Anna Akhmatova

(23 June 1889 – 5 March 1966 / Odessa)

Anna Akhmatova Poems

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