Quote

Mary Magdalene beat her breasts and sobbed, His dear disciple, stone-faced, stared. His mother stood apart. No other looked into her secret eyes. Nobody dared.

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
Looked
Beloved
Sobbed
Nobody
Stone
Dared
Beat
Stared
Eyes
Apart
Disciple
Secret
Beats
Faced
Mother
Stones
Mary
Dear
Breasts
Silent
Stood
Magdalene

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It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.
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That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.
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No, not under the vault of another sky, not under the shelter of other wings. I was with my people then, there where my people were doomed to be.
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You do not know just what you've been forgiven.
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All has been looted, betrayed, sold black death's wing flashed ahead.
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All that I am hangs by a thread tonight
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Now no one will listen to songs. The prophesied days have begun. Latest poem of mine, the world has lost its wonder, Don't break my heart, don't ring out.
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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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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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I seem to myself, as in a dream, Am accidental guest in this dreadful body.
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How the miracle of our meeting Shone there and sang, I didn't want to return From there to anywhere. Happiness instead of duty Was bitter delight to me. Not obliged to speak to anyone, I spoke for a long while. Let passions stifle lovers, Demanding answers, We, my dear, are only souls At the limits of the world.
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The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones unspoken phrases, silent words.
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My shadow serves as the friend I crave
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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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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.
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I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house
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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 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
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