List of Russian-language poets

Pushkin Reciting His Poem Before Old Derzhavin, a painting by Ilya Repin, 1911

This is a list of authors who have written poetry in the Russian language.

For the plain text list, see Category:Russian poets.

See also: List of Russian-language writers, List of Russian-language novelists, List of Russian-language playwrights, List of Russian artists, List of Russian architects, List of Russian inventors, List of Russian explorers, Russian literature, Russian culture

Alphabetical list

A

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
100px	Bella Akhmadulina (1937–2010)	The String The Garden A Guiding Sound Once in December	"Rain Flogs My Face..." Rain flogs my face and collar-bones, a thunderstorm roars over musts. You thrust upon my flesh and soul, like tempests upon ships do thrust. I do not want, at all, to know, what will befall to me the next – would I be smashed against my woe, or thrown into happiness. In awe and gaiety elated, like a ship, that's going tempests through, I am not sorry that I've met you, and not afraid to love you, too. (Translation by Yevgeny Bonver)
100px	Anna Akhmatova (1889–1966)	Evening Requiem The Rosary Poem Without a Hero	"Like a White Stone" Like a white stone deep in a draw-well lying, As hard and clear, a memory lies in me. I cannot strive nor have I heart for striving: It is such pain and yet such ecstasy. It seems to me that someone looking closely Into my eyes would see it, patent, pale. And, seeing, would grow sadder and more thoughtful Than one who listens to a bitter tale. The ancient gods changed men to things, but left them A consciousness that smoldered endlessly, That splendid sorrows might endure forever. And you are changed into a memory.
	Margarita Aliger (1915–1992)	Zoya Railroad The Year of Birth Stones and Grass
100px	Daniil Andreev (1906–1959)	Russian Gods The Iron Mystery
100px	Innokenty Annensky (1855–1909)	Quiet Songs Cypress Box
	Pavel Antokolsky (1896–1978)	All We Who in His Name	Hate! Hate, be a faithful prop, and find The words most biting and most fit, So that filth brings no vertigo To him who bends so close to it; So that the honest artist spurns The facile phrase, the weak excuse, And is the first one to detect The coward's lie, the traitor's truce; So that the artist may be schooled In probing, judging, and may sense Just what a deposition means And learn the tongue of evidence; So that he trains his eye to catch A wolfish trick, and warns us all If silently the enemy Slips past, or waits and hugs the wall, Or if, again, with zealous mien And upraised fist the foe votes "Aye" Not caught red-handed yet, not known And named as one who lives a lie; Until our enemy must run From verse as one who on the stair Hears the police, then drops in dread And cannot cover his despair.
100px	Aleksey Apukhtin (1840–1893)
	Eduard Asadov (1923–2004)
	Nikolay Aseyev (1889–1963)	Zor Night Flute
	Lera Auerbach (born 1973)
	Gennadiy Aygi (1934–2006)

B

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
100px	Eduard Bagritsky (1895–1934)	February
100px	Konstantin Balmont (1867–1942)	Under the Northern Sky Let's Be as the Sun	Centuries of Centuries Will Pass Long centuries of centuries will pass, unsighted Milleniums as locusts in deathy clouds descend, And in the muttering of centuries affrighted The same enduring firmament will watch the end. The dumb, dead firmament that God will not remember, Who breathes Eternity behind the farther skies, Beyond the fading of the last star's last slow ember, Beyond the utter threshold words may scrutinize. Forever cold, that starry desert, clouds out-topping, Is flung forth, alien to the end, on space, When tearing comet-fires will crumble with it, dropping As dumbly burning tears from a despairing face.
100px	Jurgis Baltrušaitis (1873–1944)		The Pendulum When the dumb darkness most heavily clings, Rhythmic and ruthless my pendulum swings. Rustily creaking or whining dismay, Urging each tarrying moment away. Longing, it seems, for the days that are fled, Down ancient stairways resounds someone's tread. Heavy the footfall on flagstones unlit, Lower and lower and down to the pit. Praying, it seems, for a long-vanished shore, Dumbly the Helmsman with slow stubborn oar Brokenly rows me, morosely alone, Into my harbor, afar and unknown. Evil the Ferryman, darkly he pounds; Farther and farther, more muffled resounds, Hostile and hopeless, the long downward climb: Cold, ineluctable footsteps of Time.
100px	Evgeny Baratynsky (1800–1844)	Eda The Gypsy The Last Poet Autumn	Be Mirthful Now Be mirthful now, for nothing stays, Our good and evil both are brief. Capricious Fate leads many ways, Sometimes to joy, sometimes to grief, And is no friend to constancy. Listen, you whose lives are bright, For the uncertain hours be Winged for flight. Do not repine, since nothing stays; What matter if it chance at last That unexpectedly our days By cruel sorrow are o'ercast? Upon this changeful earth of ours, The gods from pain took half its stings When alike to all the hours They gave wings.
100px	Ivan Barkov (1732–1768)	obscene poems
	Anna Barkova (1901–1976)	Tatar Anguish
	Agniya Barto (1906–1981)	Toys Mishka the Petty Thief
100px	Alexander Bashlachev (1960–1988)
100px	Konstantin Batyushkov (1787–1855)
100px	Demyan Bedny (1883–1945)		No One Knew (April 22, 1870) It was a day like any other, The same dull sky, the same drab street. There was the usual angry pother From the policeman on his beat. Proud of his fine new miter's luster, The archpriest strutted down the nave; And the pub rocked with brawl and bluster, Where scamps gulped down what fortune gave. The market women buzzed and bickered Like flies above the honeypots. The burghers' wives bustled and dickered, Eyeing the drapers' latest lots. An awe-struck peasant stared and stuttered, Regarding an official door Where yellow rags of paper fluttered: A dead ukase of months before. The fireman ranged his tower, surveying The roofs, like the chained bears one sees; And soldiers shouldered arms, obeying The drill sergeant's obscenities. Slow carts in caravans went winding Dockward, where floury stevedores moiled; And, under convoy, in the blinding Dust of the road, a student toiled, And won some pity, thus forlorn, From the drunk hand who poured his scorn In curses on some pal and brother. . . . Russia was aching with the thorn And bearing her old cross, poor mother. That day, a day like any other, And not a soul knew that Lenin was born!
100px	Andrey Bely (1880–1934)	Urn Gold in Azure Christ Has Risen The First Encounter	Euthanasia The shining and ponderous goblet I empty: the earth drops below me, All things sink away, I am treading Cold space the vast void the dim ether. But distant, in ancient space looming, My glimmering goblet: the Sun. I look far below me are lying The rivers, the forests, the valleys, Estranged in the vanishing distance. A cloud, blowing fog on my eyelids, Trails gossamer gold in its going. The flickering landscape is burning Its last: mid-day stars newly kindled Look into my soul, sparkling: "Welcome," With radiance silently streaming: "The end of long wanderings, brother, Lies here, in your motherland, welcome!" Slow hour upon hour in procession, Slow centuries, smiling, pass onward. In ancient space proudly I lift it, My glimmering goblet: the Sun.
100px	Olga Bergholz (1910–1975)
100px	Aleksandr Bestuzhev (1797–1837)		Kabardinian song "On Kazbek the clouds are meeting, Like the mountain eagle-flock; Up to them, along the rock, Dash the wild Uzdens retreating; Onward faster, faster fleeting, Routed by the Russian brood, Foameth all their track with blood. "Fast behind the regiments yelling, Lance and bayonet raging hot, And the seed of death their shot. On the mail the sabre knelling, Gallop, steed! for far thy dwelling, See! they fall, but distant still Is the forest of the hill! "Russian shot our hearts is rending, Falls the Mullah on his knee, To the Lord of Light bows he, To the Prophet he is bending; Like a shaft his prayer ascending, Upward flies to Allah's throne Il-Allah! Oh, save thine own! "Ah, despair! What crash like thunder! Lo! a sign from heaven above! Lo! the forest seems to move, Crashes, murmurs, bursts asunder! Lower, nearer, wonder! wonder! Safe once more the Muslim bold In their forest mountain-hold!"
100px	Alexander Blok (1880–1921)		"Into Crimson Dark" Into crimson dark thou goest, Thy vast orbits mock the eye. Small the echo that thou throwest, Far, I hear thy footfalls die. Art thou near? too far for greeting? Lost in topless altitudes? Shall I wait a sudden meeting Where sonorous stillness broods? In the solitude resounding Distant footsteps echo free. Is it thou who flamest, bounding Circles of infinity?
	Valeri Brainin-Passek (born 1948)
	Joseph Brodsky (1940–1996)
100px	Valery Bryusov (1873–1924)		The Fierce Birds Kindling the air, fierce birds with feathers of fire, Through the white portals of Paradise flamed like desire. Virgin vistas reared, lit with quivering red, And beyond seas were the trackless wanderers fled. But on the pillars of marble, on the threshold were thrown Crimson shadows incredible, sunk in the stone. And, under the arch, in eternity's radiance hidden, Angels exulted in fruits that are secret and sweet and forbidden.
100px	Ivan Bunin (1870–1953)		In An Empty House From the walls the paper's blue is vanished, The daguerreotypes, the ikons banished. Only there the deepened blue appears Where these hid it, hanging through the years. From the heart the memory is perished, Perished all that long ago it cherished! Those remain, of whom death hides the face, Leaving their yet unforgotten trace.
100px	Anna Bunina (1774–1829)

C

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
100px	Sasha Chorny (1880–1932)
100px	Korney Chukovsky (1882–1969)	Aybolit Wash'em'clean The Crocodile The Giant Roach
100px	Georgy Chulkov (1879–1939)		Purple Autumn Purple Autumn unloosened her tresses and flung them On the heavens and over the dew-heavy fields. She came as a guest to the old, silent house, Singeing the grasses with red; Through the garden she moved,- Up the balcony; scarcely she touched The fragile old rails. She pushed the door-panel softly, Softly she entered the room, Sprinkling the rugs with her sun-yellow dust, Dropped a red leaf upon the piano. . . Ever after that hour, we heard her unceasing, her tireless rustling, Rustle and stir and soft whisper. And our hands suddenly met With no new words, new and forever false. As though we had hung a wreath of red roses On a black, wrought-iron door Leading into a vault Where lay the rotting body Of a beloved dream. Autumnal days were upon us, Days of inscrutable longing; We were treading the stairs Of autumnal passion. In my heart a wound, Like the lamp of an ikon, Burned and would not be quenched. The cup of autumnal poison We pressed to our lips. By the serpentine garden path Autumn had led us To crepuscular lilies Upon the pale, sand-humbled pond. And over the lilied waters and in the roses of evening, We loved, more superstitiously. And through the dark night, On the languorous bed, At the feet of my love, I loved death anew. The minutes rang tinkling like crystals At the brink of an autumn grave: Autumn and Death drunkenly clinked their glasses. I pressed my thirsty lips To the feet the ikon-lamp burnished, I drank the cup of love. Burned by the fires of sins, Stretched on the cross of lusts, Shamed, being needlessly faithless, I drank the cup of love. In the hour of ineffable dalliance I sensed the whisper Of autumn pain, of autumn passion. And kisses like keen needles Burned and pierced, Weaving a wreath of thorns.

D

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
	Denis Davydov (1784–1839)
100px	Anton Delvig (1798–1831)		Ah, You Night... Ah, you night, you little night! Ah, you night, you stormy night! Why from early evening tide Even to the midnight late Twinkle not your little stars, Shineth not your full-orbed moon? You are veiled with darkling clouds! 'T is with you, I think, O night, Even as with me, young man, Villain grief has called on us! When the dire one takes abode Somewhere deep within the heart, You forget the lasses fair, Dances and obeisances; You forget from evening tide Even to the midnight late, Singing songs, to take delight In the chorus and the dance. No, you sob, you weep aloud, And, a sad and lonely lad, You upon your coarse straw bed Throw yourself as in the grave!
	Andrey Dementyev (born 1928)
100px	Regina Derieva (1949-2013)
100px	Gavrila Derzhavin (1743–1816)		The Stream of Time The stream of time, with onward sweep, Bears off men's works, all human things, And plunges o'er Oblivion's steep Peoples and kingdoms with their kings. If for a space amidst the swirl The lyre or trumpet some sustain, They're swept at last in ceaseless whirl, And none escape Fate's common main.
100px	Ivan Dmitriev (1760–1837)		The Little Dove The little dove, with heart of sadness, In silent pain sighs night and day; What now can wake that heart to gladness? His mate beloved is far away. He coos no more with soft caresses, No more is millet sought by him, The dove his lonesome state distresses, And tears his swimming eyeballs dim. From twig to twig now skips the lover, Filling the grove with accents kind, On all sides roams the harmless rover, Hoping his little friend to find. Ah! vain that hope his grief is tasting, Fate seems to scorn his faithful love. And imperceptibly is wasting, Wasting away, the little dove! At length upon the grass he threw him, Hid in his wing his beak and wept; There ceased his sorrows to pursue him, The little dove for ever slept. His mate, now sad abroad and grieving, Flies from a distant home again. Sits by her friend, with bosom heaving, And bids him wake with sorrowing pain. She sighs, she weeps, her spirits languish. Around and round the spot she goes; Ah! charming Chloe 'slost in anguish, Her friend wakes not from his repose!
	Nikolay Dobrolyubov (1836–1861)		Death's Jest What if I die? 'Twere little grief! But one fear wrings my breast- Perhaps Death, too, may play on me A grim, insulting jest. I fear that over my cold corpse Hot tears may fall in showers; That someone, with a foolish zeal, May heap my bier with flowers; That friends may crowd behind my hearse With thoughts of grief sincere, And when I lie beneath the mould, Men's hearts may hold me dear; That all which I so eagerly And vainly used to crave In life, may brightly smile on me When I am in my grave!
	Yevgeniy Dolmatovsky (1915–1994)
100px	Spiridon Drozhzhin (1848–1930)
	Yulia Drunina (1924–1991)

E

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
100px	Ilya Ehrenburg (1891–1967)		The Tree The meek dew shone, the grass lay prostrate As humbly as a slave will lie, And veering from the roof the swallow Had sought the wide and tender sky. And you alone, great tree, remaining There at your post, stood straight and still, Lonely and stubborn as a soldier Whose duty was to hold the hill. And under fire you tossed and twisted, As through your boughs the torment ran, And when you met your mortal moment You died as gravely as a man.

F

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
	Afanasy Fet (1812–1892)		A Russian Scene Wondrous the picture, How homelike to me!— Distant plain whitening, Full moon on the lea; Light—in the heavens high, And snow flashing bright; Sledge in the distance In its lonely flight.
100px	Konstantin Fofanov (1862–1911)		The Beggar There stood a beggar asking alms By the cathedral gate, His face bore torture marks of life— Pale, tired, blind—like fate. Thin, tired, pale and blind he begged A crust of bread alone. And some one pausing, placed within His outstretched hand—a stone. And even so I asked your love, I brought my dreams, my life—the while Unto my passion you replied Only with your cold smile!

G

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
	Cherubina de Gabriak (1887–1928)
	Alexander Galich (1918–1977)	Clouds Kaddish The Night Watch When I Return
100px	Aleksei Gastev (1882–1939)
	Mikhail Gerasimov (1889–1939)
100px	Zinaida Gippius (1869–1945)		"I Seek For Rhythmic Whisperings" I seek for rhythmic whisperings Where noises bandy For life I listen wistfully In footless banter. I cast wide nets and tentative In lakes of sorrow. I go toward final tenderness By pathways sordid. I look for dewdrops glistering In falsehood's gardens. I save truth's globules glistening, From dust-heaps garnered. I fain would fathom fortitude Through years of wormwood And pierce the mortal fortalice, Yet live, a worldling. My cup, through ways impassable, To bear, untainted; By tenebrous bleak passages To joy attaining.
	Nikolay Glazkov (1919–1979)
100px	Fyodor Glinka (1786–1880)		Moscow Wondrous city, ancient city, Thou enfoldest in thy walls Villages and smiling suburbs, Churches, palaces and halls. Thou art girt by grassy meadows, Gay with gardens, rich in flowers; Seven the hills are which thou crownest With thy temples, with thy towers. Thou unfoldest like a parchment Written by a giant hand, And beside thy little river Thou art glorious now and grand. Many are thine ancient churches Towering like the northern pine; Where can eye see streets so noble, Mother Moscow, as are thine? Capture Moscow's mighty Kremlin? Who on earth would boast the power? Who could rob the golden bonnet From the slender Ivan tower? Who could ever swing the Tsar-bell, Or the Tsar-gun overthrow? Reverence at the sacred gateway Who could ever fail to show? In thine awful hour of peril, When thy haughty neck was bent, All thy children, men of Russia, Felt with thee the punishment. White-walled city, them wast chastened Like a martyr in the fire; And thy river, boiling, hastened Onward to escape the pyre. Once a captive and dishonoured, In thine embers thou didst lie! Now arisen from thine ashes Changeless, lift thy head on high! Flourish through the countless ages, Moscow ! many-towered town. Thou art central heart of Russia, Russia's glory, Russia's crown!
100px	Nikolay Gnedich (1784–1833)	The Fishers
100px	Arseny Golenishchev-Kutuzov (1848–1913)
100px	Dmitry Gorchakov (1758–1824)
100px	Sergey Gorodetsky (1884–1967)
100px	Boris Golovin (born 1955)
100px	Aleksandr Griboedov (1794–1829)	Woe from Wit
100px	Apollon Grigoryev (1822–1864)
	Oleg Grigoryev (1943–1992)
100px	Isabella Grinevskaya (1864–1944)		"The Mother" (World War 1) O Son of mine, forgive these tears. The tears that from my heart are wrung! E'en birch-trees for their reft boughs weep, The wild beasts for their young. And, dearest, how should I not weep? Nor dolorous grief o'er me prevail? Where strength and calm endurance draw To choke... a mother's wail? In offering to our native land We needs must of our own will part With what is lovelier than life. E'en though it break our heart. And so I freely offer thee To deadly battle with the foe. Though dearer to me than my life. Farewell! God with thee! Go!
100px	Semyon Gudzenko (1922–1953)
	Nikolay Gumilyov (1886–1921)		Evening With heaviness this wingless wind is cursed, The sunset is a melon that has burst. You ache to give the clouds a gentle shove, They float so indolently up above. Upon such languid evenings you will see Coachmen whip up their horses savagely, And fishers tear the waters with the oar, And woodsmen batter at the oaks they floor. . . While those who in their being must rehearse The movement of the throbbing universe, Who house within them, slumbering or astir, Rhythms to come and all that ever were, Write winged verses whose resistless sweep Rouses the sluggard elements from sleep.
	Elena Guro (1877–1913)

I

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
100px	Vera Inber (1890–1972)
	Mikhail Isakovsky (1900–1973)
100px	Georgy Ivanov (1894–1958)
100px	Vyacheslav Ivanov (1866–1949)		Complaint Your soul, born deaf and blind, inhabits Jungles of sunless reverie, Where with the crash of trampled saplings Wild droves of dark desires roam free. A torch I kindled in the darkness To lead you to my starry gate, With seeds of light in shining handfuls The furrows of your night to sate. I stand amid the trackless stretches And hail you in the wilderness; But lost in dark and dreary caverns My cry sinks silent, answerless.
100px	Ryurik Ivnev (1891–1981)

K

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
100px	Gavril Kamenev (1772–1803)
100px	Antiochus Kantemir (1708–1744)
100px	Vasily Kapnist (1758–1823)		On Julia's Death The evening darkness shrouds The slumbering world in peace, And from her throne of clouds Shines Luna through the trees. My thoughts in silence blend. But gathered all to thee: Thou moon! the mourner's friend, Oh, come and mourn with me! Upon her grave I bow, The green grave where she lies: Oh, hear my sorrows now, And consecrate my sighs! This is her ashes' bed,— Here her cold relics sleep,— Where I my tears shall shed. While this torn heart can weep. O Julia! Never rose Had half the charms of thee! My comfort, my repose,— Oh, thou wert all to me I But thou art gone, and I Must bear life's load of clay,— And pray, and long to die, Though dying day by day. But I must cease to sing. My lyre all mute appears. Alas! Its plaintive string Is wetted with my tears. Oh! Misery's song must end,— My thoughts all fly to thee: Thou moon! The mourner's friend, Oh, come and mourn with me!
100px	Rimma Kazakova (1932–2008)
	Dmitri Kedrin (1907–1945)
100px	Bakhyt Kenjeev (born 1950)
	Daniil Kharms (1905–1942)
100px	Ivan Khemnitser (1745–1784)		The Lion's Council of State A lion held a court for state affairs: Why? That is not your business, sir, 'twas theirs! He called the elephants for counsellors—still The council-board was incomplete; And the king deemed it fit With asses all the vacancies to fill. Heaven help the state—for lo! the bench of asses The bench of elephants by far surpasses. He was a fool, the foresaid king, you'll say: Better have kept those places vacant surely, Than fill them up so poorly. O no! that's not the royal way; Things have been done for ages thus,— and we Have a deep reverence for antiquity: Naught worse, sir, than to be, or to appear Wiser and better than our fathers were. The list must be complete, even though you make it Complete with asses; for the lion saw Such had for ages been the law,— He was no radical to break it! "Besides," he said, "my elephants' good sense Will soon my asses' ignorance diminish, For wisdom has a mighty influence." They made a pretty finish! The asses' folly soon obtained the sway: The elephants became as dull as they!
100px	Velemir Khlebnikov (1885–1922)
100px	Vladislav Khodasevich (1886–1939)		The Cork O cork that stoppered the strong iodine, How rapidly you rotted quite away! Thus is the body quietly consumed, Burnt by the soul, unseen, day after day.
	Aleksey Khomyakov (1804–1860)
	Dmitry Khvostov (1757–1835)
	Semyon Kirsanov (1906–1972)
	Nikolai Klyuev (1884–1937)		A Northern Poem Sunset dreams on fir-tree cones, Green the hedge, and brown the field; Mossy rifts in weathered stones Meekly vernal waters yield. Oh, look up the wooded steep God has touched it with his palm; Piously wild berries weep, listening to the grassy psalm. And I feel no fleshly tie; And my heart's a springing mead. Come, ye pilgrims white and shy, Peck the early wheaten seed. Tender evening twilight searches Cottage windows, gabled byres, And the leaves of slender birches Glimmer soft as wedding fires.
	Ekaterina Kniazhnina (1746–1797)
	Pavel Kogan (1918–1942)
100px	Aleksey Koltsov (1809–1842)		An Old Man's Song I shall saddle a horse, A swift courser, he, I shall fly, I shall rush, As the hawk is keen, Over fields, over seas, To a distant land. I shall overtake there My young youth again. I shall make myself spruce Be a blade again, I shall make a fine show For the girls again. But alas! no road leads To the past we've left, And the sun will not rise For us in the west.
	Nahum Korzhavin (born 1925)
100px	Ivan Kozlov (1779–1840)
	Vasili Krasovsky (1782–1824)
	Aleksey Kruchenykh (1886–1968)
	Ivan Krylov (1769–1844)		A Swan, a Pike, and a Crab Whene'er companions don't agree, They work without accord; And naught but trouble doth result, Although they all work hard. One day a Swan, a Pike, a Crab, Resolved a load to haul. All three were harnessed to the cart, And pulled together all. But though they pulled with all their might, That cart-load on the bank stuck tight. The Swan pulled upwards to the skies, The Crab did backwards crawl, The Pike made for the water straight: This proved no use at all. Now, which of them was most to blame Tis not for me to say, But this I know—the load is there Unto this very day.
	Yuri Kublanovsky (born 1947)
	Wilhelm Küchelbecher (1797–1846)
	Anatoly Kudryavitsky (born 1954)
100px	Nestor Kukolnik (1809–1868)
100px	Alexander Kushner (born 1936)
100px	Dmitry Kuzmin (born 1969)
100px	Mikhail Kuzmin (1872–1936)		"Now Dry Thy Eyes" Now dry thy eyes, and shed no tears. In heaven's straw-pale meadows veers Aquarius, and earthward peers, His emptied vessel overturning. No storming snows, no clouds that creep Across the sheer pure emerald steep, Whence, thinly-drawn, a ray darts deep As a keen lance with edges burning.

L

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
	Vasily Lebedev-Kumach (1898–1949)
	Mikhail Lermontov (1814–1841)	Borodino The Song of the Merchant Kalashnikov Demon Valerik Death of the Poet	The Cup of Life We drink life's cup with thirsty lips, Our eyes shut fast to fears; About the golden rim there drips Our staining blood, our tears. But when the last swift hour comes on, The light long hid is lit, From startled eyes the band is gone, We suffer and submit. It is not our part to possess The cup that golden gleamed. We see its shallow emptiness: We did not drink we dreamed.
100px	Mirra Lokhvitskaya (1869–1905)		And Moan of Winds... And moan of winds and whispered thoughts of gloom, From life no joy is won . . . Yet somewhere,—warmth, and ocean's muffled boom. And lustre of the sun. The blizzard wails, and in the heart it throws A load of tears unshed. Yet somewhere myrtle, verdant myrtle grows. And stainless roses spread. Life, passing by, in empty brooding delves, Unmeaning, unbedight . . . Yet somewhere, mirth and bliss will yield themselves, And comeliness and light!
100px	Yegor Letov (1964–2008)		Optimism You know how to weep—you're going to die. Someone's writing on walls—he's going to die. She has beautiful eyes—she's going to die. It is time to relax—we're going to die. Someone's writing on walls—he's going to die. It smells of spring showers—someone just died. They have something to say—they're going to die. Someone's quietly laughing—I'm going to die. I dared to speak the Word—I'm going to die. I dared to sing "fuck!" (*) -- someone just died. Someone's watching the Sun—he's almost dead. Someone's watching my step—he's ready to die. This is optimism. Our optimism. New optimism.
100px	Mikhail Lomonosov (1711–1765)
	Vladimir Lugovskoy (1901–1957)

M

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
	Osip Mandelstam (1891–1938)	Stalin Epigram	"The Air Strikes Chill" The air strikes chill. Although transparent spring Has clothed Petropolis in pale green down, The Neva's waves are faintly sickening As if they were Medusa's coiling crown. On the embankment of our northern stream The fireflies of hurrying motors gleam. Steel dragonflies and beetles flit and whirr, And stars are pins of gold whose glitter pricks, But stars can never mortally transfix The heavy emerald of the sea water.
100px	Anatoly Marienhof (1897–1962)		"Savage, Nomad Hordes" Savage, nomad hordes Of Asia Poured fire out of the vats! Razin's execution is avenged, And Pugachov's pain Whose beard was torn away. Hooves Have broken The scruff of the earth, Cold with centuries, And the supernal sky, like a stocking With a hole in its heel Has been taken out of the laundry-trough Wholly clean.
100px	Maria Markova (born 1982)
100px	Samuil Marshak (1887–1964)
100px	Vladimir Mayakovsky (1893–1930)	A Cloud in Trousers Backbone Flute Mystery-Bouffe	Moonlit Night (A Landscape) There will be a moon. Already a bit of it shows. And now a full moon is hanging in the air. It must be that God is fishing about with a marvelous silver spoon in the star chowder.
	Apollon Maykov (1821–1897)		The Alpine Glacier Dank the darkness on the cliff-side; Faintly outlined from below, In their modest maiden gladness, Glaciers in the dawn's blush glow. What new life upon me blowing, Breathes from yonder snowy height, From that depth of limpid turquoise Flashing in the morning light? There, I know, dread Terror dwelleth. Track of man there is not there; Yet my heart in answer swelleth To the challenge, "Come thou here!"
100px	Dmitriy Merezhkovsky (1866–1941)		The Curse of Love With heavy anguish, hopeless straining, The bonds of love I would remove. Oh, to be loosed from their enchaining! Oh, freedom, only not to love! The soul that shame and fear are scourging Crawls through a mist of dust and blood. From dust, great God, my spirit purging, Oh, spare me from love's bitter flood! Is pity's wall alone unshaken? I pray to God, I cry in vain, More weary, by all hope forsaken; Resistless love grows great again. There is no freedom, unforgiven, We live as slaves, by life consumed; We perish, tortured, bound and driven, Promised to death, and to love doomed.
100px	Aleksey Merzlyakov (1778–1830)
	Arvo Mets (1937–1997)
100px	Lev Mei (1822–1862)
	Alexander Mezhirov (1923–2009)
100px	Sergey Mikhalkov (1913–2009)
100px	Nikolai Minsky (1855–1937)		Force She lies, opening her teats, strong, swollen, wide, And at her breasts, their equal gift bestowing, Mad Nero and meek Buddha clutch, unknowing, As clinging twins who suckle side by side. She holds two vessels, whence, forever flowing, The streams of Life and Death serenely glide. She breathes and wreaths of stars are lit, and bide, She breathes anew: they fly like sere leaves blowing. She looks ahead with cold unseeing eyes; She cares not though she bear or cause to perish; The children whom she nurtures she will cherish, But when she weans them, every claim denies. Evil and Good gather them in thereafter And play the cosmic game with idle laughter.
100px	Yunna Morits (born 1937)

N

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
100px	Vladimir Nabokov (1899–1977)
100px	Semyon Nadson (1862–1887)		"Pity the Stately Cypress Trees" Pity the stately cypress trees; How freshly green they spring! Ah! why amidst their branches, child, Have you put up your swing? Break not a single fragrant bough. Oh, take thy swing away To heights where thick acacias bloom; Mid dusty olives play! Thence you can see the Ocean, And, as your swing ascends, Through greening boughs a sunny glimpse The sea in laughter sends Of white sails in the distance dim, Of white gulls far away, Of white flakes foaming on the sands, A fringe of snowy spray.
100px	Vladimir Narbut (1888–1938)
	Sergey Narovchatov (1919–1981)
100px	Nikolay Nekrasov (1821–1877)		The Russian Soldier Then up there comes a veteran, With medals on his breast; He scarcely lives, but yet contrives To drink with all the rest. "A lucky man am I," he cries, And thus to prove the fact he tries. "In what consists of a soldier's luck? Pray, listen while I tell. In twenty fights, or more, I've been, And yet I never fell. And, what is more, in peaceful times Full meal I never knew; Yet, all the same, I have contrived Not to give Death his due. Again, for sins both great and small, Full many a time they've me With canes unmercifully flogged, Yet I'm alive, you see!"
100px	Ivan Savvich Nikitin (1824–1861)		Gossip Though blameless thy living As Anchorite's fate, Yet gossip will find thee Or early or late. Through keyhole he enters And stands at thy side, Doors of wood nor of stone Against him provide. He pulls the alarm bell At slightest excuse- And down to thy grave Will pursue with abuse. Self defence nothing boots thee, Thy flight he will worst- To earth he will tread thee, O Gossip be cursed!

O

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
100px	Alexander Odoevsky (1802–1839)	The Ball
100px	Nikolay Ogarev (1813–1877)		The Village Watchman The night is dark, and clouds abound, Appears the white snow everywhere; The crackling frost pervades the ground, And frigid is the atmosphere. On either side the long, broad street The peasants' cottages are seen; The solitary watchman's feet Are heard, as he moves on between. Cold is he now; the hollow gale Fills with violent blast the air; The frost has touched his visage pale, And whitened all his beard and hair. Joy has fled from his gloomy brow, He finds it hard to be alone; Through the dark night, and blinding snow, His song resounds with mournful tone. By moonless nights he paces late, Watching until the morn comes round; His hammer upon the iron plate Gives out a dreary, dismal sound. And swaying ever to and fro, The board prolongs its dreadful moan; The heart dies down with feelings low, And sorrow weighs it, lorn and lone.
	Irina Odoyevtseva (1895–1990)
100px	Bulat Okudzhava (1924–1997)
100px	Nikolay Oleynikov (1898–1937)	The Carp Cockroach The Beetle	The Carp (excerpt) Frying fish, Little carp, Where is your smile, The one you had yesterday?

P

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
100px	Liodor Palmin (1841–1891)
	Valentin Parnakh (1891–1951)
100px	Sophia Parnok (1885–1933)
	Boris Pasternak (1890–1960)		"The Drowsy Garden" The drowsy garden scatters insects Bronze as the ash from braziers blown. Level with me and with my candle, Hang flowering worlds, their leaves full-grown. As into some unheard-of dogma I move across into this night, Where a worn poplar age has grizzled Screens the moon's strip of fallow light, Where the pond lies, an open secret, Where apple bloom is surf and sigh, And where the garden, a lake dwelling, Holds out in front of it the sky.
100px	Karolina Pavlova (1807–1893)
	Vladimir Pecherin (1807–1885)
	Mariya Petrovykh (1908–1979)
100px	Aleksey Plescheev (1825–1893)		Passion Ah! could I but utter in song All the anguish which robs me of peace, Thy sorrow of soul would be stilled, Thy murmur of doubting would cease! I would breathe forth my life, my beloved. As I told all my pain for thy sake; And, bursting in passionate song. My heart in its fulness would break.
100px	Pyotr Pletnyov (1792–1866)
	Elizaveta Polonskaya (1890–1969)
100px	Yakov Polonsky (1819–1898)		A Gipsy Song Pile of embers in the darkness, Sparks expire as they fly Night conceals us from the passing, On the bridge we'll say good-by! At the parting, shawl of crimson Cross my shoulders thou shalt lace, At an end the days swift passing, Met within this shaded place. In the morning, with first splendour. All my life compelled to rove I shall leave with other gipsies Seeking happiness and love. How does fate foretell my future? Who, to-morrow by my side, O'er my heart will loose with kisses Knots by thy dear hand fast tied? Flash of embers in the darkness, Sparks expire as they fly Night conceals us from the passing, On the bridge we'll kiss good-by!
100px	Nikolay Popovsky (1730–1760)
	Vasili Popugaev (1778 or 1779 – c. 1816)
	Alexander Prokofyev (1900–1971)
100px	Kozma Prutkov (1817–1875)
	Alexander Pushkin (1799–1837)	Eugene Onegin The Bronze Horseman Boris Godunov (play)'	From Eugene Onegin Lensky and Olga Sometimes he read aloud with Olga A latter day romance discreet, Whose author truly painted nature, With cunning plot, insight complete; Oft he passed over a few pages, Too bald or tasteless in their art And coloring, began on further, Not to disturb the maiden heart. Again, they sat for hours together, With but a chess board to divide She with her arms propped on the table, Deep pondering, puzzled to decide Till Lensky from his inward storm Captured her castle with his pawn!
100px	Vasily Pushkin (1766–1830)

R

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
100px	Vladimir Raevsky (1795–1872)
	Irina Ratushinskaya (born 1954)
100px	Yevgeny Rein (born 1935)
100px	Yevdokiya Rostopchina (1812–1858)
100px	Konstantin Romanov (K.R.) (1858–1915)		Love's Reason Why For beauty love me not! Nor love for gold! For beauty—love the Day— For wealth—love coinage cold! Nor love me for my youth! For Youth—love spring! But love—because to you With constant love I cling.
100px	Vsevolod Rozhdestvensky (1895–1977)
	Robert Rozhdestvensky (1932–1994)
	Nikolay Rubtsov (1936–1971)
100px	Kondraty Ryleyev (1795–1826)

S

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
	David Samoylov (1920–1990)
100px	Genrikh Sapgir (1928–1999)
100px	Mikhail Savoyarov (1876–1941)
	Olga Sedakova (1949)
	Ilya Selvinsky (1899–1968)
100px	Igor Severyanin (1887–1941)		A Russian Song Lace and roses in the forest morning shine, Shrewdly the small spider climbs his cobweb line. Dews are diamonding and blooming faery-bright. What a golden air ! What beauty ! Oh, what light ! It is good to wander through the dawn-shot rye, Good to see a bird, a toad, a dragon-fly; Hear the sleepy crowing of the noisy cock, And to laugh at echo, and to hear her mock. Ah, I love in vain my morning voice to hurl, Ah, off in the birches, but to glimpse a girl, Glimpse, and leaning on the tangled fence, to chase Dawn's unwilling shadows from her morning face. Ah, to wake her from her half-surrendered sleep, Tell her of my new-sprung dreams, that lift and leap, Hug her trembling breasts that press against my heart, Stir the morning in her, hear its pulses start.
	Varlam Shalamov (1907–1982)
100px	Tatiana Shchepkina-Kupernik (1874–1952)
	Stepan Shchipachev (1889–1980)		Sunflower The sunflower has nowhere to shelter from the rain his feet in mud, the water between the beds won't drain. Capped, carroty and freckled, you see the chap remain fast in the bed why should he run? He likes the rain.
	Vadim Shefner (1915–2002)
100px	Nikolay Sherbina (1821–1869)		Earth Do you remember, dear-or care? When I was but a little thing, Among the garden-blossoms, there, I brushed a bee and took its sting: My finger pained me. Quick and hot, My tears ran like a rivulet. You laid upon the aching spot A lump of brown earth, cool and wet… And, all at once, there was no pain! And you looked on, with your kind eyes, To see me at my sport, again, Of chasing dappled butterflies. That time is long and long since flown; But I received a later dart… Oh, my dear friend, to you I own, It is Love's shaft within my heart! So be it!-now I only crave The perfect cure that with you lies- A little cool earth from your grave Above this heart, upon these eyes.
100px	Vadim Shershenevich (1893–1942)
100px	Stepan Shevyryov (1806–1864)
100px	Maria Shkapskaya (1891–1952)	No Dream
100px	Gennady Shpalikov (1937–1974)
100px	Konstantin Simonov (1915–1979)	Wait for Me	Wait For Me (1941) Just wait for me and I'll return. But wait, oh, wait with all your might. . . Wait when your heart is saddened by The pouring rains, the sallow light. Wait when the wind heaps up the snow, Wait when the air is dry and hot. Wait when the rest no longer wait For those whom they too soon forgot. Wait when the letters fail to come, Wait on, through dread and through despair, When those who wait together end Their waiting and turn otherwhere. Just wait for me and I'll return. And show no kindliness to such As know by heart that it is time To cease from grieving overmuch. Let both my mother and my son Believe me lost, let friends who tire Of waiting longer sit them down Barren of hope beside the fire, And let them toast my memory In bitter wine as friends will do. Wait while they drink, be waiting still, Nor lift the glass they pour for you. Just wait for me and Til return, To spite all deaths that men can die. Let those who gave up waiting say: "It was his luck"-that is a lie. It is not theirs to understand Who gave up waiting, wearily. How under fire I was safe, Since, waiting, you protected me. And none but you and I will know How I escaped the thrust of fate- Simply because, better than all The others, you knew how to wait.
100px	Stepan Skitalets (1869–1941)		Recited at a charity event, 1902. A shadow falls upon your heads, You will not like my song; The emptiness inside you spreads- It will not spread for long. Of you, the world has had enough, The years will soon be free Of you, and made of finer stuff- Life waits for men like me.
100px	Konstantin Sluchevsky (1837–1904)
	Boris Slutsky (1919–1986)
100px	Fyodor Sologub (1863–1927)		The Amphora In a gay jar upon his shoulder The slave morosely carries wine. His road is rough with bog and boulder, And in the sky no starlights shine. Into the dark with stabbing glances He peers, his careful steps are slow, Lest on his breast as he advances The staining wine should overflow. I bear my amphora of sorrow, Long brimming with the wine it hides; There poison for each waiting morrow Ferments within the painted sides. I follow secret ways and hidden To guard the evil vessel, lest A careless hand should pour unbidden Its bitterness upon my breast.
	Vladimir Soloukhin (1924–1997)
	Vladimir Solovyov (1853–1900)		"Below the Sultry Storm" Below the sultry storm that seemed to lower, An alien force, again I heard the call Of my mysterious mate: the prisoned power Of old dreams flared and flickered in its fall. And with a cry of horror and of dolor- As of an eagle in an iron vise- My spirit shook its cage in quivering choler, And tore the net, and issued to the skies. And up behind the clouds, unswerving, bearing,- Before the miracles a flaming sea- Within the shining sanctum briefly flaring, It vanished into white infinity.
	Alexander Sumarokov (1717–1777)
100px	Ivan Surikov (1841–1880)	Rowan Steppe
	Mikhail Svetlov (1903–1964)

T

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
	Yelizaveta Tarakhovskaya (1891–1968)
100px	Arseny Tarkovsky (1907–1989)
100px	Nikolay Tikhonov (1896–1979)		Our Rooms Our rooms are turned to rolling wagons With wheels that creak on roads of air; And down below, the moony water Is playing gently with green hair. We travel over crystal bridges, Across the earth, across the sky. Its red cheek pressed against our windows, The sun sings out as we roll by. And every heart's a summer beehive Blazing with a dark honeyed gleam, As though we were the lucky first ones To bend our heads above the stream. We do not know who leads us onward, What end our hurrying wheels will find, But, like a bird set free, the spirit Darts on a wing that rips the wind.
	Aleksey Tolstoy (1817–1875)		My Little Almond Tree My little almond tree Is gay with gleaming bloom, My heart unwillingly Puts forth its buds of gloom. The bloom will leave the tree, The fruit, unbidden, grow. And the green boughs will be By bitter loads brought low.
100px	Vasily Trediakovsky (1703–1769)
	Marina Tsvetaeva (1892–1941)		"No Longer Now" No longer now the same god-given bounties Where now no longer the same waters glide. Then fly, and hasten, doves of Aphrodite, Through the great gates that sunset has swung wide. And I on the chill sands shall lie, receding Into the dimness of unreckoned days . . . Like the shed skin the snake is coldly eyeing, My youth, outgrown, has shrunk under my gaze.
	Ivan Turgenev (1818–1883)
	Veronika Tushnova (1915–1965)	Memory of the Heart
100px	Aleksandr Tvardovsky (1910–1971)		The Starling On the porch a trooper marvels At a starling: "Take my word, There is something to that fellow, Yes, a starling's quite a bird. "In this scorched and blistered garden That's attached to our new base, All day long the chap is busy, Keeps at work about the place; "He's rebuilding, he's repairing. Just as if to signify: War or no war, still the thing is To increase and multiply."
	Fyodor Tyutchev (1803–1873)		Silentium Be silent, hidden, and conceal Whate'er you dream, whate'er you feel. Oh, let your visions rise and die Within your heart's unfathomed sky, Like stars that take night's darkened route. Admire and scan them and be mute. The heart was born dumb; who can sense Its tremors, recondite and tense? And who can hear its silent cry? A thought when spoken is a lie. Uncovered springs men will pollute, Drink hidden waters, and be mute. Your art shall inner living be. The world within your fantasy A kingdom is that waits its Saul. The outer din shall still its call, Day's glare its secret suns confute. Oh, quaff its singing, and be mute.

U

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
	Vladimir Uflyand (1937–2007)
	Joseph Utkin (1903–1944)	The Story About Ginger Motele Mr. Inspector Rabbi Isaiah and Commissar Bloch

V

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
100px	Konstantin Vaginov (1899–1934)
100px	Dmitry Venevitinov (1805–1827)
	Igor Vishnevetsky (born 1964)
100px	Dmitry Vodennikov (born 1968)
100px	Maksimilian Voloshin (1877–1932)		Stigmata Whose the flying hands, about me shedding Fire, and leading me on passionate ways? No sonorous stones my feet are treading, But where vatic waters fill the days. Piercing through the spirit, sharp pilasters Rise, and candle sting the dark like bees. Oh, the hearts that bloom like crimson asters, Petalled with gold-bladed ecstasies. Now the evening on the temple flinging Patterned, carven crimson, shines and mourns. Oh, the pale brow to the altar clinging, Stung anew with stinging scarlet thorns! The whole soul, high vaults and portals glowing, Fear like incense swathes with dim blue bands: Ah, I know you, sacred corals, growing On the pierced palms of these outstretched hands.
	Andrey Voznesensky (1933–2010)
100px	Alexander Vvedensky (1904–1941)
100px	Pyotr Vyazemsky (1792–1878)		Spring "Ah, Spring, sweet Spring, chief pride of Nature!" The air is foul, the ground is sludge; Men curse the mud when they go walking, And plunged in muck, a horse can't budge. The cab breaks down, so does the carriage; Season of colds in chest and nose, To you, fair Spring, is reverence tendered By cartwrights and by medicos.
100px	Vladimir Vysotsky (1938–1980)

Y

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
100px	Pyotr Yakubovich (1860–1911)		The Ninth Wave Not for every plashing wavelet Watches keen the helmsman's eye; He awaits the last huge roller, When the ninth wave surges high. But until that last strong roller Swells with deep, decisive roar, We must meet the strife and effort Of the waves that go before. Even though we scarce perceive them, Sinking vanquished to their grave, Wait, O brethren, wait with courage For the ninth, the conqu'ring wave!
	Alexander Yashin (1913–1968)
100px	Nikolay Yazykov (1803–1847)		The Sailor Cruel is our lonely ocean, Roaring always day and night; Buried 'neath its wild commotion Many a wreck lies, far from sight. Courage, comrades! I, confiding, To the free winds give my barque; Forth it hastens, swiftly riding O'er the billows grim and dark. Thick the clouds fly o'er the heaven, Fierce the gale grows, black the waves; Hither, thither we are driven, While the waking whirlwind raves. Courage, comrades ! Peals the thunder, High the watery heaps arise, Yawning gulfs now draw us under, Now we 're lifted to the skies. Yet behold, our ship is nearing Through the storm the wished-for land; See, the vaults of heaven are clearing, See, the port is near at hand. Thither but brave hearts and ready Will the billows speed along! Courage, comrades! straight and steady Flies our vessel, stanch and strong.
100px	Pyotr Yershov (1815–1869)	The Humpbacked Horse
	Sergey Yesenin (1895–1925)		"Hopes Painted By The Autumn Cold" Hopes, painted by the autumn cold, are shining, My steady horse plods on, like quiet fate, His moist dun lip is catching at the lining When the coat, flapping, flutters and falls straight. On a far road the unseen traces, leading Neither to rest nor battle, lure and fade; The golden heel of day will flash, receding, And labors in the chest of years be laid.
	Yevgeny Yevtushenko (born 1933)

Z

Portrait	Person	Notable works	Sample
	Nikolay Zabolotsky (1903–1958)
	Boris Zakhoder (1918–2000)
100px	Yulia Zhadovskaya (1824–1883)		The Contrast Dear, you will soon forget me, You I shall ne'er forget, You'll find new loves for old ones, For me love's sun is set. New faces soon will greet you, You'll choose yourself new friends, New thoughts you'll get and haply New joy to make amends: While I in silent sorrow Life's joyless way shall go, And how I love and suffer Only the grave will know.
100px	Aleksey Zhemchuzhnikov (1821–1908)
	Vasily Zhukovsky (1783–1852)		To a Floweret Floweret, faded and forsaken, Fragile beauty of the lea, Autumn's cruel hand hath taken All thy summer charms from thee. Heigho! that the years must bring This same destiny to all; One by one our joys take wing, One by one your petals fall. So each evening rings the knell Of some dream or rapture perished, And the fleeting hours dispel Each some vision fondly cherished. Life's illusions lie unmasked, And the star of hope burns paler. Has not some sage long since asked: Men or blossoms which are frailer?

See also

• List of Russian-language novelists
• List of Russian-language playwrights
• Russian poetry
• Russian literature
• Russian language
• Russian culture