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Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.
Anna Akhmatova
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Anna Akhmatova
Age: 76 †
Born: 1889
Born: June 23
Died: 1966
Died: March 5
Author
Literary Critic
Literary Scholar
Poet
Translator
Writer
Odesa
Anna Andreyevna Gorenko
Anna Achmatova
Anna Ahmatova
Anna Gorenko
Anna Andreevna Gorenko
Anna Andreevna Akhmatova
Call
Maliciously
Insomnia
Mock
Sinner
Grief
More quotes by Anna Akhmatova
I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house
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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.
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Sunset in the ethereal waves: I cannot tell if the day is ending, or the world, or if the secret of secrets is inside me again.
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Real tenderness can't be confused, It's quiet and can't be heard.
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You do not know just what you've been forgiven.
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Courage: Great Russian word, fit for the songs of our children's children, pure on their tongues, and free.
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You will hear thunder and remember me, and think: she wanted storms.
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But Fear and the Muse in turn guard the place Where the banished poet has gone And the night that comes with quickened pace Is ignorant of dawn.
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Song falls silent, music is dumb, But the air burns with their fragrance, And white winter, on its knees, Observes everything with reverent attention.
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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.
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The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones unspoken phrases, silent words.
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It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently.
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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.
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I go forth to seek To seek and claim the lovely magic garden Where grasses softly sigh and Muses speak.
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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.
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If I can't have love, if I can't find peace, / Give me a bitter glory.
Anna Akhmatova
Rising from the past, my shadow Is running in silence to meet me.
Anna Akhmatova
And this tenderness was not like That which a certain poet At the beginning of the century called true And, for some reason, quiet. No, not at all— It rang out, like the first waterfall, It crunched like the crust of bluish ice And it prayed with a swanlike voice, And it broke down right before our eyes.
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I know beginnings, I know endings too, and life-in-death, and something else I'd rather not recall just now.
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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.
Anna Akhmatova
