Yuri Starostin

Veteran Poet - 1,950 Points (4.07.1972.)

Blacken Sheets Evgeny Onegin A.S. Pushkin - Poem by Yuri Starostin

'Here a night; but do not grow dim a gold clouds strips.
Without a stars and without a month all lights up range.
On a far beach a silver sails are visible
A just visible ships, as floating on the dark blue sky.
By a nazeless shining the sky night shines,
And the purple of a decline merges with a gold of the east:
As though a dayness after an evening tracely deduces
A ruddy morning. - That was a golden time,
As a summer days abduct a sovereignty of a night;
As the look of the foreigner in a northern sky captivates
A magic steal of a shade and sweet light,
Samewhat the sky of a midday is never decorated;
That clearness is similar to a delights of the northern maiden,
Whom blue eyes and scarlet cheeks
Slightly shaded by a blond-haired ringlet waves.
Then over Neva and over magnificent Petropol see
Without a twilight an evening and fast nights without a shade;
Then Filomel only will terminate a midnight songs
And gets a songs, welcoming a day ascending.
But late; a freshness blows on the Neva tundra;
A dew has fallen; ..............
Here a midnight: rustling in the evening by a thousand oars,
Neva do not prick; a visitors have parted town;
Neither a voice on a coast, nor a ripples on a moisture, all is silent;
Only occasionally the rumble from a bridges will run over a water;
Only a shout extended of the distant will fly a villages,
Where at night the military guards from a guards are called.
All sleeps...................

In a be the good-clined goddess
The enthusiastic poet see,
That spends an unsleeping night,
Staffled on a granite.
(Muraviev. To the goddess of Neva)

At a red mine years
An poetic ai
Was pleasant to me a foam noisy,
This similarity of a love
Or a mad youth, and so forth
(The message to L. P)

The cat to a caty calls
In a small stove to sleep.

He has started up a thorn in a snake way.
(Ancient Russian poems)

A dawn by a crimson arm
From a morning quiet waters
Deduces with the sun behind itself, - and so forth

Brawlers, mine the neighbour,
Has come to me yesterday with an unshaven moustaches,
Uncombed, in a down, in a cap with a peak...
(Dangerous the neighbour)

And you, young inspiration,
Excite mine imagination,
Revive a heart somnolence,
In my corner arrive is more often,
Do not allow to cool a soul of the poet,
To become cruel, stale
And at last to stone
In a pernicious in-singing of a light,
Among a callous arrogant men,
Among a brilliant fools,


Among a crafty, cowardly,
Crazy, indulged children,
A villains and ridiculous and boring,
A stupid, affectionate judges,
Among a prayerful coquettes,
Among a voluntary slaves,
Among a everyday, fashionable scenes,
A polite, tender changes,
Among a cold sentences
Of a cruel heart vanity,
Among an annoying emptiness
A calculations, a souls and conversations,
In this whirlpool, where with you I
Bathe, dear friends.

Our roads - a garden for an eyes:
A trees, with a turf a shaft, a ditches;
It is a lot of work, a lot of glory,
Yes it is a pity, a journey is not present sometimes.
With a trees, on a hours standing,
To a travellers have not enough profit;
A road, you will tell, is good -
And you will remember a verse: for a passing!
A russian driving is free
In two only cases: when
Our Mc-Adam or Mc-Eva-
The winter will make, cracking for an anger,
A devastating attack,
The way will fetter by a pig-iron iced,
And will powder an early snow
To a traces her sand fluffy.
Or when at a fields will get
A such hot drought,
That through a pool can ford
To pass, an eyes closed, a fly.
('Station'. The prince Vjazemsky)

It is time: a rest the feather asks;
I have written a nine songs;
My castle the nine shaft
On a joyful coast takes out- -
Praise to you, nine stones, and so forth '.

...... Before him
Macariev in vain strives,
Boils by own abundance.
Here the pearls the indian were brought,
A fake wine the european have,
A herd of the rejected horses
The factory owner from a steppes has driven,
The player has brought the packs
And a handful of an obliging bones,
The landowner - a ripe daughters,
And a daughters - a past year fashions.
Everyone fusses, lies for two,
And everywhere a mercantile spirit.


Melancholy! .

He sees: Terek is capricious
The abrupt digs coasts;
Before it the eagle soars majestic,
A deer stand, inclined horns;
The camel lies in a shade of a rock,
In a meadows the horse of the circassian rushes,
And round a wandering tents
A sheep of kalmyks are grazed,
Afar - the caucasian bulks:
To them the way is opened. The abuse has piled
For their natural side,
Through their dangerous barriers;
Coasts Aragvy and Cura
Have beheld a russian tents.


Already a deserts the watchman is eternal,
Constrained by a hills around,
There is Beshtu peaked
And turning green Mashuk,
Mashuk, the bearer of a curative streams;
Round its streams magic
A patients the pale plenty is restricted;
Who is a victim of a honour fighting,
Who go a pochechuy, who go Kiprida;
The sufferer thinks a life thread
In a wonderful waves to strengthen,
The coquette do a malicious years of a offence
At the bottom to leave, and the old man
To be younger - though for an instant.


Feeding a bitter minding,
Among their sad family,
Onegin by a sigh of a sorry
Looks at a smoky streams
And thinks, by a grief be foggy:
Why I am by a bullet in a breast not wounded?
Why not sickly I am the old man,
As this poor payer?
Why, as the Tula assessor,
I do not lie in a paralysis?
Why I am not feel in a shoulder
Though a rheumatism? - Ah, the founder!
I am young, a life in me is strong;
For what to me to wait? Melancholy, melancholy! .
Onegin visits then Taurida:

To a imagine an edge is sacred:
With Atrid Pilad did argued there,
There Mitridat did peaked up,
There Mickiewicz inspired sang
And among a coastal rocks
The Lithuania he remember.


You are fine, Taurida coasts,
When see you from the ship
At the light of morning Kiprida,
As you firthly I did seen;
You to me have appeared in a marriage shine:
In the sky dark blue and transparent
A heaps of your mountains shone,
A valleys, trees, village pattern
Has been outspread before me.
And there, between a huts of a tatars...
What in me a heat has woken up!
By a somewhat magic grief
The ardent breast were hesitated!
But, a muse! The past to forget.


Whatever feelings were concealed
Then in me - now they are not present:
They have passed or have changed...
The peace to you, an alarms of a past years!
During that time to me seem necessary
A deserts, edge waves are pearle,
And an exhausting noise, and a heaps of a rocks,
And the proud maiden ideal,
And a nameless suffer...
Other days, other dreams;
You have reconciled, my spring
Grandiloquent dreaming,
And in a poetic glass
I have mixed a much waters.


Others are necessary to me a picture:
I love a sandy slope,
Before an izba a two mountain ashes,
The gate, a broken fence,
In the sky a greyish clouds,
Before a barn a straw of a heap
Yes a pond in the shadow of a dense willows,
An expanse of an young ducks;
Now the balalaika is lovely to me
Yes a drunk footfall of a trepak
Before a tavern threshold.
My ideal now is the mistress,
My desires is a rest,
Yes a shchi pot, yes own big.


At times rainy recently
I, having turned on a farmyard...
Fie! A prosaic nonsense,
A flemish school motley rubbish!
Whether I was that, blossoming?
Tell, fountain of Bakhchisarai!
Either a such thoughts to me on a mind
Has guided your infinite noise,
When silently before you
Zarema I did imagined
Among a magnificent, deserted halls...
After three years, after me,
Wandering in the same party,
Onegin has remembered me.


I lived then in Odessa dusty...
There a heavens are long clear,
There busy the plentiful fair
Go up the sails;
There all Europe breathes, blows,
All shine by the south and goes motley
By the live different kindness.
The language of Italy golden
Sounds along the street cheerful,
Where the proud slavan goes,
The frenchman, the spaniard, the armenian,
Both the greek, and heavy moldavians,
And the son of the egyptian earth,
The corsair in a resignation, Moraly.


Odessa by a sonorous verses
Our friend Tumansky has described,
But he by a biassed eyes
At that time at it looked.
Having arrived, he by the direct poet
Has gone to wander with the lorgnette
One over the sea - and then
By a charming feather
Did glorified an Odessa gardens.
All is good, but the matter is
A nude steppe there around;
Which-where an un-ancien work has forced
A young branches in a hot day
To give a violent shade.


And where is, be, my un-consistent story?
In dusty Odessa, I have told.
I could tell: in dirty Odessa -
And here, the right, has not lying.
In a year a five-six weeks Odessa,
At a will of rough Zeves,
Is sunk, pond,
In a dense dirt is shipped.
All houses on an arshin be dirty,
Only on a stilts the pedestrian
Along the street dares to go ford;
A carriages, a people sink, stick,
And in a drogki an ox, a horns declined,
Replaces a sickly horse.


But et a hammer splits up a stone,
And soon by a sonorous roadway
The safed city will become covered,
As though by a shod armor.
However in this damp Odessa
Still there is an important lack;
Somewhat would you think? - A waters.
Need a heavy works...
What is go? This is a small grief,
Especially, when a wine
Is a duty-free brought.
But the southern sun, but the sea...
What need to you more, friends?
A blest edges!


Happened, a dawn gun
Only will burst from the ship,
From an abrupt coast run away,
To the sea I go.
Then behind a tube heated,
By a wave salty recovered,
As a moslems in the paradise,
With an east thick of a coffee I drink.
I go for a walk. Et the favourable
Is opened Casino; a cups ring
There is distributed; on a balcony
The marker leaves a dozing
With a broom in a hands, and at a porch
Already two merchants have converged.


Look - and the area been motley.
All go lived on; here and there
Run behind a business and without a matter,
However more on an affairs.
The child of a calculation and courage,
A merchant go to look at a flags,
To know, whether send a heavens
A familiar sails to him.
What a new goods
Have entered now in a quarantine?
Whether a butts a waiting wines have come?
And what is a plague? And where is a fires?
Whether there is no a hunger, a wars
Or a similar novelty?


But we, a children without a grief,
Among a careful merchants,
We only did expected an oysters
From an tsargradsky coasts.
What does an oysters? Have come! Oh pleasure!
A gluttonous youth flies
To swallow from a sea bowls
A fat and live hermits,
Slightly splashed by a lemon.
A noise, disputes - a light wine
From a cellars is brought
On a table by obliging Oton;
A hours fly, and the terrible account
meanwhile invisible grows.


But a blue evening is darked,
The time to us to go in an opera more soon:
There delightful Rossini,
The Europe spoilt child is Orfey.
Not listen to the severe critic,
He eternally same is, eternally new,
He pours a sounds - they boil,
They flow, they burn,
As young kisses,
All is in a luxury, in a flame of a love,
As a hissed ai
Stream and splashes golden...
But, misters, either is allowed
With a wine to equal do-re-mi-sol?


But only neither there an charming are?
And a searched lorgnette?
And a secret meeting?
And prima donna? And a ballet?
And a box, where, by a beauty shining,
An young negotsianka,
Is ambitious and languid,
By a crowd of a slaves is surrounded?
She and listen and not listen
And to a cavatine, and to an entreaties,
And to a joke with a flattery half-and-half...
And the husband - in a corner behind her dozes,
Wakedly will groah a fora,
Will yawn and - again snore.


The final rattles; the hall becomes empty;
Rustling, a travel hurries up;
The crowd on the area has run
At a shine of a lanterns and stars,
The sons of happy Avzonii
Slightly sings a playful motive,
It involuntarily harded,
And we roar a recitative.
But late. Silently Odessa sleeps;
The both unbreathed and heated
Mute night. The moon did ascended,
A transparent-easy veil
Has volumed the sky. All is silent;
Only the Black sea rustles...


So, I lived then in Odessa...



The weak and crafty gover,
The bald dandy, the enemy of a work,
Unintentionally heated by a glory,
Over us did reigned then.


We him knew very quiet,
When not our cooks
Nips an eagle two-headed
At a Bonapart tent.


A thunder-storm of the twelfth year
Has come - who here did helped us?
A frenzy of the people,
Barclay, a winter or the russian god?


But the god has helped - became a grumble more low,
And soon by a force of a things
We have come in Paris,
And the Russian tsar became a head of a tsars.


And soon more fatly, so harder.
Oh russian silly our people,
Tell, why you really


Perhaps, oh national Shibolet,
I would devote an ode to you,
But the great origin rhymer
Me has already warned
The seas to Albion have got


Perhaps, a rent forgetting,
The hypocrite will be locked in a monastery,
Perhaps on a Nikolay manye
To a families will return Siberia
Perhaps a roads to us will correct


This husband of a destiny, this abusive wanderer,
Before whom a tsars were humiliated,
This horseman, by a papa married,
Disappeared as a shade of a dawn,
Exhausted by a execution of a rest


The Pyrenees were shivered terribly,
Naples volcano did flared,
The armless prince to a friends of a Morey
From Kishinev et did blinked.
L dagger, B shade


I will appease all with my people, -
Our tsar in the congress spoke,
And about you and in a moustache does not blow,
Your alexsandersky lackey


An amusing regiment of Peter Titan,
A team of an old moustachers,
Betrayed once a tyrant
To furious gang of an executioners.


Russia has been quiet again,
And more the tsar has gone to booze,
But a spark of a flame of other
Already long since, maybe,


At them own happened a meeting,
They for a bowl of wine,
They behind a wine-glass of a russian vodka


By a sharp spining a well-known,
Meets a members of this family
At uneasy Nikita,
At careful Ilya.


The friend of Mars, Bacchus and Venus,
Here Lunin defiantly did offered
The drastic measures
And with an inspiration did muttered.
The Noeli Pushkin read,
Melancholic Yakushkin,
Seem, silently did bared
A tsar-killed dagger.
One Russia in the world seeing,
Pursuing the ideal,
Lame Turgenev listened to them
And, hating a slavery lashes,
Expected in this crowd of a noblemen
An liberators of a peasants.


So was over Neva iced,
But there, where earlier a spring
Shines over Kamenka shady
And over hills of Tulchin,
Where Vitgensteinov teams,
By Dnepr a washed plains
And a steppes of Bug, does lie.
An affairs others have gone.
There Pestel for a tyrants
And a host, did typed,
The cool-bloody general,
And Muraviev, him declining,
And full of an impudence and forces,
A minutes of a flash, did hurried.


At first these plots
Between Lafit and Kliko
Only were a friendly disputes,
And did not enter deeply
In a hearts a rebellious science,
All it was only a boredom,
A idleness of a young minds,
An Enjoyments of an adult rascals,
A knots to a knots......
And gradually a network secret
Our tsar did dozed.....

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, March 3, 2013

Poem Edited: Monday, March 4, 2013

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