Here is my gift
- by Anna Akhmatova 91Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,
not sticks of burning incense.
You lived aloof, maintaining to the end
your magnificent disdain.
You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes,
and suffocated inside stifling walls.
Alone you let the terrible stranger in,
and stayed with her alone.
Now you're gone, and nobody says a word
about your troubled and exalted life.
Only my voice, like a flute, will mourn
at your dumb funeral feast.
Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I,
I, sick with grief for the buried past,
I, smoldering on a slow fire,
having lost everything and forgotten all,
would be fated to commemorate a man
so full of strength and will and bright inventions,
who only yesterday it seems, chatted with me,
hiding the tremor of his mortal pain.
I Have No Use For Odic Legions
- by Anna Akhmatova 89I have no use for odic legions,
Or for the charm of elegiac play
For me, all verse should be off kilter
Not the usual way.
If only you knew what trash gives rise
To verse, without a tinge of shame,
Like bright dandelions by a fence,
Like burdock and like cocklebur.
An angry shout, the bracing smell of tar,
Mysterious mildew on the wall…
And out comes a poem, light-hearted, tender,
To your delight and mine.
Poems by Anna Akhmatova, Anna Akhmatova's poems collection. Anna Akhmatova is a classical and famous poet (23 June 1889 - 5 March 1966 / Odessa). Share all poems of Anna Akhmatova.
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