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Best Famous Aleksandr Blok Poems

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Written by Aleksandr Blok | Create an image from this poem

The Twelve

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.

Written by Aleksandr Blok | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by Aleksandr Blok | Create an image from this poem

He who was born

 He, who was born in stagnant year 
Does not remember own way.
We, kids of Russia's years of fear, Remember every night and day.
Years that burned everything to ashes! Do you bring madness or grace? The war's and freedom's fire flashes Left bloody light on every face.
We are struck dumb: the toxsin's pressure Has made us tightly close lips.
In living hearts, once full of pleasure, The fateful desert now sleeps.
And let the crying ravens soar Right over our death-bed, May those who were striving more, O God, behold Thy Kingdom's Great!
Written by Aleksandr Blok | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by Aleksandr Blok | Create an image from this poem

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!

Written by Aleksandr Blok | Create an image from this poem

I Prefer the Gorgeous Freedom

 I prefer the gorgeous freedom,
And I fly to lands of grace,
Where in wide and clear meadows
All is good, as dreams, and blest.
Here they rice: the clover clear, And corn-flower's gentle lace, And the rustle is always here: "Ears are leaning.
Take your ways!" In this immense sea of fair, Only one of blades reclines.
You don't see in misty air, I'd seen it!It will be mine!
Written by Aleksandr Blok | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by Aleksandr Blok | Create an image from this poem

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.
Written by Aleksandr Blok | Create an image from this poem

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!
Written by Aleksandr Blok | Create an image from this poem

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.