this vision.
And cold column of the bloody fall
Stood up in my memory piercing me.
Sin isn’t sweet, but not to stop,
Not to resist its attraction
I did not want. So why to grumble?
It’s time, my soul, to pray to God.
I’m cold; with me are Book of Psalms and Saint Icon.
Tea is cooling down on kitchen, and words are dying in my soul.
But for them Divine Mercy by unknown way
Will find and life and destination. Like woman
Died leaving Sodom when saw wrath of God –
So stately verse when it will leave my mind
To be cold pillar after rising weak eyes
On the hell punished by sulfur and fire.
But Thee – o, my thought – but Thee, o my glorious Lot!
Unspoken aloud yet Thou will find to Thyself
Eloquent eyes, and grateful ears.
Thy voice that is easy like the down –
It will go, like shadow hovering form forehead
And there where fate won’t bring my verse.
Our days fly and disappear.
Who will be saved- who will perish?
Heart will be deceived by caress,
Soul will be ruined by weakness.
There is no answer in silence –
O, madman! It’s enough.
You drank your youth:
So why you did not find love?
So what’s the pity remainder?
In whose knees poking your nose
You will have long-wished peace
Full with joy and tears.
Your lyre is not to sing forever.
And your song will be thrown to fire.
You have no consolation,
But come to me.
You’re tired, and I’m tired.
So why your voice is inaudible?
So why don’t you sing?
Wave flies. Its raid
Is about to cover the shore
When it’s to fall on sand that’s white like snow,
And like stone that became virgin of tenderness.
So The Time is going among us
Imprinting soul and features,
Hour-by-hour demolishing to the dust
My mind and girl of beauty.
So you, o Love! – are casting suddenly
Your sight and mutinous and happy,
You sweep codex of our rules
Which is often is such unfairness.
So Death – ever starving guard
Of order created by the sin –
When falling on our fragile frame
Smites it with sickle.
When on unartful harp
I played with easy hand
And with flippant and sad song
Languished my breast – My soul gets thirsty
Of higher thought. And eyes
Half-folded and ablaze
Were looking into my heart, where hopes
As sacrifices to fire of altar
Time was throwing. Smoke over dust
Rose in thin stream.
And with madness and horror
I have seen in it what will be with me.
More dear than sunsets and sunrises,
And than preaching of the ways
Of poetry, of love, of nations,
And more brave than any bravery
Seems to me – the wish
That will die unfulfilled.
The image of creature of God
I see in it – the one resembling myself.
That when got to know movement of world a bit,
And tasted own babyhood –
To get silent like lyre
That had accomplished its fate.
What did I sing? No word about it!
Let my example not to be model for you.
Do love saint geniuses!
You have Chrysostom for this purpose.
There are four authors of The Gospels.
Do read them. There’s David for you.
They are splendid. Their days are bright.
And I am their pupil.
Embracing young crops
Tempest in the steppe is rising,
Inhaling moisture and go
Bringing curses of thunder
On heads of poor villagers.
Their prayers answer to it with the same.
And further hurricane goes,
Calming down among eternal battle
Of all elements and passions
That embodied in the man
To fulfill gloomy ages
With all their power.
When under foamy wave
Young tempest discloses
Abyss of depth of sea
At the shore, the shadow
Of the other wave is already coming,
Destroying itself in quick going,
And disappearing in the sands and rocks.
In this I see pictures of the days
That are gone and were troublesome.
That frightened us with frivolity
And are impossible to continue.
Be blessed the Moscow dialect,
And clearness and sonority of its words
In everyone of their scientific interpretations,
And vivid development
Supported by many a crowds,
Praying to its own God.
In a word – the language
Brilliant and to astonish.
I philosophize – but dignified weakness
That lives and was created for cathedra,
And cruel and feeble steadfastness
That feeds on mutinous crowd,
And talkative nonsense
Everywhere cheered and unhappy,
And praise to our fools
And to their advices and purses,
And businesses of womankind, and girly secrets,
And imbecility of loony-bins and poets,
And clairvoyance, and world’s conspiracy
Are not with me. That’s alright.
The God is with me now. And the pity
That this reason cannot be found simply.
Winter is gone, and in her wake
Spring is also gone. But there’s no summer.
Clock calmly ticks. And cold rain
Clings to fertile plains,
And wind chases clouds over hills
Hither and thither, and always towards us.
And if the sun in midday gleam
Will appear, that’s only to spread
Irate heat to aged puddles,
And to go leaving warmth to them.
And not my plume, not milk in the glass,
And not the morning that is drowned in fog –
Are not fussy. And my blood is silent
As if there’s no the death, and no sin.
Behold the moon declined to stack of straw
And watches like a woman on the road
To dark river, on which from moon
Is running silver streak.
Dogs are barking in humid hay.
And fisherman knee-deep in the water
Threw line by the nearest reeds.
Morning to come soon. And fresh breeze
Hunts shreds of fog’s tatters.
It’s late to sleep, and early to rise.
I’d go to milk my cow.
All is splendid, but anyhow not the paradise.
My soul is already not here,
It’s already beyond this world.
Just say me “Go!”
And I leave for ages.
People like me are not lonely.
So was here, so will be there.
This gift wasn’t bought by sins
And I value it highly.
Life, Death, Separation, Heavens,
Or the Hell which is copy of the world.
Everything is You, God, miracles,
Love, poetry and lyre.
When you decided to see the world
And connected your computer to Internet,
Or half a year visiting Athens
To look at prophetic and aged ruins,
And London became native home for you,
And you’re pining even there,
And Ocean opened its gates
To America and back,
And aromatic vessel of India
Is drunk by you and wished no more,
And Africa with its hunting
Seemed to you the childish entertainment.
Then there’s The Lord! And to read psalms
Go, my friend, to the monastery.
There are coincidences in life
That are not hard to foresee
By eyes of soul. But how to put it?
There’s own blessing for everything.
And if I am still grieving
About something by my idle heart
Then merciful Providence
Gives me all I’m looking for,
All that I don’t yet know,
But what is held for me
By sagacious fate.
And all my languor
Is rendered again a nonentity.
Sun of north be bright.
Beauty is your destiny.
Destroy short jiffy of darkness
By the beam of you rise.
And in windy cold of winters,
And in summer full of hopes
You’re delight of mortal eyes,
And necessary friend of mortals.
In a shawl of dark clouds
Already crossed the skies
The mute whiff of sunset.
It went on its own.
I’m half asleep and in half dreams
Reveries come to me.
They are clear and bright, and you
Appears in light and flowers.
My dream – yes exciting, but only dream –
Till I die
Will leave with me its calmness
And all its omens for my heart.
Fare you well! – groves and forests.
My way speeds out of here.
And in this stormy night
I will leave you for good.
My new destiny is not privilege.
And again I will march through streets of city
As I am due
Among stones and tombs.
Tiredness of days and this boredom
I learned like a science,
But to submit to its rules
Is hard for me, and again
I hurry up by simple-minded step
To the world unknown and stuffy.
Where everything presses soul,
Where everything is lie and in vain,
Where everything is habit of submission
Of whole life to caprices of the moment.
Sovereign of the creation gave
To my mind marvelous light.
And the world that seemed to be well-known
I discovered in this light again.
Full with wonderful power
Stream of moving fates
And horrible and perfect
Dashed before me.
In the shadows of young trees
I bent to cold of calm stream.
And my life seems to be similar
To this picture.
As midday shadow of the trees
I was to occasional strangers,
And song of my lyre
Soothed the grief of their hearts.
Sparrow is jumping under the sun
Among indifferent dogs.
And the bird is happy with its fate,
And it is proud by its happiness.
There’s gleam of skies in its eyes,
And flippant trait in its movements.
And splash of short wings
Can tell everything about it.
But it is needed by no one.
And in its own calm conscience
Not astonished with nothing
Sparrow is jumping under the sun.
Stack of hay, ray of the sun in dusty barn,
Two black numbers on the cross at cemetery,
Fog among aging birches,
And swears of women, and eternal hay-making.
That’s the Russia! And I’m among her roads and dust,
Either drunk or in friend’s car –
Always in fuss, and this blessing
To feel, or even to understand –
How? God forgives – and we are not evil people.
And memory of past appearing as soup in dish
Still fuming and by its fresh anguish
Why torments me? And what is my hunger?
Is it a past which was sinful and cruel?
Away with it – and don’t bother!
Away with it – those who think about it
Understood the life, but the aim of our living
Is yet not here. And why to guess
In alien features the alien blessing.
I’m Russian- Yes! But let this word
Not to scare nobody.
Last friend of my soul
This word supports and wakes
Spirit of better truth – O, Creator! –
There are Hope, Faith and Courage,
And – Glory ye God! – at last
Love to the common peace.
Do love your native land, my friends.
She is our mother, and old one.
Her eyes are my sorrow,
Her eyes are halfpenny candle,
Which burns and still is not burnt down,
In its light is sunset’s beam,
That speaks to me,
That torments my heart.
Preferring to anxieties of the day the sadness
About the days that are never to return,
I say to my doubts – ‘Let it be!
My soul already was able to inhale
That air of life with which sweetness
I lived till now and will live on,
That was like one mysterious stream
That quenches my thirst in the desert.’
Fog will dissolve. And again before me
Will be discovered with Heavenly power
Your image gentle and live,
And because of it saint and dear.
But where to find it? Around
Unmoving shroud of fog.
Where are you? Do answer to me!
But everything is silence.
Thorny way is given to us from above
By Sovereign of every bliss.
And in this way is the source of our wounds,
And the source of perfection.
And all the murmurs against almighty
And beneficiary hand of Lord
Is to be humbled by blessing and calm
Of last sepulchral caress.
Now, young Bacchantes,
Where you will lead your raid?
Will be it to the broad plains of Russia?
Where only are the flowers or snow,
Where by your long awaited friendship
Already Sheppard-boy is languishing,
And with sweet and unstrange music
Is sounding his pipe.
Where everything without name and sound,
Without your fateful caress
Is alone unspoken torture
Of soul unknown and alone.
In silence of fragrant fields
There’s unvalued flower.
To its inconstant beauty
East extended thin ray.
It breathes of tenderness of impressions,
Over its vague head
Rises flying genius –
The hundred-winged wind of plains.
On its petal by the dew
Will recline water of the nearest stream.
And virgin with caressing hand
Will hold it to her breast.
Cornfields faded before sunset.
Clouds, dragging over them
It theirs modest decoration,
Swim by will of breeze.
They have no power to explain themselves,
They are mute – and native land,
Looking at their sad union,
Responds to them with eternal silence.
I love tomb-hills,
And nightly railway stations.
Only they are sorrowful,
Assiduous, and tired.
In them I see my life-
Errors, tears, hopes,
And perfect wishes.
#47 On Two-Headed Eagle (The Royal Russian Emblem).
There’s on the wall on Babylon
Features of beautiful bird.
By mason, schoolboy and monk.
Its wing captivated on its own
Fellows of my dream,
And rushed on us the streams
Of passions that are avid for eternity.
Endure, evil man! Endure, child!
And you- o, woman- Endure!
Curve of the fate is thin,
One moment more, and calmly
Will fall. There is something
Lacks in the queue of events.
Either there’s to be woe,
Or there’s no woe at all, or woe is needed.
Already over foggy hills
Swim the sunrise. And like by shore
By the line of end of earth
Its aspirations are held.
It doesn’t torment or disturb.
In peace the creation can
Be at rest some hour
While heat is not
Yet there one tired star
Is bright on dim sky.
But day will come soon,
And soon forever star will disappear.
So is friend that’s glorified by eternity.
Now he is alive, then deprived of all vanities,
And then is silent.
Yet not knowing what waits me
In future so troublesome,
That is so hard, frightful, impossible –
I made my choice in due turn.
And my choice was lucky.
Not knowing betrayal in friends,
I passed changes of times,
And I’m happy with Heavens and myself.
I write not for glory
But more for my own joy.
To put words in beautiful verse
Is a limit of my hopes.
And if somebody likes my verse –
It’s triumphal minute
To my soul. I love my reader
Who is wise in beautiful wisdom.
Field is extended before me,
Midnight darkness is over it.
Moon, pretty set by itself
Through the clouds embraced the field
With frosty light. Unwillingly
I am obsessed like by the dream
By this sad reality. Wishing to you
The better lot, o my native land.
#54 On Prayer of Ephraim of Syria.
Simple like sound of Gospel,
Sweet like speech of David –
Is a prayer that’s consonant
To my soul at Lent.
It was put in poem by Great Pushkin,
Who is friend of our splendid pastimes,
Now they are beautiful,
Now they are overpoweringly sweet.
And with this prayer
We will go through inconstancy of this life
Past heathen snobbery
To find peaceful happiness.
It’s perfect. Ghost of Liberty
In these words will invite us
And will explain many times
Our duty and mysteries of nature.
#55 To Nun Eulalie.
The beauty of old nuns
I value like Godly dew
That suits only those
Who with all their souls
Already in Paradise,
With whom the talk of God is pleasant,
Who cherish us tenderly
For Kingdom come.
When from the Heavens throws the thunder
Elijah in chariot,
I am always joyful in my heart
And tune my lyre
To pure harmony that was
Much beloved by David.
With which I won’t be able to sing Evil
But only to praise Creator.
Love appears sometime
As a dangerous toy for us
That neglects its servant
But sanctifies voice of lyre.
So often we love by lyre
Having no caress.
So by will of passions we are crippled
Who are deprived of the little solace.
There can be and the other way round,
Engulfed in embrace
We forget the call of lyre
And on and on.
The teacher of happiness and victories
Was Mohamed for Arabs.
He also was the great temptation for Christians
To train us in apologetics.
We succeeded in our belief
And we became to alien errors
The one friendly advice.
But to accept us is a hard work
And we wait for those astray.
When days of raptures will pass
And reason will rise soberly,
And won’t look indulgently
At the fetters of its vanity.
Then, o poet, heed to greatness
Of ordinary deeds, and of simple people,
Which in their virtue
Show true way to glory.
To Glory that is fulfilled among them
And opening Heavenly doors
In every temptation.
What is my life? And if it possible
To find peace and happiness in it.
Or only new tempest
Will fall from Heavens with new power.
I’ hurry up and every day
I pass luckily enough,
My heart multiplies remembrances,
And the further the more I’m devoted to them.
#61 The Short Notice on Subjects of Astrology and Divine Providence.
Stars from different tribes,
Stars from different unions –
They are invitingly proud
And shine with uncommon genius.
But behold! If only
There’s blessing of Providence –
We are forgetting stars.
And this is astonishing.
Such, alas! – is the lot of poet –
One thing to do day by day
And to sing of other things.
He pacified by fate all these.
Gift that is given to him from above
He is forgetting often –
But seizing his lyre
He becomes prophetic.
That chained the world –
Is non-vanishing idol
Of profit and its riches.
What to do with it? How to destroy
Hope that is saint for worshiper of this idol.
That changing its names
Hurts us again and again.
Poetry is breath of Divinity.
Poetry is a soul of lyre and art
That brings to the world exquisite feelings
When joining old words in new order.
Let’s open way for inspiration
Which law is unchangeable in ages.
It declares to hearts of people
To trust all hopes to revelation.
#65 To Bolshevik About Aim Of His Life.
Vicar of world vanities
And social catastrophes,
Oppressor of long-suffering crowds,
And author of all your calumnies.
O, Bolshevik, where are you driving at?
In heroes of vain epochs?
I see that you feel bad
And rather won’t answer to me.
As the piece of stale bread
Polluted by the insects
The Soviet poetry
Is full of sad omens.
Proclaim in them to universe
That where decay breathes
We won’t find happiness.
So do bless those who going
From darkness of past
To darkness that used to be ubiquitous
To threaten our reason.
Catching moment of life
With eyes avid for happiness
We dismayed by sentence
Brought to us by death.
Oblivion and torture for ones,
And paradise and glory to others
Death brings extending
Its hand on us.
What we will find in Platonic romances?
There’s no answer.
These are only false nets
Dragging us to thin lies
Of reason, feeling and passions
To smash us afterward
With all its unreality.
Enough we were rejoicing
With glorious poems of John Keats.
It’s time to turn our eyes
To contemporaries. Let’s in morning
Will open book of new poet
By habitual reckoning
To taste mature fruits
Of some other reason. And alike
Let will be our day.
And what we will discover in bookshops
For our happiness we’ll take.
And in the evening like in the day
We will find in new bookstore
Something not rigorous to us
To delight it.
And when night to its stars
Will show their place in skies,
And all in nature will be changed –
We will dash to bed
Of leisure and tenderness.
Unmercifully reproach myself
For my uselessness
I cannot. I am rather to live
For new and perfect songs.
They come as secret gift,
As fairness of Providence
Which answers to prayers
Of young and old,
Of drunk and sober,
And of useless
Who enjoy their life
Waiting the novelties from their fate.
It’s anguish. What to do?
Where to hide? Where with bent head
I’ll find new happiness
To forget in it everything diligently?
This happiness is not in girls or in wine,
Not in gold, or in fetters of marriage,
And not in sweet oblivion of the fear
That death will take me in the night.
That I won’t meet her face to face,
That I’ll give up to her in weak-will,
When I am asleep
And don’t dispute with Providence.
I am so ironic. God forgive me!
And why is this lot of irony?
Taking her from beginning
As company fellow
I blundered –
And now my bile is everywhere.
But Reason – my true friend
Is saying “Wait a minute!
And in lacks of love
Find though one virtue
And you will atone your life by it
Forgiving everything to your enemies.”
There is no place for Sublime
And where it lives, it is avidly scorned
In its beginnings. So they dare –
And they are no more and without trace.
Only Sublime is eternal in the world.
And to its ubiquitousness
As to our Providence
Our memory pays attention carelessly.
So with genius of simple things
Or great triumphs
Are alive and shreds of tradition
And novelty in its glory.
We are astonished sometimes
How great is Divine mercy to us.
And we think if it’s a dream –
And so we find peace.
Then with Icon of Mother of God
Adorning corner of our room
We are recalling lesson from Scripture.
Now there’s the wedding of future apostle, and wine,
And water. Here will be miracle.
Like with our life. And meantime
Our duty is only to pray.
Are you proud, poet, by your glory?
And you think you did much
And were not sinful
Of evil eloquence.
Are you judge for yourself?
And not afraid of Last Judgment?
I think you are simply drunk if so
Let not wine to kill you!
Introduce in your noisy life the ascetics
And use time on earth
Not to harm yourself,
Pray when you eat and drink.
And do remember those
Who went before you by the path of inspiration.
Do not betray yourself to vain grief
And you will be happy, my friend.
Expenses are everywhere, and money fly away
Like birds called by law of nature.
But what the money? Icon?
O, no! So let they say –
‘Pray to gold! Wish
On the earth only wealth!
And do bless gold to rule
It’s funny. And I say
That our happiness is not in the richness.
But only The God alone
Is more powerful than anyone and anything.
Bending their heads
Friends over coffin of their fellow
Are alien to mortal fear.
So daringly passing the life
Among battles and contentions,
Feasts, and languor
Their late friend
Disdained this fear like them.
But there’s one among them
Whom God will embrace
And mortal fear will find
To his soul sublime toils.
Heat of desert and wild animal
Will accompany him till tomb.
And sour wine of passions
Won’t approach his lips.
Saint Patron of Russian poetry,
Forerunner of sweet bards.
O, Chrysostom! To prayer book
And to Divine Service of pure sacrifice
You had put measure of measures –
Good taste with good will
That became our high school
And poetic example.
There’s hour of rushing light
That like an arrow
Strikes everything with blush of sunrise
No knowing toil and pain.
It is all peace and constancy,
It is all triumph of entertainment
To dress universe in the decoration
That is chosen by Divinity.
But, no! And darkness will hide it.
But short moment! And moon
Will rip avid belly of darkness
In crown of stars.
Behold – that is Heavenly grape-vine
That whirls like pearl-lace
All twisted and that is lightning
Which embrace old oak.
And behold! Instantly with Baltic ember
The old tree is flourishing – fire came,
And this eternal element
Rise to Heavens in sparkles
Which heat is indomitable.
And turning everything to ashes
Sparkles live only one instant
Being borne and dead soon.
There flies brocade of blue stream
Further and further among velvet grass.
Modest pipe is singing above them,
And its song will die without glory.
So modesty is only decoration
Of greatness of earthly things
That doomed to live eternally
Glorified by poets.
Rising prophetic hands
And appealing in full voice to Heaven
Poet needs only miracles
And he wishes to meet The God.
Bloody thorny crown
Will top him in sorrow hour.
The word Poet in Greek means
Beginner of battle and Lord Jesus Christ.
#84 Ode On Book of Pslams.
David is king of poets –
And Law of Divine Service
Is his omen and glory
By which is well-known in Russia
The assiduous collection in translation
Of ancient and righteous fathers.
By this book sanctified our prayers
In parish and in palace of Czar.
I knew all I wished to know –
Love, friends, grace of Heavens,
And God in breaking of Bread,
And passion in female caress.
And to those who want to be happy
And in this life and afterwards
I say “Follow The Christ!
Love with unangry heart!”
Thin covers lie
On every word
That flies to strike artfully hearts
Without the obstacles.
Is it enough to say about it
By unchangeable and eternal word
Which will remind to you the covers
Of Divine Mercy.
Take the lyre! What’s with it?
Only frame and strings and that’s all.
And where are terrible thunders?
And prophecies of days to come?
Where’s that that we loved dearly,
Forgetting ourselves, and what we kept,
What we raised to Heavens,
And what we did not forget in the death?
At dawn the night will die
Not understanding power of the day
Which lives by perfect glory
Unovercomable by night.
But light is not forever.
And it runs to disappear,
And scudding the welkin
To submerge in darkness.
Trumpet calls! To bloody battle
Will go careless youth.
Ones of them will be crowned in Heavens,
Others will descend to hell with glory.
There’s no number to them.
Under the stars they’ll fall in combat.
And we will pray about them
And fasting and taking holy orders.
God loves us as his image
That was created as was awaited.
And what was with us after it,
And became our common fate –
All that is Blessing, and Providence,
And Divine Appeal to hearts
Where passions reigns. Don’t be
Conceited fool to deny it.
O, Vice – you’re ruthless fire
That goes from heart to heart,
And where finds door
Enters and drags by net
Excess to there, and having sated
The mortal soul, Vice – you blame it
Crushing precious stone of faith
To punish us eternally.
Our age is short, void and evil,
But wants to defeat Heavens.
By our unworthy words
The Words of Lord is disdained.
We think that we are diligent,
That we are kind, and complicated,
That our hopes are important,
That our passions are impossible.
Hurricane dashed through the field
Breaking trees, rumpling corn.
He wanted to rejoice
And was either drunk, or too drunk.
That same is with our years
That destroy obstacles on their way,
They try to overcome
All that they encounter.
I was asleep when was drugged
By my leisure.
And I was not inviting guests,
And I wanted the peace only.
But my hermitage
I left by call from friend.
And again I serve him,
And he is judge of my songs.
Hopes where are you? Where you disappeared
From daylight by your crowd.
You were charming and beautiful
And did not come true.
World is void without you. Alone
I go away by sorrowful path,
And voice of weeping wind
Is only dictator of my harmonies.
To midnight of Russia stranger went
Submitted to Supreme fates.
He went through the cities
Everywhere alone and exiled.
Nobody shared wine with him.
Only voice of Heavens blessed him.
And his sight was austerity and light
And its light was not engulfed by darkness.
#97 The Poet.
He is true to book of La Fontaine,
There’s Eliot in his pocket.
He is real idiot
Of poetic disposition.
He is not rich, his friends
Bring him the peace and the wines,
And though he is not prince charming
He has his wife.
Singer was proud. He did not prayed
The Heavens for indulgence from above.
But instantly he found in his song
Omen of Supreme powers.
He’s astonished. Is it The Lord
Who blessed him?
And how can vain flesh
To have insight in Divine Mysteries?
#99 To Saint Feodosiy of Caucasus, who lived 148 years.
There’s old priest in the tomb.
Long age he roamed around the world,
And was humble man,
And now wears crown of angel
Gifted to him by Lord
To stumble alien folks.
His soul is pure like snow –
Like first snow in days of creation.
I pray you – O, Saint Providence! –
Don’t leave me in my grief.
I come to you in need
And I was in hope of revelation.
Appear to me in your truth,
And come to me in your moment,
And afterward with eternal resurrection
Bless my heart.
The fall is sweet. And what’s in it?
Wine of vice? Tenderness of world?
Or mysterious power
That leads everything in its way?
All together, and that
About what we don’t speak aloud.
That that calls for us from abysses
Of Divine Supremacy.
When, my friends, we will die –
We will see everything in new light.
We are children of Providence –
So do say good word about It.
Lord was merciful, and humbling us –
He fed us, and poured for us His wine.
And man was seeking woman,
And wise was seeking wisdom.
#103 To Alexandra.
Spring will come. And snows will thaw.
There will be celebration of the Easter.
And old woman will bake Easter cake
To have something sweet for tea.
I will greet her when we will meet in Church.
Why? We know each other many years.
And our poor homes
Will be filled by guests or sorrows.
Petrarch is uneasy when not habitual,
His Florentine dialect
So difficult in this age
That it’s even not cause for fight.
Hither and thither he moved
Stressed syllable triumphantly.
That was his fate –
He was genius.
#105 The Escape to Egypt.
On the road to Egypt bandits raided
Queen of Heavens with Her Son.
Caravan was ruthlessly robbed,
Then their leader looked at baby Jesus.
‘It’s God!’ He exclaimed and his hands
He extended weeping to Lord –
‘Forgive me, O Savior!
And save my sinful soul.’
They were crucified together,
And together came to Heavens.
So robber in repentant prayer
Found eternal mystery.
Behold there God was borne by Virgin.
There were cave, light of fireplace, Joseph.
And if now we’ll ask Heavens
We will understand what will be our fate.
Baby in manger on the hay,
The donkey is caressing Him.
And shepherds of nearest villages
Sing ‘Hosanna now in God!’
Magi go in wake of Star
To learn new mysteries,
And to live and to sing
The God in life and death.
Hour will come. Herod
Will know that New King came.
And blood of babies of Bethlehem
To be poured ruthlessly.
But Lord will receive His martyrs
In His embrace.
And in His all-good hand
We’ll be brothers and sisters.
When Last Judgment will be finished,
And Angels will fulfill orders,
We will celebrate perfection
And comfort of our victory.
#107 The Saint Epiphany.
John, The Prophet of Lord,
Was staying in water, accepting everybody,
And alleviating common burden
He was praying and weeping.
And behold Lord appeared.
‘Baptize me!’ He orders
Healing wound of heart
Of John by this words.
‘Let me be baptized by you!’
John asked him humbly.
‘There is duty for battle and for celebration.
Hurry up and you will be saved.’
Lord said to John in response,
And He entered water, from which
Light ascended to Heaven
By sheer miracle.
Jesus baptized! And Holy Ghost
Came as a Dove.
And voice ‘There’s blessing
In Son of God!’ was heard by everyone.
Enough to think that we will pass
Without trace on earth,
That our age will disappear in evil
And need, that our feasts are
Purposed only to forget
Death which is near
And that our grieves are incurable
By intention to love.
In my peaceful room
There are the tea, blackberry cake,
Saint Icons, books,
Lamp on the table,
Dusty notebook, prayers,
And my poetry,
Which is ordinary and bad,
And forgotten by reader.
#110 Ode on Book of Psalms.
The verse is composed by many a words.
It’s about everything and everyone.
It’s happy in its living,
It’s fireplace and roof for itself,
It loves God and people,
It’s grateful to them for all.
And its place in eternity
It found among angels’ blessing.
There’s God of love, there’s no God of disdain.
There’s God of care, of righteous wording,
There’s God of children, fathers, and mothers,
Of old men and women, and of families.
But there’s no God of evil hatred
That breathes with wicked bile
In face of innocents. No! Our God
Is completely of other kind.
There’s Church of unity, and not of dissension.
Who doesn’t agree will see soon
That there’s no prophet without saint prayer
As there’s no wine without water.
#112 On Poetry.
The poetry of earth is never dead…
On the grasshopper and cricket: sonnet.
December 30, 1816
The poetry of earth will never die –
It’s soul of lyre and art
That bestows on us supreme feelings
Connecting words in new order.
God breathes in it. Providence breathes in it.
Nothing won’t overshadow it.
And every man all his life is a poet.
And every inhale is saint inspiration.
#113 To Poet.
Do understand – genius is equanimity.
He doesn’t condescend to crowd
To build idols of himself.
Air of conceitedness is stuffy for him.
He is pure, free and lofty.
Tremblingly he listens to The Heavens,
Acquiring righteous knowledge
For better odes, for better words.
To tear off fetters of past day
To give myself to new days
To be cheated again
When forgetting word of truth.
No! No! I live by memory.
Bless me, Creator!
And past day is my friend
And we are always in unity.
Daisy crown of poet
Will adorn my head,
When I will sing about God
In ruthless years.
And heat, and cold, and tempest –
All that will whirl away
In one dash
When I’ll become white bones
And my flesh will be reduced to dust –
I will wait guest to my tomb
About whom now I know nothing.
He will come with prayer book
And will read psalms over me.
And we will be the one
In severe light of Supreme.
I remember you, my native plains,
Where I was happy and peaceful.
I remember you, now you’re far away,
And it’s no easy to come back to you.
I remember water of your rivers
And stack of hay where I slept,
Fog, nightly lightning,
Dawn spread in silence.
I remember you, my native plains,
Where I was happy and peaceful.
Poet with Royal Cup
Hurry to altar of Scripture
For with sacrifice of love
To receive Divine answer
On question on freedom.
What is it? Why it’s so rare?
And in poetic union
God comes to His people.
My home is altar of One Above.
Where sacrifice of vanity
I offer many years –
It’s the act and the word.
And if I die – on Heavens
I will recall
My vain life
Counting it in miracles.
Heu! Fugaces, Postume, Postume,
Alas! My Postumus, our years
Run speedier now.
And soon Death will open the door.
Obedient child of nature
It will enter, and will rise the sword
To harvest my mad age.
And I will come to Judgment
To be received by God.
Rest in the LORD, and wait patiently for him: fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass.
Not that among us is astray
Who eats Zoloft or Prozac.
But that who is not in peace with God,
Who settled in his home,
In his soul, in his mind
The spirit of age completely.
He is uneasy now
Thinking evil, and seeing evil.
Christ is blessed! Antichrist is damned!
I will say it again and again.
And my word will be the same.
And other man can understand me
As he wish. But to be silent
About that is impossible!
Christ is my God! Antichrist is no god at all!
And those who are in doubt will see afterwards.
This book was finished on 22nd of May, 2008.
On Saint Nicholas Day.
After Divine Service.
To Be Continued.
In Christ We Win!
Christ Resurrected and We Will Resurrect!