By Anna Akhmatova, Andrey Kneller
Anna Akhmatova (June 23, 1889 - March five, 1966) is taken into account by way of many to be one of many maximum Russian poets of the Silver Age. Her works diversity from brief lyric love poetry to longer, extra advanced cycles, comparable to Requiem, a sad depiction of the Stalinist terror. one of many leading edge leaders of the Acmeism move, which thinking about rigorous shape and directness of phrases, she used to be a grasp of conveying uncooked emotion in her portrayals of daily occasions. throughout the time of heavy censorship and persecution, her poetry gave voice and desire to the Russian humans.
In this dual-language number of Anna Akhmatova's poetry, Andrey Kneller's translations seize not just the overall message, but additionally attempt to maintain the attractive lyrical caliber of the originals.
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Additional resources for Final Meeting: Selected Poetry of Anna Akhmatova
I’m afraid I’ve inebriated him with the ale Of bitter anguish and torturous pain. Could I forget it? He stumbled out, wavering, His tormented mouth was twisted and grim.... I ran down the stairs, not touching the railing, At the end of the walkway, I caught up to him. I yelled after him: “I was kidding and only.
1914, Петербург *** An angel of God, who betrothed us In secrecy, one winter morning, Keeps his darkened eyes watching over The life that we live sorrow-free. That is why we love blue skies, Cool fresh wind, and fragile air, And the blackening tree branches High above the cast-iron fences. That is why we love this city, – Dark and stern, and full of water, And we love our separations, And brief moments when we meet.
Not long ago, he was living in bliss And knew no sadness till now. But at this moment he surely knows sorrow No less than the wise and the old. It seems that his eyes have begun to grow narrow, And their brilliant light is now cold. I know: his pain will soon be too much, The pain of first love is intense. So helpless and feverish was his touch As he was stroking my hands. Autumn 1913 *** Все мы бражники здесь, блудницы, Как невесело вместе нам! На стенах цветы и птицы Томятся по облакам. Ты куришь черную трубку, Так странен дымок над ней.