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meowlvika's review against another edition
2.0
"I write down happy verses
about life's decay, decay and beauty."
about life's decay, decay and beauty."
sydneyzahradka's review against another edition
And the just man trailed God's messenger,
His huge, light shape devoured the black hill.
But uneasiness shadowed his wife and spoke to her:
'It's not too late, you can turn back still
At the red towers of Sodom, the place that bore you,
The square in which you sang, the spinning-shed,
At the empty windows of that upper storey
Where children blessed your happy marriage-bed.'
Her eyes that were still turning when a bolt
Of pain shot through them, were instantly blind;
Her body turned into transparent salt,
And her swift legs were rooted to the ground.
Who mourns one woman in a holocaust?
Surely her death has no significance?
Yet in my heart she will never be lost,
She who gave up her life to steal once glance.
His huge, light shape devoured the black hill.
But uneasiness shadowed his wife and spoke to her:
'It's not too late, you can turn back still
At the red towers of Sodom, the place that bore you,
The square in which you sang, the spinning-shed,
At the empty windows of that upper storey
Where children blessed your happy marriage-bed.'
Her eyes that were still turning when a bolt
Of pain shot through them, were instantly blind;
Her body turned into transparent salt,
And her swift legs were rooted to the ground.
Who mourns one woman in a holocaust?
Surely her death has no significance?
Yet in my heart she will never be lost,
She who gave up her life to steal once glance.
scarletsereia's review against another edition
informative
reflective
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
2.5
grumpwizard's review
4.0
I do not know if it was myself opening to these poems or a growth in her skill, but as I worked through this collection, Akhmatova’s verse became more and more astounding to me. I had never heard of her before and was delighted to experience this beautiful poetry. As the book goes on through her younger, bolder years, we hear insights from a poet in a country whose voice has been quieted. Her lines become more and more steely as she faces and writes about waiting in line and hoping to see her son outside of the prison the Gestapo has again taken him to. It is beautiful and sad truth.
aguadeoctubre's review against another edition
medium-paced
4.75
este libro me ha cogido, me ha sacudido, me ha partido en trocitos y los ha pisoteado. estoy destrozada
chloehamburn's review against another edition
3.0
3.5 stars. Poetry, as opposed to prose, is a huge hit or miss for me. Sometimes I can read a poem 6 times over and know that it affects me, whether I understand it or not; other times I can read a poem 12 times and never extract any meaning. I was curious to read Anna Akhmatova after hearing so much historical praise for her. I liked a few of her poems, in general found her pleasing to read, but I think translated poetry is tricky. Rhythm and meaning are sacrificed, which left a few of these selected poems dull and obscure for me. I had a few favorites, including "Requiem", "Northern Elegies", and a few others I will list here, but was disappointed that "Poem Without a Hero" was absent from this collection. I guess I'll have to seek that one out on my own.
"Native Land"
We don't, with wrenching sobs, write verse about her,
She does not disturb our bitter sleep,
Nor seem to us the promised paradise.
We have not made her, in our souls,
An object to be bought or sold.
Suffering, sick, wandering over her,
We don't even remember her.
And because of that we freely call her – ours.
1961
Leningrad
The hospital in the harbor
"The Last Toast"
I drink to the ruined house,
To the evil of my life,
To our shared loneliness
And I drink to you –
To the lie of lips that betrayed me,
To the deadly coldness of the eyes,
To the fact that the world is cruel and depraved,
To the fact that God did not save."
June 27, 1934
"Voronezh"
O. M.
And the whole town is encased in ice,
Trees, walls, snow, as if under glass.
Timidly, I walk on crystals,
Gaily painted sleds skid.
And over the Peter of Voronezh – crows,
Poplar trees, and the dome, light green,
Faded, dulled, in sunny haze,
And the battle of Kulikovo blows from the slopes
Of the mighty, victorious land.
And the poplars, like cups clashed together,
Roar over us, stronger and stronger,
As if our joy were toasted by
A thousand guests at a wedding feast.
But in the room of the poet in disgrace,
Fear and the Muse keep watch by turns.
And the night comes on
That knows no dawn.
March 4, 1936
[Untitled]
Terror, fingering things in the dark,
Leads the moonbeam to an ax.
Behind the wall there's an ominous knock –
What's there, a ghost, a thief, rats?
In the sweltering kitchen, water drips,
Counting the rickety floorboards.
Someone with a glossy black beard
flashes by the attic window –
And becomes still. How cunning he is and evil,
He hid the matches and blew out the candle.
How much better would be the gleam of the barrels
Of rifles leveled at my breast.
Better, in the grassy square,
To be flattened on the raw wood scaffold
And, amid cries of joy and moans,
Pour out my life's blood there.
I press the smooth cross to my heart:
God, restore peace to my soul.
The odor of decay, sickeningly sweet,
Rises from the clammy sheets.
August 27-28, 1921
Tsarskoye Selo
"Native Land"
But there is no people on earth more tearless,We don't wear her on our breast in cherished amulets,
More simple and more full of price.
We don't, with wrenching sobs, write verse about her,
She does not disturb our bitter sleep,
Nor seem to us the promised paradise.
We have not made her, in our souls,
An object to be bought or sold.
Suffering, sick, wandering over her,
We don't even remember her.
Yes, for us it's the mud on galoshes,But we lie in her and we become her,
Yes, for us it's the grit on our teeth.
And we grind, and we knead, and we crumble
This clean dust.
And because of that we freely call her – ours.
1961
Leningrad
The hospital in the harbor
"The Last Toast"
I drink to the ruined house,
To the evil of my life,
To our shared loneliness
And I drink to you –
To the lie of lips that betrayed me,
To the deadly coldness of the eyes,
To the fact that the world is cruel and depraved,
To the fact that God did not save."
June 27, 1934
"Voronezh"
O. M.
And the whole town is encased in ice,
Trees, walls, snow, as if under glass.
Timidly, I walk on crystals,
Gaily painted sleds skid.
And over the Peter of Voronezh – crows,
Poplar trees, and the dome, light green,
Faded, dulled, in sunny haze,
And the battle of Kulikovo blows from the slopes
Of the mighty, victorious land.
And the poplars, like cups clashed together,
Roar over us, stronger and stronger,
As if our joy were toasted by
A thousand guests at a wedding feast.
But in the room of the poet in disgrace,
Fear and the Muse keep watch by turns.
And the night comes on
That knows no dawn.
March 4, 1936
[Untitled]
Terror, fingering things in the dark,
Leads the moonbeam to an ax.
Behind the wall there's an ominous knock –
What's there, a ghost, a thief, rats?
In the sweltering kitchen, water drips,
Counting the rickety floorboards.
Someone with a glossy black beard
flashes by the attic window –
And becomes still. How cunning he is and evil,
He hid the matches and blew out the candle.
How much better would be the gleam of the barrels
Of rifles leveled at my breast.
Better, in the grassy square,
To be flattened on the raw wood scaffold
And, amid cries of joy and moans,
Pour out my life's blood there.
I press the smooth cross to my heart:
God, restore peace to my soul.
The odor of decay, sickeningly sweet,
Rises from the clammy sheets.
August 27-28, 1921
Tsarskoye Selo
jeeleongkoh's review
3.0
I decided to bring Anna Akhmatova's Selected Poems with me to France. I wanted to like them more than I actually did. The translator, Walter Arndt, took care to render the poems in matching meter and rhyme. The resulting poems in English feel rather dainty and dated, not the qualities that are usually associated with Akhmatova. I thought of Edna St. Vincent Millay while reading the translations. More unusual, more original, in translation, are her long poems. Requiem, translated by Robin Kemball, is very moving in its depiction of her grief at her son's imprisonment by the Soviet authorities. "A Poem without a Hero" is powerfully phastasmagoric. Of the lyrics, I like best "The river dawdles, valley waters gathering" for its vivid detail, "The cathedral doors are flung wide open" for the specificity of its locale, and the wonderful "Lot's Wife," who "laid down her life for a single glance back."