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Famous Russian Poets (Знаменитые русские поэты)
ingvarr
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Дата: 20.05.2018, 07:20:54 | Сообщение № 41
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He Did Love

by Anna Akhmatova

He did love three things in this world:
Choir chants at vespers, albino peacocks,
And worn, weathered maps of America.
And he did not love children crying,
Or tea served with raspberries,
Or woman's hysteria.
...And I was his wife.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 20.05.2018, 07:21:41 | Сообщение № 42
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Here is my gift

by Anna Akhmatova

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 inside stifling walls.
Alone you let the terrible stranger in,
and stayed with her alone.

Now you're gone, and nobody says a word
about your troubled and exalted life.
Only my voice, like a flute, will mourn
at your dumb funeral feast.
Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I,
I, sick with grief for the buried past,
I, smoldering on a slow fire,
having lost everything and forgotten all,
would be fated to commemorate a man
so full of strength and will and bright inventions,
who only yesterday it seems, chatted with me,
hiding the tremor of his mortal pain.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 02:14:14 | Сообщение № 43
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Here Pushkins Endless Exile Has Begun

by Anna Akhmatova

Here Pushkin's endless exile has begun,
And Lermontov's exile turned out fatal,
The mountain grass has a smell so sweet and gentle,
And only once I managed to discern,
By the lake under the dense shade of a chinara,
In the early evening and ferocious trice
The glare of insatiable dark eyes
Of the immortal lover of Tamara.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 02:15:00 | Сообщение № 44
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How can you bear to look at the Neva

by Anna Akhmatova

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.
The black angels' wings are sharp,
Judgment Day is coming soon,
And raspberry-colored bonfires bloom,
Like roses, in the snow.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 02:15:45 | Сообщение № 45
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How Many Demands..

by Anna Akhmatova

How many demands the beloved can make!
The woman discarded, none.
How glad I am that today the water
Under the colorless ice is motionless.

And I stand - Christ help me! -
On this shroud that is brittle and bright,
But save my letters
So that our descendants can decide,

So that you, courageous and wise,
Will be seen by them with greater clarity.
Perhaps we may leave some gaps
In your glorious biography?

Too sweet is earthly drink,
Too tight the nets of love.
Sometime let the children read
My name in their lesson book,
And on learning the sad story,
Let them smile shyly. . .
Since you've given me neither love nor peace
Grant me bitter glory.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 02:16:29 | Сообщение № 46
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I Don't Know If You're Alive Or Dead

by Anna Akhmatova

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 sleepless heat at night,
And of my verses, the white
Flock, and of my eyes, the blue fire.

No-one was more cherished, no-one tortured
Me more, not
Even the one who betrayed me to torture,
Not even the one who caressed me and forgot.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 02:17:37 | Сообщение № 47
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I Don't Like Flowers

by Anna Akhmatova

I don't like flowers - they do remind me often
Of funerals, of weddings and of balls;
Their presence on tables for a dinner calls.

But sub-eternal roses' ever simple charm
Which was my solace when I was a child,
Has stayed - my heritage - a set of years behind,
Like Mozart's ever-living music's hum.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 02:18:35 | Сообщение № 48
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I Have No Use For Odic Legions

by Anna Akhmatova

I have no use for odic legions,
Or for the charm of elegiac play
For me, all verse should be off kilter
Not the usual way.

If only you knew what trash gives rise
To verse, without a tinge of shame,
Like bright dandelions by a fence,
Like burdock and like cocklebur.

An angry shout, the bracing smell of tar,
Mysterious mildew on the wall…
And out comes a poem, light-hearted, tender,
To your delight and mine.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 02:20:03 | Сообщение № 49
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I Hear the Oriole's Always-Grieving Voice

by Anna Akhmatova

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 reapers
Fly in the wind like holiday pennants,
The clash of joyful cymbals, and creeping
From under dusty lashes, the long glance.

I don't expect love's tender flatteries,
In premonition of some dark event,
But come, come and see this paradise
Where together we were blessed and innocent.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 02:41:30 | Сообщение № 50
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I Saw My Friend At The Front Door

by Anna Akhmatova

I saw my friend to the front door
I stood in the golden dust.
Momentous sounds issued
From the little belfry close by.
Tossed! Such a made-up word-
What am I, a flower or a letter?
But my eyes already gaze grimly
Into the darkened looking glass.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 03:00:16 | Сообщение № 51
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I Taught Myself to Live Simply

by Anna Akhmatova

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 ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 03:18:36 | Сообщение № 52
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I Was Born in the Right Time, in Whole

by Anna Akhmatova

I was born in the right time, in whole,
Only this time is one that is blessed,
But great God did not let my poor soul
Live without deceit on this earth.

And therefore, it's dark in my house,
And therefore, all of my friends,
Like sad birds, in the evening aroused,
Sing of love, that was never on land.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 03:22:38 | Сообщение № 53
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I Wrung My Hands

by Anna Akhmatova

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 went out, reeling;
his mouth was twisted, desolate...
I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters,
and followed him as far as the gate.

And shouted, choking: "I meant it all
in fun. Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain."
He smiled at me - oh so calmly, terribly -
and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 03:39:39 | Сообщение № 54
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If the Moon on the skies Does not Roam

by Anna Akhmatova

If the moon on the skies does not roam,
But cools, like a seal above,
My dead husband enters the home
To read the letters of love.

He remembers the box, made of oak,
With the lock, very secret and odd,
And spreads through a floor the stroke
Of his feet in the iron bond.

He watches the times of the meetings
And the signatures' blurry set.
Hasn't had he sufficiently grievings
And pains in this word until that?
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 03:40:27 | Сообщение № 55
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In Dream

Black and enduring separation
I share equally with you.
Why weep? Give me your hand,
Promise me you will come again.
You and I are like high
Mountains and we can't move closer.
Just send me word
At midnight sometime through the stars.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 03:41:13 | Сообщение № 56
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In Human Closeness there is a Secret Edge

by Anna Akhmatova

In human closeness there is a secret edge,
Nor love nor passion can pass it above,
Let lips with lips be joined in silent rage,
And hearts be burst asunder with the love.

And friendship, too, is powerless plot,
And so years of bliss with noble tends,
When your heart is free and known not,
The slow languor of the earthy sense.

And they who strive to reach this edge are mad,
But they who reached are shocked with anguish hard -
Now you know why beneath your hand
You do not feel the beating of my heart.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 03:46:42 | Сообщение № 57
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In The Evening

by Anna Akhmatova

The garden rang with music
Of inexpressible despair.
A dish of oysters spread on ice
Smelled like the ocean, fresh and sharp.

He told me: 'I'm a faithful friend!'-
And lightly touched my dress.
How different from embraces
The touch of those two hands.

That's how one strokes a cat or bird
Or looks at slender lady riders…
Just laughter in his quiet eyes,
Beneath his light gold lashes.

And the despondent voices of the violins
Sing out beyond the hanging smoke:
'Give blessings to heaven above
At last you're alone with your beloved.'
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 09:15:12 | Сообщение № 58
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Let Somebody Else Rest by Southern Sea

by Anna Akhmatova

Let somebody else rest by southern sea,
Enjoying the paradise land,
It's northerly here, and fall of this year,
I chose to be my girl-friend.

I've carried here the memory sure
Of my last rejecting a date -
The flame, so cold, so easy and pure,
Of my overcoming the fate.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 09:16:46 | Сообщение № 59
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Lot's Wife

by Anna Akhmatova

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 the red towers of your native Sodom,
the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,
at the empty windows set in the tall house
where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed."
A single glance: a sudden dart of pain
stitching her eyes before she made a sound . . .
Her body flaked into transparent salt,
and her swift legs rooted to the ground.

Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem
too insignificant for our concern?
Yet in my heart I never will deny her,
who suffered death because she chose to turn.
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ingvarr
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Дата: 28.05.2018, 09:17:32 | Сообщение № 60
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Lying in me

by Anna Akhmatova

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 straight into my eyes
Could not help seeing it, and could not fail
To become thoughtful, more sad and quiet
Than if he were listening to some tragic tale.

I know the gods changed people into things,
Leaving their consciousness alive and free.
To keep alive the wonder of suffering,
You have been metamorphosed into me.
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