by Anna Akhmatova
I hear the oriole’s ever-mournful voice,
And welcome the rich summer’s losses.
Through the grain, packed tightly ear on ear,
The sickle slices, with its snake’s hiss.
And the short skirts of the slim reapers,
Fly like
I hear the oriole’s ever-mournful voice,
And welcome the rich summer’s losses.
Through the grain, packed tightly ear on ear,
The sickle slices, with its snake’s hiss.
And the short skirts of the slim reapers,
Fly like
Ispeak those words, today, that come
Only once, born in the spirit.
Bees hum on white chrysanthemum:
There’s the must of an old sachet.
And the room, with narrow windows,
Preserves love, remembers the past.
Over the
I’ll be there and weariness will vanish.
The cold of early morning will please.
There are villages, mysterious and dark –
Storehouses of immortal labour.
My calm and trusting love
Of that place will never be vanquished.
Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded,
Black death’s wing’s overhead.
Everything’s eaten by hunger, un-sated,
So why does a light shine ahead?
By day, a mysterious wood, near the town,
Breathes out cherry, a cherry perfume.
By night,
I’ll erase this day from your memory,
So your vague helpless gaze will ask
Where you saw Persian lilac,
Swallows, and this wooden house.
Oh, how often you’ll remember
The sudden pain of unnamed longing,
And in
For O. A. Kuzmin-Karavaev
‘If we can only reach the shore,
My dear!’ – ‘Silently…’
And so we slipped down the stair,
Not breathing, searching for keys.
Past the place where we once
Danced, and drank the
And to you, my first vagary,
Isaid goodbye. The east was turning blue,
Though I didn’t know what you meant,
You said, simply: ‘I’ll not forget.’
Other faces appear and vanish,
Dear today, and tomorrow, done.
Why
I came to the poet as a guest.
Exactly at noon. On Sunday.
Beyond the window, frost,
Quiet in the room’s space.
And a raspberry tinted sun
Above tangles of blue smoke…
How clearly the taciturn
Master
I’m not one of those who left their land
To the mercy of the enemy.
I was deaf to their gross flattery.
I won’t grant them my songs.
But to me the exile’s always wretched,
Like a
It’s endless – the heavy, amber day!
Impossible grief, pointless waiting!
And the silver-voiced deer, again,
Under the Northern Lights, belling.
And I think there’s cold snow
A blue font for the poor and ill,
And a