Believe it or not, I've only recently begun to get into Anna Akhmatova's poetry. I suspect that she simply does not translate well and I don't read Russian. There's a new biography of her that I'm dying to dip into, though. Here's a poem of hers that I do like.
Anna Akhmatova - March Elegy
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.
Leningrad, 1960
5 comments:
I love Akhmatova, though I generally mix her up with Tsvetaeva because she wrote one of my favorite poems (Mne nravitsya):
Мне нравится, что Вы больны не мной,
Мне нравится, что я больна не вами,
Что никогда тяжелый шар земной,
е уплывет под нашими ногами.
Мне нравится, что можно быть смешной,
Распущенной и не играть словами,
И не краснеть удушливой волной,
Слегка соприкоснувшись головами.
Спасибо Вам и сердцем и рукой,
За то, что Вы меня, того не зная сами,
Так любите за мой ночной покой,
За редкость встреч закатными часами.
За наше неуменье под луной,
За солнце не у нас над головами,
За то, что Вы - увы! - больны не мной,
За то, что я - увы! - больна не вами.
I like that you are obsessed, but not by me.
I like that I am sick, but not by you.
That never ever the heavy round Earth
Would sail itself away under our feet.
I like, it is permitted to be funny
And loose - and is not to play with words,
Is not to blush with stifling wave slightly
Have touched sleeves each other's, you and me.
And I like still that you can calmly
Embrace the others in my dear presence,
You don't predict me burning in the hell
Because I kiss not you, but someone else.
Again and again my tender name, my tender,
You haven't mentioned day or night - in vain...
That never in the church silence for forever
Would sing above us: halli -halleluya!
Thank you for that, from very heart and hand,
You do love me - and never knowing it! - so much,
For peace and rest allowed me at nights,
For rarity of seeing you at sunsets,
For walking not together under the moon
And for the sun is not above us all along,
For you are sick - alas! -but not by me,
For I am sick - alas! - but not by you.
OMG, NTodd, that's absolutely wonderful. Thank youl
Most Dear Heart--
The great Isaiah Berlin tells of visting Akhmatova after the war (what our Br Wilfrid always referred to as "the last war") -- in the course of the visit she read him from Shakespeare -- very stirring -- except she had her own pronunciation of the English & Berlin (a Lithuanian Jew raised in Britain) couldn't understand a word she said -- he couldn't bring himself to tell her that, of course
She survived Stalin's purges & the loss of her loved ones -- then the siege of Leningrad -- what is there to say?
I found a better translation of the Tsvetaeva (gonna blog about it in just a big):
I like it that you're burning not for me,
I like it that it's not for you I'm burning
And that the heavy sphere of Planet Earth
Will underneath our feet no more be turning
I like it that I can be unabashed
And humorous and not to play with words
And not to redden with a smothering wave
When with my sleeves I'm lightly touching yours.
I like it, that before my very eyes
You calmly hug another; it is well
That for me also kissing someone else
You will not threaten me with flames of hell.
That this my tender name, not day nor night,
You will recall again, my tender love;
That never in the silence of the church
They will sing "halleluiah" us above.
With this my heart and this my hand I thank
You that - although you don't know it -
You love me thus; and for my peaceful nights
And for rare meetings in the hour of sunset,
That we aren't walking underneath the moon,
That sun is not above our heads this morning,
That you - alas - are burning not for me
And that - alas - it's not for you I'm burning.
I like both Tsvetaeva and Akhmatova though I prefer the former because she was more tragic.
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