Poetry

        The following poems are dedicated to the last imperial family of Russia, the Romanovs, and copyrighted to the authors.  If you have a poem or thought that you would like to have on this page, e-mail it to me.   Thank you.

Anastasia 

Once upon a time,
A grand duchess, the tsar's daughter,
Lived.
She was merry,
She was happy,
She was the family's "shvybzik."
She lived in opulence and splendor, the innocence of girlhood.
A budding rose,
A promise sweet.
Anastasia, a princess of aristocracy.
Suddenly, a mass, like a wave,
Rolls on.
The thunder claps,
The lighting flashes.
Anastasia whispers frightened,
"Did you see Jemmy?"
Not Jemmy, not Tatiana.
A new life, a sudden shock.
She found terror,
She found horror,
She found revulsion.
She lived in a terrible nightmare world.
A grand duchess ravaged,
A cache of jewels.
Anastasia escaped with memories.
Memories haunted her,
Memories drove her on.
And the horror remained.
She whispered terrified,
"Will they find me?"
Selling her jewels,
One by one, and she lived in pain and agony.
She lived in pain,
She lived in shame,
She lived in brutal memories.
Visions of her family,
Visions of her past.
She found her relatives,
She found them unkind,
She found strangers sweet.
She lived in hurt.
She wanted peace and rest.
She never got it.
Anastasia, one who will rise again.

            ~ Victoria Bostwell

Alexandra

Springtime, flowers, sunny days,
A princess in Hesse was born.
A girl with smiles and charming laughter,
Despite the Victorian morn.
Alix, whose mother died when young,
Alix, the girl who had a smile and shyness to come.

Winters, snow, falling sleet,
A princess sent to Russia.
A girl who met a young man kind,
Despite the opposition.
Alix, a Hessian girl, now quite ready for love.
Alix, who met the tsarevich who would one day bear her son.

Summer, grass, a rumor round,
An empress slandered and scorned.
A woman who bore daughters and a son,
Despite the Russians' hatred.
Alexandra, a Russian woman still shy but Imperial.
Alexandra, who realized the foreboding evil.

Autumn, leaves, a mocking laugh,
A tsarina hurt and broken,
A woman furious and insulted,
From the Bolsheviks' hatred.
Alexandra, a broken woman, who grew old and grey-haired.
Alexandra, the mother who was killed and saw her daughters too so ravaged.

            ~ Victoria Bostwell

The Light in Your Eyes

There was a light in your eyes
Shining brighter than the brightest star
It shone through your dark blue eyes
And shone through your tears

There was love in those eyes
Love in those tears
The memories stored away
Through blue saline and smiles

The light showed infatuation
A young soldier
Wanting to fall in love
But knowing it could not be forever

The light showed love
Love for your beloved sisters
Dancing in lace dresses
Dreaming of pearls

The light showed pain
Pain for your home
The hate people felt toward you
To you, a “mere child”

The light showed horror
Of a suffering not even known any longer
Of an abuse so deep it almost extinguished the light
But it failed

And even when the guns stopped firing
And the smoke cleared away
The light was still in your eyes
The light of Heaven’s gates.

         ~ Corie Hurley

OTMA

Four white dresses,
Four pearl strings,
Four little boxes all in a row.
"Olga" on the first box, clear and sweet,
The container for a woman not yet grown.
A book, a pen, a paper,
All a part of the foreboding poem.
The second box, artistic, bears the name "Tatiana."
Fairy princess, beautiful autocratia.
Ikons, perfume, piles of furs,
Part of the princess grown so old.
"Marie" on the third box, with a heart,
The story of a girl.
Photographs, long-lost infatuations,
Pressed flowers from Tsarskoe Selo.
And last, "Anastasia," the girl who was so young
When terror, horror, revulsion found their way into her heart.
Scripts for plays, corsets with jewels,
The resurrected child.
There they lie,
Mementoes of innocence and girlhood.
Plundered by guards, scrutinized by investigators.
They are history's daughters.

                                               ~ Victoria Bostwell

"They Say"

They say my name was Anya,
  When it was really Anastasia.
They say I died in Ekaterinburg,
  When only my hopes were killed.
They say the pain only lasted a few seconds,
  A short bleeding from a bayonet wound.
When in reality it lasted a lifetime.
  They say I was not who I said I was,
They claim I was just an old Polish woman.
  When under the veil it really was me.
They say my protectors were all ignoramuses,
  When they were only doing what they should.
They claim that because of one little scar,
  One little wrong word,
I was someone else entirely.
  They say my name was just Franziska
When it was really Anastasia.

Dedicated to Olga and Tatiana

Give patience, Lord, to us Thy children
In these dark, stormy days to bear
The persecution of our people,
The tortures falling to our share.

Give strength, Just God, to us who need it,
The persecutors to forgive,
Our heavy, painful cross to carry
And thy great meekness to achieve.

When we are plundered and insulted,
In days of mutinous unrest,
We turn for help to Thee, Christ-Savior,
That we may stand the bitter test.

Lord of the world, God of creation,
Give peace of heart to us, O Master,
This hour of utmost dread to bear.

And on the threshold of the grave,
Breath power divine into our clay
That we, Thy children, may find strength,
In meekness for our foes to pray.

           ~ Written by Countess Anastasia V. Hendrikova and copied by Olga Nikolaievna into one of her books in 1917-18.

Olga

Investigators sigh, drop the burnt-ash clothing:
"Nothing more to find."
No more? Oh no?
Diaries, enamel rings, old fading poems and stories.
Mementoes of a life stopped short,
Murdered in mid-air.
Sometime, someplace, somehow.
A woman killed with dispassion,
A girl assaulted with too much.

                            ~ Victoria Bostwell

Tatiana

Careworn ikons,
Books of study,
Perfumes and dresses,
Relics of her "coming out."
Religious, studious, lovely, autocratic.
When the time grew short,
She comforted.
When they were thrust apart,
She hurt.
When they were torn assunder,
She withdrew.
When she was finally shot, beaten,
Pierced with those bayonets,
She fell still and silent,
But always the "Fairy Princess."

                               ~ Victoria Bostwell

* These poems are the sole property of the author(s).  You may not reproduce any of the poems on this page             without the author's permission. *

Home ~ Nicholas ~ Alexandra ~ OTMA ~ Alexei

Photo Album ~ Poetry ~ Links ~ Books ~ Credits ~ Grandanor Society ~ Webring ~ The Romanov Family