Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold,
Death's great black wing scrapes the air,
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?
Death's great black wing scrapes the air,
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?
By day, from the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.
And the miraculous comes so close
to the ruined, dirty houses --
something not known to anyone at all,
but wild in our breast for centuries.
to the ruined, dirty houses --
something not known to anyone at all,
but wild in our breast for centuries.
~ Anna Akhmatova ~
A portrait of Anna Akhmatova in 1922, by Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin
Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966) is perhaps the best known of modern Russian poets. Isaiah Berlin once wrote of her, "The widespread worship of her memory in the Soviet Union today, both as an artist and as an unsurrendering human being, has, so far as I know, no parallel. The legend of her life and unyielding passive resistance to what she regarded as unworthy of her country and herself, transformed her into a figure [...] not merely in Russian literature, but in Russian history in [the Twentieth] century."
After visiting Akhmatova in 1945 at her home in Russia, Berlin wrote, "A stately, grey-haired lady, a white shawl draped about her shoulders, slowly rose to greet us. Anna Akhmatova was immensely dignified, with unhurried gestures, a noble head, beautiful, somewhat severe features, and an expression of immense sadness."
Translator and essayist as well as poet, Akhmatova's best-known poems are her epic, "Poem without a hero," composed over 20 years, and "Requium," a lyrical witness to the impact of Soviet terror on the people of Russia.
Lot's Wife
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.
From Poems of Akhmatova,
by Anna Akhmatova and translated by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward.
Published by Little, Brown & Co. © 1973 by Stanley Kunitz and Max
Hayward. - See more at:
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15867#sthash.jheQg3p0.dpuf
From Poems of
Akhmatova, translated by Stanley Kunitz and Max
Hayward.
Lot's Wife
by Anna Akhmatovatranslated by Max Hayward and Stanley Kunitz
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.
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15867#sthash.jheQg3p0.dpuf
Lot's Wife
by Anna Akhmatovatranslated by Max Hayward and Stanley Kunitz
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.
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15867#sthash.jheQg3p0.dpuf
Lot's Wife
by Anna Akhmatovatranslated by Max Hayward and Stanley Kunitz
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.
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15867#sthash.jheQg3p0.dpuf
Lot's Wife
by Anna Akhmatovatranslated by Max Hayward and Stanley Kunitz
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.
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15867#sthash.jheQg3p0.dpuf
Lot's Wife
by Anna Akhmatovatranslated by Max Hayward and Stanley Kunitz
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.
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15867#sthash.jheQg3p0.dpuf