You took away the bliss of repetition…”
And only once, when I collected grapes
And placed them slowly in a wicker basket,
A dusky woman sat there on the grass,
With braids undone and with her eyelids shut,
And she was languishing and wearied all at once
From spicy breath that reached her from wild mint
And from the powerful aroma of blue grapes,
There she deposited the words of breathless wonder
Into the storehouse of my memory.
And, having let go of the wicker basket,
I fell atop the dry and fragrant earth,
As if to the beloved, when love sings.
Autumn 1913
***
Проводила друга до передней,
Постояла в золотой пыли,
С колоколенки соседней
Звуки важные текли.
Брошена! Придуманное слово -
Разве я цветок или письмо?
А глаза глядят уже сурово
В потемневшее трюмо.
1913
***
Out to the hall I walked my lover
And in the golden dust I stopped
And from the nearby belfry tower
The solemn sounds echoed up.
I’m left behind! A made-up phrase –
A bloom, a letter? But, alas,
The eyes already sternly gaze
Into the darkened cheval glass.
1913
***
Простишь ли мне эти ноябрьские дни?
В каналах приневских дрожат огни.
Трагической осени скудны убранства.
Ноябрь 1913
***
Will you forgive me these November days?
Lights flicker in the Neva’s waterways.
The tragic autumn’s meager decorations.
November, 1913
***
Я не любви твой прошу.
Она теперь в надежном месте…
Поверь, что я твоей невесте
Ревнивых писем не пишу.
Но мудрые прими советы:
Дай ей читать мои стихи,
Дай ей хранить мои портреты –
Ведь так любезны женихи!
А этим дурочкам нужней
Сознанье полное победы,
Чем дружбы светлые беседы
И память первых нежных дней…
Когда же счастия гроши
Ты проживешь с подругой милой
И для пресыщенной души
Все станет сразу так постыло –
В мою торжественную ночь
Не приходи. Тебя не знаю.
И чем могла б тебе помочь?
От счастья я не исцеляю.
1914
***
It’s not your love I seek tonight.
It’s in a safe place now, it’s hidden…
Believe me that I haven’t written
Resentful letters to your bride.
But take this sensible suggestion:
Give her my poetry to read,
Give her my portraits for protection –
The groom must always be this sweet!
And yet, these fools, they need and chase
The sense of utter victory,
Much more than friendly company
And memories of first sweet days…
And once the last of bliss is spent
With your beloved in this heaven
And for the sated soul again
All suddenly becomes repellent –
In my triumphant night, don’t stray
Back to me. I won’t let you enter.
How could I help you anyway?
I have no cure for your contentment.
1914
***
"Горят твои ладони,
В ушах пасхальный звон,
Ты, как святой Антоний,
Виденьем искушен".
"Зачем во дни святые
Ворвался день один,
Как волосы густые
Безумных Магдалин".
"Так любят только дети,
И то лишь первый раз".
"Сильней всего на свете
Лучи спокойных глаз".
"То дьявольские сети,
Нечистая тоска".
"Белей всего на свете
Была ее рука".
1915
***
“Your palms are fiery,
The Easter bells ring loud,
You’re tempted, like St. Anthony,
By visions all around.”
“How was such day’s affair
Mixed with the holy days,
Like thick and tangled hair
Of Magdalenes half-crazed.”
“Thus only children love,
Just once, and then it dies.”
“No light is strong enough -
To match those tranquil eyes."
“This is the devil’s bluff,
Such longing - an offense.”
“No white is white enough -
To match that of her hands.”
1915
***
Будешь жить, не зная лиха,
Править и судить,
Со своей подругой тихой
Сыновей растить.
И во всем тебе удача,
Ото всех почет,
Ты не знай, что я от плача
Дням теряю счет.
Много нас таких бездомных,
Сила наша в том,
Что для нас, слепых и темных,
Светел божий дом,
И для нас, склоненных долу,
Алтари горят,
Наши к божьему престолу
Голоса летят.
1915
***
You’ll live happy, evil-free,
You will judge and reign,
With your darling you will see
All that your sons attain.
You’ll succeed without trying,
Get respect and praise,
You won’t know that I’m, from crying,
Losing track of days.
There are many homeless, slighted,
But we’re full of might,
For the blind and benighted
Paradise is bright.
And for those, down in the vale,
Altars sizzle hot,
And our voices will prevail
Soaring up to God.
1915
Anna Akhmatova (June 23, 1889 - March 5, 1966) is considered by many to be one of the greatest Russian poets of the Silver Age. One of the forefront leaders of the Acmeism movement, which focused on rigorous form and directness of words, she was a master of conveying raw emotion in her portrayals of everyday situations. Her works range from short lyric love poetry to longer, more complex cycles, such as Requiem, a tragic depiction of the Stalinist terror. During the time of heavy censorship and persecution, her poetry gave voice to the Russian people.
To this day, she remains one of Russia’s most beloved poets and has left a lasting impression on generations of poets that came after her.
Thank you for taking the time to read my work. Translation is a labor of love. Over time, what I’ve learned is that you often get back what you put into it. I enjoy every minute of it as it allows me to not only delve deeper into the poetry I love, but to also share this love with you, my readers.
My hope is that this book will lead you to explore my other books of Russian poetry translations. For a full-list of my books, see the following page.
If you enjoyed my work and have a moment to spare, I would really appreciate a short review. Your help in spreading the word is gratefully received.
Also, I would like to invite you to visit my new website dedicated to Russian poetry translations: Discernible Sound. As always don’t hesitate to contact me with any questions and/or comments.
Sincerely,
Andrey Kneller
Also by Andrey Kneller:
Evening: Poetry of Anna Akhmatova
White Flock: Poetry of Anna Akhmatova
Final Meeting: Selected Poetry of Anna Akhmatova
Wondrous Moment: Selected Poetry of Alexander Pushkin
My Poems: Selected Poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva
Backbone Flute: Selected Poetry of Vladimir Mayakovsky
February: Selected Poetry of Boris Pasternak
The Stranger: Selected Poetry of Alexander Blok
Unfinished Flight: Selected Poetry of Vladimir Vysotsky
O, Time…: Selected Poetry of Victoria Roshe
Discernible Sound: Selected Poetry
Rosary: Poetry of Anna Akhmatova Page 6