Two poems by ANNA AKHMATOVA (translated by Ilya Kaminsky and Katie Farris)
from Northern Elegies, # 4
As for memories, they have three parts--
the first is only yesterday
when laughter is still heard, but our cheeks
are wet—this part doesn’t last long. Already
a different sun is over us; not far
is an empty house, walls are frozen in March and in August humid,
where spiders are dust and chairs are dust and doors,
photographs are transformed
into photographs, and people come to this house as to a cemetery,
and, back at home, they wash their hands, breathing,
not breathing. But the clock ticks, April
becomes April, the sky is sky,
cities change to cities, witnesses die,
there is no neighbor to cry with, no face to spit at.
And the our dead slowly walk from us,
to our dead. Their
return to us would be terrifying.
We find we have forgotten
even the highway number that led to the lonely house,
and, choked with shame or anger, jump in the car and drive to it,
but all (as in our sleep) is different:
neighbors, chairs, walls, and no one sees us—
we’re foreigners. We got off on the wrong highway exit
and now we stand here
and we realize that we could not contain
this past in our lungs, our hands,
it has become almost as foreign to us
as a deaf neighbor in the next apartment is foreign.
And yes, we would not recognize
our own dead husbands, mothers, wives, children; and those
whom God separated from us, got on
splendidly without us—all is for the better…
Translated from the Russian by Ilya Kaminsky and Katie Farris
28 The Paris-American
As for memories, they have three parts--
the first is only yesterday
when laughter is still heard, but our cheeks
are wet—this part doesn’t last long. Already
a different sun is over us; not far
is an empty house, walls are frozen in March and in August humid,
where spiders are dust and chairs are dust and doors,
photographs are transformed
into photographs, and people come to this house as to a cemetery,
and, back at home, they wash their hands, breathing,
not breathing. But the clock ticks, April
becomes April, the sky is sky,
cities change to cities, witnesses die,
there is no neighbor to cry with, no face to spit at.
And the our dead slowly walk from us,
to our dead. Their
return to us would be terrifying.
We find we have forgotten
even the highway number that led to the lonely house,
and, choked with shame or anger, jump in the car and drive to it,
but all (as in our sleep) is different:
neighbors, chairs, walls, and no one sees us—
we’re foreigners. We got off on the wrong highway exit
and now we stand here
and we realize that we could not contain
this past in our lungs, our hands,
it has become almost as foreign to us
as a deaf neighbor in the next apartment is foreign.
And yes, we would not recognize
our own dead husbands, mothers, wives, children; and those
whom God separated from us, got on
splendidly without us—all is for the better…
Translated from the Russian by Ilya Kaminsky and Katie Farris
28 The Paris-American
from Wild Honey Is a Smell of Freedom
Wild honey has a scent - of freedom
Dust - a scent of sunshine
And a girl’s mouth - of violets.
But gold - nothing.
Water - like mignonette.
And like apple - love.
But we have learned that
blood smells only of blood.
Translated from the Russian by Ilya Kaminsky and Katie Farris
29 The Paris-American
Wild honey has a scent - of freedom
Dust - a scent of sunshine
And a girl’s mouth - of violets.
But gold - nothing.
Water - like mignonette.
And like apple - love.
But we have learned that
blood smells only of blood.
Translated from the Russian by Ilya Kaminsky and Katie Farris
29 The Paris-American
Poem by POLINA BARSKOVA (tr. by Ilya Kaminksy)
Manuscript Found by Natasha Rostova During the Fire
I will try to live on earth without you.
I will try to live on earth without you.
I will become any object,
I don’t care what--
I will be this speeding train.
This smoke
or a beautiful gay man laughing in the front seat.
A human body is defenseless
on earth.
It’s a piece of fire-wood.
Ocean water hits it.
Lenin puts it on his official shoulder.
And therefore, in order not to suffer, a human spirit
lives
inside the wind and inside the wood and inside the shoulder of a great dictator.
But I will not be water. I will not be a fire.
I will be an eyelash.
A sponge washing your neck-hairs.
Or a verb, an adjective, I will become. Such a word
slightly lights your cheek.
What happened? Nothing.
Something visited? Nothing.
What was there you cannot whisper.
No smoke without fire, they whisper.
I will be a handful of smoke
over this lost city of Moscow.
I will console any man,
I will sleep with any man,
under the army’s traveling horse carriages.
Translated from the Russian by Ilya Kaminsky
30 The Paris-American
I will try to live on earth without you.
I will try to live on earth without you.
I will become any object,
I don’t care what--
I will be this speeding train.
This smoke
or a beautiful gay man laughing in the front seat.
A human body is defenseless
on earth.
It’s a piece of fire-wood.
Ocean water hits it.
Lenin puts it on his official shoulder.
And therefore, in order not to suffer, a human spirit
lives
inside the wind and inside the wood and inside the shoulder of a great dictator.
But I will not be water. I will not be a fire.
I will be an eyelash.
A sponge washing your neck-hairs.
Or a verb, an adjective, I will become. Such a word
slightly lights your cheek.
What happened? Nothing.
Something visited? Nothing.
What was there you cannot whisper.
No smoke without fire, they whisper.
I will be a handful of smoke
over this lost city of Moscow.
I will console any man,
I will sleep with any man,
under the army’s traveling horse carriages.
Translated from the Russian by Ilya Kaminsky
30 The Paris-American
Anna Akhmatova was a Russian modernist poet. A couple of her most celebrated poems include Requiem and Poem Without a Hero.
Polina Barskova is an assistant professor of Russian literature at Hampshire College. She received her B.A. from St. Petersburg State University
and her M.A. and Ph.D. from the University of California at Berkeley. Her scholarly publications include articles on Nabokov, the Bakhtin brothers, early
Soviet film, and the aestheticization of historical trauma. She has also authored six books of poetry in Russian.
and her M.A. and Ph.D. from the University of California at Berkeley. Her scholarly publications include articles on Nabokov, the Bakhtin brothers, early
Soviet film, and the aestheticization of historical trauma. She has also authored six books of poetry in Russian.
Ilya Kaminsky is the author of Dancing In Odessa (Tupelo) and
co-editor of Ecco Anthology of International Poetry (Harper Collins).
co-editor of Ecco Anthology of International Poetry (Harper Collins).
Katie Farris is the author of BOYSGIRLS (Marick Press) and co-translator of Guy Jean's "If I were Born in Prague" (Argos Books). She teaches at San Diego State Uniersity.