Anna Akhmatova

thumb|right|I stand as witness to the common lot, survivor of that time, that place. thumb|right|O let the organ, many-voiced, sing boldly, O let it roar like spring's first thunderstorm! thumb|right|I go forth to seek — To seek and claim the lovely magic garden Where grasses softly sigh and Muses speak. Anna Andreevna Gorenko [А́нна Андре́евна Горе́нко] (23 June {11 June O.S.} 1889 - 5 March 1966) was a Russian poet, known primarily by her pen name Anna Akhmatova [А́нна Ахма́това]. Her work was condemned and censored by Soviet authorities and she notably chose not to emigrate, but remained in Russia, acting as witness to the difficulties of living and writing in the shadow of Stalinism. Quotes thumb|right|I will never come back to you. thumb|right|I don't know if you're alive or dead. thumb|right|Why is this century worse than those others? thumb|right|You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. There have been numerous translations of Akhmatova's poems into English, with some variation in the titles of poems or their sections. The date of publication of her later works is often many years or decades after their composition. O let the organ, many-voiced, sing boldly, O let it roar like spring's first thunderstorm! My half-closed eyes over your young bride's shoulder Will meet your eyes just once and then no more. Translated by Irina Zheleznova I go forth to seek — To seek and claim the lovely magic garden Where grasses softly sigh and Muses speak. Translated by Irina Zheleznova You thought I was that type: That you could forget me, And that I'd plead and weep And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare... "You Thought I Was That Type" Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul Vicarious tears or a single glance. And I swear to you by the garden of the angels, I swear by the miracle-working icon, And by the fire and smoke of our nights: I will never come back to you. "You Thought I Was That Type" I don't know if you're alive or dead. Can you on earth be sought, Or only when the sunsets fade Be mourned serenely in my thought? "I Don't Know If You're Alive Or Dead" (1915) No-one was more cherished, no-one tortured Me more, not Even the one who betrayed me to torture, Not even the one who caressed me and forgot. "I Don't Know If You're Alive Or Dead" (1915) Why is this century worse than those others? Maybe, because, in sadness and alarm, It only touched the blackest of the ulcers, But couldn't heal it in its span of time. "Why is this century worse than those others?" (1919), translated by Yevgeny Bonver (2000) All has been looted, betrayed, sold; black death's wing flashed ahead. "Looted" (1921), as translated by Dmitri Obolensky You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. "You will hear thunder and remember me...", translated by D. M. Thomas There will be thunder then. Remember me. Say 'She asked for storms.' The entire world will turn the colour of crimson stone, and your heart, as then, will turn to fire. "Thunder," translated by A.S.Kline That day in Moscow, it will all come true, when, for the last time, I take my leave, And hasten to the heights that I have longed for, Leaving my shadow still to be with you. "You will hear thunder and remember me...", translated by D. M. Thomas That day, in Moscow, a true prophecy, when for the last time I say goodbye, soaring to the heavens that I longed to see, leaving my shadow here in the sky. "Thunder," translated by A.S.Kline A multi-colored crowd streaked about, and suddenly all was totally changed. It wasn't the usual city racket. It came from a strange land. "The First Long Range Artillery Fire On Leningrad," translation by Daniela Gioseffi (1993) Natural thunder heralds the wetness of fresh water high clouds to quench the thirst of fields gone dry and parched, a messenger of blessed rain, but this was as dry as hell must be. My distraught perception refused to believe it, because of the insane suddenness with which it sounded, swelled and hit, and how casually it came to murder my child. "The First Long Range Artillery Fire On Leningrad," translated by Daniela Gioseffi (1993) Give me bitter years of sickness, Suffocation, insomnia, fever, Take my child and my lover, And my mysterious gift of song — This I pray at your liturgy After so many tormented days, So that the stormcloud over darkened Russia Might become a cloud of glorious rays. "Prayer," translated by Judith Hemschemeyer in Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova (1989) Now no one will listen to songs. The prophesied days have begun. Latest poem of mine, the world has lost its wonder, Don't break my heart, don't ring out. "Now no one will listen to songs..." from Plantain (1921), translated by Richard McKane I am not one of those who left the land to the mercy of its enemies. Their flattery leaves me cold, my songs are not for them to praise. I am not one of those who left the land..." (1922), translated in Poems of Akhmatova (1973) by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward thumb|right|A new epoch has begun. You and I will wait for it together. But here, in the murk of conflagration, where scarcely a friend is left to know we, the survivors, do not flinch from anything, not from a single blow. Surely the reckoning will be made after the passing of this cloud. We are the people without tears, straighter than you … more proud... I am not one of those who left the land..." (1922), translated in Poems of Akhmatova (1973) by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward Sweet to me was not the voice of man, But the wind's voice was understood by me. The burdocks and the nettles fed my soul, But I loved the silver willow best of all. "Willow" (1940) Each of our lives is a Shakespearean drama raised to the thousandth degree. Mute separations, mute black, bloody events in every family. Invisible mourning worn by mothers and wives. Now the arrested are returning, and two Russias stare each other in the eyes: the ones that put them in prison and the ones who were put in prison. A new epoch has begun. You and I will wait for it together. Remarks to her friend Lydia Chukovskaya (March 1956), as quoted in Joseph Stalin : A Biographical Companion (1999) by Helen Rappaport, p. 2 The sand as white as old bones, the pine trees strangely red where the sun comes down. I cannot say if it is our love, or the day, that is ending. Departures (1964), translated by Michael Cuanach In Memory of M. B. A poem dedictated to Mikhail Bulgakov - Full text online : From Poems of Akhmatova (1973), translated and introduced by Stanley Kunitz with Max Hayward You lived aloof, maintaining to the end your magnificent disdain. Now you're gone, and nobody says a word about your troubled and exalted life. Only my voice, like a flute, will mourn at your dumb funeral feast. Oh, who would have dared believe that half-crazed I, I, sick with grief for the buried past, I, smoldering on a slow fire, having lost everything and forgotten all, would be fated to commemorate a man so full of strength and will and bright inventions, who only yesterday it seems, chatted with me, hiding the tremor of his mortal pain. thumb|right|Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, who suffered death because she chose to turn. Lot's Wife thumb|right|In my heart she will not be forgot Who, for a single glance, gave up her life. A poem on the biblical account of Lot's wife - Full text online : From Poems of Akhmatova (1973) translated and introduced by Stanley Kunitz with Max Hayward And the just man trailed God's shining agent, over a black mountain, in his giant track, while a restless voice kept harrying his woman: "It's not too late, you can still look back at the red towers of your native Sodom, the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed, at the empty windows set in the tall house where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed." The just man followed then his angel guide Where he strode on the black highway, hulking and bright; But a wild grief in his wife's bosom cried, Look back, it is not too late for a last sight Of the red towers of your native Sodom, the square Where once you sang, the gardens you shall mourn, And the tall house with empty windows where You loved your husband and your babes were born. Translator unknown Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, who suffered death because she chose to turn. Who'll mourn her as one of Lot's family members? Doesn't she seem the smallest of losses to us? But deep in my heart I will always remember One who gave her life up for one single glance. Translated by Tanya Karshtedt (1996) A loss, but who still mourns the breath of one woman, or laments one wife? Though my heart never can forget, how, for one look, she gave up her life. Translated by A.S.Kline Who would waste tears upon her? Is she not The least of our losses, this unhappy wife? Yet in my heart she will not be forgot Who, for a single glance, gave up her life. Translator unknown Thinking Of The Sun (1911) As translated by Michael Cuanach thumb|right| Thinking of the sun causes quick beating of my heart … thumb|right|What darkness! From this night winter begins. Thinking of the sun causes quick beating of my heart — snowy weather comes on the wind lightly drifting. The silvery tree opens to an empty sky — maybe it is better that I am not your husband. Variant translations: The willow in the empty skyspread her transparent fanperhaps it were betterthat I not beyour wife. "Memory of the Sun" (alternate translation by Paula Goodman) Thinking of the sun makes my heart beat faster — too fast! What darkness! From this night winter begins. Variant translations: Memory of sun fades in my heart What is this? Darkness? Maybe! —During the night comeswinter. "Memory of the Sun" (alternate translation by Paula Goodman) The Guest (1914) thumb|right|I know: his delight Is the tense and passionate knowledge That he needs nothing, That I can refuse him nothing. Full text online: Translated by Carl R. Proffer. From The Silver Age of Russian Culture (1975), edited by Carl Poffer and Ellendea Proffer All as before: against the dining-room windows Beats the scattered windswept snow, And I have not changed either, But a man came to me. I asked: "What do you want?" He replied: "To be with you in Hell." I laughed: "Oh, you'll foredoom Us both to disaster." But lifting his dry hand He lightly touched the flowers: "Tell me how men kiss you, Tell me how you kiss men." Not a single muscle quivered On his radiantly evil face. Oh, I know: his delight Is the tense and passionate knowledge That he needs nothing, That I can refuse him nothing. As a White Stone... (1916) Translated by Yevgeny Bonver (August 2000) Full text online thumb|right| As a white stone in the well's cool deepness, There lays in me one wonderful remembrance. As a white stone in the well's cool deepness, There lays in me one wonderful remembrance. I am not able and don't want to miss this: It is my torture and my utter gladness. I think, that he whose look will be directed Into my eyes, at once will see it whole. I knew: the gods turned once, in their madness, Men into things, not killing humane senses. You've been turned in to my reminiscences To make eternal the unearthly sadness. Red Winged Birds (1917) As translated by Michael Cuanach thumb|right|I do not need your loving words or hurried kiss as night comes down in the place where we once lived innocent as children, and happier. I hear always the sad voices of summer passing like red winged birds over the high grass I do not need your loving words or hurried kiss as night comes down in the place where we once lived innocent as children, and happier. White Flock (1917) thumb|right|We aged a hundred years, and this happened in a single hour, thumb|right|When we started losing one after the other so each day became remembrance day, we started composing poems about God's great generosity and — our former riches. We aged a hundred years, and this happened in a single hour: the short summer had already died, the body of the ploughed plains smoked. "In Memoriam, July 19, 1914" We thought: we're poor, we have nothing, but when we started losing one after the other so each day became remembrance day, we started composing poems about God's great generosity and — our former riches. "We thought: we're poor" We thought we were beggars, we thought we had nothing at all But then when we started to lose one thing after another, Each day became A memorial day - And then we made songs Of great divine generosity And of our former riches. Translated by Ilya Shambat (2001) "This Cruel Age has deflected me..." (1944) thumb|right|The grave I go to will not be my own. Translated in Poems of Akhmatova (1973) by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward This cruel age has deflected me, like a river from this course. Strayed from its familiar shores, my changeling life has flowed into a sister channel. How many spectacles I've missed: the curtain rising without me, and falling too. How many friends I never had the chance to meet. I know beginnings, I know endings too, and life-in-death, and something else I'd rather not recall just now. The grave I go to will not be my own. But if I could step outside myself and contemplate the person that I am, I should know at last what envy is. Poem without a Hero (1963) thumb|right|I have lit my treasured candles, one by one, to hallow this night. Translated in Poems of Akhmatova (1973) by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward thumb|right|I am that shadow on the threshold defending my remnant peace. thumb|right|He is no better and no worse, but he is free of Lethe's curse: his warm hand makes a human pledge. thumb|right|From childhood I have been afraid of mummers. … thumb|right|You are as old as the Mamre oak, ancient interrogator of the moon… thumb|right|What have poets, in any case, to do with sin? They must dance before the Ark of the Covenant or die! thumb|right|There is no death, each of us knows — it's banal to say. I'll leave it to others to explain. I have lit my treasured candles, one by one, to hallow this night. With you, who do not come, I wait the birth of the year. Dear God! the flame has drowned in crystal, and the wine, like poison, burns Old malice bites the air, old ravings rave again, though the hour has not yet struck. Dread. Bottomless dread... I am that shadow on the threshold defending my remnant peace. Let the gossip roll! What to me are Hamlet's garters, or the whirlwind of Salome's dance, or the tread of the Man in the Iron Mask? I am more iron than they. Prince Charming, prince of the mockers — compared with him the foulest of sinners is grace incarnate... That woman I once was, in a black agate necklace, I do not wish to meet again till the Day of Judgement. Are the last days near, perhaps? I have forgotten your lessons, prattlers and false prophets, but you haven't forgotten me. As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future — a terrible festival of dead leaves. All the mirrors on the wall show a man not yet appeared who could not enter this white hall. He is no better and no worse, but he is free of Lethe's curse: his warm hand makes a human pledge. Strayed from the future, can it be that he will really come to me, turning left from the bridge? From childhood I have been afraid of mummers. It always seemed an extra shadow without face or name had slipped among them... You... you are as old as the Mamre oak, ancient interrogator of the moon, whose feigned groans cannot take us in. You write laws of iron. Creature of special tastes, you do not wait for gout and fame to elevate you to a luxurious jubilee chair, but bear your triumph over the flowering heather, over wildernesses. And you are guilty of nothing: neither of this, that, nor anything.. Besides what have poets, in any case, to do with sin? They must dance before the Ark of the Covenant or die! But what am I trying to say? In the black sky no star is seen, somewhere in ambush lurks the Angel of Death, but the spices tongues of the masqueraders are loose and shameless A shout: "Make way for the hero!" Ah yes. Displacing the tall one, he will step forth now without fail and sing to us about holy vengeance... There is no death, each of us knows — it's banal to say. I'll leave it to others to explain. Is this the visitor from the wrong side of the mirror? Or the shape that suddenly flitted past my window? Is it the new moon playing tricks, or is someone really standing there again between the stove and the cupboard? This means that gravestones are fragile and granite is softer than wax. Absurd, absurd, absurd! From such absurdity I shall soon turn gray or change into another person. Why do you beckon me with your hand? For one moment of peace I would give the peace of the tomb. Requiem; 1935-1940 (1963; 1987) thumb|right|No foreign sky protected me, no stranger's wing shielded my face. Written over many years, this work was first published in 1963, but not in complete form until 1987. The base translation used here is that of Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward, with variant translations used as noted. No foreign sky protected me, no stranger's wing shielded my face. I stand as witness to the common lot, survivor of that time, that place. — 1961 Translated in Poems of Akhmatova (1973) by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward No, not under a foreign heavenly-cope, and Not canopied by foreign wings I was with my people in those hours, There where, unhappily, my people were. Translated by D. M. Thomas No, not under the vault of another sky, not under the shelter of other wings. I was with my people then, there where my people were doomed to be. Translator unknown. Instead of a Preface Such grief might make the mountain stoop, reverse the waters where they flow, but cannot burst these ponderous bolts that block us from the prison cells crowded with mortal woe... In the terrible years of the Yezhov terror, I spent seventeen months in the prison lines of Leningrad. Once, someone "recognized" me. Then a woman with bluish lips standing behind me, who, of course, had never heard me called by name before, woke up from the stupor to which everyone had succumbed and whispered in my ear (everyone spoke in whispers there):"Can you describe this?"And I answered: "Yes, I can."Then something that looked like a smile passed over what had once been her face. Leningrad, 1 April 1957 Dedication Such grief might make the mountain stoop, reverse the waters where they flow, but cannot burst these ponderous bolts that block us from the prison cells crowded with mortal woe... The mountains bow before this anguish, The great river does not flow. In mortal sadness the convicts languish; The bolts stay frozen. Translated by D. M. Thomas For some the wind can fleshly blow, for some the sunlight fade at ease, but we, made partners in our dread, hear but the grating of the keys, and heavy-booted soldiers' tread. As if for early mass, we rose and each day walked the wilderness, trudging through silent street and square, to congregate, less live than dead. Where are they now, my nameless friends from those two years I spent in hell? What specters mock them now, amid the fury of Siberian snows, or in the blighted circle of the moon? To them I cry, Hail and Farewell! — March 1940 Prologue That was a time when only the dead could smile, delivered from their wars, and the sign, the soul, of Leningrad dangled outside its prison-house... As translated by Stanley Kunitz In those years only the dead smiled, Glad to be at rest: And Leningrad city swayed like A needless appendix to its prisons. Translated by D. M. Thomas The stars of death stood over us. And Russia, guiltless, beloved, writhed under the crunch of bloodstained boots, under the wheels of Black Marias. Stars of death stood Above us, and innocent Russia Writhed under bloodstained boots, and Under the tyres of Black Marias. Translated by D. M. Thomas At dawn they came and took you away. You were my dead: I walked behind. In the dark room children cried, the holy candle gasped for air. They led you away... They took you away at daybreak. Half wak- ing, as though at a wake, I followed. In the dark chamber children were crying, In the image-case, candlelight guttered. At your lips, the chill of icon, A deathly sweat at your brow. I shall go creep to our walling wall, Crawl to the Kremlin towers. Translated by D. M. Thomas This woman is sick to her marrow-bone, this woman is utterly alone, with husband dead, with son away in jail. Pray for me. Pray. Not, not mine: it's somebody else's wound. I could never have borne it. So take the thing that happened, hide it, stick it in the ground. Whisk the lamps away... Night. No, it is not I, it is else who is suffering. I could not have borne it. And this thing, which has happened Let them cover it with black cloths, And take away the lanterns... Night. Translated by D. M. Thomas For seventeen months I have cried aloud calling you back to your lair. I hurled myself at the hangman's foot. You are my son, changed into nightmare. Confusion occupies the world, and I am powerless to tell somebody brute from something human, or on what day the word spells, "Kill!" The Sentence thumb|right|I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test. thumb|right|Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I must turn my soul to stone, I must learn to live again… The word dropped like a stone on my still living breast. Confess: I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test. As translated by Stanley Kunitz Then fell the word of stone on My still existing, still heaving breast. Never mind, I was not unprepared, and Shall manage to adjust to it somehow. Translated by D. M. Thomas And the stone word fell On my still-living breast. Never mind, I was ready. I will manage somehow. Translated by Judith Hemschemeyer from Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova (1989) Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I must turn my soul to stone, I must learn to live again— Unless ... Summer's ardent rustling Is like a festival outside my window. Translated by Judith Hemschemeyer from Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova (1989) To Death You will come in any case — so why not now? How long I wait and wait. The bad times fall. I have put out the light and opened the door for you, because you are simple and magical. Assume, then, any form that suits your wish, take aim, and blast at me with poisoned shot, or strangle me like an efficient mugger, or else infect me — typhus be my lot — It's all the same to me. The Yenisei swirls, the North Star shines, as it will shine forever; and the blue lustre of my loved one's eyes is clouded over by the final horror. — The House on the Fontanka, 19 August 1939 9 Already madness lifts its wing to cover half my soul. Now everything is clear. I admit my defeat. The tongue of my ravings in my ear is the tongue of a stranger. No use to fall down on my knees and beg for mercy's sake. Nothing I counted mine, out of my life, is mine to take... Crucifixion Also translated as "Crucifix" thumb|right|...and if a gag should bind my tortured mouth, through which a hundred million people shout, then let them pray for me, as I do pray for them, this eve of my remembrance day. A choir of angels glorified the hour, the vault of heaven was dissolved in fire. "Father, why hast Thou forsaken me? Mother, I beg you, do not weep for me..." This greatest hour was hallowed and thundered By angel's choirs; fire melted sky. He asked his Father:"Why am I abandoned...?" And told his Mother: "Mother, do not cry..." Translated by Tanya Karshtedt (1996) Mary Magdalene beat her breasts and sobbed, His dear disciple, stone-faced, stared. His mother stood apart. No other looked into her secret eyes. Nobody dared. — 1940-1943 Magdalena struggled, cried and moaned. Piter sank into the stone trance... Only there, where Mother stood alone, None has dared cast a single glance. Translated by Tanya Karshtedt (1996) Mary Magdalene beat her breast and sobbed, The beloved disciple turned to stone, But where the silent Mother stood, there No one glanced and no one would have dared. Translated by Judith Hemschemeyer Epilogue I have learned how faces fall to bone, how under the eyelids terror lurks, how suffering inscribes on cheeks the hard lines of its cuneiform texts, how glossy black or ash-fair locks turn overnight to tarnished silver, how smiles fade on submissive lips, and fear quavers in a dry titter. And I pray not for myself alone.. for all who stood outside the jail, in bitter cold or summer's blaze, with me under that blind red wall. </p>I've woven them a garment that's prepared out of poor words, those that I overheard, </p> and will hold fast to every word and glance all of my days, even in new mischance, and if a gag should bind my tortured mouth, through which a hundred million people shout, then let them pray for me, as I do pray for them, this eve of my remembrance day. I should like to call you all by name, But they have lost the lists... I have, woven fore them a great shroud Out of the poor words I overheard them speak. I remember them always and everywhere, And if they shut my tormented mouth, Through which a hundred million of my people cry, Let them remember me also... Translated by D. M. Thomas Quotes about Akhmatova thumb|right| The importance of Akhmatova's works in the Russian poetic tradition can scarcely be exaggerated. ~ Olga P. Hasty thumb|right|Akhmatova's is a "poetry of witness" that defends the individual against all forms of coercion. ~ M.L. Raina From the works of Primo Levi to the recipes of imagined foods found in the concentration camps of Terezin to the brave poetry of Anna Akhmatova written during the Stalinist era, we are forced to acknowledge the power of poetry to name the unspeakable-to enter and to illuminate the secret corridor of horrors. Marjorie Agosín Invisible Dreamer (2002) I think the first discovery I made for myself which I didn't necessarily share with my family or my friends, but came upon myself, was Russian literature. I've always felt very much enthralled to writers like Dostoevsky, especially, and Chekhov. In later years, modern Russian poets like Pasternak and Mandelstam and Akhmatova have meant a great deal to me. Poetry more than prose. Anita Desai In Interviews with Writers of the Post-Colonial World edited by Feroza Jussawalla and Reed Way Dasenbrock (1992) The importance of Akhmatova's works in the Russian poetic tradition can scarcely be exaggerated. These works also hold a place of honor in the history of artistic engagement of moral responsibility. Olga P. Hasty, Princeton University Anna Andreevna Akhmatova used poetry to give voice to the struggles and deepest yearnings of the Russian people, for whom she remains the greatest of literary heroines. She has lately come to symbolize for the world even beyond Russia the power of art to survive and transcend the terrors of our century. Judith Hemschemeyer in A Stranger to Heaven and Earth (1993) Akhmatova never ceased to be astonished at the resurrection of poetry once trampled underfoot, wiped out, it had seemed, once and for all. "We never realized that poetry has such a long life," she was always saying, and "poetry isn't what we thought it was when we were young"...I never ceased to believe in M.'s and Akhmatova's poetry. In our depersonalized world where everything human was silenced, only the poet preserved his "self" and a voice which can still be heard even now. Nadezhda Mandelstam Hope Abandoned (1974) Translated from the Russian by Max Hayward Akhmatova introduced all the enormous complexity and wealth of the nineteenth century novel into the Russian lyric. If not for Tolstoi's Anna Karenina, Turgenev's Nest of Gentlefolk (Dvorianskoe gnezdo), all of [[Dostoevsky and even some Leskov, there would be no Akhmatova. Akhmatova's genesis lies entirely in the realm of Russian prose, not in poetry. She developed her poignant and unique poetic form with a backward glance at psychological prose. Osip Mandelstam A LETTER ABOUT RUSSIAN POETRY translated into English in The complete critical prose (1997) Akhmatova was neither a woman poet in the narrow militant feminist sense in which the term is understood today, nor just a poet of Russia alone.... Her poetic involvements went beyond the domesticated lyricism of conventional feminine poetry and embraced larger questions of political and social inequity. Though essentially a poet of "the keening muse", as Joseph Brodsky described her, Akhmatova rose above personal sorrows (too numerous to relate here) to create a disciplined yet many-layered work of haunting reverberation. … Akhmatova's is a "poetry of witness" that defends the individual against all forms of coercion. Such poetry does not go into "holes of oblivion" as Hannah Arendt would put it, but nags our guilt of connivance with tyrants like Hitler or Stalin. It invokes religious symbolism to reinforce the language of extremity and to compensate for the fragmentation of social vision caused by the turmoil of the times. … The poetry of witness draws upon what Akhmatova calls "the invisible ink" of others to strengthen its claims to authenticity, not as a substitute for ones tattered memories but as a reminder that others have gone down the same path as oneself. M.L. Raina in "The poet as witness" in The Tribune (India) (18 April 2004) One of the great Russian poets and a national heroine, Anna Akhmatova (née Gorenko) is not venerated outside Russia as a major poetic voice of the twentieth century. She seemed born to endure the great tragedy in her life and indeed was one of Stalin's most long-suffering literary victims. Her tremendous will to survive, in her self-appointed role as witness of the Great Terror, testifies to huge inner reserves of moral strength that sustained her through years of extreme poverty and isolation, to ultimately become a latter-day nemesis of the dark days of Stalinism. … Her individualism survived the early days of foment in Soviet literature, when literary experimentation was for a short while tolerated, but her work was soon looked upon as insufficiently socialist in its concerns and was suppressed as "bourgeois" after the publication of her collection Anno Domini MCMXXI in 1922. It was the appearance of this work that prompted the eminent Soviet literary critic Boris Eichenbaum to famously deride Akhmatova as "half nun, half harlot" (an epithet later reprised by Andrey Zhdanov in the campaign against Akhmatova in the 1940s). Helen Rappaport, in Joseph Stalin : A Biographical Companion (1999), p. 1 I remembered a poem about queues by Anna Akhmatova-who unlike many of her peers, had survived the Gulag. Well, sort of: "In the terrible years of the Yezhov terror, I spent seventeen months in the prison lines of Leningrad. Once, someone "recognized" me. Then a woman with bluish lips standing behind me, who, of course, had never heard me called by name before, woke up from the stupor to which everybody had succumbed and whispered in my ear (everyone spoke in whispers there): "Can you describe this?" And I answered: "Yes, I can." Then something that looked like a smile passed over what had once been her face." Akhmatova, her first husband Nikolay Gumilyov, Osip Mandelstam, and three other poets were part of Acmeism, a poets' guild. In 1921, Gumilyov was shot by a firing squad for counterrevolutionary activity. Mandelstam was arrested in 1934 for writing an ode to Stalin that showed signs of satire and was not convincing enough in its praise." Arundhati Roy Things that Can and Cannot Be Said (2016) External links Brief biography at Kirjasto (Pegasos) Anna Akhmatova Page Brief biography at OdessaWeb Brief biography at the Academy of American Poets Brief biography at St. Petersburg guide Akhmatova: brief biography, Requiem audio presentation, links "Requiem" (dual language presentation; translation by ) "Requiem" as translated by Judith Hemschemeyer Selected poems as translated by D. M. Thomas Selected poems as translated by A. S. Kline Dual-language selections White Flock, translated by Ilya Shambat Selected Poems at Allspirit Selected Poems at Poetseers Selected Poems at Poetry Lovers Selected poems at Friends & Partners "The poet as witness" by M.L. Raina at The Tribune [India] (18 April 2004) "The Obverse of Stalinism: Akhmatova's self-serving charisma of selflessness" by Alexander Zholkovsky "Anna Akhmatova: Scripts, Not Scriptures" by Alexander Zholkovsky Category:1889 births Category:1966 deaths Category:Poets Category:Poets from Russia Category:Translators Category:Translators from Russia Category:Historians Category:Historians from Russia Category:Women authors from Ukraine Category:People from Odesa Category:Women born in the 1880s Category:Women authors from Russia