White Flock: Poetry of Anna Akhmatova (12 page)

1916

***

Like a white stone at the bottom of the well,

One recollection lies inside of me.

I can’t and do not want to fight its spell:

For me it’s both – my joy and agony.

It seems to me that anyone will sense it

While g
azing at my eyes with disbelief

And instantly become more sad and pensive,

While harking to the tale full of grief.

I’ve heard about gods who would endeavor

To turn men into objects with a mind,

To make these wondrous sorrows last forever.

You’ve turned into this memory of mine.

1916

***

Первый луч - благословенье Бога

По лицу любимому скользнул,

И дремавший побледнел немного,

Но еще спокойнее уснул.

Верно, поцелуем показалась

Теплота небесного луча...

Так давно губами я касалась

Милых губ и смуглого плеча...

А теперь, усопших бестелесней,

В неутешном странствии моем,

Я к нему влетаю только песней

И ласкаюсь утренним лучом.

1916

***

First ray – Lord’s blessing, falling frail,

Just lightly grazed my love one’s face

And drowsing, he became more pale,

But deeper into sleep fell in a daze.

In truth he must have felt it as a kiss,

A
s heaven’s warmth was spreading over…

Thus, long ago, I gently pressed my lips

Against his gentle lips and olive shoulder…

But now
more disembodied than the long

Deceased, while inconsolably I stray,

I soar to him just as a song,

Caressing him with morning rays.

1916

***

Родилась я ни поздно, ни рано
Это время блаженно одно,
Только сердцу прожить без обмана
Было Господом не дано.
Оттого и темно в светлице
Оттого и друзья мои,
Как вечерние грустные птицы,
О небывшей поют любви.
 

1913

***

I was born neither early nor late,

This only
blessed time was fleeting.

Only God did not grant, I’m afraid,

My heart to live without cheating.

Hence the parlor is all dark inside,

And the friends that I’ve always held close,

As though sorrowful birds of the night,

Sing
of love that, alas, never was.

1913

***

Лучше б мне частушки задорно выкликать,

А тебе на хриплой гармонике играть,

И уйдя обнявшись, на ночь за овсы,

Потерять бы ленту из тугой косы.

Лучше б мне ребеночка твоего качать,

А тебе полтинник в сутки выручать,

И ходить на кладбище в поминальный день

Да смотреть на белую Божию сирень.

1914

***

Best for me to boisterously yell chastushki out,

And for you to play the hoarse accordion loud

And embracing, to go far and to stay out late,

And to lose a r
ibbon from the long tight braid.

Best for me to rock your child and to sit beside,

And for you to bring in about fifty per night,

And to visit the cemetery
each remembrance day

Just to sit and watch God’s white lilacs sway.

1914

***

Мне не надо счастья малого,

Мужа к милой провожу

И, довольного, усталого,

Спать ребенка уложу.

Снова мне в прохладной горнице

Богородицу молить...

Трудно, трудно жить затворницей,

Да трудней веселой быть.

Только б сон приснился пламенный,

Как войду в нагорный храм,

Пятиглавый, белый, каменный,

По запомненным тропам.

1914

***

No bliss or happiness is needed,

My husband is off to his dear,

And my child is pleased and depleted

As I put him to bed, sitting near.

Soon again, to my room I’ll depart,

To the Mother of God, I’ll be praying…

The life of a hermit is hard,

But it’s harder to live and be merry.

If
I could see that dream of fire,

To walk up to the hillside temple,

Five-domed and made of stone entire,

Along the
trail well remembered.

1914

***

Еще весна таинственная млела,
Блуждал прозрачный ветер по горам
И озеро глубокое синело -
Крестителя нерукотворный храм.
Ты был испуган нашей первой встречей,
А я уже молилась о второй, -
И вот сегодня снова жаркий вечер...
Как низко солнце стало над горой...
Ты не со мной, но это не разлука,
Мне каждый миг - торжественная весть.
Я знаю, что в тебе такая мука,
Что ты не можешь слова произнесть.

1917

***

The spring was still mysterious and gentle,

Across the hills transparent winds would stray.

A lake was glowing blue – as though a temple

Of John the Baptist, which was not man-made.

You were then still frightened by our meeting,

I prayed already for the second one, -

And now, again, another humid evening…

How low above the mountain was the sun…

You’re not with me, but it’s not separation,

In every moment – festive news is heard.

I know, you’re overwhelmed with trepidation

And therefore can’t articulate a word.

1917

***

Город сгинул, последнего дома
Как живое взглянуло окно...
Это место совсем незнакомо,
Пахнет гарью, и в поле темно.

Но когда грозовую завесу
Нерешительный месяц рассек,
Мы увидели: на гору, к лесу
Пробирался хромой человек.

Было страшно, что он обгоняет
Тройку сытых, веселых коней,
Постоит и опять ковыляет
Под тяжелою ношей своей.

Мы заметить почти не успели,
Как он возле кибитки возник.
Словно звезды глаза голубели,
Освещая измученный лик.

Я к нему протянула ребенка,
Поднял руку со следами оков
И промолвил мне благостно-звонко
"Будет сын твой и жив и здоров!"

191
6

Слепнево

***

The city’s gone, the final window gazed,

As if alive, with melancholy,
stark…

This
seems to me - a strange and foreign place,

It smells of burning and the fields are
dark.

But once the hesitant crescent again,

Slashed the curtain of the thunderous cloud:

We watched: A tired and hobbling man

Ma
de his way to the woods, up the mound.

It was frightening to see him outstrip

The stalwart troika up the road,

There he rested and continued to limp,

With the heavy weight of his load.

We barely noticed him there when anew

He appeared by the old, hooded cart

And like stars, his eyes glimmered blue,

Shedding light on his face, worn and marred.

I held out my child as he neared,

His
hand, scarred with fetters, rose high

And he said in a voice that was mellow and clear
:
“May your son live healthy and thrive!”
1916

Slepnevo

***

О, есть неповторимые слова,
Кто их сказал - истратил слишком много.
Неистощима только синева
Небесная и милосердье Бога.
 

1916

***

O, there are words that cannot be repeated,

Whoever said them – overspent his due.

The only things that cannot be depleted

Are God’s forgiveness
and the heaven’s blue.

1916

Anna Akhmatova
(June 23, 1889 - March 5, 1966) is considered by many to be one of the greatest Russian poets of the Silver Age. Her works range from short lyric love poetry to longer, more complex cycles, such as Requiem, a tragic depiction of the Stalinist terror. 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. During the time of heavy censorship and persecution, her poetry gave voice to the Russian people.

Anna Akhmatova published the collection "White Flock" in 1917. Joseph Brodsky later described this volume as writing of personal lyricism tinged with the "note of controlled terror." Today, it remains among her most celebrated publications.

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