#russianpoet
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.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
"Love" By: Anna Akhamtova
Любовь
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.
(Translation)
Love
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
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC