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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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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Your body belongs to the Tsar, your soul to God, and your back to the squire.
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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When the Tsar sins the Empire must do penance.
He who serves the Tsar cannot serve his people.
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.
Vast Empire And Fallen Throne.
A vast empire surrounds us
But we stand with the fallen throne and
Confounded and crestfallen we are.
Our empire of amasses; not of accumulations!
Our empire of ownership; not of master-hood!
Our empire of intelligence; not of erudition!
The throne lies down with its jewels gone,
It lies at our feet and none can pick it up.
We feel on our skull the shame of past.
Our throne of civilisation; not of progress!
Our throne of peace; not of harmony!
Our throne of diamonds; not of copper
The empire will swell and explode next
And our throne will lie buried ever.
The empire will thereafter turn into a planet of its own
And go on the orbit of might and moss and
Our throne will join the fossils down deep!
The ides of the present remain told aloud!
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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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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Holy Spirit Divine Descend
Holy Spirit Divine descend
Come and take pre-eminence
Move in an unusual fashion
Like on the day of Pentecost
Descend Holy spirit Divine descend
We are gathered in your name
Together to sing your praises
To express our thankfulness
At your throne of Grace
We are gathered in your name
Together to make our supplication
And bring our burdens
To the throne of Grace
We are gathered in your name
Humbly requesting your blessing
Showers of divine blessings
From the throne of Grace
We are gathered in your name
Anxiously seeking your face
Believing to access favours
From your throne of Grace
We are gathered in your name
Honestly faithful in you
Trusting we shall be set freed
At your throne of Grace
We are gathered in your name
Keenly waiting on you
Hoping to renew our strength
At the throne of Grace
We are gathered in your name
Candidly unwavering in our trust
Convinced to be spiritually re-fueled
At the throne of Grace
poem by Emmanuel Oduro
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Wistfully Watching
They explore the world
through windows,
church windows,
school windows,
two up, two down windows,
castle windows,
large windows,
small windows.
They see it all,
from blameless to guilty,
from noble to treacherous,
through windows.
From skyscraper windows,
to basement flat windows,
from paupers windows,
and palace windows
they watch, absorb, suck it in.
Later when they have grown
they will remember,
try to empathise,
rationalise
decipher the coded metaphors,
but some day
they will be demoralised
by the windows of life.
There they sit __ wistfully watching __
the children
of our times.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Testament
I feel I'd like to be alone
with you, friend, if you'll stay:
my time on earth is nearly gone;
at least that's what they say.
And you'll be going home on leave:
mind you… what odds? I do believe,
to tel the truth, not many
will give a brass halfpenny.
If anyone should ask of you…
well, anyone at all…
you tell them where that bullet flew
right through the chest, one ball:
'He died with honour for the Tsar'
- and say how bad our surgeons are -
'and to his habitation
he sent his salutation.'
You'll likely find that my old dad
and mother both are dead…
I wouldn't want to make them sad
or send them tears to shed;
but if you find that they're all right,
just say I haven't time to write,
the regiment's campaigning
and there's no use complaining.
They've got a woman neighbour there?
God knows how long ago
we parted!… She will hardly care
to ask you.. Let it go,
tell her the truth, leave out no part,
no need to spare an empty heart;
she'll shed a tear or two there…
but it means nothing to her!
poem by Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
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Vowed To Abdicate the Throne
He has vowed!
Yes.
Vowed to abdicate the throne!
He alone has grown tired,
And is heard moaning there...
As he groans!
He needs to unplug from this stall.
And release his opposition.
He is stagnated in a position,
That brings a grief to all that has shown.
The frequency of his zeal...
Leaves him with little appeal.
Even he has lost desire...
To strike a match to this gas once fired.
A sputtering that had stirred a blaze.
But those days have come to a fade.
And he sits in a daze!
Realizing he has no business to rush.
And even less of that to flush!
He has vowed!
Yes.
Vowed to abdicate the throne!
He alone has grown tired,
And is heard moaning there...
As he groans!
And those anticipating...
And awaiting him to flee.
Admit to themselves,
Why they have been so patient
With someone who believed,
This 'throne' was theirs exclusively!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Nairobi and Niagra
Nigeria Niagra and Nile are near Nairobi
And emperor Nero of Netherlands
Once upon a time a friend of Nebuchadnesar
Pored into the geography and geology
Of N and probed into its cosmology
To discover that violins and musical bands
Could stir the empty jar
Of nothingness
And the Tsar of hallucination was born
Caught in the network generated by him
We suffer from incurable illusion
And we know that Nairobi is in Africa
And Niagra roars in America
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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