Poems by Anna Akhmatova. Online reading of the book Poems by Anna Akhmatova
There is a cherished quality in the closeness of people,
She cannot be overcome by love and passion, -
Let the lips merge in eerie silence,
And the heart is torn to pieces by love.And friendship is powerless here, and the years
High and fiery happiness,
When the soul is free and alien
The slow languor of voluptuousness.Those who strive for her are mad, and her
Those who have achieved it are struck with melancholy...
Now you understand why my
A poem from 1915 with a dedication to N.V.N., Nikolai Vladimirovich Nedobrovo, who, in addition to his personal closeness to the poetess, is also valuable to us as an unusually insightful critic of her poetry. In the same 1915, he wrote an article that is still quoted, in which he convincingly explained that behind the fragile decadent face of many poets, in particular Akhmatova, lies a powerful personality, iron discipline and clear artistic logic.
The poem “There is a cherished trait in the closeness of people...” is an undoubted hit of the poetess, and this is exactly Akhmatova’s signature: poems about dislike. It is very interesting ideologically, structurally, and intertextually.
Its central idea is a very pronounced “no”: “does not beat.” And this “no” is concretized through the image of an uncrossable line. This image is sometimes traced back to Dostoevsky, to Crime and Punishment. The parallel is possible - especially since Akhmatova declared Dostoevsky to be her main writer - but not obligatory: after all, crossing or not crossing the line here is not criminal in nature.
What’s more interesting is how the motif of the trait is embodied in the poem. The direct formal bearer of the theme of the uncrossable line is made in the poem by enjambements, or verse transfers - conflicts between syntactic incompleteness and verse completeness of lines This usually means that the line has ended, but the reader is acutely aware that the sentence is not completed and will be completed in the next line..
It starts out quite modestly. There are no enjambments in the first stanza, except for the dash at the end of the second line, which means that the sentence will continue. In the second stanza there are already two enjambements - year | happiness and rhyming with this further alien | languor. And in the third stanza the enjambment reaches its maximum. The first line is a break her | having reached- here, by the way, we are directly talking about the line, “those who have reached it” are “those who have reached the line.” And in the penultimate line, almost impossible in classical verse, there is a hyphen why is mine | heart doesn't beat- and even complicated by the word order: “my” is separated from “heart”. Here is a double violation of the normal order and the normal drawing of features.
Thus, the gradual systematic build-up of transferences, that is, forced transitions of a line, culminating in an almost impossible construction, directly, with a visual drawing - as they say in poetics, iconically - expresses the theme of the transition-intransitivity of a line. Such a game with transferences can reach great tension in poetry, especially avant-garde poetry, up to an almost chaotic violation of the norm. But Akhmatova, of course, is a neoclassicist, and with her everything is strictly motivated, everything is strictly regulated, everything is based on tradition.
The very theme of the poem more or less directly refers to Innokenty Annensky, who was revered by Akhmatova, to the poem “Two Sails of One Boat” from 1904:
Will the fiery heat loom,
Or, foaming, the waves disperse,
Two sails of one boat,
We are full of just breath.A storm of desire poured into us,
We are surrounded by crazy dreams,
But silently fate is between us
The line has been drawn forever.And in the night of the starless south,
When it's so nicely dark,
Burning, touch each other
Sails alone cannot...
The overlap is, of course, obvious. But beyond the head of Annensky and the Silver Age in general, Akhmatova looks further, back to Pushkin, whose constant theme was all kinds of combinations: passion and dispassion, freedom and lack of freedom, and so on; an image of dispassionate passion, love without hopes or desires.
Therefore, it is natural to borrow from Pushkin the leitmotiv image of an uncrossable line and the very syntagm that introduces it - the subject “line” plus the predicate “is”. Let's compare:
But there is an inaccessible line between us.
In vain did I arouse the feeling:
From indifferent lips I heard the news of death,
And I listened to her indifferently.“Under the blue sky of my native country...”
But if in Pushkin an inaccessible trait separates the poet and his long-time lover who died in a distant country, then in Akhmatova this trait is present in the most intimate intimacy of lovers. As for the key phrase “cherished trait,” it is also found in Pushkin in another of his farewells to his former lover:
It's finished! Dark sheets curled up;
On the light ashes are their cherished features
They turn white... My chest feels tight. Dear ashes,
Poor joy in my sad fate,
Stay forever with me on my sorrowful chest..."Burnt Letter"
The most striking thing is how thematic and verbal intertexts are combined in Akhmatova’s poem with structural borrowings. In one of Pushkin’s poems we are talking about the line, about its transition, about its inaccessibility, and in another - not yet mentioned - the enjambment is revealed, which, in all likelihood, served as the prototype for the climactic enjambment of Akhmatova. I mean one of Pushkin’s most famous passionately dispassionate poems - “On the hills of Georgia lies the darkness of the night...” Let’s compare:
Now you understand why my
The heart does not beat under your hand.Akhmatova
And the heart burns and loves again - because
That it cannot help but love.Pushkin
Of course, Akhmatova enhances the Pushkin effect. He only has “that’s why,” but she also has “that’s why.”
The main thing is that the main point of the ending has been rethought: in Pushkin, despite the pauses and general restraint of tone, even in separation, the heart burns and loves. In Akhmatova, an inaccessible line separates the heroine and her partner, her lover, who is present right there, under whose hand is her heart, which, however, does not beat. This situation is not uncommon in Akhmatova’s poetic world; let us remember: “How unlike an embrace / The touches of these hands are,” “He again touched my knees / With an almost unwavering hand,” “How helplessly, greedily and hotly he strokes / My cold hands.”
So, in the poem there is a thematic quotation from Pushkin, and the core of the composition is the formal effect borrowed from him (and developed). Akhmatova's text seems to be stretched between a meaningful quotation from one poem - mainly, "Under the blue sky...", which sets the theme of the line - and a structural quotation from another poem, "On the hills of Georgia lies the night darkness...", which supplies the iconic equivalent of this themes - a game with stops and transitions, embodying the theme of the line and transition-non-transition.
The theme developed in this way is one of the invariants That is, central themes that, in one embodiment or another, permeate almost all of the author’s work. Akhmatova’s poetic world, which, in turn, represents a kind of modern and highly pointed variation on Pushkin’s invariant motifs, colored in tones of bitter, and sometimes flirtatiously spicy, resignation Resignation- resigned humility, refusal of life activity. and detachment a la Annensky. The poem “There is a cherished feature in the closeness of people...” is a late, sharp, explosive, but still quite disciplined example of St. Petersburg poetics.
And one last thing. That eerie silence in which the lips of lovers merge remains somewhat mysterious and seemingly unmotivated. Akhmatova became famous as a great poetess of unhappy, impossible, one way or another unfulfilled and unrealizable love - and as the author of a late masterpiece under the mysterious title “Poem without a Hero,” the mystery of which researchers are struggling with.
But isn’t the point that her love poetry is a consistent theatricalization of the non-existent, fictional love of a male hero? Behind it, probably, lies a genuine, but not declared, hidden from everyone and almost from herself love for women, only occasionally breaking through in the most tender passages of the poem, addressed to “Columbine of the tenth years”, Olga Glebova-Sudeikina. Then it is clear that this poem - and many of Akhmatova’s poems - is poetry without a hero, but with heroines.
The door is half open
Linden trees blow sweetly...
Forgotten on the table
Whip and glove.
The circle from the lamp is yellow...
I listen to the rustling sounds.
Why did you leave?
I don't understand…
Joyful and clear
Tomorrow will be morning.
This life is beautiful
Heart, be wise.
You're completely tired
Beat slower, slower...
You know, I read
That souls are immortal.
1911
No, and not under an alien sky,
And not under the protection of alien wings,
I was then with my people,
Where my people, unfortunately, were.
Instead of a preface
During the terrible years of the Yezhovshchina, I spent seventeen months in prison lines in Leningrad. One day someone “identified” me. Then the woman standing behind me, who, of course, had never heard my name, woke up from the stupor that is characteristic of us all and asked me in my ear (everyone there spoke in a whisper):
Can you describe this?
And I said:
Then something like a smile crossed what had once been her face.
Dedication
Mountains bend before this grief,
The great river does not flow
But the prison gates are strong,
And behind them are “convict holes”
And mortal melancholy.
For someone the wind is blowing fresh,
For some, basking in the sunset
We don't know, we're the same everywhere
We only hear the hateful grinding of keys
Yes, the soldiers' steps are heavy.
They rose as if to early mass,
They walked through the wild capital,
There we met, more lifeless dead,
The sun is lower and the Neva is foggy,
And hope still sings in the distance.
The verdict... And immediately tears will flow,
Already separated from everyone,
As if with pain the life was taken out of the heart,
As if rudely knocked over,
But she walks... She staggers... Alone...
Where are the involuntary friends now?
My two crazy years?
What do they imagine in the Siberian blizzard?
What do they see in the lunar circle?
To them I send my farewell greetings.
March, 1940
Introduction
It was when I smiled
Only dead, glad for the peace.
And swayed with an unnecessary pendant
Leningrad is near its prisons.
And when, maddened by torment,
The already condemned regiments were marching,
And a short song of parting
The locomotive whistles sang,
Death stars stood above us
And innocent Rus' writhed
Under bloody boots
And under the black tires there is marusa.
1
They took you away at dawn
I followed you, as if on a takeaway,
Children were crying in the dark room,
The goddess's candle floated.
There are cold icons on your lips.
The mortal sweat on your brow cannot be forgotten.
I will be like the Streltsy wives,
Howl under the Kremlin towers.
[November]1935, Moscow
2
The quiet Don flows quietly,
The yellow moon enters the house.
He walks in with his hat on one side,
Sees the yellow moon shadow.
This woman is sick
This woman is alone
Husband in the grave, son in prison,
Pray for me.
1938
3
No, it's not me, it's someone else who is suffering.
I couldn't do that, but what happened
Let the black cloth cover
And let the lanterns be taken away...
1939
4
I should show you, mocker
And the favorite of all friends,
To the cheerful sinner of Tsarskoye Selo,
What will happen to your life -
Like a three hundredth, with transmission,
You will stand under the Crosses
And with my hot tears
Burn through New Year's ice.
There the prison poplar is swaying,
And not a sound - but how much is there
Innocent lives are ending...
1938
5
I've been screaming for seventeen months,
I'm calling you home.
I threw myself at the feet of the executioner,
You are my son and my horror.
Everything's messed up forever
And I can't make it out
Now, who is the beast, who is the man,
And how long will it be to wait for execution?
And only dusty flowers
And the censer ringing, and the traces
Somewhere to nowhere.
And he looks straight into my eyes
And it threatens with imminent death
A huge star.
1939
6
Lungs fly for weeks,
I don’t understand what happened.
How do you like going to jail, son?
The white nights looked
How they look again
With the hot eye of a hawk,
About your high cross
And they talk about death.
Spring 1939
7
Sentence
And the stone word fell
On my still living chest.
It's okay, because I was ready
I'll deal with this somehow.
I have a lot to do today:
We must completely kill our memory,
It is necessary for the soul to turn to stone,
We must learn to live again.
Otherwise... The hot rustle of summer,
It's like a holiday outside my window.
I've been anticipating this for a long time
Bright day and empty house.
8
To death
You will come anyway - why not now?
I'm waiting for you - it's very difficult for me.
I turned off the light and opened the door
To you, so simple and wonderful.
Take any form for this,
Burst with a poisoned shell
Or sneak up with a weight like an experienced bandit,
Or poison with typhus child.
Or a fairy tale invented by you
And sickeningly familiar to everyone,
So that I can see the top of the blue hat
And the building manager, pale with fear.
I don't care now. The Yenisei swirls,
The North Star is shining.
And the blue sparkle of beloved eyes
The final horror is overshadowing.
9
Madness is already on the wing
Half of my soul was covered,
And drinks fiery wine
And beckons to the black valley.
And I realized that he
I must concede victory
Listening to your
Already like someone else's delirium.
And won't allow anything
I should take it with me
(No matter how you beg him
And no matter how you bother me with prayer):
Nor the son's terrible eyes -
Petrified suffering
Not the day when the thunderstorm came,
Not an hour of prison visiting,
Not the sweet coolness of your hands,
Not a single linden shadow,
Not a distant light sound -
Words of last consolation.
10
Crucifixion
Don’t cry for Me, Mother, who sees in the tomb.
I
The choir of angels praised the great hour,
And the skies melted in fire.
He said to his father: “Why did you leave me!”
And to the mother: “Oh, don’t cry for Me...”
1938
II
Magdalene fought and cried,
The beloved student turned to stone,
And where Mother stood silently,
So no one dared to look.
1940, Fountain House
Epilogue
I
I learned how faces fall,
How fear peeks out from under your eyelids,
Like cuneiform hard pages
Suffering appears on the cheeks,
Like curls of ashen and black
They suddenly become silver,
The smile fades on the lips of the submissive,
And fear trembles in the dry laugh.
And I’m not praying for myself alone,
And about everyone who stood there with me,
And in the bitter cold and in the July heat
Under the blinding red wall.
II
Once again the funeral hour approached.
I see, I hear, I feel you:
And the one that was barely brought to the window,
And the one that does not trample the earth for the dear one,
And the one who, shaking her beautiful head,
She said: “Coming here is like coming home.”
I would like to call everyone by name,
Yes, the list was taken away, and there is no place to find out.
For them I wove a wide cover
From the poor, they have overheard words.
I remember them always and everywhere,
I won’t forget about them even in a new trouble,
And if they shut my exhausted mouth,
To which a hundred million people shout,
May they remember me in the same way
On the eve of my memorial day.
And if ever in this country
They are planning to erect a monument to me,
I give my consent to this triumph,
But only with the condition - do not put it
Not near the sea where I was born:
The last connection with the sea is severed,
Not in the royal garden near the treasured stump,
Where the inconsolable shadow is looking for me,
Then, even in the blessed death I am afraid
Forget the rumble of the black marus,
Forget how hateful the door slammed
And the old woman howled like a wounded animal.
And let from the still and bronze ages
Melted snow flows like tears,
And let the prison dove drone in the distance,
And the ships sail quietly along the Neva.
1935–1940
Do you want to know how it all happened? -
It struck three in the dining room,
And, saying goodbye, holding the railing,
She seemed to have difficulty speaking:
"That's all... Oh no, I forgot,
I love you, I loved you
Back then!"
1911
Thought armed with rhymes. ed.2e. Poetic anthology on the history of Russian verse. Compiled by V. E. Kholshevnikov. Leningrad, Leningrad University Publishing House, 1967.
The evening light is wide and yellow,
The April cool is gentle.
You're many years late
But still, I'm glad to see you.
Sit here closer to me,
Look with cheerful eyes:
This blue notebook -
With my children's poems.
I'm sorry that I lived in sorrow
And I was little happy about the sun.
Sorry, sorry, what about you
I accepted too many.
Poetry of the Silver Age. Moscow, "Fiction", 1991.
When in the anguish of suicide
The people were waiting for the German guests,
And the harsh spirit of Byzantium
Flew away from the Russian church,
When the Neva capital,
Forgetting my greatness,
Like a drunken harlot
He said: "Come here,
Leave your land, deaf and sinful,
Leave Russia forever.
I will wash the blood from your hands,
I will take the black shame out of my heart,
I'll cover it with a new name
The pain of defeat and resentment."
But indifferent and calm
I covered my ears with my hands,
So that with this speech unworthy
The mournful spirit was not defiled.
Autumn 1917, St. Petersburg
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, "Citadel", 1996.
Hello! You hear a slight rustling
To the right of the table?
You can’t finish writing these lines -
I came to you.
Will you really offend
Just like last time -
You say you can't see your hands,
My hands and eyes.
Yours is light and simple.
Don't send me there
Where under the stuffy arch of the bridge
Dirty water gets cold.
October 1913, Tsarskoe Selo
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, "Citadel", 1996.
COURAGE
We know what's on the scales now
And what is happening now.
The hour of courage has struck on our watch,
And courage will not leave us.
It's not scary to lie dead under bullets,
It's not bitter to be homeless,
And we will save you, Russian speech,
Great Russian word.
We will carry you free and clean,
We will give it to our grandchildren and save us from captivity
Holy war. Poems about the Great Patriotic War. Moscow, "Fiction", 1966.
Heart to heart is not chained,
If you want, leave.
Much happiness is in store
To those who are free on the way.
I don't cry, I don't complain
I won't be happy.
Don't kiss me, tired, -
Death will have to be kissed.
The days of acute yearning are over
Together with the white winter.
Why, why are you
Better than my chosen one?
1911
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
READING HAMLET
1.
Near the cemetery to the right, a wasteland was dusty,
And behind him the river turned blue.
You told me: "Well, go to the monastery
Or marry a fool..."
Princes always say this
But I remembered this speech,
Let it flow for a hundred centuries in a row
Ermine robe from the shoulders.
2.
And as if by mistake
I said: "You..."
The shadow of a smile lit up
Cute features.
From such reservations
Every eye will flash...
I love you like forty
Affectionate sisters.
1909
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, "Citadel", 1996.
I stopped smiling
The frosty wind chills your lips,
There is one less hope,
There will be one more song.
And this song I involuntarily
I'll give it to laughter and reproach,
Then it hurts unbearably
A loving silence for the soul.
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
I accompanied my friend to the front hall,
Stood in the golden dust
From the nearby bell tower
Important sounds flowed.
Abandoned! Made up word
Am I a flower or a letter?
And the eyes are already looking sternly
Into the darkened dressing table.
Wonderful Moment. Love lyrics of Russian poets. Moscow, "Fiction", 1988.
The memory of the sun in the heart weakens,
The grass is yellower,
The wind blows early snowflakes
Just barely.
The willow tree spread out like a bush in the sky
The fan is through.
Maybe it's better that I didn't
Your wife.
The memory of the sun in the heart weakens.
What is this? Darkness?
May be!
Winter will have time to come overnight.
1911
Russian and Soviet poetry for foreign students. A. K. Demidova, I. A. Rudakova. Moscow, publishing house "Higher School", 1969.
You won't be alive
You can't get up from the snow.
Twenty-eight bayonets,
Five gunshots.
Bitter update
I sewed for a friend.
Loves, loves blood
Russian land.
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, "Citadel", 1996.
SPELL
From the high gates
From the Zaohten swamps,
The path less traveled
Unmown meadow,
Through the night cordon,
To the Easter bell,
Uninvited,
Unmarried, -
Come to my place for dinner.
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
There is a cherished quality in the closeness of people,
She cannot be overcome by love and passion, -
Let the lips merge in eerie silence
And the heart is torn to pieces by love.
Those who strive for her are mad, and her
Those who have achieved are struck with melancholy...
Now you understand why my
The heart does not beat under your hand.
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, "Citadel", 1996.
Every day is a new worry,
The smell of ripe rye is getting stronger.
If you are laid at my feet,
Affectionate, lie down.
Orioles scream in the wide maples,
Nothing can calm them down until nightfall.
I love your green eyes
Drive away the merry wasps.
On the road the bell began to jingle -
We remember this light sound.
I'll sing to you so you don't cry,
A song about an evening of separation.
1913
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, "Citadel", 1996.
Everything is as before: through the dining room windows
Fine blizzard snow is beating,
And I myself have not become new,
And a man came to me.
I asked: "What do you want?"
He said: "To be with you in hell."
I laughed: “Oh, you prophesy
We'll both probably get into trouble."
But, raising a dry hand,
He lightly touched the flowers:
"Tell me how they kiss you,
Tell me how you kiss."
And eyes that looked dimly,
Didn't take it off my ring.
Not a single muscle moved
Enlightened evil face.
Oh, I know: his joy
It's intense and passionate to know
That he doesn't need anything
That I have nothing to refuse him.
Because somewhere there is simple life and light,
Transparent, warm and cheerful...
There's a neighbor with a girl over the fence
In the evening he speaks, and only the bees hear
The most tender of all conversations.
And we live solemnly and difficultly
And we honor the rituals of our bitter meetings,
When the wind is reckless
The speech that had just started is interrupted.
But we wouldn’t exchange the magnificent
Granite city of glory and misfortune,
Wide rivers shining ice,
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, "Citadel", 1996.
And the boy who plays the bagpipes
And the girl who weaves her own wreath,
And two crossed paths in the forest,
And in the far field there is a distant light, -
I see everything. I remember everything
I cherish it lovingly and meekly in my heart.
There's only one thing I never know
And I can’t even remember anymore.
I'm not asking for wisdom or strength.
Oh, just let me warm myself by the fire!
I'm cold... Winged or wingless,
The merry god will not visit me.
1911
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
Music rang in the garden
Such unspeakable grief.
Fresh and sharp smell of the sea
Oysters on ice on a platter.
He told me: “I am a true friend!”
And he touched my dress.
So different from hugs
The touch of these hands.
This is how they pet cats or birds,
This is how slender riders are looked at...
Only laughter in his calm eyes
Under the light gold of eyelashes.
They sing behind the creeping smoke:
"Bless the heavens -
You are alone with your loved one for the first time."
1913
Russian poets. Anthology in four volumes. Moscow, "Children's Literature", 1968.
I asked the cuckoo
How many years will I live...
The tops of the pines trembled.
A yellow beam fell into the grass.
But not a sound in the thicket of fresh...
I'm going home
And the cool wind is undead
My forehead is hot.
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, "Citadel", 1996.
One goes straight
The other goes in a circle
And is waiting to return to his father's house,
Waiting for an old girlfriend.
And I go - trouble follows me,
Not straight and not oblique,
And to nowhere and never,
Like trains falling off a slope.
1940
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
And now you are heavy and sad,
Renounced glory and dreams,
But for me irreparably dear,
And the darker, the more touching you are.
You drink wine, your nights are unclean,
What's in reality, you don't know what's in a dream,
But the tormenting eyes are green, -
Apparently, he did not find peace in wine.
And the heart only asks for a quick death,
Cursing the slowness of fate.
More and more often the western wind brings
Your reproaches and your pleas.
But do I dare to return to you?
Under the pale sky of my homeland
I only know how to sing and remember,
And don’t you dare remember me.
So the days go by, multiplying sorrows.
How can I pray to the Lord for you?
You guessed it: my love is like this
That even you couldn't kill her.
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, "Citadel", 1996.
You can't confuse real tenderness
With nothing, and she is quiet.
You are in vain carefully wrapping
My shoulders and chest are covered in fur.
And in vain are the words submissive
You talk about first love
How do I know these stubborn
Your unsatisfied glances!
1913
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
When I wait for her to come at night,
Life seems to hang by a thread.
What honors, what youth, what freedom
In front of a lovely guest with a pipe in her hand.
And then she came in. Throwing back the covers,
She looked at me carefully.
I tell her: “Did you dictate to Dante?
Pages of Hell?" Answers: "Me!"
1924
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
And you thought I was like that too
That you can forget me
And that I will throw myself, begging and sobbing,
Under the hooves of a bay horse.
Or I’ll ask the healers
There's a root in the slander water
And I'll send you a strange gift -
My treasured fragrant scarf.
Damn you. Not a groan, not a glance
I will not touch the damned soul,
But I swear to you by the garden of angels,
I swear by the miraculous icon,
And our nights are a fiery child -
I will never return to you.
July 1921, Tsarskoe Selo
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, "Citadel", 1996.
HE LOVED...
He loved three things in the world:
Behind the evening singing, white peacocks
And erased maps of America.
I didn't like it when children cried
Didn't like raspberry tea
And female hysteria
...And I was his wife.
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, 1000 "Citadel", 1996.
The darkest days of the year
They must become light.
I can’t find words to compare -
Your lips are so tender.
Just don’t you dare raise your eyes,
Preserving my life.
They are brighter than the first violets,
And deadly for me.
I realized that there is no need for words,
Snow-covered branches are light...
The bird catcher has already spread out his nets
On the river bank.
1913, Tsarskoye Selo
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, "Citadel", 1996.
You drink my soul like a straw.
I know that its taste is bitter and intoxicating.
But I will not break the torture with prayer.
Oh, my peace lasts for many weeks.
When you finish, tell me. Not sad
That my soul is not in the world.
I'll go the short way
Watch children play.
Gooseberries bloom on the bushes,
And they are carrying bricks behind the fence.
Who are you: my brother or lover,
I don’t remember, and I don’t need to remember.
1911
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
My husband whipped me with a patterned one,
Double folded belt.
For you in the casement window
I sit with the fire all night.
It's dawning. And above the forge
Smoke rises.
Ah, with me, the sad prisoner,
You couldn't stay again.
For you I share a gloomy fate,
I took my share of the flour.
Or do you love blonde
Or is the redhead cute?
How can I hide you, loud moans!
There is a dark, stuffy hop in the heart,
And the rays fall thin
On an unrumpled bed.
Autumn 1911
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
She clasped her hands under a dark veil...
"Why are you pale today?"
Because I am tartly sad
Got him drunk.
How can I forget? He came out staggering
The mouth twisted painfully...
I ran away without touching the railing,
I ran after him to the gate.
Gasping for breath, I shouted: “It’s a joke.
Everything that was. If you leave, I'll die."
Smiled calmly and creepily
And he told me: "Don't stand in the wind"
1911
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
Wild honey smells like freedom,
Dust - a sunbeam,
Violet - a girl's mouth,
And gold is nothing.
Mignonette smells like water,
And an apple - love.
But we knew forever
That only blood smells like blood...
And in vain the governor of Rome
I washed my hands in front of all the people,
Under the ominous cries of the mob;
And the Scottish Queen
In vain from narrow palms
Was washing away the red splashes
In the stuffy darkness of the royal house...
1934, Leningrad
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, "Citadel", 1996.
If the lunar horror splashes,
The city is covered in a toxic solution.
Without the slightest hope of falling asleep
I see through the green haze
And not my childhood, and not the sea,
And not butterflies' mating flight
Above a ridge of snow-white daffodils
In that some sixteenth year...
And the round dance frozen forever
Your grave cypresses.
1928
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
That city that I have loved since childhood,
In its December silence
My squandered inheritance
Today it seemed to me.
Everything that was given into one’s hands,
What was so easy to give away:
Heartbreak, sounds of prayer
And the first song is grace -
Everything was carried away by transparent smoke,
Has decayed in the depths of the mirrors...
And now about the irrevocable
The noseless violinist began to play.
But with the curiosity of a foreigner,
Captivated by every novelty,
I watched the sled rushing,
And listened to my native language.
And wild freshness and strength
Happiness blew in my face,
Like a friend, dear from eternity,
He went up to the porch with me.
1929
Anna Akhmatova. Works in two volumes. Moscow, "Citadel", 1996.
And when they cursed each other
In white-hot passion,
Both of us still did not understand
As the earth is small for two people,
And that furious memory torments,
Torture of the strong is a fiery disease! -
And in the bottomless night the heart teaches
Asking: oh, where is the departed friend?
And when, through the waves of incense,
The choir thunders, rejoicing and threatening,
They look into the soul strictly and stubbornly
The same inevitable eyes.
1909
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
La fleur des vignes pousse
Et j"ai vingt anscesoir
Andre Theuriet The vine flower is growing and I am twenty years old tonight. Andre Terrier (French).
I pray to the window ray -
He is pale, thin, straight.
Today I have been silent since the morning,
And the heart is in half.
On my washstand
The copper has turned green.
But this is how the ray plays on him,
What fun to watch.
So innocent and simple
In the evening silence,
But this temple is empty
It's like a golden holiday
And consolation to me.
1909
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
TWO POEMS
1
The pillow is already hot
On both sides.
Here is the second candle
The cry of the crows fades away
It's becoming more and more audible.
I didn't sleep that night
It's too late to think about sleep...
How unbearably white
Curtain on a white window.
The same flaxen hair.
Everything is the same as a year ago.
Through the glass the rays of daylight
The limestone white walls are colorful...
Fresh lily scent
And your words are simple.
1909
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
FIRST RETURN
A burdensome shroud is laid on the ground,
The bells ring solemnly,
And again the spirit is confused and disturbed
The languid boredom of Tsarskoye Selo.
Five years have passed. Everything here is dead and silent,
It was as if the world had come to an end.
Like a forever exhausted topic,
The palace rests in a deathly sleep.
1910
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
Then like a snake, curled up in a ball,
He casts a spell right at the heart,
That's all day long like a dove
Coos on the white window,
It will shine in the bright frost,
It will seem like a lefty in the slumber...
But it leads faithfully and secretly
From joy and from peace.
He can cry so sweetly
In the prayer of a yearning violin,
And it’s scary to guess it
In a still unfamiliar smile.
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
IN TSARSKOYE SELO
In Tsarskoe Selo
I
Horses are led along the alley.
The waves of combed manes are long.
Oh, captivating city of mysteries,
I'm sad, having loved you.
It’s strange to remember: my soul was yearning,
She was suffocating in her death delirium.
And now I've become a toy,
Like my pink cockatoo friend.
The chest is not compressed in anticipation of pain,
If you want, look into the eyes.
I just don’t like the hour before sunset,
The wind from the sea and the word “go away.”
II
...And there is my marble double,
Prostrate under the old maple tree,
He gave his face to the lake waters,
He listens to green rustling sounds.
And the light rains wash
His dried wound...
Cold, white, wait,
I, too, will become marble.
1911
III
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
High in the sky the cloud turned gray,
Like a squirrel skin spread out.
He told me: "It's not a pity that your body
It will melt in March, fragile Snow Maiden!
My hands were cold in my fluffy muff.
I felt scared, I felt somehow vague.
Oh how to get you back, quick weeks
His love, airy and momentary!
I don't want bitterness or revenge,
Let me die with the last white blizzard.
I wondered about him on the eve of baptism.
I was his girlfriend in January.
1911
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
I live like a cuckoo in a clock
I don't envy the birds in the forests.
They’ll start it up and I’ll cuckoo.
You know, such a share
Only to the enemy
I can wish.
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
I'm having fun with you when I'm drunk -
There is no point in your stories.
Early autumn hung
Yellow flags on elms.
Both of us are in a deceitful country
We wandered and bitterly repent,
But why a strange smile
And we smile frozen?
We wanted stinging torment
Instead of serene happiness...
I won't leave my friend
And dissolute and tender.
1911, Paris
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
SONG OF THE LAST MEETING
My chest was so helplessly cold,
But my steps were light.
I put it on my right hand
Glove from the left hand.
It seemed like there were a lot of steps,
And I knew - there are only three of them!
Autumn whispers between the maples
He asked: “Die with me!
I'm deceived by my sadness
Changeable, evil fate."
I answered: “Dear, dear -
Me too. I'll die with you!"
1911
Anna Akhmatova. Time running. Poems. Minsk, "Mastatskaya Literature", 1983.
When a person dies
His portraits change.
The eyes look differently and the lips
They smile with a different smile.
I noticed this when I returned
From the funeral of a poet.
And since then I checked often,
And my guess was confirmed.
1940
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
You smoke a black pipe
The smoke above it is so strange.
I put on a tight skirt
To appear even slimmer.
The windows are forever blocked:
What's there, frost or thunderstorm?
On the eyes of a cautious cat
Your eyes are similar.
Oh, how my heart yearns!
Am I waiting for the hour of death?
And the one who is dancing now,
Will definitely be in hell.
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
You know I'm languishing in captivity
I pray for the death of the Lord,
But I remember everything painfully
Tver meager land.
Crane at an old well
Above him, like boiling clouds,
There are creaky gates in the fields,
And the smell of bread, and melancholy.
And judgmental glances
Calm tanned women.
1913
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
There is a row of small rosary on the neck,
I hide my hands in a wide muff,
Eyes look distracted
And they never cry again.
And the face seems paler
From lilac silk,
Almost reaches the eyebrows
My uncurled bangs.
And it doesn't look like flying
This gait is slow,
It's like a raft under your feet,
Not squares of parquet.
And the pale mouth is slightly unclenched,
Unevenly difficult breathing
And they tremble on my chest
Flowers of an unforgettable date.
1913
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
Lanterns lit early
The hanging balls are grinding,
Everything is more festive, everything is brighter
Snowflakes sparkle as they fly by.
And, accelerating evenly,
As if in anticipation of a chase,
Through the softly falling snow
Horses are racing under a blue net.
And a gilded guide
Stands motionless behind the sleigh,
And the king looks around strangely
Empty bright eyes.
Winter 1919
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
Natalia Rykova
Everything was stolen, betrayed, sold,
The wing of the black death flashed,
Everything is devoured by hungry melancholy,
Why did we feel light?
During the day the breath of cherry blossoms blows
An unprecedented forest under the city,
At night it shines with new constellations
The depth of the transparent July skies, -
And the wonderful comes so close
To the collapsed dirty houses...
Unknown to anyone,
But what we have desired since the ages.
1921
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
Cast iron fence,
Pine bed.
How sweet it is that you don't need it
I'm more jealous.
They will make this bed for me
With weeping and pleading;
Now walk around the world
Wherever you want, God is with you!
Now your hearing doesn't hurt
frantic speech
Now no one will
Burn the candle until the morning.
We have achieved peace
And immaculate days...
You cry - I'm not standing
One of your tears.
1921
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
And slander accompanied me everywhere.
I heard her creeping step in my dreams
And in a dead city under a merciless sky,
Wandering at random for shelter and bread.
And its reflections burn in all eyes,
Either as betrayal or as innocent fear.
I'm not afraid of her. For every challenge a new one
I have a worthy and stern answer.
But I already foresee the inevitable day, -
At dawn my friends will come to me,
And my sweetest sleep will be disturbed by sobs,
And the icon will be placed on the chest when it has cooled.
Known to no one then she will enter,
Her unquenchable mouth is in my blood
And her shameful nonsense will become clear to everyone,
So that the neighbor cannot raise his eyes to his neighbor,
So that my body remains in the terrible emptiness,
So that for the last time my soul burns
With earthly helplessness, flying in the dawn darkness,
And wild pity for the abandoned land.
1922
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
I'm not with those who abandoned the earth
To be torn to pieces by enemies.
I don't listen to their rude flattery,
I won’t give them my songs.
But I always feel sorry for the exile,
Like a prisoner, like a patient.
Your road is dark, wanderer,
Someone else's bread smells like wormwood.
And we know that in the late assessment
Every hour will be justified...
But there are no more tearless people in the world,
More arrogant and simpler than us.
July 1922, St. Petersburg
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
POET The poem is dedicated to B. Pasternak.
He, who compared himself to a horse's eye,
Squints, looks, sees, recognizes,
And now a molten diamond
The puddles shine, the ice languishes.
The backyards rest in the purple darkness,
Platforms, logs, leaves, clouds.
The whistle of a steam locomotive, the crunch of a watermelon rind,
There is a timid hand in the fragrant husky.
Rings, rattles, grinds, hits the surf
And suddenly he becomes quiet, which means he
Shyly makes its way through the pine needles,
So as not to frighten off the space of a light sleeper.
And that means he's counting grains
In empty ears, this means he
To the Daryal slab, cursed and black,
Came back from some funeral again.
And again the Moscow languor burns,
The death bell is ringing in the distance...
Who got lost two steps from home,
Where is the snow up to your waist and that’s the end of everything?
For comparing the smoke to Laocoon,
The cemetery thistle sang,
For filling the world with new ringing
In the space of new reflected stanzas, -
He was awarded some kind of eternal childhood,
With that generosity and vigilance of the luminary,
And all the earth was his inheritance,
And he shared it with everyone.
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
For such a buffoon,
Frankly speaking,
I need a lead pea
I should wait from the secretary.
1930s
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
1930s
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
Streletskaya moon, Zamoskvorechye, night.
The hours of Holy Week pass like a religious procession.
I'm having a terrible dream - is it really...
Nobody, nobody, nobody can help me?
There is no need to live in the Kremlin - Preobrazhenets is right
There are still microbes teeming with ancient fury:
Boris's wild fear, and all Ivanov's anger,
And the Pretender's arrogance - in exchange for people's rights.
1940
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
I know I can't move
Under the weight of Viev's eyelids.
Oh, if only I could suddenly lean back
Sometime in the seventeenth century.
With a fragrant birch branch
To stand at Trinity in church,
With noblewoman Morozova
Drink some sweet honey.
And then on the firewood at dusk
Drowning in dung snow...
What a crazy Surikov
My last one will write the way?
1939 (?)
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
LATE REPLY
M. I. Tsvetaeva
My little white-handed, warlock...
The invisible man, the double, the mockingbird,
Why are you hiding in the black bushes?
You'll end up huddled in a holey birdhouse,
Then you will flash on the dead crosses,
Then you shout from the Marinka Tower:
"I returned home today.
Admire, dear arable lands,
What happened to me?
The abyss swallowed up my loved ones,
And my parents' house was destroyed."
We are with you today, Marina,
We walk through the capital at midnight,
And behind us there are millions of them,
And there is no more silent procession,
And all around there are death knells
Yes Moscow wild moans
Blizzards, our trail.
March 1940
Stanzas of the century. Anthology of Russian poetry. Comp. E. Yevtushenko. Minsk-Moscow, "Polifact", 1995.
The leper prayed.
V. Bryusov
What I do, anyone can do.
I didn’t drown in the ice, I didn’t languish with thirst,
And with a handful of brave men he did not take the Finnish pillbox,
And no steamship could save us in a storm.
Go to bed, get up, eat a miserable lunch,
And even sit on a stone by the road,
And even after meeting a shooting star
Or the familiar ridge of gray clouds,
It’s so hard for them to smile all of a sudden.
All the more amazed at my wonderful fate
And, getting used to it, I can’t get used to it,
Like a persistent and vigilant enemy...
And Nna Akhmatova wrote about herself that she was born in the same year as Charlie Chaplin, Tolstoy’s “Kreutzer Sonata” and the Eiffel Tower. She witnessed the change of eras - she survived two world wars, a revolution and the siege of Leningrad. Akhmatova wrote her first poem at the age of 11 - from then until the end of her life she did not stop writing poetry.
Literary name - Anna Akhmatova
Anna Akhmatova was born in 1889 near Odessa into the family of a hereditary nobleman, retired naval mechanical engineer Andrei Gorenko. The father was afraid that his daughter’s poetic hobbies would disgrace his name, so at a young age the future poetess took a creative pseudonym - Akhmatova.
“They named me Anna in honor of my grandmother Anna Egorovna Motovilova. Her mother was a Chingizid, the Tatar princess Akhmatova, whose surname, not realizing that I was going to be a Russian poet, I made my literary name.”
Anna Akhmatova
Anna Akhmatova spent her childhood in Tsarskoe Selo. As the poetess recalled, she learned to read from Leo Tolstoy’s “ABC,” and began speaking French while listening to the teacher teach her older sisters. The young poetess wrote her first poem at the age of 11.
Anna Akhmatova in childhood. Photo: maskball.ru
Anna Akhmatova. Photos: maskball.ru
Gorenko family: Inna Erasmovna and children Victor, Andrey, Anna, Iya. Photo: maskball.ru
Akhmatova studied at the Tsarskoye Selo Women's Gymnasium “at first it’s bad, then it’s much better, but always reluctantly”. In 1905 she was home-schooled. The family lived in Yevpatoria - Anna Akhmatova’s mother separated from her husband and went to the southern coast to treat tuberculosis that had worsened in children. In the following years, the girl moved to relatives in Kyiv - there she graduated from the Fundukleevsky gymnasium, and then enrolled in the law department of the Higher Women's Courses.
In Kyiv, Anna began to correspond with Nikolai Gumilev, who courted her back in Tsarskoe Selo. At this time, the poet was in France and published the Parisian Russian weekly Sirius. In 1907, Akhmatova’s first published poem, “On His Hand There Are Many Shining Rings...”, appeared on the pages of Sirius. In April 1910, Anna Akhmatova and Nikolai Gumilev got married - near Kiev, in the village of Nikolskaya Slobodka.
As Akhmatova wrote, “No other generation has had such a fate”. In the 30s, Nikolai Punin was arrested, Lev Gumilyov was arrested twice. In 1938, he was sentenced to five years in forced labor camps. About the feelings of the wives and mothers of “enemies of the people” - victims of repressions of the 1930s - Akhmatova later wrote one of her famous works - the autobiographical poem “Requiem”.
In 1939, the poetess was accepted into the Union of Soviet Writers. Before the war, Akhmatova’s sixth collection, “From Six Books,” was published. “The Patriotic War of 1941 found me in Leningrad”, - the poetess wrote in her memoirs. Akhmatova was evacuated first to Moscow, then to Tashkent - there she spoke in hospitals, read poetry to wounded soldiers and “greedily caught news about Leningrad, about the front.” The poetess was able to return to the Northern capital only in 1944.
“The terrible ghost pretending to be my city amazed me so much that I described this meeting of mine with him in prose... Prose has always seemed to me both a mystery and a temptation. From the very beginning I knew everything about poetry - I never knew anything about prose.”
Anna Akhmatova
"Decadent" and Nobel Prize nominee
In 1946, a special resolution was issued by the organizing bureau of the Central Committee of the All-Union Communist Party of Bolsheviks “On the magazines “Zvezda” and “Leningrad” - for “providing a literary platform” for “unprincipled, ideologically harmful works.” It concerned two Soviet writers - Anna Akhmatova and Mikhail Zoshchenko. They were both expelled from the Writers' Union.
Kuzma Petrov-Vodkin. Portrait of A.A. Akhmatova. 1922. State Russian Museum
Natalia Tretyakova. Akhmatova and Modigliani at an unfinished portrait
Rinat Kuramshin. Portrait of Anna Akhmatova
“Zoshchenko portrays the Soviet order and Soviet people in an ugly caricature, slanderously presenting Soviet people as primitive, uncultured, stupid, with philistine tastes and morals. Zoshchenko’s maliciously hooligan portrayal of our reality is accompanied by anti-Soviet attacks.
<...>
Akhmatova is a typical representative of empty, unprincipled poetry, alien to our people. Her poems, imbued with the spirit of pessimism and decadence, expressing the tastes of the old salon poetry, frozen in the positions of bourgeois-aristocratic aesthetics and decadence, “art for art’s sake,” which does not want to keep pace with its people, harm the education of our youth and cannot be tolerated in Soviet literature".Excerpt from the Resolution of the Organizing Bureau of the Central Committee of the All-Union Communist Party of Bolsheviks “On the magazines “Zvezda” and “Leningrad”
Lev Gumilyov, who after serving his sentence volunteered to go to the front and reached Berlin, was again arrested and sentenced to ten years in forced labor camps. All his years of imprisonment, Akhmatova tried to achieve the release of her son, but Lev Gumilyov was released only in 1956.
In 1951, the poetess was reinstated in the Writers' Union. Having never had her own home, in 1955 Akhmatova received a country house in the village of Komarovo from the Literary Fund.
“I didn’t stop writing poetry. For me, they represent my connection with time, with the new life of my people. When I wrote them, I lived by the rhythms that sounded in the heroic history of my country. I am happy that I lived during these years and saw events that had no equal.”
Anna Akhmatova
In 1962, the poetess completed work on “Poem without a Hero,” which she wrote over 22 years. As the poet and memoirist Anatoly Naiman noted, “Poem without a Hero” was written by the late Akhmatova about the early Akhmatova - she recalled and reflected on the era she found.
In the 1960s, Akhmatova's work received wide recognition - the poetess became a Nobel Prize nominee and received the Etna-Taormina literary prize in Italy. Oxford University awarded Akhmatova an honorary doctorate of literature. In May 1964, an evening dedicated to the 75th anniversary of the poetess was held at the Mayakovsky Museum in Moscow. The following year, the last lifetime collection of poems and poems, “The Running of Time,” was published.
The illness forced Anna Akhmatova to move to a cardiological sanatorium near Moscow in February 1966. She passed away in March. The poetess was buried in the St. Nicholas Naval Cathedral in Leningrad and buried at the Komarovskoye cemetery.
Slavic professor Nikita Struve
And you thought I was like that too
That you can forget me
And that I will throw myself, begging and sobbing,
Under the hooves of a bay horse.
Or I’ll ask the healers
There's a root in the slander water
And I'll send you a strange gift -
My treasured fragrant scarf.
Damn you. Not a groan, not a glance
I will not touch the damned soul,
But I swear to you by the garden of angels,
I swear by the miraculous icon,
And our nights are a fiery child -
I will never return to you.
July 1921, Tsarskoe Selo
Twenty-one. Night. Monday.
The outlines of the capital in the darkness.
Composed by some slacker,
What love happens on earth.
And from laziness or boredom
Everyone believed, and so they live:
Looking forward to dates, afraid of separation
And they sing love songs.
But to others the secret is revealed,
And silence will rest on them...
I came across this by accident
And since then everything seems to be sick.
She clasped her hands under a dark veil...
She clasped her hands under a dark veil...
“Why are you pale today?” —
Because I am tartly sad
Got him drunk.
How can I forget? He came out staggering
The mouth twisted painfully...
I ran away without touching the railing,
I ran after him to the gate.
Gasping for breath, I shouted: “It’s a joke.
Everything that was. If you leave, I’ll die.”
Smiled calmly and creepily
And he told me: “Don’t stand in the wind.”
It was stuffy...
It was stuffy from the burning light,
And his glances are like rays.
I just shuddered: this
Might tame me.
He leaned over - he would say something...
The blood drained from his face.
Let it lie like a tombstone
On my life love.
Don't like it, don't want to watch?
Oh, how beautiful you are, damn you!
And I can't fly
And since childhood I was winged.
My eyes are filled with fog,
Things and faces merge,
And only a red tulip,
The tulip is in your buttonhole.
As simple courtesy dictates,
He came up to me, smiled,
Half-affectionate, half-lazy
Touched my hand with a kiss -
And mysterious, ancient faces
Eyes looked at me...
Ten years of freezing and screaming,
All my sleepless nights
I put it in a quiet word
And she said it - in vain.
You walked away and it started again
My soul is both empty and clear.
I stopped smiling
I stopped smiling
The frosty wind chills your lips,
There is one less hope,
There will be one more song.
And this song I involuntarily
I'll give it for laughter and reproach,
Then it hurts unbearably
A loving silence for the soul.
April 1915
Tsarskoe Selo
I'm not asking for your love.
I'm not asking for your love.
She is now in a safe place...
Believe that I am Your bride
I don't write jealous letters.
And these fools need it more
Consciousness full of victory,
Than friendship is light talk
And the memory of the first tender days...
When is happiness worth pennies?
You will live with your dear friend,
And for the satiated soul
Everything will suddenly become so hateful -
On my special night
Don't come. I don't know you.
And how could I help you?
I don't heal from happiness.
In the evening
Music rang in the garden
Such unspeakable grief.
Fresh and sharp smell of the sea
Oysters on ice on a platter.
He told me: “I am a true friend!”
And he touched my dress...
How different from a hug
The touch of these hands.
This is how they pet cats or birds,
This is how slender riders are looked at...
Only laughter in his calm eyes
Under the light gold of eyelashes.
There is a cherished quality in the closeness of people
There is a cherished quality in the closeness of people,
She cannot be overcome by love and passion,—
Let the lips merge in eerie silence,
And the heart is torn to pieces by love.
And friendship is powerless here, and the years
High and fiery happiness,
When the soul is free and alien
The slow languor of voluptuousness.
Those who strive for her are mad, and her
Those who have achieved it are struck with melancholy...
Now you understand why my
The heart does not beat under your hand.
I know you are my reward
I know you are my reward
Over the years of pain and labor,
For the fact that I will give earthly joys
Never gave in
For what I didn't say
To the Beloved: “You are loved.”
Because I haven't forgiven everyone,
You will be my angel...
Song of the last meeting
My chest was so helplessly cold,
But my steps were light.
I put it on my right hand
Glove from the left hand.
It seemed like there were a lot of steps,
And I knew - there are only three of them!
Autumn whispers between the maples
He asked: “Die with me!”
I'm deceived by my sadness
Changeable, evil fate."
I answered: “Dear, dear -
Me too. I will die with you! "
This is the song of the last meeting.
I looked at the dark house.
Only candles were burning in the bedroom
Indifferent yellow fire.
Last toast
I drink to the ruined house,
For my evil life,
For loneliness together,
And I drink to you, -
For the lies of the lips that betrayed me,
For the dead cold eyes,
Because the world is cruel and rude,
For the fact that God did not save.
GUEST
Everything is the same as before. In the dining room window
Fine blizzard snow is falling.
And I myself have not become new,
And a man came to me.
I asked: “What do you want?”
He said: "To be with you in hell."
I laughed: “Oh, you prophesy
We'll probably both be in trouble."
But, raising a dry hand,
He lightly touched the flowers:
"Tell me how they kiss you,
Tell me how you kiss."
And eyes that look dimly
Didn't take it off my ring.
Not a single muscle moved
Enlightened evil face.
Oh, I know: his joy is
It's intense and passionate to know
That he doesn't need anything
That I have nothing to refuse him.
Love conquers deceitfully
Love conquers deceitfully
In a simple, unsophisticated chant.
So recently, it’s strange
You weren't gray and sad.
And when she smiled
In your gardens, in your house, in your field,
Everywhere it seemed to you
That you are free and at liberty.
You were bright, taken by her
And drank her poison.
After all, the stars were larger
After all, the herbs smelled different,
Autumn herbs.
You are always mysterious and new,
I am becoming more obedient to you every day.
But your love, oh stern friend,
Test by iron and fire.
You forbid singing and smiling,
And he forbade praying a long time ago.
If only I could not part with you,
The rest is all the same!
So, alien to earth and heaven,
I live and don't sing anymore,
It's like you're in hell and heaven
He took away my free soul.
December 1917
Everything has been taken away: both strength and love.
Everything has been taken away: both strength and love.
A body thrown into a disgraceful city
Not happy about the sun. I feel like there's blood
I'm already completely cold.
I don’t recognize the cheerful Muse’s disposition:
She looks and doesn’t say a word,
And he bows his head in a dark wreath,
Exhausted, on my chest.
And only conscience gets worse every day
He is furious: the great one wants tribute.
Covering my face, I answered her...
But there are no more tears, no more excuses.
1916. Sevastopol
I rarely think about you
I rarely think about you
And I’m not captivated by your fate,
But the mark is not erased from the soul
A small meeting with you.
I deliberately pass your red house,
Your red house is above the muddy river,
But I know that I worry bitterly
Your sun-drenched peace.
Let it not be you above my lips
Bent down, begging for love,
Let it not be you with golden verses
Immortalized my longings, -
I secretly conjure over the future,
If the evening is completely blue,
And I anticipate a second meeting,
An inevitable meeting with you.
December 9, 1913
The darkest days of the year
They must become light.
I can’t find words to compare -
Your lips are so tender.
Just don’t you dare raise your eyes,
Preserving my life.
They are brighter than the first violets,
And deadly for me.
Now, I realized that there is no need for words,
Snow-covered branches are light...
The bird catcher has already spread out his nets
On the river bank.
December 1913
Tsarskoe Selo
Like a white stone in the depths of a well
Like a white stone in the depths of a well,
One memory lies within me,
I cannot and do not want to fight:
It is torment and it is suffering.
It seems to me that whoever looks closely
He will see him in my eyes immediately.
It will become sadder and more thoughtful
Listening to the sorrowful story.
I know what the gods transformed
People into objects without killing consciousness,
So that wonderful sorrows may live forever.
You have been turned into my memory.
My beloved always has so many requests!
A woman who falls out of love has no requests...
I'm so glad there's water today
It freezes under the colorless ice.
And I will become - Christ, help me! —
On this cover, light and brittle,
And you take care of my letters,
So that our descendants can judge us.
To make it clearer and clearer
You were visible to them, wise and brave.
In your biography
Is it possible to leave spaces?
The earthly drink is too sweet,
The love networks are too dense...
May my name someday
Children read in the textbook,
And, having learned the sad story,
Let them smile slyly.
Without giving me love and peace,
Give me bitter glory.
White night
The sky is terribly white,
And the earth is like coal and granite.
Under this withered moon
Nothing will shine anymore.
Is that why I kissed you?
Is that why I suffered, loving,
So that now it’s calm and tired
Remember you with disgust?
June 7, 1914
Slepnevo
White night
Oh, I didn't lock the door,
Didn't light the candles
You don’t know how, you’re tired,
I didn't dare to lie down.
Watch the stripes fade
In the sunset darkness the pine needles,
Drunk with the sound of a voice,
Similar to yours.
And know that everything is lost
That life is a damned hell!
Oh I was sure
That you will come back.
1911
The swan wind is blowing
The swan wind is blowing,
The sky is blue in blood.
Anniversaries are coming
The first days of your love.
You broke my spell
The years floated by like water.
Why aren't you old?
And what was he like then?
The mysterious spring was still blooming,
The mysterious spring was still blooming,
A transparent wind wandered through the mountains
And the lake turned deep blue -
Church of the Baptist, not made by hands.
You were scared when we first met
And I was already praying for the second one, -
And today it’s a hot evening again...
How low the sun became over the mountain...
You are not with me, but this is not separation,
Every moment is a solemn message to me.
I know that you have such torment,
That you can't say the words.
1917
More about this summer
Excerpt
And she demanded that the bushes
Participated in delirium
I loved everyone who wasn't you
And who doesn’t come to me...
I told the clouds:
“Well, okay, okay, deal with each other.”
And the clouds - not a word,
And the rain pours again.
And in August the jasmine bloomed,
And in September - rose hips,
And I dreamed about you - alone
The culprit of all my troubles.
Autumn 1962. Komarovo
My voice is weak, but my will does not weaken
The insomniac nurse went to others,
I don't languish over gray ash,
And the tower clock has a crooked hand
The arrow doesn't seem lethal to me.
How the past loses power over the heart!
Liberation is near. I'll forgive everything
Watching the beam run up and run away
Through wet spring ivy.
He said that I have no rivals
He said that I have no rivals.
For him I am not an earthly woman,
And the winter sun is a comforting light
And the wild song of our native land.
When I die, he will not be sad,
He will not shout, distraught: “Rise up!”
But suddenly he realizes that it is impossible to live
Without the sun, the body and soul without a song.
...What now?
I'm crazy, oh strange boy
I've lost my mind, oh strange boy,
Wednesday at three o'clock!
Pricked my ring finger
A wasp ringing for me.
I accidentally pressed her
And it seemed she died
But the end of the poisoned sting
It was sharper than a spindle.
Will I cry for you, strange one,
Will your face make me smile?
Look! On the ring finger
So beautifully smooth ring.
You can't confuse real tenderness
With nothing, and she is quiet.
You are in vain carefully wrapping
My shoulders and chest are covered in fur.
And in vain are the words submissive
You talk about first love
How do I know these stubborn
Your unsatisfied glances!
LOVE
Then like a snake, curled up in a ball,
He casts a spell right at the heart,
That's all day long like a dove
Coos on the white window,
It will shine in the bright frost,
It will seem like a lefty in the slumber...
But it leads faithfully and secretly
From joy and from peace.
He can cry so sweetly
In the prayer of a yearning violin,
And it’s scary to guess it
In a still unfamiliar smile.
You are my letter, Darling, don’t crumple it.
Read it to the end, friend.
I'm tired of being a stranger
To be a stranger on Your path.
Don't look like that, don't frown angrily.
I am beloved, I am Yours.
Not a shepherdess, not a princess
And I’m no longer a nun -
In this gray, everyday dress,
In worn out heels...
But, as before the burning embrace,
The same fear in the huge eyes.
You are my letter, dear, don’t crumple it,
Don't cry about your cherished lies,
You have it in your poor knapsack
Place it at the very bottom.
You came to the sea where you saw me
You came to the sea, where you saw me,
Where, melting tenderness, I fell in love.
There are shadows of both: yours and mine,
Now they are sad, the sadness of love is hidden.
And the waves float to the shore, as then,
They will not forget us, they will never forget.
And the boat floats, despising the centuries,
Where the river enters the bay.
And there is no end to this and there will never be an end,
Like running to the eternal sun-messenger.
1906
A! it's you again. Not a boy in love,
But a bold, stern, unyielding husband
You entered this house and looked at me.
The silence before the storm is terrible to my soul.
You ask what I did to you
Entrusted to me forever by love and fate.
I betrayed you. And repeat this -
Oh, if you could ever get tired!
So the dead man speaks, disturbing the murderer's sleep,
So the angel of death waits at the fatal bed.
Forgive me now. The Lord taught me to forgive.
My flesh languishes in sorrowful illness,
And the free spirit will already rest peacefully.
I remember only the garden, through, autumn, tender,
And the cries of cranes, and black fields...
Oh, how sweet the earth was to me with you!
1916
I called for death dear
I called death to my dear ones,
And they died one after another.
Oh, woe is me! These graves
Foretold by my word.
How the crows circle, sensing
Hot, fresh blood,
So wild songs, rejoicing,
Mine sent love.
With you I feel sweet and sultry,
You are close, like a heart in my chest.
Give me your hand, listen calmly.
I implore you: go away.
And let me not know where you are,
Oh Muse, don't call him,
Let it be alive, not sung
Not recognizing my love.
1921
High vaults of the church
High vaults of the church
Bluer than the firmament...
Forgive me, cheerful boy,
That I brought you death -
For roses from the round platform,
For your stupid letters,
Because, daring and dark,
He turned dull with love.
I thought: you deliberately -
How do you want to be an adult?
I thought: dark vicious
You can't love like brides.
But everything turned out to be in vain.
When the cold came,
You were already watching dispassionately
Follow me everywhere and always,
As if he was saving up signs
My dislike. Sorry!
Why did you take vows
The path of suffering?
And death stretched out its hands to you...
Tell me what happened next?
I didn't know how fragile the throat is
Under the blue collar.
Forgive me, cheerful boy,
My tortured little owl!
Today I'm leaving the church
It's so hard to go home.
November 1913
Why are you wandering, restless...
Why are you wandering, restless,
Why are you not breathing?
That's right, I got it: it's tightly welded
One soul for two.
You will be, you will be consoled by me,
Like no one ever dreamed of.
And if you offend with a mad word -
It will hurt yourself.
December 1921
Come see me
Come see me.
Come. I'm alive. I'm in pain.
No one can warm these hands,
These lips said: “Enough!”
Every evening they bring it to the window
My chair. I see roads.
Oh, am I reproaching you?
For the last bitterness of anxiety!
I'm not afraid of anything on earth,
Turning pale in heavy breaths.
Only the nights are scary because
That I see your eyes in a dream.
And now you are heavy and sad (my love)
And now you are heavy and sad,
Renounced glory and dreams,
But for me irreparably dear,
And the darker, the more touching you are.
You drink wine, your nights are unclean,
What's in reality, you don't know what's in a dream,
But the tormenting eyes are green, -
Apparently, he did not find peace in wine.
And the heart only asks for a quick death,
Cursing the slowness of fate.
More and more often the western wind brings
Your reproaches and your pleas.
But do I dare to return to you?
Under the pale sky of my homeland
I only know how to sing and remember,
And don’t you dare remember me.
So the days go by, multiplying sorrows.
How can I pray to the Lord for you?
You guessed it: my love is like this
That even you couldn't kill her.
Oh life without tomorrow
Oh, life without tomorrow!
I catch betrayal in every word,
And waning love
A star is rising for me.
Fly away so unnoticed
Almost unrecognizable when meeting,
But it's night again. And again the shoulders
In wet languor to kiss.
I wasn't nice to you
You hate me. And the torture lasted
And how the criminal languished
Love full of evil.
It's like a brother. You are silent, angry.
But if we meet eyes -
I swear to you by heaven,
Granite will melt in the fire.
Let's not drink from the same glass
Neither water nor sweet wine,
We won't kiss early in the morning,
And in the evening we won’t look out the window.
You breathe the sun, I breathe the moon,
But we live by love alone.
My faithful, gentle friend is always with me,
Your cheerful friend is with you.
But I understand the fear of the gray eyes,
And you are the culprit of my illness.
We do not keep meetings short.
This is how we are destined to preserve our peace.
Only your voice sings in my poems,
My breath blows in your poems.
Oh there is a fire that dare not
Touch neither oblivion nor fear.
And if you knew how much I love you now
Your dry, pink lips!
I want to talk about Anna Akhmatova, my favorite Russian poetess.
The poetry of this amazing person hypnotizes with its simplicity and freedom. Akhmatova’s works will not leave anyone indifferent who has ever heard or read them.
Akhmatova's skill was recognized almost immediately after the release of her first poetry collection, Evening. And “The Rosary,” released two years after this, further confirmed the poetess’s extraordinary talent.
A. Akhmatova in her poems appears in an endless variety of women's destinies: lovers and wives, widows and mothers, cheating and abandoned. Akhmatova's works represent a complex story of female character in a difficult era.
It was in 1921, at a dramatic time in her and public life, that Akhmatova was able to write lines that were striking in power:
Everything was stolen, betrayed, sold,
The wing of the black death flashed,
Everything is devoured by hungry melancholy,
Why did we feel light?
Akhmatova’s poetry contains both revolutionary motifs and traditional ones, characteristic of Russian classics. However, I want to dwell on the world of poetry, the main nerve, idea and principle of which is love.
In one of her poems, Akhmatova called love the “fifth season of the year.” Love gains additional poignancy, manifesting itself in extreme crisis expression - rise or fall, first meeting or complete breakup, mortal danger or mortal melancholy. That is why Akhmatova gravitates towards a lyrical novella with an unexpected end to a psychological plot.
Usually her poem is either the beginning of a drama, or just its climax, or, even more often, the finale and ending. Akhmatova’s works carry a special element of love-pity: Oh no, I didn’t love you, I burned with sweet fire, So explain what power is in your sad name. This sympathy, empathy, compassion in love-pity makes many of Akhmatova’s poems truly folk.
In the works of the poetess there is another love - for her native land, for the Motherland, for Russia:
I'm not with those who abandoned the earth
To be torn apart by enemies,
I don't listen to their rude flattery,
I won’t give them my songs.
Anna Akhmatova lived a long and difficult life. Despite the fact that her husband was shot, and her son moved from prison to exile and back, despite all the persecution and poverty, her life was still happy, representing an entire era in the poetry of our country.
