Anna Akhmatova

­Anna Akhmatova’s works are an example of Russia's finest poetry, a synthesis of femininity and masculinity, displaying delicate feelings and deep thought.

Unsuited to my purpose…

Unsuited to my purpose in the rhyming

Of martial odes or charming elegies.

In verses everything should be untimely,

No punctualities. I wish you were aware from what stray matter

Springs poetry to prosper without shame,

Like dandelions which the children scatter,

Or pigweed of the lowly name. An angry shout, the molten tar's hot stinging,

A magic growth of mould upon a wall…

And straightaway the verse is gaily ringing

To gladden one and all.

I heard the voice…

I heard the voice. It promised solace.

“Come here,” it seemed so softly call.

“Leave Russia, sinning, lost and graceless,

Leave your land, pray, for good and all.

I'll cleanse your hands from blood that stains you,

And from your heart draw back black shame,

The hurts of failure, wrongs that pain you

I'll veil with yet another name.

” With even calm deliberation

I raised my hands to stop my ears,

Lest that ignoble invitation

Defile a spirit lost in tears.

Dark my veil…

Dark my veil. Hands clenched painfully, tightly.

“Why so white-faced?” “To think, just to think!

It was I made him to drink; of the biting

Wine of sorrow I forced him to drink.

”How forget? Out he staggered with failing

Strength, and face oddly twisted and grim.

I ran down without touching the handrail,

To the gateway I ran after him.

«'Please don't go!' I gasped out. 'I was only

Jesting… Please!.. Or I'll die…' With a blind,

With a terrible smile, almost tonelessly,

He brought out 'Do not stand in the wind'»

To Aleksandr Blok

I came to see the poet.

Right at noon. On Sunday.

Behind the window panes

Of airy, spacious rooms

Deep frost and crimson sun

Hang over tousled smoke…

Oh, how quietly my host

Sets his bright eyes on me!

Those eyes of his –

Can never be forgotten.

I know not to look in them,

And cautiously avert my gaze.

What I remember is our talk

.A smoky noon. And Sunday

In his house, gray and tall,

By the Neva's water-locks.

The Guest

The blizzard beats with snow

On my windows, as before.

I have not become new,

Yet a visitor is at my door.

I asked, “What do you want?”

“To be in hell with you.

”I laughed, “Oh, you will spell

For both of us misfortune.

”But, lifting his lean hand,

He lightly touched the flowers.

“Tell me, how are you kissed?

How do you kiss the others?

”His dull and watchful eyes

Stayed anchored on my ring.

A bitter glow lit his face,

Unmoving, lucid, still.

Oh, this I know. His joy

Is knowing, with passion,

There's nothing that he needs,

That I'll deny him nothing.

The Muse

When late at night I wait for her arrival,

It seems my life is hanging by a thread.

I offer youth, my freedom, glory,

To my adored guest with flute in hand.

And here she comes. She throws back her cloak

And pours a steady gaze on me.

I ask, “Did you dictate to Dante

The pages of “Inferno?” She answers, “Yes. I did.”

To the Muse

My sister Muse looked at my face,

Her gaze was clear and bright.

She took my golden ring away –

First present of that spring.

Muse! Do you see their happiness?

Girls, widows, wives.

I would rather die on the rack,

But not these bounds of iron.

Guessing, I tear the petals

From the gentle daisy flower.

All of us on this earth

Must know the torture of love.

Until dawn, my candle burns on a windowsill

And I miss no one.

But, I don't, don't, don't want to

Know how the other woman is kissed.

Tomorrow, laughing, the mirror will say

“Your gaze is not clear, not bright”

I will answer quietly: ”She took

My gift from God away".

He loved three things…

He loved these three things

White peacocks, evening songs,

And worn-out maps of America.

No crying of children,

No raspberry tea,

No women's hysterics…

I was married to him.

The Last Toast

I raise my glass

To ravaged home,

My bitter life,

And lonely days with you.

I drink to you,

To lying lips' betrayal,

To deathly frigid eyes;

To that the world is cruel and crude,

To that we weren't saved by God.

­The White Bird (courtesy of the Cardinal Points Literary Journal, RT partner)

­Lot's Wife (couretsy of the Cardinal Points Literary Journal, RT partner)