torsdag 16 juni 2011

I found my source of love and solace













Anna Akhmatova, 


Russian poet, born 23th June 1889 in Odessa, Ukraine.















'In human intimacy...'

In human intimacy there is a secret boundary;
Neither the experience of being in love,
Nor passion can cross it,
Though lips be joined together in awful silence,
And the heartbreak asunder with love

And friendship, too, is powerless plot,
And so years of bliss with noble tends,
When your heart is free and known not,
The slow languor of the earthy sense.

And they who strive to reach this edge are mad,
But they who reached are shocked with anguish hard --
Now you know why beneath your hand
You do not feel the beating of my heart.







‘I came here, in idleness.’


I came here, in idleness.

Where I’m bored: all the same to me!
A sleepy hilltop mill, yes,
here years pass silently.

Over convolvulus gone dry
the bee swims past, ahead,
I call to that mermaid by
the pond: the mermaid’s dead.

Thick with mud, and rusted,
the wide pond’s shallows:
over the trembling aspen
a weightless moon glows.

I see everything freshly.
The poplars smell moist.
I’m silent. Silent, ready
to be yours again, earth.




White Night


Oh, I’ve not locked the door,

I’ve not lit the candles,
you know I’m too tired
to think of sleep.

See, how the fields die down,
in the sunset gloom of firs,
and I’m drunk on the sound
of your voice, echoing here.

It’s fine, that all’s black,
that life’s – a cursed hell.
O, that you’d come back –
I was so sure, as well.   






'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. 



The Sixth


Memories have three epochs.
And the first is like yesterday.
The soul is under their blessed vault,
and the body is in the bliss of their shadow.
Laughter has not died down and the tears stream,
the ink stain is unwiped on the table,
the kiss is imprinted on the heart,
unique, parting, unforgettable...
But this does not last for long...
The firmament is no longer overhead, and somewhere
in a dull suburb there is a lonely house,
where it's cold in winter and hot in summer,
where a spider lives and dust lies on everything,
where passionate letters burn to ash,
portraits change stealthily,
and people come to it as though to a grave,
and wash their hands when they get home,
and shake off a quick tear
from their tired lids, and sigh heavily...
But the clocks tick, one spring
replaces another, the sky turns pink,
names of towns change,
and eye-witnesses of events die,
and there is no one to cry with, no one to reminisce with.
Those shadows pass from us slowly
which we no longer call upon,
whose return would be terrible to us.
And once awake, we see that we have forgotten
the very road that led to the lonely house,
and choking with shame and anger,
we run to it, but (as in a dream)
everything is different there: people, things, walls,
and nobody knows us; we are strangers.
We got to the wrong place...Oh God!
Now comes the most bitter moment:
we realize that we could not contain
this past in the frontiers of our life,
and it is almost as alien to us
as to our neighbor in the flat,
and that we would not recognize those who have died,
and those whom God parted from us
got on splendidly without us -
even better...





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