Anna Akhmatova

(23 June 1889 – 5 March 1966 / Odessa)

Anna Akhmatova Poems

1. We Don't Know How To Say Goodbye 7/3/2015
2. "Thank You, God..." 8/26/2015
3. To The Londoners 10/23/2015
4. I am a Bard... 11/26/2015
5. When I Write Poems 11/26/2015
6. One Goes In Straightforward Ways 4/8/2010
7. To Fall Ill As One Should, Deliriously 4/8/2010
8. Let Somebody Else Rest By Southern Sea 4/8/2010
9. Now No-One Will Be Listening To Songs 4/8/2010
10. So Again We Triumph! 4/8/2010
11. I Have No Use For Odic Legions 4/8/2010
12. Our Native Earth 4/8/2010
13. The Victory 4/8/2010
14. They Didn’t Meet 4/8/2010
15. Reading 'Hamlet' 4/8/2010
16. My Way 4/8/2010
17. Here Pushkin’s Endless Exile Has Begun 4/8/2010
18. Alexander By Thebes 4/8/2010
19. The Pillow Hot 4/8/2010
20. As A White Stone In The Well's Cool Deepness 4/8/2010
21. I Saw My Friend At The Front Door 4/8/2010
22. How Many Demands... 4/8/2010
23. Music 4/8/2010
24. Sunshine Has Filled The Room 4/8/2010
25. To Boris Pasternak 4/8/2010
26. I Was Born In The Right Time, In Whole 4/8/2010
27. If The Moon On The Skies Does Not Roam 4/8/2010
28. My Hands Clasped Under A Veil 4/8/2010
29. Along The Hard Crust Of Deep Snows 4/8/2010
30. There Are The Words That Couldn’t Be Twice Said 4/8/2010
31. You'Ll Live, But I'Ll Not; Perhaps 4/8/2010
32. Rachel 4/8/2010
33. You, Who Was Born For Poetry's Creation 4/8/2010
34. Thunder 1/21/2003
35. To The Muse 10/5/2011
36. To The Many 4/8/2010
37. Muse 4/8/2010
38. Shade 1/21/2003
39. In The Evening 4/8/2010
40. The Last Toast 4/8/2010
Best Poem of Anna Akhmatova

Requiem

Not under foreign skies
Nor under foreign wings protected -
I shared all this with my own people
There, where misfortune had abandoned us.
[1961]

INSTEAD OF A PREFACE

During the frightening years of the Yezhov terror, I
spent seventeen months waiting in prison queues in
Leningrad. One day, somehow, someone 'picked me out'.
On that occasion there was a woman standing behind me,
her lips blue with cold, who, of course, had never in
her life heard my name. Jolted out of the torpor
characteristic of all of us, she said into my ear
(everyone whispered...

Read the full of Requiem

In Memory Of M.B.

Here is my gift, not roses on your grave,
not sticks of burning incense.
You lived aloof, maintaining to the end
your magnificent disdain.
You drank wine, and told the wittiest jokes,
and suffocated inside stifling walls.
Alone you let the terrible stranger in,
and stayed with her alone.

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