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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.

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
Turn
Banished
Gone
Muse
Turns
Guard
Fear
Pace
Comes
Dawn
Night
Ignorant
Place
Poet
Poetry
Quickened

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Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter.
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Poems are my link with the times, with the new life of my people.
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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.
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I seem to myself, as in a dream, Am accidental guest in this dreadful body.
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All has been looted, betrayed, sold black death's wing flashed ahead.
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If I can't have love, if I can't find peace, / Give me a bitter glory.
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Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, Who suffered death because she chose to turn.
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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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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.
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That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
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You do not know just what you've been forgiven.
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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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Wild honey smells of freedom The dust - of sunlight The mouth of a young girl, like a violet But gold - smells of nothing.
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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.
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I am not one of those who left the land to the mercy of its enemies. Their flattery leaves me cold, my songs are not for them to praise.
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Italy is a dream that keeps returning for the rest of your life.
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... he is rewarded with a form of eternal childhood, with the bounty and vigilance of the stars, the whole world was his inheritance and he shared it with everyone.
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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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Rising from the past, my shadow Is running in silence to meet me.
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