To avoid persecution by Stalin, Anna Akhmatova burnt her writings and memorised the words of her poem Requiem. By doing so she ensured. Explanation and analysis of Anna Akhmatova’s poem cycle “Requiem,” including overviews of the major groupings, trends, and overall themes. Anna Akhmatova. Requiem. 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.
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No foreign sky protected me, no stranger’s wing shielded my face.
Requiem (Anna Akhmatova) – Wikipedia
I stand as witness reequiem the common lot, survivor of that time, that place. One day somebody in the crowd identified me. Standing behind me was a woman, with lips blue from the cold, who had, of course, never heard me called by name before. Now she started out of the torpor common to us all and asked me in a whisper everyone whispered there: Dedication Such grief might make the mountains stoop, reverse the waters where they flow, but cannot burst these ponderous bolts that block us from the prison cells crowded with mortal woe.
Requiem – Poem by Anna Akhmatova
For some the wind can freshly blow, for some the sunlight fade at ease, but we, made partners in our dread, hear but the grating of the keys, and heavy-booted soldiers’ tread.
As if for early mass, we rose and each day walked the wilderness, trudging through silent street and square, to congregate, less live than dead. The sun declined, the Neva blurred, and hope sang always from afar. Whose sentence is decreed? That moan, that sudden spurt of woman’s tears, shows one distinguished from the rest, as if they’d knocked her to the ground and wrenched the heart out of her breast, then let her go, reeling, alone.
Where are they now, my nameless friends from those two years I spent in hell? What specters mock them now, amid the fury of Siberian snows, or in the blighted circle of the moon? To them I cry, Hail and Farewell!
Prologue That was a time when only the dead could smile, delivered from their wars, and the sign, the soul, of Leningrad dangled outside its prison-house; and the regiments of the condemned, herded in the railroad-yards, shrank from the engine’s whistle-song whose burden went, “Away, pariahs!
And Russia, guiltless, beloved, writhed under the crunch of bloodstained boots, under the wheels of Black Marias. I At dawn they came and took you away. You were my dead: In the dark room children cried, the holy candle gasped for air.
II Quietly flows the quiet Don; into my house slips the yellow moon. It leaps the sill, with its cap askew, and balks at a shadow, that yellow moon.
This woman is sick to her marrow-bone, this woman is utterly alone, with husband dead, with son away in jail. III Not, not mine: I could never have borne it. So take the thing that happened, hide it, stick it in the ground.
Requiem Poem by Anna Akhmatova – Poem Hunter
Whisk the lamps away. See there the prison poplar bending! Yet how many innocent lives are ending. V For seventeen months I have cried aloud, calling you back to your lair.
aohmatova I hurled myself at the hangman’s foot. You are my son, changed into nightmare. Confusion occupies the world, and I am powerless to tell somebody brute from something human, or on what day the word spells, “Kill! Night of stone, whose bright enormous star stares me straight in the eyes, promising death, ah soon! VI The weeks fly out of mind, I doubt that it occurred: I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test.
So much to do today: Hot summer’s feast brings rumors of carouse. How long have I foreseen qkhmatova brilliant day, this empty house? How long I wait and wait. The bad times fall. I have put out the light and opened the door for you, because you are simple and magical. It’s all the same to me.
The Yenisei swirls the North Star shines, as it will shine forever; and the blue lustre of my loved one’s eyes is clouded over by the final horror. IX Already madness lifts its wing to cover half my soul. That taste of opiate wine!
Lure of the dark valley! Now everything is clear. I admit my defeat.
The tongue of my ravings in my ear is the tongue of a stranger. No use to fall down on my knees and beg for mercy’s sake. Nothing I counted mine, out of my life, is mine to take: X Crucifixion “Do not weep for me, Mother, when I am in my grave.
Mother, I beg you, do not akhmatovq for me. His mother stood apart. No other looked into her secret eyes. Epilogue I Akhmarova have learned how faces fall to bone, how under the eyelids terror lurks how suffering inscribes on cheeks the hard lines of its cuneiform texts, how glossy black akhkatova ash-fair locks turn overnight akh,atova tarnished silver, how smiles fade on submissive lips, and fear quavers in a dry titter. And I pray not for myself alone. II Remembrance hour returns with the turning year.
I see, I hear, I touch you drawing near: I’ve woven them a garment that’s prepared out of poor words, those that I overheard, and will hold fast to every word and glance all of my days, even in new mischance, and if a gag should blind my tortured mouth, through which a hundred million people shout, then let them pray for me, as I do pray for them, this eve of my remembrance day.
Because even in blissful death I fear to lose the clangor of the Black Requkem, to lose the banging of that odious gate and the old crone howling like a wounded beast.
And from my motionless bronze-lidded sockets may the melting snow, like teardrops, slowly trickle, and a prison dove coo somewhere, over and over, as the ships sail softly down the flowing Neva. Anna AkhmatovaRussiantrans.