Flying in at my window,
a moon like a snow jay
scrapes claws on walls,
flutters over my pillow
Scared of confinement
in pages or dwelling,
my homeless darling –
in midnight finery.
by Варлам Тихонович Шаламов (Varlam Tikhonovich Shalamov)
(1950)
translated by Robert Chandler
And it seemed to me that there were fires
Flying till dawn without number,
And I never found out things – those
Strange eyes of his – that colour?
Everything trembling and singing and
Were you my enemy or my friend,
Winter was it or summer?
by Анна Ахматова (Anna Akhmatova)
(1959)
from Седьмая книга (The Seventh Book)
translation by D. M. Thomas
Her flushed lips parting tenderly
as she breathes in the morning frost,
how strangely this rose smiles
as the September day hurries past.
While blue tits flutter around branches
from which every leaf has now slipped,
how queenlike this rose now appears
with spring’s glow on her lips.
How boldly she clings to her hope
that, flying from this cold flower-bed,
she will be the last, intoxicated rose
to cling to the young mistress’s breast.
by Афанасий Афанасьевич Фет (Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet)
a.k.a. Шеншин (Shenshin)
(1890)
translated by Robert Chandler
Rambling At The Bridge Head 