Anna Akhmatova Poems
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 02:15:30 | Сообщение № 41
|How Many Demands..|
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.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 02:16:14 | Сообщение № 42
|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 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.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 02:17:21 | Сообщение № 43
|I Don't Like Flowers|
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.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 02:18:10 | Сообщение № 44
|I Have No Use For Odic Legions|
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.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 02:19:45 | Сообщение № 45
|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 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.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 02:41:03 | Сообщение № 46
|I Saw My Friend At The Front Door|
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.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 02:59:50 | Сообщение № 47
|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 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.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 03:18:09 | Сообщение № 48
|I Was Born in the Right Time, in Whole|
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.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 03:21:54 | Сообщение № 49
|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 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?"
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 03:39:15 | Сообщение № 50
|If the Moon on the skies Does not Roam|
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?
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 03:40:14 | Сообщение № 51
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.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 03:40:57 | Сообщение № 52
|In Human Closeness there is a Secret Edge|
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.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 03:46:27 | Сообщение № 53
|In The Evening|
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.'
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 09:15:28 | Сообщение № 54
|Let Somebody Else Rest by Southern Sea|
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.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 09:16:28 | Сообщение № 55
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.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 09:17:17 | Сообщение № 56
|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 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.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 09:18:04 | Сообщение № 57
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 modest church, with its gold cupola
slightly askew; a harsh chorus
of crows; the whistle of a train;
a birch tree haggard in a field
as if it had just been sprung from jail;
a secret midnight conclave
of monumental Bible-oaks;
and a tiny rowboat that comes drifting out
of somebody's dreams, slowly foundering.
Winter has already loitered here,
lightly powdering these fields,
casting an impenetrable haze
that fills the world as far as the horizon.
I used to think that after we are gone
there's nothing, simply nothing at all.
Then who's that wandering by the porch
again and calling us by name?
Whose face is pressed against the frosted pane?
What hand out there is waving like a branch?
By way of reply, in that cobwebbed corner
a sunstruck tatter dances in the mirror.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 09:19:45 | Сообщение № 58
|Memory of Sun|
Memory of sun seeps from the heart.
Grass grows yellower.
Faintly if at all the early snowflakes
Water becoming ice is slowing in
The narrow channels.
Nothing at all will happen here again,
Will ever happen.
Against the sky the willow spreads a fan
The silk's torn off.
Maybe it's better I did not become
Memory of sun seeps from the heart.
What is it? - Dark?
Perhaps! Winter will have occupied us
In the night.
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 09:20:29 | Сообщение № 59
When, in the night, I wait for her, impatient,
Life seems to me, as hanging by a thread.
What just means liberty, or youth, or approbation,
When compared with the gentle piper's tread?
And she came in, threw out the mantle's edges,
Declined to me with a sincere heed.
I say to her, 'Did you dictate the Pages
Of Hell to Dante?' She answers, 'Yes, I did.'
(65535) Вне сайтаДата: 28.05.2018, 09:21:08 | Сообщение № 60
Something of heavens ever burns in it,
I like to watch its wondrous facets' growth.
It speaks with me in fate's non-seldom fits,
When others fear to approach close.
When the last of friends had looked away
From me in grave, it lay to me in silence,
And sang as sing a thunderstorm in May,
As if all flowers began to talk in gardens.