Anna Akhmatova

(23 June 1889 – 5 March 1966 / Odessa)

Anna Akhmatova Poems

1. Everything 1/21/2003
2. I Taught Myself To Live Simply 1/3/2003
3. You Will Hear Thunder 1/3/2003
4. Requiem 1/3/2003
5. Voronezh 1/21/2003
6. You Thought I Was That Type 1/3/2003
7. I Don'T Know If You'Re Alive Or Dead 1/3/2003
8. Solitude 1/3/2003
9. The Sentence 1/3/2003
10. Twenty-First. Night. Monday 1/3/2003
11. Memory Of Sun 1/3/2003
12. Under Her Dark Veil 1/3/2003
13. Celebrate 1/21/2003
14. How Can You Bear To Look At The Neva? 1/1/2004
15. Sunbeam 1/1/2004
16. Lying In Me 1/1/2004
17. I Wrung My Hands 1/3/2003
18. Lot's Wife 1/3/2003
19. March Elegy 1/3/2003
20. Thunder 1/21/2003
21. Crucifix 1/1/2004
22. In Memory Of M.B. 1/3/2003
23. White Night 1/1/2004
24. Willow 1/1/2004
25. I Hear The Oriole's Always-Grieving Voice 1/1/2004
26. Why Is This Age Worse...? 1/3/2003
27. Shade 1/21/2003
28. Here Is My Gift 4/8/2010
29. Departure 4/8/2010
30. Song Of The Final Meeting 4/8/2010
31. And As It's Going 4/8/2010
32. The Two Of Us Won’t Share A Glass Together 4/8/2010
33. In Human Closeness There Is A Secret Edge 4/8/2010
34. Along The Hard Crust Of Deep Snows 4/8/2010
35. A Widow In Black 4/8/2010
36. But Listen, I Am Warning You 4/8/2010
37. And You, My Friends Who Have Been Called Away 4/8/2010
38. Gray-Eyed King 4/8/2010
39. Somewhere There Is A Simple Life 4/8/2010
40. I Don'T Like Flowers 4/8/2010
Best Poem of Anna Akhmatova

Everything

Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded,
black death’s wing’s overhead.
Everything’s eaten by hunger, unsated,
so why does a light shine ahead?

By day, a mysterious wood, near the town,
breathes out cherry, a cherry perfume.
By night, on July’s sky, deep, and transparent,
new constellations are thrown.

And something miraculous will come
close to the darkness and ruin,
something no-one, no-one, has known,
though we’ve longed for it since we were children.

Read the full of Everything

White Night

I haven't locked the door,
Nor lit the candles,
You don't know, don't care,
That tired I haven't the strength
To decide to go to bed.
Seeing the fields fade in
The sunset murk of pine-needles,
And to know all is lost,

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