How to choose original poems to congratulate your beloved women on March 8

Our poetic tradition makes it possible to directly, classically confess love, like Kostya from “Pokrovsky Gates”:

A. Pushkin. Confession (1826)

I love you, even though I’m mad,

Although this is labor and shame in vain,

And in this unfortunate stupidity

At your feet I confess!

It doesn’t suit me and is beyond my years…

It’s time, it’s time for me to be smarter!

But I recognize it by all the signs

The disease of love in my soul:

I’m bored without you, I yawn;

I feel sad in front of you – I endure;

And, I have no courage, I want to say,

My angel, how I love you!

When I hear from the living room

Your light step, or the noise of a dress,

Or a virgin, innocent voice,

I suddenly lose all my mind.

You smile – it’s my joy;

You turn away, I’m sad;

For a day of torment – a reward

I want your pale hand.

When you’re diligent about the hoop

You sit, leaning casually,

Eyes and curls lowered, –

I am moved, silently, tenderly

I admire you like a child!..

Should I tell you my misfortune,

My jealous sadness

When to walk, sometimes in bad weather,

Are you going away?

And your tears alone,

And speeches in the corner together,

And travel to Opochka,

And piano in the evening?..

Alina! have pity on me.

I don’t dare demand love.

Perhaps for my sins,

My angel, I’m not worth love!

But pretend! This look

Everything can be expressed so wonderfully!

Ah, it’s not difficult to deceive me!..

I’m happy to be deceived myself!

For lovers, you can let in a little magic (almost black – in any case, we probably wouldn’t recommend congratulating ladies who believe so strongly):

V. Bryusov. To a woman, 1899

“You are a woman, you are a book between books,

You are a rolled up, sealed scroll;

There is an abundance of thoughts and words in his lines,

Every moment in his pages is insane.

You are a woman, you are a witch’s drink!

It burns with fire as soon as it enters your mouth;

But the flame drinker suppresses the cry

And he praises madly in the midst of torture.

You are a woman, and you are right.

From time immemorial she has been adorned with a crown of stars,

You are the image of a deity in our abysses!

We draw you with an iron yoke,

We serve you, crushing the firmament of the mountains,

And we pray – from eternity – for you!”

If the classical syllabic tonic seems boring, we turn to the twentieth century.

I. Selvinsky, Hymn to a woman, 1961

Every day is like a battle won.

Who among us has not cried into our hands?

And who wasn’t chased by the ranger?

Is it in prison, in everyday life, in a feuilleton?

But neither rapacity, nor envy, nor revenge

They failed to weave a noose for me,

Because there is in the world

Woman.

A man’s hand is a lever,

Millstones, not teeth in men,

The rocker is in his shoulders,

Wonderful thoughts in his wrinkles.

And a woman has shoulders – a woman,

And a woman’s elbow is a woman,

And a woman speaks – a woman,

And a woman laughs – a woman…

And, pining for Venus Bush,

About the captivating witches of Rops,

I was wondering by the stars in my soul,

Then the devil scratched under the door.

On a broom or in the foam of the seas,

All the miracles in the world are dearer

You are the refuge of my torment,

Woman!

And it also happens that you don’t want professional poetry: sometimes it’s worth being simpler, simpler and more direct. Then the poems of poets of the second and third rank, including modern ones, are suitable:

Woman, woman – a heavenly miracle!

Tender, meek, lovely nymph.

Blue-eyed and black-eyed.

Snub button. The doe is long-legged.

Lips swollen from a kiss,

Bright, sweet – they excite the heart.

Mini and maxi, straps, folds.

Slender legs, cat-like habits.

You can with just one movement of your eyelashes

Arouse love without boundaries in men.

Slender Barbie with silky skin.

The dark-skinned one looks like a predator.

You don’t notice that it’s blowing you away

A bunch of males, only from velvet ears.

A silk scarf is draped over the shoulders.

You will give the evening to the Moonlight Sonata.

With an innocent gesture you can straighten your curl.

In the haze of the night you will melt imperceptibly.

Gentle, wonderful, passionate.

Woman – you are infinitely beautiful…

And many poems of this kind become good songs:

L. Moroshkina

Neither in rain, nor in ice, nor in slush,

No matter what trouble happens,

Don’t make women cry

Neither from love nor from shame.

And no matter how it happens to swim

To you in the ocean of existence,

Don’t make women cry

I hold a grudge against you.

Whichever of the bitter cracks

I didn’t break your heart,

Don’t make women cry

According to thoughtless words.

Goodbye women! Reduce

Limit throwing enmity!

And never take it out

Women have their own trouble.

And let it be like a reward for you

For selfless work,

The woman next to you

Never crying…!

M. Shcherbakov

If only you were a great queen

I would then serve as a poet at court.

I would compose odes left and right,

I would write hymns and eat on silver.

I would create easily, courageously and with love,

and all the people would sing my songs:

both the highest society and the middle class,

and various other people, and even all sorts of rabble.

I don’t know how many days the bliss would last,

but I know that the ending is sad and funny:

Alas! the hour would come when the royal mercy

would have changed to anger, and I would have been executed.

And there is a reason for this, and there is a reason for this:

Since I am a court bard, my duty is

sing of you, you, beautiful Regina,

and that’s exactly what I wouldn’t do.

Creating day and night, I could, point by point,

glorify everyone and everything, and only about you

I wouldn’t sing a word, but it smells like rebellion!

And they would have strung me up on the first pole.

And all just because it’s unlikely in the Universe

for an ode in your honor there is a proper syllable and tone.

And even if I were Homer, you are better than Elena.

And even if I were Shakespeare, you are more beautiful than Desdemona!

May you not be the queen, and I may not be your courtier,

and let no one execute me just yet,

and yet, as soon as I am your image of disobedience

I’ll start painting, my pen is trembling.

To love more and more, more and more numb,

I will have to spend my whole life submitting to fate.

But if I’m wrong, let me in immediately

Today they will be executed, at the very first pillar!