WE ARE COMING
Breaking barriers, every chain,
Crushing hindrance, on we go...
Truths revealed and garments plain—
To the world, new light we show.
Strength of calling,
Battle's sweetness,
Storm enthralling,
Joy and fleetness—
We have nurtured in our breast...
In young hearts that never rest.
We are yearning,
We are striving,
Will that's burning,
Fate arriving...
Up ahead—
Thorns and cliffs, the pathway high—
Still we lit the beacon's flame.
Crimson dawns ignite the sky,
Death retreats, devoid of name.
Night’s dark curtain
We are tearing,
And the workers
We are bearing—
Toward the Morning, toward the Sun...
Toward the Day that's just begun!
There'll be meetings,
Oaths and speeches...
Joy of poor ones,
Pale and sleepless—
Only hold your faith unbroken,
Let your souls in flame aspire:—
On the steel and stone unspoken,
We shall plant a blooming briar...
Of the towns.
January 1918
GLITTERS.
(Dedicated to the Petrograd Proletkult).
1.
POISONOUS FLOWERS
Professor Shamkal spoke of some new invention,
It seemed to involve self-dissolving in fire.
Without awaiting less professorial intervention,
The grateful crowd applauded, never tired.
Jurists twisted laws into complex confessions,
On property rights and each citizen’s duty—
Proving, by clever and fervent professions,
That faith must stay in laws of the Revolution newly.
Ministers, orators, perched on the laurels of coups,
Called rebels drunk slaves, howling for order.
Commanders kept sending in squadrons in twos,
While smugness slid over each face like water.
The shameful wedding with dark powers lingered,
Old leaders now served snacks from the tray.
Scholars searched corpses with trembling fingers,
While powdered poets praised Russia’s new day.
2.
UPRISING
Cries... Alarm... Footsteps... Machine guns... Artillery...
Bayonets...
Out they marched—the crimson factories,
The outskirts, the quarters, aflame with defiance!
Barracks, the fleet, rebellious crews and companies—
Banners soared high in bright-red alliance!
Panic rushed into the Winter Palace,
Clamped its chains upon the ministers...
Palaces, drawing rooms, silenced by fear, by ferocity.
Sailors from the cruiser sent a shot—an ultimatum.
The toppled power was caged in the fortress bastions.
Then slithered words, like serpents creeping—
Poisoned with hatred, cowardice, and pain;
Words of despair and hope interweaving,
Thunderous words—radiant like flame—
Glorious, red, and full of believing,
Of power, of joy, and a people's new name.
Echoed the cries: "Hour-long Caliphs! Adventurers!
Huns!"...
Shouts resounded: "Long live the Proletarian State!"
Rose the names of the Commissar commanders,
Bright in the dawn of Lenin’s Commune fate—
Zinoviev, Trotsky, Lunacharsky among the standards!
3.
AGONY
The black, old world sent forth its delegates—
Guardians of law, of rites, of ancient faiths and fates;
Bourgeois, poets, jurists, men of learning,
By revolt and upheaval deeply shaken,
Grief-stricken...
But wrathful too, like gods betrayed and burning,
Sudden as raiders, as Vikings storm-breaking—
They came running—
To the squares, to the councils, to mass debating,
Raving, trembling, disconnected,
Wildly frantic,
They cried out—
With guttural howls,
With venomous growls,
With sacred curses—
Across the plains and hunchbacked fields,
Along the borders, through the shields,
There sped—
Their strained and spiteful snarl,
Their long and savage call:
"Heeelp!
Sound the alaaaarm!...
Save uuuuus!..”
There’s a pounding, there’s a roar,
There’s a rumble, more and more—
Steps, and steps, and steps resound…
Into the world strides Ham the Great,
Crushing all with heavy gait…
There he is! There he is—
Rough and burly,
Clumsy, surly—
In a wild and frenzied motion
Flooding roads and every station,
Storming palaces and towers,
Seizing councils,
Spoiling powers—
Every hall,
Soiled them all…
All the havens of the Fair,
Cloth of boldest Dream laid bare—
He defiled…
God’s own temple with the Law,
Whip’s shriek and the church bell’s awe,
Marriage vows he tore apart…
Joy and rapture, soul and heart,
Life’s own purpose—he destroyed…
Like a beast slipped from its chain,
On the laws, foundations lain
Over centuries we revered—
Things we guarded, things we feared,
Held as holy…
And from now on—
All the sacred shrines of feeling,
All the present’s solemn height,
And the past’s inherited might—
Lie beneath a vandal’s heel, unhealing…
"Heeelp!.. Alaaarm!.."
So he cried in frenzied dread,
Writhing, weeping as he bled,
As he perished—
The Old World...
Dark and vicious, the Old World.
Mines and furnaces and factories,
Steamships, engines, steel-bound batteries—
Threats once born of coal and fire,
Dynamite, and hot desire—
All of these accelerated,
Sped the march that devastated,
Buried, burned—
The Old World.
Then they called out,
Summoned all who dared draw near—
To a feast of fight and light—
To create and build aright—
A New World—
Bright and bold, a better sphere…
Steam rose swirling, boiling, bold,
Sang in fury,
Roared and rolled—
Drowned the dying scream, the savage shout,
Laughed aloud...
And in coats, in sandals, sacks and threadbare boots,
Battalions,
By the millions—
Legions resolute—
Unshaken by that wailing wild and bleak—
March toward the Goal they seek...
Sunlight lights their every mile,
And caresses,
Like a mother
Loves her child—
Tenderly, with softest smile...
It kisses them—it kisses them, enchanted,
Passionate, with fire undaunted,
With their striving, with their yearning,
With their surging—
It rejoices,
Burns yet brighter, ever turning...
4.
A Poem of Poems
On the squares, on streets, above the coats and smocks,
Silk and calico of crimson brightly streams...
The Marseillaise floats over crowded docks—
Speeches... Singing...
A festival beyond all dreams.
In the sweep of massed elation, chains are shattered,
Seeds of darkness burned by consciousness ablaze.
Convulsing still, old myths are torn and scattered—
Sunk like bronze horsemen into Lethean haze.
By uprising, by revolution, to the tune of Marseillaise,
A poem was composed by all—a Poem of Poems…
Inscribed in blood and iron, in history’s hardest phrase:
The Soviet Republic—the Poem of Poems.
The Soviet Republic—creation of the working hands,
Poured joy like living sunlight through the soul.
Earth, since the birth of time and starry strands,
Had long prepared her womb for this great goal.
5.
AT THE GATES OF THE FUTURE
For the Festival of Revolution—
Unseen before upon the earth—
They shuffled in, bedraggled, drowsy,
Faces drooped and void of mirth,
Clutching rusty books in piles:
A teacher of old rhetoric,
A poet of doves and lover’s trials,
His soul long hollowed, pale and sick,
A fat monk urging chains and lashes,
Crying, “Repent!”—while his halo flashes.
Behind them peered the Literary Names,
Their titles trembling like dying flames...
And having flipped a few bold stanzas
From the Poem of Poems, aghast—
They all, in chorus,
Full of learning,
Angrily and righteously
Exclaimed at last:
“This isn’t a Poem—it’s just a Tale!
Ugly, crude, and ill-composed!
Unshaped, unpolished, doomed to fail!
The authors don’t even know how rhyme goes—
No rhythm, no meter, no poetic laws!”
The sun stared down on the mockers with scorn,
Trams and carts broke rhythm in reply,
Streets, houses, people—each form
Shifting size beneath the sky.
Automobiles shouted ceaselessly, crying:
“Eunuchs! Eunuchs!”—ironically prying.
Then the voice of the Festival's host
Rose—solemn, powerful, clear as a ghost:
“Blind men!
Heed the voice of the guard:
All that you've locked in convention’s charade—
In your toothless, dead dogmas, in rhythm's old cage—
No longer lives...
And all that obeys those expired commands
Dies the moment it touches your hands.
We—who rose and shattered slavery's chain—
Are called to destroy the dogmas again,
And the forms—
For the Poem we’ve forged
Is Life itself:
New Life, Better Life, Life full of Light—
Whose gifts you never have tasted,
Whose Beauty and Greatness you failed to feel,
And, failing to grasp Her power or right,
You named Her vile—unworthy, unreal.
Rush now to taste Her communion divine,
That your names may live
And not rot in time—
That you may be immortal,
And not
Be cursed by your line.”
The voice of the outskirts rushed in triumph through the land…
And echoing in answer, a rolling thunder ran—
The rebel-roar of wrathful, countless masses,
The weight of humankind—
Both hemispheres replied.
The thunder grows…
It rises…
It swells…
The earth’s steel nerves—its cables humming—
The light-threaded banners, proudly drumming,
The wandering tablets—those pages of print—
All proclaim:
The drowsy faces, hunched and grim,
Have perished—
And with them,
The Old Black World.
6.
TO THE UNIVERSE
O Universe, dress in your finest array—
In crimson silk, in pearl and bloom,
Like a bride awaiting kisses at the close of day,
Burning with longing, trembling with perfume—
Prepare for the hour of meeting:
For the Forerunners of the Coming Ages
Now march—Proletarian poets, worker-sages!
They are sent by crowds, by masses, by millions,
By billions,
By legions...
From factories roaring with righteous flame,
From smoky outskirts, from slums unnamed,
From mines, from pits, from tunnels and caves,
From field brigades,
From ships and barracks brave...
They are sent by the towns, by the workers' stations,
By those who woke, who rose, who shattered
The chains of slavery like titanic nations,
And to the world—
Spoke their Word.
A word was born—new, winged, resounding, flame-bright:
Freedom. Soviets. All Power to the Working Class.
And they wrote it in History, in blood still smoking—
The loveliest of the lovely,
Never seen in the Old World—
The Poem of Poems: the Soviet Republic.
They sent forth the Forerunners to shatter the crags of the past,
To blaze a path—fiery, pure, and vast—
For the Poet
Still to come.
7.
TO THE PROLETARIAN POETS
Brighter poets, happier, more blessed than we—
Our planet has never before conceived.
Through our mouths, the masses' mighty melody
Rose in a glory never yet believed.
We are the heralds of Beauty yet to rise,
We are the Stride, the Breath of ages near—
We are the mind and heart of labor’s skies,
Its finest blooms, its will to persevere.
We were the first to march with fearless will,
To meet the call of times that still await.
We burn the burdens of the past, and build—
Bright structures of Tomorrow we create.
We are the first to guard the sacred Gate,
Our names shall echo in the tongues of men.
No one shall pass us by, evade the fate,
No one shall steal past in the dark again.
To the Realm of the Future, as chosen few,
We are sent forth by the masses' own decree—
And the Universe will only honor you,
If you arrive
With our
Mandate
To be free.
8.
TO RUSSIA
O my beloved mother! O, Mother of Soviets!
O cradle of the centuries yet to sing with cheer—
You are the enchanted isle of Freedom’s sunrise,
Of Light, of bells that rouse and summon every slave with fear.
From Mongol-Khan and feudal czarist binding,
From noble aims of merchant-rebel days,
Through flames of petty passion and misguided rising,
You came to Commune’s light—the best of all your ways.
You shine like beacon-torches, blazing in the storm,
Your fire stirs the hearts of those still chained afar—
You call to foreign brothers: rise, transform!
Break through the blood-red, fiery ring of war.
Alone, without relief or rest or ally’s hand,
You battle tyrants of the world each day.
Pressed by foes like steel, like lies, you stand—
Half-alive, yet strong, though wounded on the way.
I hear the beat of dread within your breast,
And see fatigue upon your noble face…
But just one step remains along your destined quest—
And Victory shall crown you with her grace.
Let them delay beyond the line… a hush before the storm.
Just listen close—this silence holds the blast to come.
Watch lightning's serpent arrow twist and form,
And see the gunpowder curling into smoke and drum.
The thickening air is charged with electric might,
Each nation like a boiling mount, near-blown apart…
I feel the path will soon be cleared for Right—
For Brotherhood of every race and heart.
O Mother mine, I hear the Marseillaise arise,
The distant beat, the thunder of marching feet…
I see the barricades before my eyes,
The moving masses, tyrants' corpses in the street…
I see the skies aflame with crimson light—
A billion flags and banners flying high.
Beneath them, bold and proud, a fearless sight—
Our comrade, the Proletariat, steps into the sky.
He marches like a flood, the Earth’s new Lord,
To the universal feast, the brotherly Day of Grace…
While the Old World, smelling of prayer, mildew, and hoard,
Peers like an owl, blind-souled, into the Sun’s bright face.
And rising high, I see—like marble, like crystal spun—
A palace vast: the World Council of Labor, newly born!
And you, beloved, you preside there, shining like the sun—
The Earth spins proud of you, between the stars reborn.
I see the whole world garlanded in bloom—
All breathes with joy, with labor bright and kind…
No more murder, hatred, fear, or doom—
The Earth: a Home of Brotherhood and Unified Mankind.
Behold yourself through my most subtle seeing—
I am your son, your brother, husband, knight, and voice.
Your listening ear, your vision, pulse, and being—
You live within my heart through millions that rejoice.
By the united beating of those hearts I measure
Eternity—and feel time's turning wheel unfold.
Through resonating strings I glimpse immortal treasure,
The unity of tongues, of tribes, of worlds untold.
My dearest land, though now your wounds are bleeding,
You do not curse the brothers who delayed…
You are the proletarian heart, you feel unceasing,
You know—the World's new Ruler comes your way.
Take heart, my country! These last moments, fleeing,
Slip from cold, impartial clocks into the past.
Beyond them—World Revolt, World Movement freeing—
March Freedom and sweet Victory at last.
O cradle of the Commune! Just one effort more,
And the Sun of the New Life will blaze from sky to sod.
By uprising, the ruling caste of Earth you’ll floor—
You’ll greet it not as miracle, but child of your own blood.
9.
THE UNIVERSAL COMRADE
People—brothers! I have come to you,
With crimson silk unfurled and streaming—
With echoing bells of a language new,
To proclaim the Red Word gleaming:
People—brothers of every tongue,
Every tribe and distant quarter,
From cities with their towers flung,
To streets like tombs, to fields of order,
To crumbling huts and quiet meadows,
To valleys deep and mountain shadows,
To East and West and Southern sky—
From the North, where storm winds cry,
Where frost and fog and night are kings,
Where ice and tempest slash with wings—
We awoke. We rose up early,
Like a threat—like death come surely—
To the black, the foul, the rotting—
To the old world’s corpse, long-sotted.
We have shattered evil’s binding,
Found in battle's fire our sweetness,
And now, with joy and New Word shining,
We proclaim our world’s completeness.
We tore down the throne of shame,
In palace halls once proud by name…
We reined the fat black stallions wild,
Long-maned beasts, once free and riled.
Let our foes surround and squeeze,
Forge their iron rings with ease…
But their doom is near, it’s cast—
Thrones and mansions will not last.
In the sacred clash of classes,
In the flame that storms and passes—
You are coming, sure and fast—
World Comrade, here at last!
March with pride and fearless aim—
With you, we cannot be defamed.
We and you—one living form,
Bound by struggle, fused in storm.
We are many, Comrade, rising,
By a single goal uniting.
We shall sweep through every road,
Crush the black, enslaving horde.
We are striving wings, ascending,
We are force with no pretending.
All destruction, all creation—
We will forge and form a nation.
All that's rotten, cruel, decaying,
All that stifles, dark, betraying—
We shall burn in passion’s fire,
Melt it down in new desire.
All the pillars, all the altars,
Built by chains and silent martyrs—
We shall shake them, break and grind them,
Crush them with delight behind us.
With the plow of collective thought,
We break new ground where once was naught—
We’ll flood the fields with joy so bright,
More blissful than heaven, more golden than light.
The rush to slaughter has ceased at last,
The dance of death—forever past.
The old eunuch lies drained and done,
The vicious circle of the past is run.
He, the eunuch, dull with sleep,
Castrated beauty in his keep,
Withered art through rot and lies—
Turned museums into tombs of flies.
But we have lit the sacred fire
In Beauty’s temples, rising higher—
And there we bring a priceless gift:
Our dreams, our pride, our spirits swift.
We tear down, build, we seek and strive—
We find the Future, vast, alive—
A path more endless, pure, and wide
Than even stars across the sky.
Look upon the duskward way,
Its numbered thread outstretched in gray—
Only we can read the code:
Life’s true Purpose, Life’s true Road.
With the steadfast force we wield
Of collective labor in the field—
We have raised a shrine to Apollo,
We have made great cities follow.
In the mighty, fused, and ringing
Chorus of the trumpets singing—
We hear the hymns of scarlet dawns,
Bright centuries ahead—reborn!
Across the rivers, through the veins
We’ve built the bridges, forged the chains.
Strengthen now the lace of steel,
Finer than the dreams we feel.
Darkness we ignite and burn
With electric lights that churn.
Through the cosmos now we race,
Flaming horses set the pace.
We are mighty. We endure.
With a giant’s hand we’ve lured—
Wound the Earth in living wire,
Steel-born nerves that hum and fire.
Waking jungles, stirring stone,
We create, and make our own.
We are on the land and sea,
We have conquered gravity.
Through the air we soar and sing,
Ever brighter wonders bring—
Multiplying new invention,
Showing what was past all mention…
Over chaos, forging order—
We, united, rule the world together.
November 5, 1917 – February 14, 1918
Petrograd.
JOY
In the thick, grey, murky flow of men,
I moved down Nevsky—slow, uncertain—
The many-eyed crowd’s sliding glance again
And July’s sunrays pierced me like a curtain.
My heart, worn thin by all this shoving,
Was wounded, drained of daily joy—
Here the Future, in the Past still hovering,
Blurred all time—
And I too seemed a toy,
Destined to writhe in dull submission…
But up ahead, unlooked for, banners flew—
Music flared in rousing, fearless strains—
My heart awoke, it leapt, it knew—
It beat with joy, real joy, like summer rains.
Faces stretched in sudden wonder,
Columns marched—sailors, soldiers bold—
Flags… the Marseillaise… and Nevsky, torn asunder,
Trembled as routine dissolved its hold.
Trumpets—brass and loud, electric—
Scattered silver sunlight in their spray.
Trams and cars, enthralled, majestic,
Paused at the crossroads,
Charmed by the display.
With solemn step, the sailors march ahead…
Their faces grave, their eyes and stride austere.
Someone threw a small blue nosegay to be spread—
A weeping pauper smiled through joy and tears.
Unknowingly, I’m happy—stilled in veneration.
Bareheaded now, I feel the sacred flame:
I, and They—one bond, one constellation.
It is I, with them, within them, marching in their name.
It is I who shattered slavery's old chain,
I, among the Immortals of the Fight—
I, the Army of the Soviets again,
Marching toward new victories in sight.
It is I who move through history’s prism—
I who step into the World of Socialism.
July 1918
A WREATH
In Memory of Volodarsky.
A screaming wire of nightmare news
In June’s hot haze now hums and sways—
Shot through the heart… struck down, no ruse…
In death’s embrace, he lies, erased.
One of the best… he stood with us—
And now—O horror! No… it can’t be!
But drops of blood burn red and furious,
And death winds out its shadowed plea.
He’s dead—he’s dead—the word is true.
Fury builds, and grief pounds hard.
Each nerve a string, each tremor new,
A broken song too sharp to guard…
But we shall never weep in weakness,
No tears—no! Never, not again!
Our hearts we forge in steel completeness,
And lock our ranks like links in chain.
In movement grim, unstoppable, loud,
We’ll crush the black assassin’s flame—
Who fired, with hatred, steel and cloud,
A leaden arrow, fierce with aim.
With death’s grim grin, that bullet biting,
It pierced the workers’ beating heart—
But we’re immortal—in us, still fighting,
The fallen live and play their part.
The living stream of blood still burning
Has sealed our class in tighter frame—
Like wires of fire, alert and yearning,
They link us to the rebel flame.
For every shot, a call to action—
A signal cry from end to end:
We rise, a flood from every station,
And judge them with the lead we send.
The treacherous strike rings out with warning—
But we shall not count loss or cost;
There have been many… there’ll be more mourning—
But every death will shine emboss’d.
And he who pierced by doubt would wander,
Who’d timidly turn from the fight ahead—
Will meet the silent dead in thunder—
A wall of shadows, stern and red.
And let the finest wreath, our prayer,
Be only this: our solemn vow—
To march ahead with hearts laid bare,
No turning back—we won’t allow!
O higher! higher! raise the banners—red like flame,
Bright emblems of Labor, of Commune, of Sun!
Onward to Victory! Each fallen name
Still marches with us—bold and young.
June 1918
TO THE YOUTH
A. Pushkin
“Greetings, young tribe”
From the underground, from chains and sorrow,
To a life of light, of will, of bright tomorrow—
Breaking through the wall of night—
We surge ahead.
Bravely, closely, in one stride, one voice,
To the aid of those worn down, denied,
And to replace—
The fallen brothers—
A young host marches instead.
Like a stream of burning lava,
Red-hot lava,
Like a roaring volcano's span.
Proletarian women,
Proletarian men of every land—
Noble, solemn, proud, commanding—
Like rulers, like gods outstanding—
Flawless fighters,
Shapers, writers
Of a brighter, blazing life…
Young, and fearless, full of might,
Each of their steps, each motion bright—
A current deep, full-sounding, bold—
Of life, multifaceted, manifold.
Their faces—like flaming poppies burning,
Their eyes—like sun-kisses, warmly turning.
Their inheritance: a path of flame,
Pure,
And wide in name.
The narrow, thorny, cross-bound road
Of slaves has ended—by those who strode
Before them—
Fathers, fighters—now at rest,
Having shattered the shameful nest—
The black regime of chains and blood,
Of cruelty, and death, and flood,
That hateful rule…
But the fathers, long in war, grew worn—
Too great the weight their backs had borne…
And age must pass—to still, to sleep—
To peace. To silence. Time runs deep.
The young rise now—like rising weather,
A force, a flood, a fiery tether.
Into the world they carry clean
And sacred
New Commandments.
People—brothers—
Shall greet the young, advancing kin,
And for the coming folk, the road ahead shall gleam—
Strewn with blossoms, lit from within,
Illumined bright
By lights of every color, every dream...
And with arms outstretched, embracing,
They will meet them—like a longed-for feast,
A joy awaited,
A tenderness, a tale of grace,
A spellbound fable, love’s true face,
A dream come true.
And with them shall arise—
Brotherhood, Equality, Freedom,
And Beauty, too.
June, 1917
THE RHYTHM OF GRANITE AND METAL
IN PRISON.
The jailer slammed the door behind—harsh, grim, and cold...
He turned the key, walked off… and all fell still once more.
Again I’m locked away… again behind the door...
Cut off from life, alone again—this cell my hold.
Yet this grim prison, this mockery, these chains—
They temper the spirit for triumph yet to come.
Within these walls, prophetic, made of stone and pain,
Still echo voices: Protest, Word, the Union of the Dumb.
Oh soon—so soon!—the black regime, the throne shall fall!
Rage on, you jailers—rattle all your keys!
We laugh at all your hatred and decrees—
We hear the rebel steps begin to call—
The Army of Labor rises from every side...
The fight grows strong. And Victory walks with our stride.
Kresty prison, November 1916.
TO PETROGRAD.
I love you like a tender, loving woman—
Passionate, aflame, and sweet,
Graceful, proud, and beautifully complete…
I love you, dressed in glory, Petrograd.
I love you like a secret long entrusted,
A dream, a fairy tale, a boundless sea,
A pattern of unclear, enchanted reverie…
I love you, veiled in mist, Petrograd.
I love you like the crashing of the breakers,
Like thunder’s voice, majestic, strong,
Like stormwinds roaring, wild and long…
I love you, fierce and rebel, Petrograd.
I love you like a beacon, darkness burning,
Like sun-kisses, blazing, true,
Like spring in bloom, in every hue…
I love you—my Red Petrograd.
November 3, 1917
AWAKENING
The black devil, with a lying vow,
Chilled my country, bound her still...
Chains rang out—disturbing now,
Sang their terror through the chill.
Hark... a whistle, long and dire,
Calls to battle, loud and hot.
I—the rebel, many-faced with fire—
Came from village into shop.
Stormy days behind me, burning,
The devil’s plots—undone, defeated.
The net is torn from off the face.
Hooves resound… a fire glimmers…
Strikes the stone with evil tremor—
The cursed horse waits at the gate.
May 1912
AT THE MACHINE
Shavings curl, they stretch, they twist and trail,
Unwinding like a sorrow, like a parting veil…
And the chisel runs, it laughs, it sings,
It kisses steel, revealing hidden things.
Gears and pulleys spin, they dart and dance—
And in my chest, amid the metal’s trance,
Two desires, two Beginnings clash and cry—
And through the belts I hear a whisper sigh:
“O dreamer, freethinker, poet—see your fate?
Were you born for this? To labor, suffocate?
To spend your life in factory dust and heat,
Chained to this machine until defeat?”
Beyond the glass: spring’s brilliance, light, and air…
In here—grime and shadows, thick with wear.
Out there—birds, their chorus soft and clear…
In here—machines that howl and beat your ear.
That noise—accusation, the fathers’ cry of old,
The weeping rasp of blades in metal’s hold.
Out there—trees, and flowers on the breeze…
In here—steel and smoke, no scent but grease.
Here all spins, it trembles, writhes and sways,
It howls, it grinds, it thunders, strikes, and plays…
And here you are—day after day, confined—
Chained beside the lathe, no peace of mind.
Your thoughts grow dull… your back is bent with pain…
But look—how kindly smiles the sun again,
How tenderly it kisses, pours its cheer,
It tempts, it calls—it sings into your ear:
“Come! To the boundless steppe, the open skies,
To flowered fields where joy and freedom rise!
To the resounding sea, the playful wave,
To mountains high, where fire and sun behave!”
Enchanted by this chorus, I believe—
I curse the prison of the plant, I grieve.
I dream of sun, of ocean, of the peak—
Of bright, unburdened joy I long to seek.
The path of pleasure’s always open wide
To those who rule, who live without a stride…
They grow fat—yet all is theirs by fate.
And I? Am I condemned to sorrow, hate?
To forge machine guns at the factory stall?
My son might ask me, “Father, what are these for?”
What shall I say? That grapes within them grow,
And someday he’ll be served with their shadow?
My heart pounds fast, my fury stirs and steams,
Yet still that voice rings out inside my dreams:
‘You see it, don’t you, pariah, slave, how bright—
While you decay beside your lathe by night…’
I had drifted… dreamed… was flying through the sky…
Didn’t notice—
Who had turned the machine off,
Or why.
A shout!… The foreman. Once again, the drive is on,
Again the music whirls in ringing song.
But singing something deeper, stern and grand,
Steel speaks in a bold, commanding tongue that stands:
“Disperse your drunken dreamer’s masquerade—
Do not curse the lathe, the plant, the iron trade.
You came here from the sunlit, rural lands,
Where you were yoked, a slave beneath their hands.
And now you curse the metal’s call to fight?
But there—you groaned beneath the landlord’s blight…
Here the belts still sing of sunlight, if you hear—
There the sunlight scorched your pain, not joy, my dear. 1
Here your ancestor called from mountain and from plain—
There you slept beneath a cart, exposed to rain…2
There you wandered, bowed, alone and dumb—
Here the factory has united everyone.
There you choked on endless, eerie spleen—
Here the machines beat loud for liberty.
There a priest with lies would bind your mind—
Here the factory woke your thoughts, made them aligned.
It pours into your breast: new Strength, new Faith, new Flame—
It guides you to a path, both pure and named.
Here you’ll find life’s Meaning, Purpose, and Design—
Here is the cradle of Revolt and Striving’s line!
Just listen, understand the speech of gears and steam—
You are the Messiah, you—the Coming Sovereign seen.
In union now with steam, with fire, and with steel—
You shall command the round ship of the world, and steer the wheel!”
The black foe shall by your hand be thrown—
The world made clean, made right, made whole, made known...
Between the calls of two divergent tongues
I swayed, like clockwork pendulums are swung.
The first held something soft that stirred my heart,
The second—Labor’s Triumph from the start.
Before me forked two roads, two fateful ways:
Back to the Past, or toward the Future’s blaze.
I wavered long, unable to decide,
I weighed which path held more of light, of pride...
And when I’d pondered all, and settled clear—
I chose the Future’s path, without more fear.
And stepped toward Struggle, Freedom, distant gleam—
And loved the Cradle of all Striving: the machine.
April 1913
AT THE FACTORY
Only now I’ve felt it—now I’ve truly known—
Here, in the factory, a festival has grown.
Daily, at the hour struck, a roaring call—
A carnival! A carnival!
Each day, the steam begins to sing—invitation,
Voices calling, wheels in celebration.
Guests in bright attire arrive—steel loud and proud,
Chimes and thunder, song and shroud.
Measured clang and ringing sound—
A speech of music, wordless, round.
A rhythmic dance of spinning reels,
Intoxicated joy that surges, reels.
In their whirling: youth’s desire,
Freedom, Motion never tired...
In their voices: secret worlds,
Wisdom into echoes curled.
In their song: faith’s fiery cry,
Courage, wrath that will not die.
Oh, how sweet this blazing air—
This storm of music fierce and fair!
And the workers in their blouses—silent, bold—
Like Titans, standing strong, composed, controlled...
They hear the summons and the song,
They know—they’ve understood it all along.
In their silence dwells a wisdom, strength, and passion yet unspoken—
In each movement—steel's resolve, a will unbowed, a power unbroken.
To be each day within the plant, the factory’s domain—
Is joy, is fire—sweet delight, not pain.
To grasp the Iron Language, hear what secrets it reveals—
To learn, beneath the lathes and engines, what the future feels.
To study with the machines—the art of force unbound,
To shatter what's decayed and false,
And boldly, endlessly, create anew the ground.
July 1917
IN THE FORGE
Anvils ring, and forges thunder,
Sparks and smoke and flame—
We strike fast, we pull, we sunder,
Crush and press and tame.
Boldly, joyfully, united,
On the blanks we pound—
From the steel once made for shelling,
Plow and sickle now are found.
January 1918
MORNING PRAYER
In the hushed and listening hour before the dawn,
On the edges of the towering cities’ spawn,
Stirring, summoning the Many-Handed Flame,
A voice begins to rise and flow—proclaim—
The voice of steam, inflamed, alive,
Surging, furious, thunder-drive…
The voice—a choral song, full-throated, proud—
Of triumphs blared from factory crowd.
It floats and flies and strikes the chest
Of legions rising from their rest.
It tears the drugged veil sleep has thrown—
It pours into each heart its tone—
A flame that calls, exalts, commands—
A hymn for all the work-bound lands.
It sings of uprisings and chains undone,
It sings to billions not yet won,
It greets the sun, that flame-red eye
Of joyful epochs drawing nigh.
Night is paling,
Darkness thinning,
Light is near…
Hear—a prayer,
A battle cry,
A hymn sincere…
I awaken,
Dress in silence,
Step outside…
Gates are humming,
Work is calling—
March with pride.
There’s no voice more bold or burning,
None more free or fierce with yearning,
None more pure, more rich, more bright,
None more full of fire and light—
Than the early morning prayer
Of the sirens—ringing, rare—
Calling forth to battle, glowing,
Scaring off the dark and flowing.
As I listen, trembling, swaying,
Other songs return—decaying—
Dull and drowsy were the praises
Of the village bell that raises
Prayer to gods of wrath and sleep,
To cruel revenge and silence deep—
To the ancient, ashen Lord,
Who rests on days He once adored...
As I listen, trembling, knowing,
Wisdom through my soul is flowing—
For the sirens’ choral thunder
Is the language of all wonder—
Hymn of Oneness, Hymn of Toil,
Breaking chains and breaking soil.
Wires heart to heart have spun—
It sings to Man—a risen Sun—
The godlike Worker, strong and true,
The Titan who creates anew.
July 1917
THE CIRCLE OF HARMONIOUS LINKAGE
THE CROSSES
Today, like always—heavy is the air,
The gray mold of the walls, the same decay…
And like each day, this bitter cell, this stay,
Tightens the chest, a pain too sharp to bear.
My hopes lie low. Doubt thickens in despair,
And long the line of trust that’s worn away.
I sit, like Diogenes in a barrel, I stay—
Imprisoned, dulled, stripped raw by prison’s glare.
But I won’t make my peace. Still I can see
That spring sings bright outside, through flowered skies,
And She is there… in dreams… in bloom… in light.
While I decay, unloved, unbroken here—
A prisoner still—yet burning furiously,
Crushed tighter now by these enclosing nights.
January 1918, “Kresty”
SPRING IS ON ITS WAY
Spring is coming, strong and glowing,
Joyous, rushing, laughing, blowing,
Clear and singing, wildly growing—
Bringing life and light anew!
The bright sun, so bold, commanding,
Beams with warmth and joy expanding…
It strokes the soil, now dark and swelling,
Kisses deep—so hot, so true!
The boundless fields are breathing, steaming,
The rebel woods are loud, redeeming—
The sky enamel-blue and high,
The birdsong ringing through the sky—
They sing Spring’s praise in tune!
The drunken rooks, like monkish sages,
Gather on the willow stages—
Grave and solemn, loud and brash,
They hold their councils, caw and clash—
They shout, they shout, they shout!
IN THE FIELDS
Dedicated to my cousin,
Apostle of the wheat-blessed paradise,
To Nikolai Alekseevich Klyuev.
Outside the village, near the wood,
An old man—Luka—stooping, stood.
Barefoot, hatless, gray and worn,
His shirt in tatters, frayed and torn,
He leaned behind a crooked plow,
Sowing oats, slow step by slow,
Upon a shaggy, hollow mare,
The land so thin, the field so bare.
“God help you, Luka!”
“Thanks, kind soul…”
“You’re sowing oats here?”
“Aye… that’s the goal…”
“You’re fading, Luka. Bent and gray—
You once stood strong, like oak in May!”
“*Not strange, lad... You’ll wither too...
I’m all alone. What could I do?
My sons—Mikeshka, Vlas—they died…
The war... it took them both with pride.
And now... I live. But what a curse—
No kin, no peace—just aching worse.
Eh... my soul... They’ve ruined us, you see—
Completely. Ruined utterly…
How do we live now, boy? It’s grief!
The world’s gone sour... There’s no relief.
You start to think, why not the noose?
Or drop with stone... let all be loose...**”
“Old man—come back to sense, to grace!
Just look around: God’s world, His face—
The sun, the birds, the sky so wide,
The earth, the breeze, the countryside…”
“You speak of that?” he shook his head,
“But I speak life—the life we’ve led.
The people’s pain. The nation’s fall.
The folk, destroyed... and that is all.”
Look there! Out in the field—who’s left?
Old Safon, me... and a few young lads at best.
That’s all. Just boys. Look how proud they walk!
But what’s a plowman now? Eh! Just hungry talk.
Even the soil is starving—dry and cracked...
Can’t you hear her groan, for all the hands she’s lacked?
She’s turning nun-like, black and cold, withdrawn—
She’ll bear no fruit for those who treat her wrong.
She’s like a bride, you see, a headstrong one:
She gives to those who court her, work till done.
And us? What are we—too old, too small.
We’re no match for her. We’re nothing at all.
And look—an omen, too. The rooks are gone.
No rooks, no sheaves. The harvest won’t come on.
You don’t know the peasant’s bitter fate…
You don’t… ah, never mind, too late.”
Luka snapped the reins and cracked his whip:
“C’mon now, damn you! Stuck again, eh? Move those hips!”
April 1916.
RED PEAL
Across the fields, the towns, the lands,
It rolls, it rises, it expands—
A sound that stirs both near and far,
A pealing voice of brass and star—
The Red Peal rings...
It hums, it sings, it calls, it cries,
It strikes the truth from out the lies,
It tolls to raze,
It tolls to raise—
And mocks the dark with flaming praise:
That long and dreadful, blackened trance,
The nightmare’s claw, the deathly dance,
The shameful, heavy, haunted sleep—
It breaks, it shatters, breaks so deep...
The demon’s reign—so wild, unchained,
So blood-defiled and soul-profaned—
Lies wounded now, its venom bled,
Struck down where once it crowned the dead.
The fiery feast of hate and sword,
Of madness, carnage, torn accord—
Is gone... is done... that red despair.
Now something new ascends the air:
The Angel of Life, in radiance bright,
Soars high above our land of light.
It glows, it streams, it aims to crown
All distant nations, towns, and downs—
To flood the world, at last, at length,
With Peace Eternal—calm and strength...
A peace long-dreamed, serene, sublime—
A shining peace, beyond all time…
31 January 1918
TOWARD THE CHERISHED SHORES
Row with strength, my dearest, row!
Fear no wave that rears below!
Even blind and brutal power
Yields before our racing prow.
Row still harder! Strong and fast—
To the cherished shores at last!
Let the breakers rage and rise—
Their fury we will just despise.
We, in love, and young, and strong—
To their wild roar do not belong!
Our hearts are strings of sounding fire—
No cornered fear can quell desire.
Let it storm! Let night fall black—
A gleam of light still marks our track.
Oh, how my wild heart now drums—
The promised shore already comes!
Spare no strength, no tender chest!
Row now boldly with the rest!
There—I’ll kiss you where you stand,
And clasp you close with both my hands!
August 1913
DAWN
The longed-for light dispels the night—
Day rises, brilliant, pure, and bright…
The Freedom Choir in thundered song
Greets Sun and Day with voices strong—
In joy, in harmony, in might…
The sun’s first ray—a golden spear—
It kisses, warms, and draws us near…
It stirs, it lifts, it fills with fire—
And melts the black cloud’s blind desire
In blazing glory, pure and clear.
July 1917
GOLDEN EARS
Yellowed, bowed, and deep in thought they sway—
Seeking out Life’s Light and sternest way,
Peering hard into the book of time—
Each moment’s truth, eternal and sublime.
In Earth—the Mother, sacred, dark, and wide—
They read the secrets numberings can’t hide:
The living chain that links and then divides
The sun and bird, the beast, the man, the tides…
All things breathe through endless, mirrored birth—
Immortal in their motion on the Earth.
A soul and body woven as they go,
Each pulse of life a bright, becoming flow.
And the ears of grain—those wise and listening seers—
They hear the music humming through the spheres.
They see the threads that hold the vast design—
The shape of Cosmos, intimate, divine.
And they wait for when the shining scythe will glide,
To ring in triumph at the harvest-tide…
Falling gently, they will bless the loamy sod—
The Mother Earth, the cosmic womb of God.
The Earth’s great gift, and Labor’s pride—
Dissolve into Life’s flowing tide.
And by the Sun, and Soil, and Strife,
They shall be born again to Life.
Once more they’ll bathe in golden beams,
And whisper prayers to starlit dreams,
And wash with dew in morning’s hush,
And bend beneath the wind’s warm rush.
They’ll hear the dragonflies’ refrain,
The birds’ bright chimes, the skies’ soft rain...
August 1918
CHILDREN
(Dedicated to Apollon — my son)
I gave shelter in my dwelling
To the ones who fled the South—
From the Don, where war is swelling—
Now I live in peace and health.
Like the warble of a thrush,
Children’s voices, laughter, light—
Though their parents bear the hush
Of their homeland’s grief and blight.
But the children in my room
Chased away the shadowed gloom—
Now it’s brighter, full of cheer,
More inspired, warm and clear.
It smells of fields and prairie air,
Of open space, of skies laid bare—
Of sun, and stars, and morning dew,
Of hay and flowers, fresh and true.
With the scent of linden, clover,
Apple blossom drifting near,
Buzzing bees and voices hover—
Laughter, ringing bright and clear.
In their games and flying chatter,
In their zest, I disappear...
Gazing on them, love grows fatter,
In their health—I thrill, revere.
Cheeks like poppies, flaming, glowing,
Eyes like darting dragonflies—
Blue as cornflowers, freely blowing,
Gentle, open summer skies...
How unlike them are the faces
Of the children of the towns—
From the cellars’ squalid spaces,
From the drawing rooms and frowns.
City children—pale, unstable,
Ashen lips, and skin like mist,
Warmed by smoke and coal-dust’s fable,
Dreamless, dazed, by hunger kissed...
Yet I know—their strength will rally!
Field and city, one in soul—
Children rising in the valley,
Marching proud toward one goal.
And behind us, bravely sweeping,
They will step into the sun,
Strewing blossoms in their keeping—
Bold, united, every one.
In their swift, unfurling motion,
In their joy and carefree flame—
Lives uncounted, like an ocean,
Flow—renewed, and yet the same...
To the Coming Ones I cherish,
To the Lords of Earth and Star,
I bequeath, lest dreams should perish,
All I build and make and are...
All I’ve shaped and am still shaping—
All I ever will create...
Let them hold it, boldly taking
My life’s labor, crown, and fate.
July 1918