By gates of Eden, Angel, gentle,
Shone with his softly drooped head,
And Demon, gloomy and resentful
Over the hellish crevasse flapped.

The spirit of qualm and negation
Looked at another one – of good,
And fire of the forced elation
First time he vaguely understood.

“I’ve seen you,” he enunciated, -  
“And not in vain you’ve sent me light:
Not all in heaven I have hated,
Not all in world I have despised.”

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, June, 2001


The lazy artist-boor is blacking
The genius's picture with his stuff,
Without any sense a-making
His low drawing above.

But alien paints, in stride of years,
Are falling down as a dust,
The genius's masterpiece appears
With former brilliance to us.

Like this, the darkly apparitions
Are leaving off my tortured heart,
And it again revives the visions
Of virgin days I left behind.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, March, 1997
Edited by Dmitry Karshtedt, December, 1999

Conversation Of a Bookseller With a Poet


He’s blessed, who in his sole saved
Its most beautiful creations,
And from the people, as from graves,
For sense, didn’t wait their commendations!
He’s blessed who, silent, was a bard
And did not wear thorny crown,
Forgotten with despiteful crowd,
Who, nameless, left this dole, hard.
More furtive than the heart’s illusion, 
What’s fame? The reader’s feeble voice?
Unletter’d scoundrels’ prosecution?
Or the delighted blockheads’ noise?

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, December, 2001

The Curious


‘Well, what is new?’ – ‘I swear nothing else.’ –
‘Hey, don’t cheat me; for sure, something you know. 
It is a shame, that from your mate, the best,
You hide the things, as from a hardened foe.
Or are you cross: then why, my dear friend?
Just say a word; don’t play a stubborn role …’ –
‘Oh, go away, I only know that
You are a fool and it isn’t new, in whole.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, March 27, 2005

The Cart Of Life

Tho’ it is hard – the earthly load,
The Cart is easy in its move,
The reckless couch-time, on road,
Will not get of his bench above.

In early morn we take our places;
We glad to break our empty head,
And leaving leisure for the races,
We cry, “Go on, you idler, damned!”

At noon, our bravery’s diminished;
We have been tossed and more afraid
Of slopes, steep, and ravines, peevish,
And cry, “Be easier, you, brat!”

The cart rolls in the former fashion,
By evening, we have used to it,
Wait for night lodgings, doze, patient, – 
And Time tends horses to full speed.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, December, 2001


Aleksandr Pushkin(Born 1799, Died 1837) is, by common agreement — at least among his own compatriots — the greatest of all Russian writers. The major part of his lyrical poetry was written between 1820 and 1830, but some of his poetical masterpieces were composed in the last seven years of his life, when he was turning his attention to prose. A development can be traced from the sparkling ebullience of his early verse — the crowning achievement of which is the first chapter of Evgeny Onegin, written in 1823 — to the concetrated expressiveness and restrained power of his later poetry. By effecting a new synthesis between the three main ingredients of the Russian literary idiom — the Church Slovanic, the Western European borrowings, and the spoken vernacular — Pushkin created the language of modern Russian poetry. His personal life was made difficult by his conflicts with the authorities who disapproved of his liberal views. He was killed in a duel.

From “The Heritage of Russian Verse,” by Dimitri Obolensky


About sooteris kyritsis

Job title: (f)PHELLOW OF SOPHIA Profession: RESEARCHER Company: ANTHROOPISMOS Favorite quote: "ITS TIME FOR KOSMOPOLITANS(=HELLINES) TO FLY IN SPACE." Interested in: Activity Partners, Friends Fashion: Classic Humor: Friendly Places lived: EN THE HIGHLANDS OF KOSMOS THROUGH THE DARKNESS OF AMENTHE
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