Alexander Blok was a poet of the Silver Age, whose work reflected the tragic worldview of the era. His poems are imbued with symbolism, mysticism, and profound lyricism, touching on themes of love, disillusionment, Russia, and the inevitability of change. Blok knew how to convey the subtlest nuances of emotion using a rich palette of images and sounds. This collection attempts to capture key moments in his poetic journey, from his early Romantic works to his later works, marked by a premonition of catastrophe. Immerse yourself in the world of Blok's poetry to experience its full beauty and depth.
Stranger
The fog has dispersed. In the heavenly blue, a transparent ray trembles like a sigh. And in this haze, as in a valley, she speaks silently. Like a shadow, like a ghost, barely visible in the evening haze. And in her voice—only a hint of that secret that is forever alone. And I stand, as if enchanted, captivated by her silent eyes. And the world around, transformed, falls silent in anticipation of the rains.
Russia
Russia, poor Russia, like the bast shoes of your peasants, like pain, like a sigh, like a quiet cry, in the fields where only decay ripens. In the churches – prayers, in souls – faith, but oppression and darkness lie all around. And the people wait for the light to dispel the gloom, to give back. And I love you, Russia, in your sorrow and anguish, in your hope, in your faith, in your frantic fate.
Factory
Factory! Factory! Clouds of smoke, the grinding of machines, the roar and clang. There, in the gloom, as if in a chimney, the tone of life fades. Faces are pale, eyes are tired, Hands are calloused, backs are bent. And in this gray, eternal distance they will find no hope. But even here, in this fetid confinement, a fire flickers in their souls. And the eternal desire for freedom will destroy the stone armor.
Night, street, lamp, pharmacy…
Night, street, lamppost, pharmacy, meaningless and dim light. A melancholy roadblock lives within me, and there's no escape. A quarter of a century is an empty mask, hiding a sorrowful face. And in this life, as if in a fairy tale, I'm a lonely wanderer, a cry. And the rain beats, as if crying, on the pavement, on the roofs, into the night. And my heart, slowly, everything is different, beats, anticipating only the distant future.
Oh, the way is long…
Oh, the road is long, difficult, and bumpy, full of sorrow, longing, and lies. A ghostly oasis glimmers in the distance, but there's no way to reach it, no way to reach it. The years pass like fleeting shadows, and youth vanishes without a trace. And in my heart only pale memories linger, of those who are no longer anywhere. But still, I believe the time will come when my soul will find peace. And in this life, full of burdens, I will find my longed-for surf.
Violin and vocals
The violin weeps, the vocals yearn, The hall is dark and silent. And my soul melts in the sounds, In this music, as in a dream. The violin whispers of a lost love, The vocals echo it in the sadness of days. And in the heart there is pain, like a fresh wound, For those who are no longer here, For those who were here. But even in this eternal sorrow, There is beauty, there is light, there is life. And music, like a gift from heaven, Will fill the soul like a breeze.
I enter empty temples...
I enter empty churches, where eternal darkness sleeps. And I hear the quiet chants that my heart holds for me. Here it smells of incense and faith, and the secrets of bygone times. And in this immeasurable silence, I feel the bow of my soul. And it seems that angels are nearby, descending from the heavenly heights. And in this comforting holiness, I forget all my troubles.
Twelve (excerpt)
Twelve march, slender, in tattered overcoats, as if in a dream. And ahead—leaderlike eyes, glowing in the pitch darkness. Death with its red scythe at its side, and the impulse of revolution. And in this chaos, as in hell, a new world is born. Their faces are rough, their tread is firm, their hearts are filled with malice and melancholy. And in this storm, as if in a pride, they carry their terrible line.
Autumn Will
Autumn freedom is the wind in the fields, A yellow leaf swirls like the ghost of a dream. And in my heart there's longing, and in my eyes there's only sadness, For those who have gone, For the lost you. But in this sadness there's something familiar, As if the soul finds peace. And in this freedom, as if something else, I feel life's silent surf. And let the last bird fly away, And let the autumn garden fall asleep. In my soul it will forever be kept, The tender attire of memories.
On the Kulikovo field
Here blood flowed, here they fought bravely, For Holy Rus', for her destiny. On the Kulikovo Field, as in a dark fairy tale, Trees stand, remembering that struggle. And the wind whispers of the fallen heroes, Of those who gave their lives for their native land. And in this silence, as if in a temple, I feel the spirit of my ancestors, like paradise. And though centuries have passed, and the boundaries have faded, But the memory of Kulikovo Field lives on. And in the heart of every Russian citizen, It will be forever, like an eternal chapter.