Creativity Pen | An international journal of English literature | January 2024
Alexey Kalakutin
A fragment from the poem “The Sweet Martyr”
Rumors are flies and the tattles are gadflies Feeling the high blood and stinging aggressively, Driving the sting into flesh and the souls Of the sovereigns and royal successors shamelessly.
The virulent piercers in Russian Empire Fell to the lady from Alemannia, That one inspiring love and admiration Of high-minded Romanov, son of Emperor.
Anna, excuse me, I state things straightforwardly, Wounding your feelings by tactless pronouncements, Cannot be secretive, cannot gloss over, Thoughts seething madly in brain like enouncements.
In former times, you remember, the common herd Twisted the face with dislike for the empress, As if for dinner not vodka, but cider Is served with steak that is coarse and tasteless.
Members of gentry glanced at her askance, Merchants did not start to dance with excitement. Gingerbread cookies baked in the Russian lands Didn't accept Alemannic sweet items.
Old and young, in a jacket and fashions, Did not compassion the peregrine queen. The ancestor worship is dear to Russians,
Father the Tsar, and the queen should be Mother! But she was born by the Britons and Germans. To understand Russian world like the others For stranger's heart is extremely uncommon!
You may the name Alexandra receive, You may feel alone so much less, But cannot wear your heart on your sleeve, Because you are proud Alice of Hesse.
Big Russian soul cannot be bought! You are a Russian since you were born – With Pushkin, Yesenin, the noise of birches, With tear of the Virgin inside your core!
