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The best thing we can do if we want the Russians to let us be Americans is to let the Russians be Russian.

quote by George Frost Kennan
Added by Lucian Velea
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Russian Girl

Ive been frozen, now its so hot I can barely see
Ive been cutting them down so they cant make fun of me, yeah
Been a russian girl,
Ive been a russian girl
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been a russian girl
Young child sitting all alone
Hot child, she wants to take you home
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been a russian girl
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been a russian girl
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been a russian girl
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been rushin you
Ive been rushin you
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been a russian girl
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been rushin you
Been a russian girl,
Ive been a russian girl
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been rushin you
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been rushin
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been rushin you
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been a russian girl
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been rushin you
Russian girl, Ive been a russian girl
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been rushin you
Been a russian girl,
Ive been a russian girl
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been rushin you
Ive been rushin you
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been a russian girl
Ive been a russian girl,
Ive been rushin you

song performed by Liz Phair
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Battle of Inkermann

'Twas in the year of 1854, and on the 5th November,
Which Britain will no doubt long remember,
When the Russians plotted to drive the British army into the sea,
But at the bayonet charge the British soon made them flee.

With fourteen hundred British, fifteen thousand Russians were driven back,
At half-past seven o'clock in the morning they made the attack,
But the Grenadiers and Scottish Fusilier Guards, seven hundred strong,
Moved rapidly and fearlessly all along.

And their rifles were levelled ready for a volley,
But the damp had silenced their fire which made the men feel melancholy,
But the Russians were hurled down the ravine in a disordered mass
At the charge of the bayonet-- an inspiring sight!-- nothing could it surpass.

General Cathcart thought he could strike a blow at an unbroken Russian line;
Oh! the scene was really very sublime,
Because hand to hand they fought with a free will,
And with one magnificent charge they hurled the Russians down the hill.

But while General Cathcart without any dread
Was collecting his scattered forces, he fell dead,
Pierced to the heart with a Russian ball,
And his men lamented sorely his downfall.

While the Duke of Cambridge with the colours of two Regiments of Guards
Presses forward, and no obstacle his courage retards,
And with him about one hundred men,
And to keep up their courage he was singing a hymn to them.

Then hand to hand they fought the Russians heroically,
Which was a most inspiring sight to see;
Captain Burnaby with thirteen Guardsmen fighting manfully,
And they drove the Russians down the hillside right speedily.

The French and Zouaves aided the British in the fight,
And they shot down and killed the Russians left and right,
And the Chasseurs also joined in the fight,
And the Russians fell back in great afright.

Then the Russians tried again and again
To drive the British from the slopes of Inkermann, but all in vain,
For the French and British beat them back without dismay,
Until at last the Russians had to give way.

And the French and British fought side by side
Until the Russians no longer the bayonet charge could abide,
And the Russians were literally scorched by the musketry fire,
And in a short time the Russians were forced to retire.

[...] Read more

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Canto the Seventh

I
O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly
Around us ever, rarely to alight?
There's not a meteor in the polar sky
Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight.
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high
Our eyes in search of either lovely light;
A thousand and a thousand colours they
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way.

II
And such as they are, such my present tale is,
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme,
A versified Aurora Borealis,
Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime.
When we know what all are, we must bewail us,
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime
To laugh at all things -- for I wish to know
What, after all, are all things -- but a show?

III
They accuse me -- Me -- the present writer of
The present poem -- of -- I know not what --
A tendency to under-rate and scoff
At human power and virtue, and all that;
And this they say in language rather rough.
Good God! I wonder what they would be at!
I say no more than hath been said in Danté's
Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes;

IV
By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault,
By Fénélon, by Luther, and by Plato;
By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau,
Who knew this life was not worth a potato.
'T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so --
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato,
Nor even Diogenes. -- We live and die,
But which is best, you know no more than I.

V
Socrates said, our only knowledge was
"To know that nothing could be known;" a pleasant
Science enough, which levels to an ass
Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present.
Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas!
Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent,
That he himself felt only "like a youth
Picking up shells by the great ocean -- Truth."

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Don Juan: Canto The Seventh

O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly
Around us ever, rarely to alight?
There's not a meteor in the polar sky
Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight.
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high
Our eyes in search of either lovely light;
A thousand and a thousand colours they
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way.

And such as they are, such my present tale is,
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme,
A versified Aurora Borealis,
Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime.
When we know what all are, we must bewail us,
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime
To laugh at all things- for I wish to know
What, after all, are all things- but a show?

They accuse me--Me--the present writer of
The present poem--of--I know not what--
A tendency to under-rate and scoff
At human power and virtue, and all that;
And this they say in language rather rough.
Good God! I wonder what they would be at!
I say no more than hath been said in Dante's
Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes;

By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault,
By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato;
By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau,
Who knew this life was not worth a potato.
'Tis not their fault, nor mine, if this be so-
For my part, I pretend not to be Cato,
Nor even Diogenes.--We live and die,
But which is best, you know no more than I.

Socrates said, our only knowledge was
'To know that nothing could be known;' a pleasant
Science enough, which levels to an ass
Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present.
Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas!
Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent,
That he himself felt only 'like a youth
Picking up shells by the great ocean--Truth.'

Ecclesiastes said, 'that all is vanity'--
Most modern preachers say the same, or show it
By their examples of true Christianity:
In short, all know, or very soon may know it;
And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity,

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Russian Roulette

Take it or leave it Ive heard it been said
All this spring fevers just way over my head
Stealing my moments, taking up all my time
Its playing russian roulette with my mind
Its none of my business baby just whats going on
Im not going to wait till somebody throw me a bone
Im way out on a limb now, and nothing seems to rhyme
Its playing russian roulette with my mind
I think that youve caught on, that youve been used and all
Im going down new orleans, Ive got to see dr. john
Got my mojo working everything will be fine
Stop playing russian roulette with my mind
Its not easy baby when everything starts getting out of control
Hang on your hat now, hang on to your soul
Dont worry baby, I wanna throw you the line
Theyre playing russian roulette with your mind
Too many hustlers, Ive been here before
None of them really know just who that you are
Everything gets contracted and space gets confined
Theyre playing russian roulette with your mind
Theyre playing russian roulette
Theyre playing russian roulette
Theyre playing russian roulette with your mind
Theyre playing russian roulette
Theyre playing russian roulette
Theyre playing russian roulette with your mind

song performed by Van Morrison
Added by Lucian Velea
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Mostly Slavonic

I.—
Peter Michaelov

It was Peter the Barbarian put an apron in his bag
And rolled up the honoured bundle that Australians call a swag;
And he tramped from Darkest Russia, that it might be dark no more,
Dreaming of a port, and shipping, as no monarch dreamed before.
Of a home, and education, and of children staunch and true,
Like my father in the fifties—and his name was Peter, too.
(He could build a ship—or fiddle, out of wood, or bark, or hide—.
Sail one round the world and play the other one at eventide.)

Russia’s Peter (not my father) went to Holland in disguise,
Where he laboured as a shipwright underneath those gloomy skies;
Later on he went to England (which the Kaiser now—condemns)
Where he studied as a ship-smith by old Deptford on the Thames—
And no doubt he knew the rope-walk—(and the rope’s end too, he knew)—
Learned to build a ship and sail it—learned the business through and through.
And I’d like to say my father mastered navigation too.
(He was born across in Norway, educated fairly well,
And he grafted in a ship-yard by the Port of Arundel.)

“Peter Michaelov” (not Larsen) his work was by no means done;
For he learned to make a ploughshare, and he learned to make a gun.
Russian soldiers must have clothing, so he laboured at the looms,
And he studied, after hours, building forts and building booms.
He would talk with all and sundry, merchants and adventurers—
Whaling men from Nova Scotia, and with ancient mariners.
Studied military systems (of which Austria’s was the best).
Hospitals and even bedlams—class distinctions and the rest.

There was nothing he neglected that was useful to be known—
And he even studied Wowsers, who had no creed of his own.
And, lest all that he accomplished should as miracles appear,
It must always be remembered he’d a secret Fund for Beer.
When he tramped to toil and exile he was only twenty-five,
With a greater, grander object than had any man alive.
And perhaps the lad was bullied, and was sad for all we know—
Though it isn’t very likely that he’d take a second blow.
He had brains amongst the brainless, and, what that thing means I knew,
For before I found my kingdom, I had slaved in workshops too.

But they never dreamed, the brainless, boors that used to sneer and scoff,
That the dreamy lad beside them—known as “Dutchy Mickyloff”—
Was a genius and a poet, and a Man—no matter which—
Was the Czar of all the Russias!—Peter Michaelovich.

Sweden struck ere he was ready—filled the land with blood and tears—
But he broke the power of Sweden though it took him nine long years.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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The Legend Of St. Sophia Of Kioff

I.

[The Poet describes the city and spelling of Kiow, Kioff, or Kiova.]

A thousand years ago, or more,
A city filled with burghers stout,
And girt with ramparts round about,
Stood on the rocky Dnieper shore.
In armor bright, by day and night,
The sentries they paced to and fro.
Well guarded and walled was this town, and called
By different names, I'd have you to know;
For if you looks in the g'ography books,
In those dictionaries the name it varies,
And they write it off Kieff or Kioff, Kiova or Kiow.

II.

[Its buildings, public works, and ordinances, religious and civil.]

Thus guarded without by wall and redoubt,
Kiova within was a place of renown,
With more advantages than in those dark ages
Were commonly known to belong to a town.
There were places and squares, and each year four fairs,
And regular aldermen and regular lord-mayors;
And streets, and alleys, and a bishop's palace;
And a church with clocks for the orthodox—
With clocks and with spires, as religion desires;
And beadles to whip the bad little boys
Over their poor little corduroys,
In service-time, when they DIDN'T make a noise;
And a chapter and dean, and a cathedral-green
With ancient trees, underneath whose shades
Wandered nice young nursery-maids.

[The poet shows how a certain priest dwelt at Kioff, a godly
clergyman, and one that preached rare good sermons.]

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-ding-a-ring-ding,
The bells they made a merry merry ring,
From the tall tall steeple; and all the people
(Except the Jews) came and filled the pews—
Poles, Russians and Germans,
To hear the sermons
Which HYACINTH preached godly to those Germans and Poles,
For the safety of their souls.

[...] Read more

poem by William Makepeace Thackeray
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The Battle of Alma

'Twas on the heights of Alma the battle began.
But the Russians turned and fled every man;
Because Sir Colin Campbell's Highland Brigade put them to flight,
At the charge of the bayonet, which soon ended the fight.

Sir Colin Campbell he did loudly cry,
Let the Highlanders go forward, they will win or die,
We'll hae nane but Hieland bonnets here,
So forward, my lads, and give one ringing cheer.

Then boldly and quickly they crossed the river,
But not one amongst them with fear did shiver,
And ascended the height, forming quietly on the crest,
While each man seemed anxious to do his best.

The battle was fought by twenty against one,
But the gallant British troops resolved to die to a man,
While the shot was mowing them down and making ugly gaps,
And shells shrieking and whistling and making fearful cracks.

On the heights of Alma it was a critical time,
And to see the Highland Brigade it was really sublime,
To hear the officers shouting to their men,
On lads, I'll show you the way to fight them.

Close up! Close up! Stand firm, my boys,
Now be steady, men, steady and think of our joys;
If we only conquer the Russians this day,
Our fame will be handed down to posterity for ever and aye.

Still forward! Forward! My lads was the cry,
And from the redoubt make them fly;
And at length the Russians had to give way,
And fled from the redoubt in wild dismay.

Still the fate of the battle hung in the balance,
But Sir Colin knew he had still a chance,
But one weak officer in fear loudly shouted,
Let the Guards fall back, or they'll be totally routed.

Then Sir Colin Campbell did make reply,
'Tis better, Sir, that every man of the Guards should die,
And to be found dead on this bloody field,
Than to have it said they fled and were forced to yield.

Then the Coldstreams on the highlanders' right
Now advanced to engage the enemy in the fight,
But then they halted, unable to go forward,
Because the Russians did their progress retard.

[...] Read more

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Captain Von Esson of the “Sebastopol”

Of his beauty, or stature, or colour of hair I hadn’t the slightest hint,
But he comes to me as a little man, with a scrubby beard and a squint,
With a heart somewhere if it wasn’t there, and an Irish terrier nose,
With a bark or a yelp for his friends and his crew, and a bull-dog grip for his foes.
The Japs had taken a permanent fort at the price of ten thousand sons,
And they shelled the ships in the harbour there with their landed naval guns.
Through sand bags laid on the upper deck, the shells went through with a whelt—
And some (because of ballistic curve) out under the armoured belt.

Till each was sunk that the Russians left—while the buildings reeled with the shock,
Save the last of the Russian ships of war—the Sebastopol—in dock.
And this is the reason—told in a line—why there is a tale to tell:
The Sebastopol had a man for boss, and a crew that knew it well.

He rousted them out from the dens ashore, and they didn’t engage in prayer,
For dear men pray when the fight is done, and there wasn’t a cheap man there.
He rooted the dock-hands out, when crouched, in deadly fear of the Jap,
But they stood in greater immediate fear of Von Esson’s squint and his yap.

She groped her way in the gathering dusk, out under the time-dulled din,
And nothing was heard save a whispered word, and the laugh of a Russian Finn.
He took her out from the harbour trap, where the shells came down like hail,
For a chance to fight for the Wrong or Right round under the “Lizard’s Tail.”

My fathers came from the North, my friends, when there was a world to win;
And something hints of the Northern Wolf in the laugh of a Russian Finn;
A sailor he was, with gorilla arms, and a mighty, hairy chest—
’T was a laugh of love for his captain man, and a laugh of hate for the rest.

There is neither the time nor the space to tell of the deeds that those Russians did;
Three days on the toppling lid of hell, like an ill-made cauldron’s lid.
The breathless pause ere the flashlight fell where the creeping foe was hid,
The blood-streaked decks, and the grunt or yell, when the stricken slipped and slid.

The faces white in a sudden light, and the ghostly dying grin,
The great relief when the silence broke, and they revelled in Hell’s own din.
The blinding flash and the stunning crash—strained ears—strained eyes—dry skin—
The short sharp yelp of that captain man, and—the laugh of the Russian Finn.

’T was not for Cause nor for Liberty, Religion, or Glory, or Land—
He fought for love of a captain man he could crush with his big right hand.
Till five torpedo boats round her lay, in the mud, the slush, and the ooze—
She sent them down for the Old Greek Church, with the whole of their monkey crews.

But the last one gave her a last thrust home, and left by a friendly tide,
She lay like a man on his elbow raised, with a hand on her wounded side.
She was left to be called for later on, with a solid bank beneath—
The Japs were short of torpedo boats, and—they’d had enough of her teeth.

But, safe from the landed naval guns, and the last torpedo boat,

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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Rasputin

There lived a certain man in russia long ago
He was big and strong, in his eyes a flaming glow
Most people looked at him with terror and with fear
But to moscow chicks he was such a lovely dear
He could preach the Bible like a preacher
Full of ecstacy and fire
But he also was the kind of teacher
Women would desire
Ra ra rasputin
Lover of the russian queen
There was a cat that really was gone
Ra ra rasputin
Russias greatest love machine
It was a shame how he carried on
He ruled the russian land and never mind the czar
But the kasachok he danced really wunderbar
In all affairs of state he was the man to please
But he was real great when he had a girl to squeeze
For the queen he was no wheeler dealer
Though shed heard the things hed done
She believed he was a holy healer
Who would heal her son
Ra ra rasputin
Lover of the russian queen
There was a cat that really was gone
Ra ra rasputin
Russias greatest love machine
It was a shame how he carried on
(spoken:)
But when his drinking and lusting and his hunger
For power became known to more and more people,
The demands to do something about this outrageous
Man became louder and louder.
This mans just got to go! declared his enemies
But the ladies begged dont you try to do it, please
No doubt this rasputin had lots of hidden charms
Though he was a brute they just fell into his arms
Then one night some men of higher standing
Set a trap, theyre not to blame
Come to visit us they kept demanding
And he really came
Ra ra rasputin
Lover of the russian queen
They put some poison into his wine
Ra ra rasputin
Russias greatest love machine
He drank it all and he said I feel fine
Ra ra rasputin
Lover of the russian queen
They didnt quit, they wanted his head

[...] Read more

song performed by Boney M.
Added by Lucian Velea
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Canto the Eighth

I
Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!
These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem,
Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds:
And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds
At present such things, since they are her theme,
So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars,
Bellona, what you will -- they mean but wars.

II
All was prepared -- the fire, the sword, the men
To wield them in their terrible array.
The army, like a lion from his den,
March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay, --
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen
To breathe destruction on its winding way,
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain
Immediately in others grew again.

III
History can only take things in the gross;
But could we know them in detail, perchance
In balancing the profit and the loss,
War's merit it by no means might enhance,
To waste so much gold for a little dross,
As hath been done, mere conquest to advance.
The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.

IV
And why? -- because it brings self-approbation;
Whereas the other, after all its glare,
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation,
Which (it may be) has not much left to spare,
A higher title, or a loftier station,
Though they may make Corruption gape or stare,
Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles,
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles.

V
And such they are -- and such they will be found:
Not so Leonidas and Washington,
Whose every battle-field is holy ground,
Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone.
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound!
While the mere victor's may appal or stun
The servile and the vain, such names will be
A watchword till the future shall be free.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Variations At Home And Abroad

It takes a lot of a person's life
To be French, or English, or American
Or Italian. And to be at any age. To live at any certain time.
The Polish-born resident of Manhattan is not merely a representative of
general humanity
And neither is this Sicilian fisherman stringing his bait
Or to be any gender, born where or when
Betty holding a big plate
Karen crossing her post-World War Two legs
And smiling across the table
These three Italian boys age about twenty gesturing and talking
And laughing after they get off the train
Seem fifty percent Italian and the rest percent just plain
Human race.
O mystery of growing up! O history of going to school!
O lovers O enchantments!

The subject is not over because the photograph is over.
The photographer sits down. Murnau makes the movie.
Everything is a little bit off, but has a nationality.
The oysters won't help the refugees off the boats,
Only other human creatures will. The phone rings and the Albanian
nationalist sits down.
When he gets up he hasn't become a Russian émigré or a German circus
clown
A woman is carrying a basket—a beautiful sight! She is in and of
Madagascar.
The uniformed Malay policeman sniffs the beer barrel that the brothers of
Ludwig are bringing close to him.
All humanity likes to get drunk! Are differences then all on the surface?
But even every surface gets hot
In the sun. It may be that the surface is where we are all alike!
But man and woman show that this isn't true.
We will get by, though. The train is puffing at the station
But the station isn't puffing at the train. This difference allows for a sense
of community
As when people feel really glad to have cats and dogs
And some even a few mice in the chimney. We are not alone
In the universe, and the diversity causes comfort as well as difficulty.
To be Italian takes at least half the day. To be Chinese seven-eighths of it.
Only at evening when Chang Ho, repast over, sits down to smoke
Is he exclusively human, in the way the train is exclusively itself when it is
in motion
But that's to say it wrongly. His being human is also his being seven-eighths
Chinese.
Falling in love one may get, say, twenty percent back
Toward universality, though that is probably all. Then when love's gone
One's Nigerianness increases, or one's quality of being of Nepal.
An American may start out wishing
To be everybody or that everybody were the same

[...] Read more

poem by Kenneth Koch
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This, My Song, Is Made For Kerensky

(Being a Chant of the American Soap-Box and the Russian Revolution.)

O market square, O slattern place,
Is glory in your slack disgrace?
Plump quack doctors sell their pills,
Gentle grafters sell brass watches,
Silly anarchists yell their ills.
Shall we be as weird as these?
In the breezes nod and wheeze?

Heaven's mass is sung,
Tomorrow's mass is sung
In a spirit tongue
By wind and dust and birds,
The high mass of liberty,
While wave the banners red:
Sung round the soap-box,
A mass for soldiers dead.

When you leave your faction in the once-loved hall,
Like a true American tongue-lash them all,
Stand then on the corner under starry skies
And get you a gang of the worn and the wise.
The soldiers of the Lord may be squeaky when they rally,
The soldiers of the Lord are a queer little army,
But the soldiers of the Lord, before the year is through,
Will gather the whole nation, recruit all creation,
To smite the hosts abhorred, and all the heavens renew —
Enforcing with the bayonet the thing the ages teach —
Free speech!
Free speech!

Down with the Prussians, and all their works.
Down with the Turks.
Down with every army that fights against the soap-box,
The Pericles, Socrates, Diogenes soap-box,
The old Elijah, Jeremiah, John-the-Baptist soap-box,
The Rousseau, Mirabeau, Danton soap-box,
The Karl Marx, Henry George, Woodrow Wilson soap-box.
We will make the wide earth safe for the soap-box,
The everlasting foe of beastliness and tyranny,
Platform of liberty: — Magna Charta liberty,
Andrew Jackson liberty, bleeding Kansas liberty,
New-born Russian liberty: —
Battleship of thought,
The round world over,
Loved by the red-hearted,
Loved by the broken-hearted,
Fair young Amazon or proud tough rover,

[...] Read more

poem by Vachel Lindsay
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Grandfather Bridgeman

I

'Heigh, boys!' cried Grandfather Bridgeman, 'it's time before dinner to-day.'
He lifted the crumpled letter, and thumped a surprising 'Hurrah!'
Up jumped all the echoing young ones, but John, with the starch in his throat,
Said, 'Father, before we make noises, let's see the contents of the note.'
The old man glared at him harshly, and twinkling made answer: 'Too bad!
John Bridgeman, I'm always the whisky, and you are the water, my lad!'

II

But soon it was known thro' the house, and the house ran over for joy,
That news, good news, great marvels, had come from the soldier boy;
Young Tom, the luckless scapegrace, offshoot of Methodist John;
His grandfather's evening tale, whom the old man hailed as his son.
And the old man's shout of pride was a shout of his victory, too;
For he called his affection a method: the neighbours' opinions he knew.

III

Meantime, from the morning table removing the stout breakfast cheer,
The drink of the three generations, the milk, the tea, and the beer
(Alone in its generous reading of pints stood the Grandfather's jug),
The women for sight of the missive came pressing to coax and to hug.
He scattered them quick, with a buss and a smack; thereupon he began
Diversions with John's little Sarah: on Sunday, the naughty old man!

IV

Then messengers sped to the maltster, the auctioneer, miller, and all
The seven sons of the farmer who housed in the range of his call.
Likewise the married daughters, three plentiful ladies, prime cooks,
Who bowed to him while they condemned, in meek hope to stand high in his books.
'John's wife is a fool at a pudding,' they said, and the light carts up hill
Went merrily, flouting the Sabbath: for puddings well made mend a will.

V

The day was a van-bird of summer: the robin still piped, but the blue,
As a warm and dreamy palace with voices of larks ringing thro',
Looked down as if wistfully eyeing the blossoms that fell from its lap:
A day to sweeten the juices: a day to quicken the sap.
All round the shadowy orchard sloped meadows in gold, and the dear
Shy violets breathed their hearts out: the maiden breath of the year!

VI

Full time there was before dinner to bring fifteen of his blood,
To sit at the old man's table: they found that the dinner was good.
But who was she by the lilacs and pouring laburnums concealed,

[...] Read more

poem by George Meredith
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Philadelphia Revised

The sad images of Philadelphia popped out of my eyes today
And I could see the streets of Philadelphia where the homeless sleeps
And freeze to death
While Politicians, doctors, Dentists, lawyers, teachers, and nurses get rich
Day by day
But the homeless freeze to death in the streets of Philadelphia and even die
But I have to ask all of you fellow americans where is your heart?
And doesn't charity starts at home first?
Don't you have anything at home that you could give away to the Homeless so they could have something either to wear or to eat?
Why can't we feed the homeless?
I can't understand you fellow Americans?
Please put yourself in their shoes for a day and try to picture what do they Have to go throw everyday
Is it right for the homeless to sleep in the streets and freeze and eventualy Die in the streets of Philadelphia?
Would you fellow Americans go few days without eating?
I don't think so
Why should the homeless that lives in the streets of Philadelphia starve?
Fellow Americans it is time to think about others and not just yourself Because others live In America just like you
Fellow Americans do you have a heart?
Fellow Americans did you ever learned to share what you have with Others?
Fellow Americans America is a sad world because we waste 98% of our Food at home, restaurants, and supermarkets
And all that wasted food ends up in the dump
It is so ashame and so sad at the same time
But the truth is that we are running out of food
And there is not enough food to feed anyone in America
But the cost of food keeps going up
Because we have to pay the American farmers who plants the food and Transport the food to the supermarkets

poem by Aldo Kraas
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Faith In Vodka Tears

'those vodka weeping
Russians
those vodka weeping
Russians
crying vodka tears'

lost loss of faith
loss of faith in communism
lost loss of faith
loss of faith in orthodox religion
lost loss of faith
loss of faith in devastated souls
will Russian soul thaw regenerate?

socialist history of faith
under Lenin Stalin Communism
under suppressed orthodox religion
devastated souls did not regenerate...
vodka soothed Russian soul
crying vodka tears

defensive history of faith
under aggressive invasion bestial Nazism
vodka seemed to fire the Russian soul
crying vodka tears

without faith they cry vodka tears
with faith they cry vodka tears

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Syrian Military Attacking Killing Civilians

Syrian military
tanks aircraft are attacking
are killing civilians
with Russian
political military...
aid civilian Arab
blood flows

blood red black rose withers

those Russians
those Russians
living before frost
ice thaw
say how can you expect...
dictators
to leave

blood red black rose withers

without sowing
killing fields
with thousands
millions of rebels
exterminated
are not model...
civilians
not citizens

blood red black rose withers

plus misfits
did not conform
to official
party policy
insanity insanity...
there can be
only party

blood red black rose withers

Russian tradition slay civilians
put in ice box grave Gulag...
have they not heard
Stalin is dead...
dictatorship is dead...
martyr minds
beyond the wire noose...

blood red black rose withers

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Russian Lullaby

When the seas are rolling in
When the stars are shining clear
When the ghosts are howling near
When we sing the russian lullaby
Lets you and me together leave for higher ground
When you are all alone just listen to the sound
Lullaby
We fall asleep when we hear...
Lullaby
We fly away when we hear...
Lullaby
We travel far when we hear...
Lullaby
When we hear the russian lullaby...
In the night, when the seas are rolling in
In the night, when the stars are shining clear
In the night, when the ghosts are howling near
In the night, when we sing the russian lullaby
When we are going through the night in search of light
Lets you and me enjoy the mach 5 speed of life
Lullaby
We fall asleep when we hear...
Lullaby
We fly away when we hear...
Lullaby
We travel far when we hear...
Lullaby
When we hear the russian lullaby...
In the night, when the seas are rolling in
In the night, when the stars are shining clear
In the night, when the ghosts are howling near
In the night, when we sing the russian lullaby

song performed by E-type
Added by Lucian Velea
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Not Born In Sin

Russian family running for their lives
jumps over barbwire Russian fence
they don't get stuck-fence is sharp as a knife.
Only baby gets stuck with her wrap
Bolshevik soldiers show up
Russian family is scared off their ____.
One Bolshevik soldier soul is wise
He gives other soldier his rifle-
let's little baby and Russian family survive.
In barbwire fence soldier does go-
He rescues baby and instantly is not a foe.
Russian family goes to America where freedom prevails
Bob their grandson is born who hears of this tale.
I heard it today and had tears in my eyes
We humans are not "born in sin" or "evil"
this Bolshevik soldier was a good guy
and proved this judgment otherwise.

Written by Christina Sunrise on March 12,2012

poem by Christina Sunrise
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Roulette (FT Jide Bj Akindola)

Russian roulette rolling of dice
rushing men fails to think twice
Russian roulette rolling of dice
these are the chances of life

Looking in the barrel of a gun
The life of a wanderer
Russian roulette rolling of a die
Never a need to think twice

Find your fortunes in my losses
wonder for the purpose of your own
Russian roulette rolling of dice
you play your cards while I play mine

In my teachings these lessons stay in line
Know your limits and your state of mind
Russian roulette rolling of dice
Think twice before you walk in blind

poem by Kelvin Owusu
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