Is the new moon playing a joke,Or is someone really there once moreStanding between the cupboard and the stove? — Anna Akhmatova, from “Chapter One” of “The Year Nineteen Thirteen: A Petersburg Tale,” The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, transl. Judith Hemschemeyer, ed. Roberta Reeder (Zephyr Press, 1997)
And the stone word fellOn 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 must turn my soul to stone,I must learn to live again— Unless … Summer’s ardent rustlingIs like a festival outside my window.For a long time I’ve… Continue reading Anna Akhmatova
In the storehouse of my memory areYour words, your smiles and gestures. — Anna Akhmatova, from “Uncollected Poems and Fragments,” The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, transl. Judith Hemschemeyer, ed. Roberta Reeder (Zephyr Press, 1997)
You haunt me still somehow,I’ve saved each word from you. — Anna Akhmatova, White Flock: Poetry of Anna Akhmatova. Translated by Andrey Kneller (CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform July 30, 2013)
We don’t know how to say goodbye:we wander on, shoulder to shoulder.Already the sun is going down;you’re moody, I am your shadow. Let’s step inside a church and watchbaptisms, marriages, masses for the dead.Why are we different from the rest?Outdoors again, each of us turns his head. Or else let’s sit in the graveyardon the… Continue reading Anna Akhmatova
In the storehouse of my memory areYour words, your smiles and gestures. — Anna Akhmatova, from “Uncollected Poems and Fragments,” The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, transl. Judith Hemschemeyer, ed. Roberta Reeder (Zephyr Press, 1997)
I remember everything simultaneously;Like the distant beam of a distant lighthouse. — Anna Akhmatova, from “Creation,” The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, transl. Judith Hemschemeyer, ed. Roberta Reeder (Zephyr Press, 1997)
I received the letter,I didn’t believe the tender words,I read it, I looked into the pier glass,Marveling at myself and at you. A wide strip of light floated inThrough the window, and there was a wintry smell …I know that you are a poet,That means you are my friend. How wonderful that in the worldThere… Continue reading Anna Akhmatova
I hear the oriole’s always-grieving voice,And the rich summer’s welcome loss I hearIn the sickle’s serpentine hissCutting the corn’s ear tightly pressed to ear.And the short skirts of the slim reapersFly in the wind like holiday pennants,The clash of joyful cymbals, and creepingFrom under dusty lashes, the long glance. I don’t expect love’s tender flatteries,In… Continue reading Anna Akhmatova
… and because I don’t have enough paper,I am writing on your first draft.And here a strange word shows throughand, like that snowflake on my hand long ago,melts trustingly, with no reproach. — Anna Akhmatova, from “First Dedication,” The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, transl. Judith Hemschemeyer, ed. Roberta Reeder (Zephyr Press, 1997)
The Vale of Soul-Making 