Anna Akhmatova Puns

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.

You will hear thunder and remember me,

And think: she wanted storms. The rim

Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,

And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

That day in Moscow, it will all come true,

when, for the last time, I take my leave,

And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,

Leaving my shadow still to be with you.

Do you forgive me these November days?

In canals around the Neva fires fragment.

Scant is tragic autumn’s finery.

..

trans. Donald Michael Thomas

I drink to the house, already destroyed, And my whole life, too awful to tell, To the loneliness we together enjoyed, I drink to you as well, To the eyes with deadly cold imbued, To the lips that betrayed me with a lie, To the world for being cruel and rude, To God who didn't save us, or try

1934

Does anyone have the original Russian version of this poem? I can only find various English translations, and I would love to see the original Russian and compare them. I’ve also seen the title translated as “In Dream” or “In a Dream”. I’ve dug through google but nothing seems to come up. :( I hope someone can help, спасибо!

You thought I was that type:

That you could forget me,

And that I'd plead and weep

And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers

For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:

My precious perfumed handkerchief.

Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul

Vicarious tears or a single glance.

And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,

I swear by the miracle-working icon,

And by the fire and smoke of our nights:

I will never come back to you.

Departure

Although this land is not my own,
I will remember its inland sea
and the waters that are so cold
the sand as white
as old bones, the pine trees
strangely red where the sun comes down.

I cannot say if it is our love,
or the day, that is ending.

SO, I REMAINED ALONE
By Anna Akhmatova
Translated by Daniel Weissbort

So, I remained alone,
Counting the empty days.
O, my free companions,
My swans!

And I’ll not summon you with song,
Not bring you back with tears,
But in the sad hour of dusk,
Remember you in my prayers.

Struck by the deadly arrow,
One of you has fallen,
And another, kissing me,
Has become a black raven.

But it happens, once a year
When the ice is melting,
I stand by the clear waters
In the Catherine Gardens.

And I hear the splashing of great wings
Over the blue surface of the lake.
I do not know who has opened the window
In the prison of the grave.

Привет всем!

I have a question regarding Anna Akhmatovas poem "Сжала руки". The poem goes like this:

Сжала руки под темной вуалью...

"Отчего ты сегодня бледна?"

- Оттого, что я терпкой печалью

Напоила его допьяна.

Как забуду? Он вышел, шатаясь,

Искривился мучительно рот...

Я сбежала, перил не касаясь,

Я бежала за ним до ворот.

Задыхаясь, я крикнула: "Шутка

Все, что было. Уйдешь, я умру".

Улыбнулся спокойно и жутко

И сказал мне: "Не стой на ветру".

My question regards the final stanza: "Шутка

Все, что было"

Can this mean both that "it was just a joke" (as in I did not mean it) and "it was all a joke" (as in all that was between us was a joke)?.

Thanks in advance!

And the stone word fell
On 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 rustling
Is like a festival outside my window.
For a long time I've foreseen this
Brilliant day, deserted house.

I'd like to share with the readers of this community a poem by famous Russian poetess Anna Akhmatova "There are three periods of memory" (1945).

As for form, it is an iambic pentameter without rhyming.

https://ruverses.com/anna-akhmatova/there-are-three-periods-of-memory/1315/

One's memories live long and have three epochs.

The first is close, like yesterday .... Within

Its hallowed bower the soul enjoys repose,

And in its shade the body refuge finds ....

The tears stream still, the peals of laughter linger,

The spot of ink still stains the desk, and, sealed

Upon the heart, the farewell kiss remains,

Indelible .... But this is not for long ....

The bower recedes, and in its place there stands

A lonely house, unswept and hung with cobwebs,

Where it is cold in winter, and in summer

Insufferably hot, where lovers' letters

Turn brown with dust, and treasured pictures fade,

Where people come as to a grave to lay

A wreath of flowers, and, afterwards, at home,

Scrub at their hands with soap, and brush away

A fleeting tear, and sigh, and sigh again.

But clocks tick on, and seasons come and go,

The names of cities change, events retain

No witnesses, and memories and tears

May not be shared .... Unwanted and unsought,

The shades of loved ones shrink and slip away,

And we recoil in horror from the thought

That they might reappear .... And then the day

Dawns when, awakening with a start, and gripped

With sickening remorse, we realise

That we no longer know where lies the path

To that lone house, and run as in a dream,

Despairing mute, to where it stood, and lo! -

Discover that the walls, the things, the people

Are different and strange, and that we too

Are strangers there .... The bitter revelation

Then comes that we must shed the hope of fitting

The past into the pattern of our lives

For it is alien to ourselves, the way

It needs must be to someone in the street ....

And then we know and are repelled at knowing

That if the dead, by any chance, returned

We should not know them, that the cherished few

With whom God chose to part us, miss us not,

That it is better so, that it is all,

Perversely, for the best ...

And besides, since this poem is not so easy to understand even in the Russian original, let me share my interpretation, or even rather - a free retelling of this poem.)

Because of its complicated figurative series I had to re-read it

Translated by Andrey Kneller

Three times she tortured me like this.

I awoke with an anguished moan

And saw her thin pale hands

And mouth, scathing and black.

“Who were you kissing at dawn,

As you swore that you’d die if it ends,

And hiding your burning bliss,

Sobbed by the gate near the shack?

You walked him to death’s abyss,

He will die soon, and never come back.”

A falcon’s cry that rang so tensely,

That voice was strangely like another.

My body was wringing in pain,

With a chill that comes as you die.

And the spider web, woven so densely,

Fell down on the bed like a cover…

Oh, you weren’t laughing in vain,

My unforgiven merciless lie!

(1911)

If you'd like to watch me read it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QJGvRVS__Nk

Epilogue II, from Requiem

Anna Akhmatova

(translated by D.M. Thomas)

Again a memorial hour is near,

I can now see you and feel you and hear:

And her, who’d been led to the air in a fit,

And her – who no more touches earth with her feet.

And her – having tossed with her beautiful head –

She says, “I come here as to my homestead.”

I wish all of them with their names to be called;

But how can I do that? I have not the roll.

The wide common cover I’ve wov’n for their lot –

From many a word, that from them I have caught.

Those words I’ll remember as long as I live,

I’d not forget them in a new awe or grief.

And if will be stopped my long-suffering mouth –

Through which always shout our people’s a mass –

Let them pray for me, like for them I had prayed,

Before my remembrance day, quiet and sad.

And if once, whenever in my native land,

They’d think of the raising up my monument,

I give my permission for such good a feast,

But with one condition – they have to place it

Not near the sea, where I once have been born –

All my warm connections with it had been torn,

Not in the tsar’s garden near that tree-stump, blessed,

Where I am looked for by the doleful shade,

But here, where three hundred long hours I stood for

And where was not opened for me the hard door.

Since e’en in the blessed death, I shouldn’t forget

The deafening roar of Black Maries’ black band,

I shouldn’t forget how flapped that hateful door,

And wailed the old woman, like beast, it before.

And let from the bronze and unmoving eyelids,

Like some melting snow flow down the tears,

And let a jail dove coo in somewhat afar

And let the mute ships sail along the Neva.

Do you forgive me these November days?

In canals around the Neva fires fragment.

Scant is tragic autumn’s finery.

..

trans. Donald Michael Thomas

..

r/spookyear

You thought I was that type:

That you could forget me,

And that I'd plead and weep

And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,

Or that I'd ask the sorcerers

For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:

My precious perfumed handkerchief.

Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul

Vicarious tears or a single glance.

And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,

I swear by the miracle-working icon,

And by the fire and smoke of our nights:

I will never come back to you.

I drink to our ruined house

To the evil of my life

To our loneliness together

And I drink to you -

To the lying lips that have betrayed us

To the dead-cold eyes

To the fact that the world is brutal and coarse

To the fact that God did not save us.

I drink to our ruined house
To the evil of my life
To our loneliness together
And I drink to you—
To the lying lips that have betrayed us,
To the dead-cold eyes,
To the fact that the world is brutal and coarse
To the fact that God did not save us.

Memory has three epochs,

And the first - is like yesterday.

The soul is under their blissful vault,

And the body basks in their shade.

Laughter has not yet died, tears flow,

The ink stain has not faded from the desk,

And, like a seal on the heart, the kiss,

Unique, leave-taking, unforgettable...

But this does not continue for long...

There is no longer vault overhead, but somewhere

In a remote suburb, a solitary house,

Where it is cold in winter, and hot in summer,

Where there is a spider and dust lies on everything,

Where passionate letters are rotting,

Portraits are stealthily changing,

Where people go as if to a grave,

And, having returned, wash their hands with soap,

And wipe away a fleeting tear

From tired eyelids - and sigh heavily...

But the clock ticks, one spring is replaced

By another, the sky turns pink,

Names of cities change

And there are no longer witnesses to events,

And no one to weep with, no one to remember with.

And slowly shades leave us,

Which we no longer summon,

Whose return would be frightening for us.

And one day upon waking we see that we have even

Forgotten the path to that solitary house,

And, choking with shame and anger,

We run there, but (as happens in dreams),

Everything is different there: people, things, the walls,

And nobody knows us - we are strangers.

We have ended up in a wrong place... My God!

And this is when the bitterest thing of all comes:

We realize that we couldn't have fitted

The past into the boundaries of our life,

And that it is almost as alien to us

As to our next-door neighbour

That those, who died, we wouldn't recognize

And those, from whom God sent parting,

Managed perfectly without us - and even

All's for the best.