(P/B) POEMS

Παρουσίαση

Ever since her death in 1966 Anna Akhmatova has been recognized as the greatest modern Russian poet. A rich and representative selection of Akhmatova's work-from her poignant, deeply personal love poems to her haunting laments for the martyrs of the Stalinist purges-has been newly translated by the American poet Lyn Coffin. In her finely crafted translations Coffin has been uniquely successful in reproducing the directness and striking effects characteristic of Akhmatova's poetry, and she is the first to remain true to Akhmatova's rhyme and cadence. The poems are prefaced by a thoughtful introduction by the poet Joseph Brodsky, a friend of Akhmatova in her later years. (from the publisher)

Περιεχόμενα

Introduction by Joseph Brodsky
While Reading Hamlet
The three things he loved most in life
The Song of the Final Meeting
A ruddy youth wandered forlornly around
Memories of the sun fade as my heart grows
Numb
I pressed my hands together under cover
As if through a straw, you drink my soul
I live like a cuckoo in a clock
They didn't bring me a letter today
Over the Water
A doer of nothing, I came here-Why not?
Fisherman
Pusscat, watch out, an embroidered owl
Masquerade in the Park
Wine-dark grapes smell sweet here
In the Woods
To the Muse
I learned a simple and wise existence
As I die, I long for immortality
My voice is weak, my will doesn't weaken
though
The smell of inanimate things and flowers
I see on the customs house a faded flag
Around my neck are rosary strands
We're heavy drinkers here, and women of loose morals
Earthly fame's like smoke, I guess
Broad and yellow is the evening light
There's a sacred, limit to any closeness
The loss of true feelings and words renders us
Prayer
Like a white stone in the depths of a well
Song about Songs
You can look straight into my room
It seems that the voice we humans own
As for saying goodbye, we don't know how
Late at night. Monday. The twenty-third.
On the hard crests of the snowdrifts that lead
Suddenly it was quiet everywhere
During each day-today, tomorrow
I hear the oriole's voice, clear and distressed
The Tale of the Black Ring
I asked a nearby cuckoo to say
Fear, fingering objects in the dark
I called death down on the heads of those I cherished
Why are you wandering around so
Beyond the lake, the moon's stopped in space
Lot's Wife
The Muse
If the lunar horror splashes around
The Last Toast
Boris Pasternak
Voronezh
Dante
Cleopatra
The Willow
When a person dies
In 1940
1. WHEN THEY BURY AN EPOCH
2. To LONDONERS
5. I WARN YOU, THAT'S THE WAY THINGS ARE
In Memory of Mikhail Bulgakov
One travels straight ahead, the other
The First Long-Range Artillery Shell in Leningrad
And, in books, I always liked
Housewarming
1. THE HOSTESS
2. THE GUESTS
3. THE BETRAYAL
4. THE TRYST
The Three Autumns
The Breakup
1. NOT WEEKS, NOT MONTHS - IT TOOK US YEARS
2. IN THE BREAKING-UP DAYS, AS MUST ALWAYS HAPPEN
This craft of ours, sacred and bright
When the moon is lying on the window sill
The souls of all my loved ones are on high stars
Cinque
3. IT'S TRUE I ALWAYS HATED IT
Inscription on a Portrait
Wild Roses Are Blooming
4. FIRST LITTLE SONG
6. THE DREAM
8. YOU INVENTED ME. No SUCH PERSON EXISTS, THAT'S FOR SURE
9. IN THE BROKEN MIRROR
Music
Seaside Sonnet
The Secrets of the Craft
3. MUSE
6. THE LAST POEM
7. EPIGRAM
9. HOW SPICY IS THE SCENT CARNATIONS GIVE
Don't threaten me with a terrible fate
To the Memory of a Poet
1. THAT SINGULAR VOICE HAS STOPPED: SILENCE IS COMPLETE
2. LIKE THE DAUGHTER OF OEDIPUS THE BLIND
Requiem
INSTEAD OF A PREFACE
DEDICATION
INTRODUCTION
3. NO, THIS ISN'T ME, SOMEONE ELSE SUFFERS
4. THEY SHOULD HAVE SHOWN YOU, GIRL OF THE CLEVER HELLO
5. FOR MONTHS I'VE FILLED THE AIR WITH PLEAS
EPILOGUE
Quatrain Sequence (Selections)
MARBLE CRUMBLES, STEEL ROTS LIKE A LEAF
TO MY POEMS
FIERY EYES, BELIEVE ME
MY NAME
SWIMMING IN A GOLDEN HAZE
Listening to Singing
The Last Rose
Midnight Verses
INSTEAD OF A DEDICATION
1. PRE-SPRING ELEGY
2. THE FIRST WARNING
3. THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS
4. THIRTEEN LINES
5. THE CALL
6. NIGHT VISIT
7. AND THE LAST ONE INSTEAD OF AN AFTERWORD
All of Moscow is soaked with verses
It's not with a lover's lyre, not at all
Where nothing is needed, I walk like a child
On the Road