Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Best Famous Aleksandr Blok Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Aleksandr Blok poems. This is a select list of the best famous Aleksandr Blok poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Aleksandr Blok poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Aleksandr Blok poems.

Search for the best famous Aleksandr Blok poems, articles about Aleksandr Blok poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Aleksandr Blok poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See also: Best Member Poems

Go Back

by Aleksandr Blok |

I Wait For You...

 I wait for you. The years in silence pass 
And as the image, one, I wait for you again. 

The distance is in flame -- and clear one as glass, 
I, silent, wait -- with sadness, love and pain. 

The distance is in flame, and you are coming fast, 
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet, 

And will initiate the challenging mistrust 
By changing features, used, at long awaited end. 

Oh, how I will fell -- so low and so pine, 
Unable to overcome my dreams' continued set! 

The distance is such bright! And azure is so fine! 
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet.


by Aleksandr Blok |

To the Muse

 In your hidden memories 
There are fatal tidings of doom... 
A curse on sacred traditions, 
A desecration of happiness; 

And a power so alluring 
That I am ready to repeat the rumour 
That you have brought angels down from heaven, 
Enticing them with your beauty... 

And when you mock at faith,
That pale, greyish-purple halo
Which I once saw before
Suddenly begins to shine above you. 

Are you evil or good? You are altogether from another world
They say strange things about you
For some you are the Muse and a miracle.
For me you are torment and hell. 

I do not know why in the hour of dawn,
When no strength was left to me,
I did not perish, but caught sight of your face
And begged you to comfort me. 

I wanted us to be enemies;
Why then did you make me a present
Of a flowery meadow and of the starry firmament --
The whole curse of your beauty? 

Your fearful caresses were more treacherous
Than the northern night,
More intoxicating than the golden champagne of Aï,
Briefer than a gypsy woman's love... 

And there was a fatal pleasure
In trampling on cherished and holy things;
And this passion, bitter as wormwood,
Was a frenzied delight for the heart!


by Aleksandr Blok |

The Twelve

 III 
Our sons have gone 
to serve the Reds 
to serve the Reds 
to risk their heads! 

O bitter,bitter pain, 
Sweet living! 
A torn overcoat 
an Austrian gun! 

-To get the bourgeosie 
We'll start a fire 
a worldwide fire, and drench it 
in blood- 
The good Lord bless us! 


-O you bitter bitterness, 
boring boredom, 
deadly boredom. 

This is how I will 
spend my time. 

This is how I will 
scratch my head, 

munch on seeds, 
some sunflower seeds, 

play with my knife 
play with my knife. 

You bourgeosie, fly as a sparrow! 
I'll drink your blood, 

your warm blood, for love, 
for dark-eyed love. 

God, let this soul, your servant, 
rest in peace. 

Such boredom! 


XII 
... On they march with sovereign tread... 
‘Who else goes there? Come out! I said 
come out!’ It is the wind and the red 
flag plunging gaily at their head. 

The frozen snow-drift looms in front. 
‘Who’s in the drift! Come out! Come here!’ 
There’s only the homeless mongrel runt 
limping wretchedly in the rear ... 

‘You mangy beast, out of the way 
before you taste my bayonet. 
Old mongrel world, clear off I say! 
I’ll have your hide to sole my boot! 

The shivering cur, the mongrel cur 
bares his teeth like a hungry wolf, 
droops his tail, but does not stir ... 
‘Hey answer, you there, show yourself.’ 

‘Who’s that waving the red flag?’ 
‘Try and see! It’s as dark as the tomb!’ 
‘Who’s that moving at a jog 
trot, keeping to the back-street gloom?’ 

‘Don’t you worry ~ I’ll catch you yet; 
better surrender to me alive!’ 
‘Come out, comrade, or you’ll regret 
it ~ we’ll fire when I’ve counted five!’ 

Crack ~ crack ~ crack! But only the echo 
answers from among the eaves ... 
The blizzard splits his seams, the snow 
laughs wildly up the wirlwind’s sleeve ... 

Crack ~ crack ~ crack! 
Crack ~ crack ~ crack! 
... So they march with sovereign tread ... 
Behind them limps the hungry dog, 
and wrapped in wild snow at their head 
carrying a blood-red flag ~ 
soft-footed where the blizzard swirls, 
invulnerable where bullets crossed ~ 
crowned with a crown of snowflake pearls, 
a flowery diadem of frost, 
ahead of them goes Jesus Christ.


by Aleksandr Blok |

The Stranger

 The restaurants on hot spring evenings
Lie under a dense and savage air.
Foul drafts and hoots from dunken revelers
Contaminate the thoroughfare. 
Above the dusty lanes of suburbia
Above the tedium of bungalows
A pretzel sign begilds a bakery
And children screech fortissimo. 

And every evening beyond the barriers
Gentlemen of practiced wit and charm
Go strolling beside the drainage ditches -- 
A tilted derby and a lady at the arm. 

The squeak of oarlocks comes over the lake water
A woman's shriek assaults the ear
While above, in the sky, inured to everything,
The moon looks on with a mindless leer. 

And every evening my one companion
Sits here, reflected in my glass.
Like me, he has drunk of bitter mysteries.
Like me, he is broken, dulled, downcast.


The sleepy lackeys stand beside tables
Waiting for the night to pass
And tipplers with the eyes of rabbits
Cry out: "In vino veritas!"

And every evening (or am I imagining?)
Exactly at the appointed time
A girl's slim figure, silk raimented,
Glides past the window's mist and grime. 

And slowly passing throught the revelers,
Unaccompanied, always alone,
Exuding mists and secret fragrances,
She sits at the table that is her own.

Something ancient, something legendary
Surrounds her presence in the room,
Her narrow hand, her silk, her bracelets,
Her hat, the rings, the ostrich plume.

Entranced by her presence, near and enigmatic,
I gaze through the dark of her lowered veil
And I behold an enchanted shoreline
And enchanted distances, far and pale.

I am made a guardian of the higher mysteries,
Someone's sun is entrusted to my control.
Tart wine has pierced the last convolution
of my labyrinthine soul.

And now the drooping plumes of ostriches
Asway in my brain droop slowly lower
And two eyes, limpid, blue, and fathomless
Are blooming on a distant shore.

Inside my soul a treasure is buried.
The key is mine and only mine.
How right you are, you drunken monster!
I know: the truth is in the wine.


by Aleksandr Blok |

The Faithless Shadows.

 The faithless shadows of day are running 
And high and clear is the call of bells, 
Steps of the church are blazed as with the lightning, 
Their stones are alive and wait for your light steps. 

You'll here pass and touch the chilly stone, 
That's dressed in awful sanity of span, 
And let the flower of spring be thrown 
Here, in this dark, before the eyes of saint. 

The rose shadows in misty darkness grow, 
And high and clear is the call of bells, 
The darkness lays on steps, such old and low -- 
I'm set in light -- I wait for dear steps.


by Aleksandr Blok |

The Death of Grandfather

 We waited commonly for sleep or even death. 
The instances were wearisome as ages. 
But suddenly the wind's refreshing breath 
Touched through the window the Holy Bible's pages: 

An old man goes there - who's now all white-haired - 
With rapid steps and merry eyes, alone, 
He smiles to us, and often calls with hand, 
And leaves us with a gait, that is well-known. 

And suddenly we all, who watched the old man's track, 
Well recognized just him who now lay before us, 
And turning in a sudden rapture back, 
Beheld a corpse with eyes forever closed ... 

And it was good for us the soul's way to trace, 
And, in the leaving one, to find the glee it's forming. 
The time had come. Recall and love in grace, 
And celebrate another house-warming!


by Aleksandr Blok |

On the Field of Kulicovo

 The river stretched. It flows, idly grieves, 
And washes both banks. 
In steppe, above light clay of cliffs 
Rinks mourn in ranks. 

O Russia! Dear wife! With clearness and pain 
We see the lengthy way! 
It sent an arrow of ancient Tartar reign - 
In breast it lay. 

The way through steppes and an incessant plight, 
Through your, o Russia, lot! 
And alien dark and dark of night 
I fear not. 

Let be the night. We'll ride and light in gloom 
Camp-fires late. 
The holy flag will flash in fume, 
And Khan's steel blade ... 

And endless battle! We only dream of peace 
Through blood and dust ... 
The mare of steppes flies on and flees, 
And tramples the grass ... 

There's no end! The miles and cliffs flash past 
Stop crazy flood! 
The frightened clouds go fast, 
Sun sets in blood! 

Sun sets in blood! Blood streams from heart away! 
O cry, my heart ... 
There's no peace! Through steppe the bay 
Prolongs the flight!


by Aleksandr Blok |

Dont fear death

 Don't fear death in earthly travels. 
Don't fear enemies or friends. 
Just listen to the words of prayers, 
To pass the facets of the dreads. 

Your death will come to you, and never 
You shall be, else, a slave of life, 
Just waiting for a dawn's favor, 
From nights of poverty and strife. 

She'll build with you a common law, 
One will of the Eternal Reign. 
And you are not condemned to slow 
And everlasting deadly pain.


by Aleksandr Blok |

A Girl Sang a Song

 A girl sang a song in the temple's chorus, 
About men, tired in alien lands, 
About the ships that left native shores, 
And all who forgot their joy to the end. 

Thus sang her clean voice, and flew up to the highness, 
And sunbeams shined on her shoulder's white -- 
And everyone saw and heard from the darkness 
The white and airy gown, singing in the light. 

And all of them were sure, that joy would burst out: 
The ships have arrived at their beach, 
The people, in the land of the aliens tired, 
Regaining their bearing, are happy and reach. 

And sweet was her voice and the sun's beams around.... 
And only, by Caesar's Gates -- high on the vault, 
The baby, versed into mysteries, mourned, 
Because none of them will be ever returned.


by Aleksandr Blok |

Halls grew darker

 Halls grew darker and somehow faded. 
Grates of windows drowned in black. 
Every knight, every beautiful lady 
Knew the tiding: "The Queen's deadly sick." 

And the king, very silent and frowned, 
Passed the doors, lost of pages and slaves ... 
Every word, that by chance cast around, 
Proved the truth of the closing grave. 

By the doors of the silent abode 
I was crying, while pressing the brace ... 
At the end of the passage remote 
Someone echoed me, hiding his face. 

By the doors of the Beautiful Lady 
I was sobbing, attired in blue ... 
And the stranger of ashen face sadly 
Echoed me all my sufferings through.