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The word, defining, muzzles; the drawn line
Ousts mistier peers and thrives, murderous,
In establishments which imagined lines

Can only haunt.  Sturdy as potatoes,
Stones, without conscience, word and line endure,
Given an inch.  Not that they're gross (although

Afterthought often would have them alter
To delicacy, to poise) but that they
Shortchange me continuously:  whether

More or other, they still dissatisfy.
Unpoemed, unpictured, the potato
Bunches its knobby browns on a vastly
Superior page; the blunt stone also.
INSTEAD OF A PREFACE

During the frightening years of the Yezhov terror, I
spent seventeen months waiting in prison queues in
Leningrad. One day, somehow, someone 'picked me out'.
On that occasion there was a woman standing behind me,
her lips blue with cold, who, of course, had never in
her life heard my name. Jolted out of the torpor
characteristic of all of us, she said into my ear
(everyone whispered there) - 'Could one ever describe
this?' And I answered - 'I can.' It was then that
something like a smile slid across what had previously
been just a face.
[The 1st of April in the year 1957. Leningrad]

DEDICATION

Mountains fall before this grief,
A mighty river stops its flow,
But prison doors stay firmly bolted
Shutting off the convict burrows
And an anguish close to death.
Fresh winds softly blow for someone,
Gentle sunsets warm them through; we don't know this,
We are everywhere the same, listening
To the scrape and turn of hateful keys
And the heavy tread of marching soldiers.
Waking early, as if for early mass,
Walking through the capital run wild, gone to seed,
We'd meet - the dead, lifeless; the sun,
Lower every day; the Neva, mistier:
But hope still sings forever in the distance.
The verdict. Immediately a flood of tears,
Followed by a total isolation,
As if a beating heart is painfully ripped out, or,
Thumped, she lies there brutally laid out,
But she still manages to walk, hesitantly, alone.
Where are you, my unwilling friends,
Captives of my two satanic years?
What miracle do you see in a Siberian blizzard?
What shimmering mirage around the circle of the moon?
I send each one of you my salutation, and farewell.
[March 1940]

INTRODUCTION
[PRELUDE]

It happened like this when only the dead
Were smiling, glad of their release,
That Leningrad hung around its prisons
Like a worthless emblem, flapping its piece.
Shrill and sharp, the steam-whistles sang
Short songs of farewell
To the ranks of convicted, demented by suffering,
As they, in regiments, walked along -
Stars of death stood over us
As innocent Russia squirmed
Under the blood-spattered boots and tyres
Of the black marias.

I

You were taken away at dawn. I followed you
As one does when a corpse is being removed.
Children were crying in the darkened house.
A candle flared, illuminating the Mother of God. . .
The cold of an icon was on your lips, a death-cold
sweat
On your brow - I will never forget this; I will gather

To wail with the wives of the murdered streltsy (1)
Inconsolably, beneath the Kremlin towers.
[1935. Autumn. Moscow]

II

Silent flows the river Don
A yellow moon looks quietly on
Swanking about, with cap askew
It sees through the window a shadow of you
Gravely ill, all alone
The moon sees a woman lying at home
Her son is in jail, her husband is dead
Say a prayer for her instead.

III

It isn't me, someone else is suffering. I couldn't.
Not like this. Everything that has happened,
Cover it with a black cloth,
Then let the torches be removed. . .
Night.

IV

Giggling, poking fun, everyone's darling,
The carefree sinner of Tsarskoye Selo (2)
If only you could have foreseen
What life would do with you -
That you would stand, parcel in hand,
Beneath the Crosses (3), three hundredth in
line,
Burning the new year's ice
With your hot tears.
Back and forth the prison poplar sways
With not a sound - how many innocent
Blameless lives are being taken away. . .
[1938]

V

For seventeen months I have been screaming,
Calling you home.
I've thrown myself at the feet of butchers
For you, my son and my horror.
Everything has become muddled forever -
I can no longer distinguish
Who is an animal, who a person, and how long
The wait can be for an execution.
There are now only dusty flowers,
The chinking of the thurible,
Tracks from somewhere into nowhere
And, staring me in the face
And threatening me with swift annihilation,
An enormous star.
[1939]

VI

Weeks fly lightly by. Even so,
I cannot understand what has arisen,
How, my son, into your prison
White nights stare so brilliantly.
Now once more they burn,
Eyes that focus like a hawk,
And, upon your cross, the talk
Is again of death.
[1939. Spring]

VII
THE VERDICT

The word landed with a stony thud
Onto my still-beating breast.
Nevermind, I was prepared,
I will manage with the rest.

I have a lot of work to do today;
I need to slaughter memory,
Turn my living soul to stone
Then teach myself to live again. . .

But how. The hot summer rustles
Like a carnival outside my window;
I have long had this premonition
Of a bright day and a deserted house.
[22 June 1939. Summer. Fontannyi Dom (4)]

VIII
TO DEATH

You will come anyway - so why not now?
I wait for you; things have become too hard.
I have turned out the lights and opened the door
For you, so simple and so wonderful.
Assume whatever shape you wish. Burst in
Like a shell of noxious gas. Creep up on me
Like a practised bandit with a heavy weapon.
Poison me, if you want, with a typhoid exhalation,
Or, with a simple tale prepared by you
(And known by all to the point of nausea), take me
Before the commander of the blue caps and let me
glimpse
The house administrator's terrified white face.
I don't care anymore. The river Yenisey
Swirls on. The Pole star blazes.
The blue sparks of those much-loved eyes
Close over and cover the final horror.
[19 August 1939. Fontannyi Dom]

IX

Madness with its wings
Has covered half my soul
It feeds me fiery wine
And lures me into the abyss.

That's when I understood
While listening to my alien delirium
That I must hand the victory
To it.

However much I nag
However much I beg
It will not let me take
One single thing away:

Not my son's frightening eyes -
A suffering set in stone,
Or prison visiting hours
Or days that end in storms

Nor the sweet coolness of a hand
The anxious shade of lime trees
Nor the light distant sound
Of final comforting words.
[14 May 1940. Fontannyi Dom]

X
CRUCIFIXION

Weep not for me, mother.
I am alive in my grave.

1.
A choir of angels glorified the greatest hour,
The heavens melted into flames.
To his father he said, 'Why hast thou forsaken me!'
But to his mother, 'Weep not for me. . .'
[1940. Fontannyi Dom]

2.
Magdalena smote herself and wept,
The favourite disciple turned to stone,
But there, where the mother stood silent,
Not one person dared to look.
[1943. Tashkent]

EPILOGUE

1.
I have learned how faces fall,
How terror can escape from lowered eyes,
How suffering can etch cruel pages
Of cuneiform-like marks upon the cheeks.
I know how dark or ash-blond strands of hair
Can suddenly turn white. I've learned to recognise
The fading smiles upon submissive lips,
The trembling fear inside a hollow laugh.
That's why I pray not for myself
But all of you who stood there with me
Through fiercest cold and scorching July heat
Under a towering, completely blind red wall.

2.
The hour has come to remember the dead.
I see you, I hear you, I feel you:
The one who resisted the long drag to the open window;
The one who could no longer feel the kick of familiar
soil beneath her feet;
The one who, with a sudden flick of her head, replied,

'I arrive here as if I've come home!'
I'd like to name you all by name, but the list
Has been removed and there is nowhere else to look.
So,
I have woven you this wide shroud out of the humble
words
I overheard you use. Everywhere, forever and always,
I will never forget one single thing. Even in new
grief.
Even if they clamp shut my tormented mouth
Through which one hundred million people scream;
That's how I wish them to remember me when I am dead
On the eve of my remembrance day.
If someone someday in this country
Decides to raise a memorial to me,
I give my consent to this festivity
But only on this condition - do not build it
By the sea where I was born,
I have severed my last ties with the sea;
Nor in the Tsar's Park by the hallowed stump
Where an inconsolable shadow looks for me;
Build it here where I stood for three hundred hours
And no-one slid open the bolt.
Listen, even in blissful death I fear
That I will forget the Black Marias,
Forget how hatefully the door slammed and an old woman
Howled like a wounded beast.
Let the thawing ice flow like tears
From my immovable bronze eyelids
And let the prison dove coo in the distance
While ships sail quietly along the river.
[March 1940. Fontannyi Dom]

FOOTNOTES

1 An elite guard which rose up in rebellion
   against Peter the Great in 1698. Most were either
   executed or exiled.
2 The imperial summer residence outside St
   Petersburg where Ahmatova spent her early years.
3 A prison complex in central Leningrad near the
   Finland Station, called The Crosses because of the
   shape of two of the buildings.
4 The Leningrad house in which Ahmatova lived.


First published Sasha Soldatow Mayakovsky in Bondi
BlackWattle Press 1993 Sydney.
Adero Barasa Jun 2019
She pulled her chair close to the bedroom window
This time she did not see the beautiful red roses in the lawn
Neither the shiny dew from the eastern golden sun
Her day was gloomy, mistier than Limuru’s fog
The birds’ twits were as noisy and messy as her Twitter
She had virtually nowhere to turn to
Her face could not tolerate the embarrassment on Facebook
Her instinct made her avoid Instagram like the plague
She was on the spotlight, yet her heart was dark
The lacuna of her being
And the confusion of her personality was eminent
For a week she cried and ate nothing
Drinking water to keep her eyes wet and allow herself to cry more
The world was bitter; the embarrassment was unbearable
She went through her contact
Out of the two hundred contacts, she saw no one worthy of talking to
Her WhatsApp status received an average of one-twenty views
This used to fascinate her, but this moment it did not
The statuses were full of memes, inspirations, and bitter statements
Most were also seeking online justification
With tears dry, she went back to her bed and took a bible
She stared at it for a while before closing it
She also tried to sing along the midi of her hymnal app
However, life oomph, enthusiasm, passion had vanished
The mustard hope was almost decaying,
Crying and sleeping were the only active verbs
While at the verge of collapse, her status read
Yesterday's gone sweet Jesus; Tomorrow will never be mine!
As usual, I scan through my WhatsApp statuses
But this got my attention because I love hymns
Unbelievably, I sang and replied to her status
One day at a time! Which she only responded with smiley emoji
I cared less and proceeded to twitter- my favorite app
Days went by; the active virtual user turned dormant
Nobody bothered to ask why,
Her wet eyes were now dry, crimson red
Her smooth skin was now pale,
Her beautiful dimples had almost disappeared
She could not believe that the man she loved,
Could play with her emotion in-front of the camera.
That fateful day she had put on her fitting pink, khaki pants,
White top with pinkish flowers and striped jacket
Off she went to Sarova Stanley Hotel where she was to meet him
Unlike before, this time he came half an hour late
After meals and pleasantries, he was on his knee
'Will you marry me?' he asked with a red ring box in his hand
Yes! She said blushing as the flashing got intense
He opened the box, lo and behold, 'twas empty
I was joking; he said while smiling
He stood, went forth and kissed another lady
Who was sitting on the adjacent table
Shocked, embarrassed and angry, she stormed out
Since then she swore never to step out nor contact him.
Seemingly, he dared not to phone or checked out on her
Her house was her new cell,
Though the caged bird sing, she was mute
Her gregarious personality faded as she longed for the worse
The date attires were still laying on the poorly spread bed
She went to the bathroom mirror and looked at her miserable self
She was a perfect embodiment of depression and sedentary lifestyle
Death where is thy sting- she hissed and smiled.
But this was a new day, a day that promised rejuvenation
After cleaning herself and refreshing her body-with water
She wore a red dress, applied a dark red lipstick
Which excellently marched her skin tone
The stencil drawing on the eyebrow was neatly done
Her black heels perfectly fitted her heels
She looked at the mirror again and smiled
And whispered, goodbye my dear friend
She stepped out of the self-imposed cell with a little optimism
Looking for those people she perceived as friends
She chose to visit her former classmate
Unlike other days where she could cry and sleep
And wake up, and cry, and drink water and sleep again
She looked happy, she smiled and laughed at the slightest provocation
They talked, and slandered, and laughed and ate
She never mentioned her boyfriend
And evaded any discussion that would make her remember it
Since it was a long time since they saw each other- physically
She decided to accompany her classmate to catch up with her colleagues
In the company of other acquaintances, she took wine
A ****** experience for the ******
After a moment of absent-minded conversation, she excused herself
When the time came for them to leave she was nowhere to be seen
Her phone was on but seemingly deserted
They grew impatient and desperate
No iota of her whereabouts was known
Not even the security within the premise could locate her
Her friend decided to text her through WhatsApp
Her' last seen' was just a few minutes ago
Her status read:
Somethings are too heavy to feel
They don’t let you breath
Neither do they let you forget
Your heart may be crying in pain
Beg for forgiveness, genuine love and care
But no matter how hard you try
They slowly eat you alive.
The status was concluded with smiley emoji
After searching for forty-five minutes
They gave up and drove home
Arguing that she was a grown up and could trace her way back
Hours later during the prime-time news
They were astonished when they saw the place they were broadcasted
The headline was 'suicide in the tub.'
People die in silence. they lack trusted friends to share their innermost feeling. In the contemporary world, emotional intelligence is key in enhnacing cognitive wellbeing of people.
Mary Gay Kearns Jul 2018
Adlestrop
BY EDWARD THOMAS
Yes. I remember Adlestrop—
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop—only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

— The End —