That’s how I am. I could wish for you someone other,
Better.
I trade in happiness no longer…
Charlatans, pushers at the sales! …
We stayed peacefully in Sochi,
Such nights, there, came to me,
And I kept hearing such bells!
Over Asia were spring mists, and
Tulips were carpeting with brilliance
Several hundreds of miles.
O, what can I do with this cleanness,
This simple untaintable scene? O,
What can I do with these souls!
I could never become a spectator.
I’d push myself, sooner or later,
Through every prohibited gate.
Healer of tender hurts, other women’s
Husbands’ sincerest
Friend, disconsolate
Widow of many. No wonder
I’ve a grey crown, and my sun-burn
Frightens the people I pass.
But – like her – I shall have to part with
My arrogance – like Marina the martyr –
I too must drink of emptiness.
You will come under a black mantle,
With a green and terrible candle,
Screening your face from my sight…
Soon the puzzle will be over:
Whose hand is in the white glove, or
Who sent the guest who calls by night.
by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova)
(1942, Tashkent)
from her Седьмая книга (The Seventh Book) era of work but not published at the time
translation by D. M. Thomas
In 1942 Akhmatova was flown out of Leningrad by the authorites on a whim and spent the next 3 years in Tashkent. She became seriously ill with typhus but regarded this period with a mix of joy, delirium and recognition.
Akhmatova in this poem draws a parallel between her circumstances and the fate of fellow poet Marina Tsvetaeva. Tsvetaeva had been an emigre since 1922, returning to Russia only to find out her husband was shot and her daughter arrested. She hung herself in 1941 and it had an immense effect on her peer Akhmatova as evidenced by her poetry.
Rambling At The Bridge Head 