NORTHERN ELEGIES

From NORTHERN ELEGIES

THE FIRST

Prehistory

I no longer live there...

PUSHKIN

It's Dostoievsky's Russia ... The moon

Almost a quarter hidden by the bell tower.

Taverns are bustling, horse-cabs fly along,

Five-storey hulks are growing near the Smolny.

Dance-classes thrive, and money-changers' signs,

And signs for corsets, underwear and hats

And superb coffins - 'Shurnilov & Sons'.

But still, it's not changed much; not only I

Have said it could be an old lithograph,

Not first-class, but quite decent - 1870,

I'd guess ...

In winter, just before the dawn,

Or at the twilight - then behind the gates

Darkens the straight Liteiny Boulevard,

Not desecrated yet by Art Nouveau,

And opposite me Nekrasov, Saltikov,

Live on memorial plinths. How horrified

They'd be if they could see them! Let's move on.

And the splendid ditches of Old Russia, and

The rotting arbours in the little gardens,

A windowpane as black as a hole through ice.

And it seems things happened here which we

Had better not look in on. We should leave.

Not every place yields up its secrets, (and

Optina's monastery's closed to me ... )

Rustle of skirts, and patterning of plaids;

The mirrors, walnut-framed, astonished by

The beauty of Karenina; and in

The narrow hall, the wallpaper we loved

In childhood -lit by kerosene, the same

Plush on the armchairs ...

Everything disordered somehow, rushed...

Fathers, grandfathers, incomprehensible.

Lands mortgaged. And in Baden - roulette.

And there's a woman with translucent eyes

(So deep a blue, I couldn't look at them

And not think of the sea) and with white hands

And kindness that I have inherited

I t seems - a useless gift in this harsh life ...

The country shivers, and the convict from Omsk

Understood everything and made the sign of the cross

Over us all. Now like some kind of spirit

In this primordial chaos he shuffles, rises.

Midnight. His pen squeaks. Page after page stinks

Of the square where he awaited execution.

This is when we decided to be born

And, having timed it perfectly not to miss

The spectacles and entertainments still

To come, we bid farewell to non-existence.

3 September 1940, Leningrad

October 1943, Tashkent

Translated by D.M. Thomas, Everyman’s Library     

Epic & Dramatic Fragments & Long Poems 

[Translated by Judith Hemschemeyer, The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova]

NORTHERN ELEGIES

Everything is a sacrifice to your memory…

Pushkin

There will be seven-I decided

It is time to tempt fate,

And the first has finished

Its path to the pillory.

First

Prehistory

I no longer live there…

Pushkin

Dostoevsky's Russia. The moon,

Almost a quarter hidden by the bell tower.

Pubs are bustling, droshkies flying,

In Gorokhovaya, near Znameniya and Smolny,

Huge, five-storied monstrosities are growing,

Dance classes everywhere, money changers' signs,

A line of shops: "Henriette," "Basile," "André”

And magnificent coffins: "Shumilov Senior."

But still, the city hasn't changed much.

10 Not only I, but others as well,

Have noticed that sometimes it could

Resemble an old lithograph,

Not first class, but fairly decent,

From the Seventies, I'd guess.

Especially in winter, before d:lwn,

Or at twilight – then behind the gates

*

            Liteiny Boulevard darkens, rigid, straight,

Not yet disgraced by the Moderne,

And opposite me live-Nekrasov

And Saltikov ... Each on his memorial plaque.

Oh, how horrified they would be

To see those plaques! I move on.

And the splendid ditches of Old Russa,

And the rotting arbors in the little gardens,

And a windowpane as black as a hole m the ice,

And it seems that such things happened here

That we'd better not look in. Let's leave.

Not every place agrees

To render up its secrets

(And I won't be in Optina anymore... )

The rustle of skirts, the pattern of plaids,

The walnut frames of the mirrors

Amazed by Karenina's beauty,

And in the narrow hall the wallpaper

We feasted our eyes on in our childhood

By the yellow light of the kerosene lamp,

And the same plush on the armchairs...

Everything out of order, rushed, somehow...

Fathers and grandfathers incomprehenslble.

Lands mortgaged. And in Baden-roulette.

And a woman with translucent eyes

(Of such deep blue, that to gaze into them

And not think of the sea was impossible),

With the rarest of names and white hands,

And a kindness that as an inheritance

I have from her, it seems-

Useless gift for my harsh life ...

The country shivers, and the convict from Omsk

Understood everything and made the sign of the cross

            over it all

           

Now he shuffles everything around

And, over this primordial chaos,

Like some kind of spirit, he rises. Midnight SI )111

His pen squeaks, and page after page

Stinks of Semyonov Square.

This is when we decided to be born,

And timing it perfectly

So as not to miss any of those pageants

Yet to come, we bid farewell to non-existence

September 3, 1940

Leningrad

October 1943

Tashkent 

[Translated by Judith Hemschemeyer, The Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova]