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"Love" By: Anna Akhamtova


То змейкой, свернувшись клубком,
У самого сердца колдует,
То целые дни голубком
На белом окошке воркует,

То в инее ярком блеснёт,
Почудится в дреме левкоя...
Но верно и тайно ведёт
От радости и от покоя.

Умеет так сладко рыдать
В молитве тоскующей скрипки,
И страшно её угадать
В ещё незнакомой улыбке.



First, as a serpent, it’ll cast its spell
Next to your heart, curled up.
Then, it’ll come as a dove, as well,
Cooing for days, nonstop.

In the frost, it’ll show itself curtly,
Or in the drowsing field of carnations…
To escort you covertly and firmly
Away from all rest and elation.

In the prayer of a violin yearning,
So sweetly, it’ll sob for a while,
And how frightening it is to discern it
In a yet unfamiliar smile.

Translated by: Andrey Kneller
I do not own this writing nor do I claim to own this writing. This is a poem from another one of my favorite Russian poets if you haven't guessed her name is Anna Akhamtova. I did not translate this poem into English so sorry if the translation is off. But I love how she used her words to show how love is. Sorry that I keep saying the name of the original author but I just don't want to take credit for something that isn't mine.
Andrew M Bell Feb 2015
In my luxury there is shame,

using my thin, Western excuses

to hide from my art.

When I read your story

I heard a trumpet of glory

and a stern rebuke

from a creativity so compelled

that, denied the tools of your craft,

you carved your daily poem in soap

and committed it to memory

before washing your words away.

When the days pass me

with the pen's call unheeded

and my reluctance comes

from seeing the word as a foe

then I'll remember you, Irina,

and how the word set you free

from the darkest confinement.
Copyright Andrew M. Bell. I wrote this poem in 1987 when I read an article by PEN about the release from a gulag of the dissident Russian poet, Irina Borisovna Ratushinskaya.

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