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A Russian Tale
The tsar our little father had grown old, very old. Now he could not even strangle a dove with his own hands. Sitting on his throne he was golden and frigid. Only his beard grew, down to the floor and farther.
Then someone else ruled, it was not known who. Curious folk peeped into the palace windows but Krivonosov screened the windows with gibbets. Thus only the hanged saw anything.
In the end the tsar our little father died for good. The bells rang and rang, yet they did not bring his body out. Our tsar had grown into the throne. The legs of the throne had become all mixed up with the legs of the tsar. His arm and the armrest were one. It was impossible to tear him loose. And to bury the tsar along with the golden throne - what a shame.
poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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Batuschka
[Author's Note: The title means "little father" or "dear little father", a term of endearment applied to the Tsar in Russian folk-song. --T.B.A.]
From yonder gilded minaret
Beside the steel-blue Neva set,
I faintly catch, from time to time,
The sweet, aerial midnight chime--
"God save the Tsar!"
Above the ravelins and the moats
Of the white citadel it floats;
And men in dungeons far beneath
Listen, and pray, and gnash their teeth--
"God save the Tsar!"
The soft reiterations sweep
Across the horrer of their sleep,
As if some dæmon in his glee
Were mocking at their misery--
"God save the Tsar!"
In his Red Palace over there,
Wakeful, he needs must hear the prayer.
How can it drown the broken cries
Wrung from his children's agonies?--
"God save the Tsar!"
Father they called him from of old--
Batuschka! . . . How his heart is cold!
Wait till a million scourgëd men
Rise in their awful might, and then
God save the Tsar!
poem by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
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Alexander III
The world in mourning for a Russian Tsar!
A despot of the nineteenth century
Mourned by the nations that have made men free!
Ye captives of his rule! where'er ye be,
Whether in dungeons or in mines afar—
Wretches who mourn, yet mourn not for the Tsar,—
Forgive the tears that seem a wrong to grief
Barren of comfort and without relief!—
The Tsar was Russia's martyr,—as ye are!
He asked for peace, and she ordained him strife.
A Slav of simple heart, disliking show,
She bade him every lowly hope forego;
And placing on his brow her crown of woe,
Gave him a sovereignty with perils rife,
And 'neath his sceptre hid the assassin's knife.
So, masked as Fear, she broke his nerves of steel
Upon the circle of her racking wheel,
And set a horror at his door of life!
Humanity but sorrows for her own;
The Autocrat she mourns not, but the man,
Who, loving Russia, lived beneath her ban,
Powerless to soften fate or change the plan
That called him all unwilling to a throne,
Hereditary evils to atone.
She mourns not Cæsar, but the pathos old
Of a quick conscience, driven to uphold
A dynasty the world had long outgrown.
Woe to the Tsar!—Livadia's cannon boom,
Proclaiming that the Tsar from woe is free!
Peace to the Tsar! but, Russia, woe to thee!
Still he who rules thee shall thy victim be,
Tortured by griefs that shall his heart consume,
Till he and thou, risen as from the tomb,
Shall see the light on Liberty's calm face,
Shall know that tyranny must yield its place
To the great spirit that hath breathed its doom!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I am not yet ready to be Tsar. I know nothing of the business of ruling.
quote by Nicholas II
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He who serves the Tsar cannot serve his people.
When the Tsar sins the Empire must do penance.
Your body belongs to the Tsar, your soul to God, and your back to the squire.
A drop of water in the eyes of the Tsar costs the country many handkerchiefs.
Death carries on its shoulders a heavy Tsar just as easily as a light beggar.
A cross-eyed Tsar, one-eyed ministers, blind subjects.
My heart is my hands
My hands
Is
Only my hands...
Not for
your hands....
So...
I want too work
My hands...
I want too serve
My hands...
I want to do about
Somthing of my
Hands...
My hands is
Free for only
Sleeping time only...
my hands is
working all the times
My hands not only
Hands...
It is human workers...
Allways for my friends...
My hands...is my heart...
My heart is my hands.....
Ok...How is your hands...?
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Rasputin
The Tsarevitch lay moaning,
He was dying in his bed,
The bleeding wouldn't stop,
It turned the little fellow's head,
When somewhere through the darkness
Where a peasant dared not roam,
A bearded monk came lumbering in
And headed for the throne!
He had some mystic power, this monk,
Worked miracles, somehow,
And Alexandra wept to see
Her son, so peaceful now,
The Tsar was more than overwhelmed,
Invited him to court,
This Grigori Yefimovich,
The healer they had sought!
Each time the haemophilia
Brought young Alexis low,
Rasputin, by his bedside
Would appear to stem the flow,
They saw him as a holy man,
The women, hypnotised,
They met with him in secret,
Raised their skirts, and spread their thighs.
He revelled in the scandals
And he bragged of them in court,
And even Alexandra
Was the subject of his sport,
The Tsar went off to fight the war
And left them all behind,
Rasputin with his mistresses;
They say that love is blind!
The nobles, they all hated him
His fame, and loving arts,
They needed to be rid of him,
Black murder in their hearts,
Prince Yusupov invited him
To visit at his home,
Then fed him poisoned cakes and wine,
And left him there alone!
The poison didn't seem to take,
The monk was quite immune,
The plotters there had panicked
When they came back in the room,
The prince took his revolver
And he aimed it at his heart,
Rasputin fell back dead - or so they thought;
It was a start!
He lay across the table as
The wine spilt on the floor,
Prince Yusupov bent over him,
He didn't seem to stir;
But then Rasputin lunged at him
And grabbed him by the throat,
And Yusupov cried out: ‘Will no-one
Free me from this oaf? '
Rasputin staggered to the door,
Another shot rang out,
Purishkevich had waited
‘Til he heard the prince's shout,
They rolled him in a sheet, and then
They heard Rasputin groan,
As they dropped him through the ice
Into the Neva, where he drowned!
He was buried at the palace
On the orders of the Tsar,
But the revolution came,
And saw Rasputin disinterred,
When they tried to burn the body
They were shocked to see him writhe,
Try to sit up in the flames…
As if Rasputin was alive!
21 May 2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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I Dreamed.... (Hands)
i dreamed last night...
and all i could see were hands.
sometimes hard and calloused,
sometimes soft and feminine.
skilled hands, laborer's hands,
loving hands, nurturing hands....
fingers digging in the dirt,
fingers holding a pen.
fingers playing a piano,
fingers unbuttoning blouses.
hands extended, hands gripping the rope,
hands holding the shovel,
hands covered with resin.
hands folded in prayer,
hands balled into fists.
hands stuffed in empty pockets.
hands that define both history,
and destiny!
hands scarred and bruised,
hands covered with age spots.
hands that speak many languages.
hands that know mistakes, and failures.
hands that built fires,
hands that put fires out!
hands that wiped away tears,
that picked up trash,
and revealed souls....
whose hands?
my hands, your hands?
god's hands?
does it really matter?
hands engaged and involved,
in the very act of living!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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These Hands
Given by God -are these hands!
One can do many things -with these hands
With love one can help a strangers' hands-
Allay and comfort the elders' gnarled hands
Clean sweep and mop with these hands
Decorate and embellish with these hands
Cook and serve food to all with these hands
Clasp a loved one with these hands
Applaud one with pleasure with these hands
Dig the soil and form a garden with these hands
Hold a book to read with these hands
Write and post a card with these hands
Type a poem to cheer someone with these hands
Draw a picture and sew clothes with these hands
Paint a beautiful scene to amuse with these hands
Play a game of volley ball or cricket with these hands
Swim the waters and row a boat with these hands
Pick the harvests and fruits with these hands
Feed the animals and birds with these hands
Seek the warmth of dear ones with these hands
Feel the soft petals of a flower with these hands
Fold the palms to pray with these hands
Given by God - are these hands!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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The most beatiful hands
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that caressed you
and rocked you when you were little.
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that guided you
when you took your first steps in life.
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that bathed you,
clothed you and fed you,
during childhood.
There are no more beautiful hands
than the hands that hugged you
and wiped away all your tears
throughout your life.
There are no more beautiful hands
than your mother's hands...
poem by Viorel Vintila
Submitted by Viorel Vintila
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Devastated
I can hear the beats of drums afar
The voices of war so loud
without out the melody of a guitar
As dust of battle redden the cloud
A fight that will leave behind only scars
Cos the warriors are not at par
It is not a children’s blazer
It is a fight like the war of the tsar
Only the ground will bear the rot
As the crushing sun and the dreadful night
Brings the pain of lost ones gone
For only the dead have seen the end of war
poem by Jesuroboowie Gift Imafidon
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Our Hands
My hands once warm,
And clothed in yours,
my hands once full,
and held in yours.
Empty hands,
Cold hands,
my hands have lost their,
Partner as you once were for me,
Your hands at once rough,
and soft,
Always gentle when in mine,
our hands would meet to fill the cold,
My hands now empty cover tears,
my hands once warm now with
a freezing touch,
your hands are gone,
the warmth they held has left,
these hands of mine.
poem by Rebecca Adams
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H o p e
my little hands are always looking for you
my little hands always want to hold you
my little hands will never let you go
I want to walk and be comfortable
together in your grasp
while my little hands have not been able to conquer the world
but at the moment my little hands into a future force
hands that will always hold you
and will not let you go
smile and my little hands is hope
who will take care of you
someday - is my devotion to you