Anna Akhmatova

(23 June 1889 – 5 March 1966 / Odessa)

Anna Akhmatova Poems

1. To The Muse 10/5/2011
2. To Fall Ill As One Should, Deliriously 4/8/2010
3. Our Native Earth 4/8/2010
4. One Goes In Straightforward Ways 4/8/2010
5. Let Somebody Else Rest By Southern Sea 4/8/2010
6. The Pillow Hot 4/8/2010
7. My Hands Clasped Under A Veil 4/8/2010
8. Music 4/8/2010
9. If The Moon On The Skies Does Not Roam 4/8/2010
10. So Again We Triumph! 4/8/2010
11. There Are The Words That Couldn’t Be Twice Said 4/8/2010
12. Reading 'Hamlet' 4/8/2010
13. To Boris Pasternak 4/8/2010
14. You, Who Was Born For Poetry's Creation 4/8/2010
15. Rachel 4/8/2010
16. You'Ll Live, But I'Ll Not; Perhaps 4/8/2010
17. To The Many 4/8/2010
18. Now No-One Will Be Listening To Songs 4/8/2010
19. I Was Born In The Right Time, In Whole 4/8/2010
20. Muse 4/8/2010
21. The Victory 4/8/2010
22. My Way 4/8/2010
23. They Didn’t Meet 4/8/2010
24. Here Pushkin’s Endless Exile Has Begun 4/8/2010
25. I Saw My Friend At The Front Door 4/8/2010
26. This Evening’s Light Is Golden Bright 4/8/2010
27. The Last Toast 4/8/2010
28. I Have No Use For Odic Legions 4/8/2010
29. Sunshine Has Filled The Room 4/8/2010
30. How Many Demands... 4/8/2010
31. In The Evening 4/8/2010
32. Thoughts Of The Sunlight 4/8/2010
33. In Dream 4/8/2010
34. Somewhere There Is A Simple Life 4/8/2010
35. True Tenderness 4/8/2010
36. Alexander By Thebes 4/8/2010
37. Greetings! 4/8/2010
38. He Did Love 4/8/2010
39. Gray-Eyed King 4/8/2010
40. Song Of The Final Meeting 4/8/2010
Best Poem of Anna Akhmatova

Everything

Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded,
black death’s wing’s overhead.
Everything’s eaten by hunger, unsated,
so why does a light shine ahead?

By day, a mysterious wood, near the town,
breathes out cherry, a cherry perfume.
By night, on July’s sky, deep, and transparent,
new constellations are thrown.

And something miraculous will come
close to the darkness and ruin,
something no-one, no-one, has known,
though we’ve longed for it since we were children.

Read the full of Everything

In Memory Of M.B.

Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,
not sticks of burning incense.
You lived aloof, maintaining to the end
your magnificent disdain.
You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes,
and suffocated inside stifling walls.
Alone you let the terrible stranger in,
and stayed with her alone.

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