(Born 1799 ~ Died 1837)
I looked after a lady in the UK for nearly three years who had “Dementia“. She had led an amazing life ~ she was from Russia and of Jewish decent. She was born in the early 1900’s and life in Russia at that time was full of dangerous times!
The Country had been through a Revolution against the last Tzar of Russia, then Lenin formed a new Government – till he died a few years later, when Stalin then came in power by 1924.
So Esther fled the country and ended up in Germany. There she met & became friends with Albert Einstein. He took her under his wing and helped get her to England, as Germany was also in the a early stages of unrest with Hilter & The Nazi Regime rising through the ranks.
In thoughs times a young lady had to be recommended to be accepted into English Society and Einstein had placed her with a family of Academics who were also Jewish. This is where she then met and married her future husband, who became a Doctor/ Scientist.
In her life time she wrote several books on her early years in Russia and also translated a Book of Poems by some Russian Poets.
When I finished working for the family they gave me a signed copy of her book “Poems from the Russian” – so that was how I came to enjoy Alexander Pushkin’s works!!!
~@~
A MAGIC MOMENT I REMEMBER
A magic moment I remember:
I raised my eyes and you were there.
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that’s beautiful and rare.
I pray to mute despair and anguish
To vain pursuits the world esteems,
Long did I near your soothing accents, Long did your features haunt my dreams.
Time passed- A rebel storm-blast scattered
The reveries that once were mine
And I forgot your soothing accents,
Your features gracefully divine.
In dark days of enforced retirement
I gazed upon grey skies above
With no ideals to inspire me,
No one to cry for, live for, love.
Then came a moment of renaissance,
I looked up- you again are there,
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that`s beautiful and rare.
~@~
WONDEROUS MOMENT
The wondrous moment of our meeting . . .
I well remember you appear
Before me like a vision fleeting,
A beauty’s angel pure and clear.
In hopeless ennui surrounding
The worldly bustle, to my ear
For long your tender voice kept sounding,
For long in dreams came features dear.
Time passed. Unruly storms confounded
Old dreams, and I from year to year
Forgot how tender you had sounded,
Your heavenly features once so dear.
My backwoods days dragged slow and quiet —
Dull fence around, dark vault above —
Devoid of God and uninspired,
Devoid of tears, of fire, of love.
Sleep from my soul began retreating,
And here you once again appear
Before me like a vision fleeting,
A beauty’s angel pure and clear.
In ecstasy the heart is beating,
Old joys for it anew revive;
Inspired and God-filled, it is greeting
The fire, and tears, and love alive.
~@~
CHILL WINDS STILL BLOW
The cold winds are still blowing
And carrying the morning frost.
The first little flowers
Have just appeared through the spring thaw holes,
As though from some miraculous, waxy kingdom,
The first bee has flown out
Of its fragrant honeyed cell,
Flying among the early flowers
To explore the red spring a bit.
Will my dear guest be here soon?
Will the meadows soon turn green?
Will the sticky little leaves
Soon blossom from the fleecy birch?
Will the fragrant chokecherry bloom?
~@~
THE POET
While still Apollo isn’t demanding
Bard at the sacred sacrifice,
Through troubles of the worldly muddling
He wretchedly and blindly shuffles;
His holly lyre is quite silent;
His soul’s in the sleeping, soft,
And mid the dwarves of the world-giant,
He, perhaps, is the shortest dwarf.
But when a word of god’s commands,
Touches his ear, always attentive,
It starts – the heart of the Bard native –
As a waked eagle ever starts.
He’s sad in earthly frolics, idle,
Avoids folks’ gossips, always spread,
At feet of the all-peoples’ idol
He does not bend his proud head;
He runs – the wild, severe, stunned,
Full of confusion, full of noise –
To the deserted waters’ shores,
To woods, widespread and humming loud…
~@~
MUSE
In my youth’s years, she loved me, I am sure.
The flute of seven pipes she gave in my tenure
And harked to me with smile — without speed,
Along the ringing holes of the reed,
I got to play with my non-artful fingers
The peaceful songs of Phrygian village singers,
And the important hymns, that gods to mortals bade.
From morn till night in oaks’ silent shade
I diligently harked to the mysterious virgin;
Rewarding me, by chance, for any good decision,
And taking locks aside of the enchanting face,
She sometimes took from me the flute, such commonplace.
The reed became alive in consecrated breathing
And filled the heart with holiness unceasing.
~@~
TALISMAN
My talisman, pray, be my guard,
In days of strongest agitation,
Of prosecution, lamentation:
The day, I’ve owned you, was hard.
When the ocean will ride,
Around me the rolls in ire,
When clouds will be set in fire,
My talisman, pray, be my guard.
In life with homeland apart,
In peaceful being’s boring rattle,
In trouble of a flame of battle,
My talisman, pray, be my guard.
Illusion, sanctified and bright,
My soul’s light and consolation
It chanced to be adulteration —
My talisman, pray, be my guard.
So, let the wounds of my poor heart
Will not be touched be recollection,
Farewell my hope, sleep attraction,
My talisman, pray, be my guard.
~@~
THE CLOUD
The last one of clouds of scattered a tempest,
Just single you’re flying in azure, the prettiest,
Just single you’re bringing the sorrowful shade,
Just single you’re saddening day that is glad.
In nearest past, you were storming skies, mighty,
And were quite enwind by the powerful lightning,
And you were the womb for divine thunders birth,
And quenching with rain the insatiable earth.
Enough, now vanish! Your time is not endless –
The earth is refreshed and away gone the tempest;
And now the wind, fondling leaves of the trees,
With pleasure is driving you out the sky bliss.
~@~
THE FLOWER
The flower, very dry and scentless,
I see in the forgotten book;
And now, with the strangest fancies,
Is filled my soul’s every nook.
Where and in which spring was it grown?
And how long? By whom was cut?
By a hand known or unknown?
And why was put this page behind?
To the recall of the love-talking,
Or separation forced by fate,
Or quiet and alone walking
In the fields’ silence and woods’ shade?
Is he alive? And his sweet lady?
And where is now their little nook?
Or maybe they had both faded,
Like this strange flower in this book?
~@~
THE NIGHT
My voice that is for you the languid one, and gentle,
Disturbs the velvet of the dark night’s mantle,
By my bedside, a candle, my sad guard,
Burns, and my poems ripple and merge in flood —
And run the streams of love, run, full of you alone,
And in the dark, your eyes shine like the precious stones,
And smile to me, and hear I the voice:
My friend, my sweetest friend… I love… I’m yours… I’m yours!
~@~
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