Anna Akhmatova

Twenty-First. Night. Monday

Twenty-first. Night. Monday. Silhouette of the capitol in darkness. Some good-for-nothing who knows why Made up the tale that love exists on earth. People believe it, maybe from laziness Or boredom, and live accordingly:

Sunbeam

I pray to the sunbeam from the window – It is pale, thin, straight. Since morning I have been silent, And my heart – is split. The copper on my washstand Has turned green,

You Thought I Was That Type

You thought I was that type: That you could forget me, And that I’d plead and weep And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare, Or that I’d ask the sorcerers For

Celebrate

Celebrate our anniversary – can’t you see Tonight the snowy night of our first winter Comes back again in every road and tree – That winter night of diamantine splendour. Steam is pouring out

Crucifix

Do not cry for me, Mother, seeing me in the grave. I This greatest hour was hallowed and thandered By angel’s choirs; fire melted sky. He asked his Father:”Why am I abandoned…?” And told

How can you bear to look at the Neva?

How can you bear to look at the Neva? How can you bear to cross the bridges?. Not in vain am I known as the grieving one Since the time you appeared to me.

Requiem

Not under foreign skies Nor under foreign wings protected – I shared all this with my own people There, where misfortune had abandoned us. [1961] INSTEAD OF A PREFACE During the frightening years of

Lot's Wife

And the just man trailed God’s shining agent, Over a black mountain, in his giant track, While a restless voice kept harrying his woman: “It’s not too late, you can still look back At

You Will Hear Thunder

You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on

Thunder

There will be thunder then. Remember me. Say ‘ She asked for storms.’ The entire World will turn the colour of crimson stone, And your heart, as then, will turn to fire. That day,

Solitude

So many stones have been thrown at me, That I’m not frightened of them anymore, And the pit has become a solid tower, Tall among tall towers. I thank the builders, May care and

Why Is This Age Worse…?

Why is this age worse than earlier ages? In a stupor of grief and dread Have we not fingered the foulest wounds And left them unhealed by our hands? In the west the falling

March Elegy

I have enough treasures from the past To last me longer than I need, or want. You know as well as I. . . malevolent memory Won’t let go of half of them: A

I hear the oriole's always-grieving voice

I hear the oriole’s always-grieving voice, And the rich summer’s welcome loss I hear In the sickle’s serpentine hiss Cutting the corn’s ear tightly pressed to ear. And the short skirts of the slim

White Night

There will be thunder then. Remember me. Say ‘ She asked for storms.’ The entire World will turn the colour of crimson stone, And your heart, as then, will turn to fire. That day,

I Wrung My Hands

I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . . “Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?” Because I have made my loved one drunk With an astringent sadness. I’ll never forget. He

I Don't Know If You're Alive Or Dead

I don’t know if you’re alive or dead. Can you on earth be sought, Or only when the sunsets fade Be mourned serenely in my thought? All is for you: the daily prayer, The

Memory Of Sun

Memory of sun seeps from the heart. Grass grows yellower. Faintly if at all the early snowflakes Hover, hover. Water becoming ice is slowing in The narrow channels. Nothing at all will happen here

Willow

And I grew up in patterned tranquillity, In the cool nursery of the young century. And the voice of man was not dear to me, But the voice of the wind I could understand.

For Osip Mandelstam

And the town is frozen solid in a vice, Trees, walls, snow, beneath a glass. Over crystal, on slippery tracks of ice, The painted sleighs and I, together, pass. And over St Peter’s there

The Sentence

And the stone word fell On my still-living breast. Never mind, I was ready. I will manage somehow. Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I

In Memory of M. B

Here is my gift, not roses on your grave, Not sticks of burning incense. You lived aloof, maintaining to the end Your magnificent disdain. You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes, And suffocated

Lying in me

Lying in me, as though it were a white Stone in the depths of a well, is one Memory that I cannot, will not, fight: It is happiness, and it is pain. Anyone looking

I Taught Myself To Live Simply

I taught myself to live simply and wisely, To look at the sky and pray to God, And to wander long before evening To tire my superfluous worries. When the burdocks rustle in the

Everything

Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded, Black death’s wing’s overhead. Everything’s eaten by hunger, unsated, So why does a light shine ahead? By day, a mysterious wood, near the town, Breathes out cherry, a cherry

Under Her Dark Veil

Under her dark veil she wrung her hands. “Why are you so pale today?” “Because I made him drink of stinging grief Until he got drunk on it. How can I forget? He staggered