Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter. Anna Akhmatova More Quotes by Anna Akhmatova More Quotes From Anna Akhmatova You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms. Anna Akhmatova storm remember thinking Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of your life. Anna Akhmatova rest-of-your-life dream The whole time I was hoping my silence would fit yours and exclamation marks would gently float across time and space so that boundaries would be crossed; the whole time I was praying you would read my eyes and understand what I was never able to understand. See, we were never about butterflies. We’ve always been about burning stars. All about us is unearthly and radiant. Anna Akhmatova butterfly stars eye It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently. Anna Akhmatova painful soul During the terrible years of the Yekhov terror I spent seventeen months in the prison queues in Leningrad. One day someone ‘identified’ me. Then a woman with lips blue with cold who was standing behind me, and of course had never heard of my name, came out of the numbness which affected us all and whispered in my ear—(we all spoke in whispers there): ‘Could you describe this?’ I said, ‘I can!’ Then something resembling a smile slipped over what had once been her face. Anna Akhmatova numbness blue years I am in the middle of it: chaos and poetry; poetry and love and again, complete chaos. Pain, disorder, occasional clarity; and at the bottom of it all: only love; poetry. Sheer enchantment, fear, humiliation. It all comes with love Anna Akhmatova enchantment pain and-love 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. Anna Akhmatova fire heart thinking My shadow serves as the friend I crave Anna Akhmatova crave shadow Forgive me, that I manage badly, Manage badly but live gloriously, That I leave traces of myself in my songs, That I appeared to you in waking dreams. Anna Akhmatova forgive-me dream song As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves. Anna Akhmatova festivals terrible past Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief. Anna Akhmatova call-me grief insomnia We learned not to meet anymore, We don't raise our eyes to one another, But we ourselves won't guarantee What could happen to us in an hour. Anna Akhmatova hours eye guarantees The stars of death stood over us. And Russia, guiltless, beloved, writhed under the crunch of bloodstained boots, under the wheels of Black Marias. Anna Akhmatova russia black stars Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard. Anna Akhmatova confused real quiet Flowers, cold from the dew, And autumn's approaching breath, I pluck for the warm, luxuriant braids, Which haven't faded yet. In their nights, fragrantly resinous, Entwined with delightful mystery, They will breathe in her springlike Extraordinary beauty. But in a whirlwind of sound and fire, From her shing head they will flutter And falland before her They will die, faintly fragrant still. And, impelled by faithful longing, My obedient gaze will feast upon them With a reverent hand, Love will gather their rotting remains. Anna Akhmatova autumn flower fall Mary Magdalene beat her breasts and sobbed, Anna Akhmatova beloved mother stones Rising from the past, my shadow Is running in silence to meet me. Anna Akhmatova silence running past In the terrible years of the Yezhov terror I spent seventeen months waiting in line outside the prison in Leningrad. One day somebody in the crowd identified me . . . and asked me in a whisper . . . "Can you describe this?" And I said: "I can." Anna Akhmatova waiting-in-line one-day years 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. Anna Akhmatova body summer years 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. Anna Akhmatova age rivers fall
