Russian poems in English

There was once a pop, Tolokonov forehead. Pop went the bazaar View Coy of product. Meet him Balda Goes, not knowing where. "What, father, so early in the rose? What do you seek after the?» Pop it in the answer: "I need employee: Cook, groom and carpenter. And where to find me this A minister is not too expensive?» Balda says: "I will serve you nicely, Hard and very regularly, In year three you lye on the forehead, There shall I let cooked spelled ". thoughtful pop, He became himself scratching his forehead...

by Paddy Breslin Tiny toddler told his Dad: “I am puzzled so! What is good and what is bad? Answer if you know!” Secrets I will always shun— Nothing could be worse! All that Papa told his son I have put in verse. If the wind tears down the roofs, If the heavens spout, That is bad — why, even goofs Will not venture out. Sun has conquered rain and cold, Sun shines over all— That is good for young and old, Good for big and small. If the boy is black as pitch, If his face has dirt on, Then his skin is bound to itch— And that is bad for certain...

Under my window Tucked in the snow White birch retired Clad in silver glow. On the fluffy branches Snowy-trim with silver-tinge Melted around catkins Forming white fringe. Like golden fires Snow-flakes blazed While birch stood still Asleep, or amazed. Meanwhile, lazily Strolling around, Dawn threw more “silver” On the twigs (and ground). Translation by K.M.W.Klara Берёза Белая берёза Под моим окном Принакрылась снегом, Точно серебром. На пушистых ветках Снежною каймой Распустились кисти Белой бахромой...

Night, street, lantern, drugstore, A dull and meaningless light. Go on and live another quarter century - Nothing will change. There's no way out. You'll die, then start from the beginning, It will repeat, just like before: Night, icy ripples on a canal, Drugstore, street, lantern...

I still recall the wondrous moment: When you appeared before my sight As though a brief and fleeting omen, Pure phantom in enchanting light. In sorrow, when I felt unwell, Caught in the bustle, in a daze, I fell under your voice’s spell And dreamt the features of your face. Years passed and gales had dispelled My former hopes, and in those days, I lost your voice’s sacred spell, The holy features of your face. Detained in darkness, isolation, My days began to drag in strife. Without faith and inspiration, Without tears, and love and life...