Anna Ahmatova (birth name Gorenko) was born in Odessa in 1889 and her first collection of poetry, "Evening," was published in 1912. Having started her poetry as narrowly intimate poet, Ahmatova then courageously turned to the motives of civil poetry, the war and revolution, reflecting Russia’s tragic history and philosophical notions.
Since the mid-1920s, Ahmatova was increasingly been accused of counter-revolutionary acts, and the publication of her poetry became increasingly difficult in the Soviet Union. In spite of everything, Ahmatova showed resistance to the inhuman Stalinist regime and continued fruitful creative work, although many poems remained in the drawer for many years.
In the 1930s, A. Ahmatova’s son, Lev Gumiljov, was arrested and imprisoned in the camp for many years. Arrested was also A. Ahmatova's third husband - art historian N. Punin. These terrible years of mass repression inspired the poet to start the tragic poem "Reekviem" in the 1930s that appeared in the Soviet Union only in 1987. During the years of Stalin's fearful rule, Ahmatova was under constant observation and numerous thorough searches were carried out in her flat, she did preserve the "Reekviem" manuscript, though her closest friends stored the poem in their memory.
V. Bezzubov 1990. "In the shade of the tree: poetry / Nikolai Gumiljov, Anna Ahmatova, Ossip Mandelstam", p. 149-150.
Foreign skies were not my fate surrounding,
Shelter found I not ’neath alien wings –
I embraced my people’s pain abounding
Here, where they endured its bitter stings.
1961
In place of a preface
In those dreadful years of the Yezhov terror I spent seventeen months in Leningrad’s prison queues. On one occasion someone “recognised” me. A woman standing behind me, who of course had never heard of me, awoke from the stupor we all shared and murmured in my ear (for we all spoke in whispers there):
“So can you describe this?”
And I said:
“I can.”
And as I answered, something resembling a smile slipped briefly across what had once been her face.
1st April 1957, Leningrad.
Dedication
This is grief that turns the hills to furrows,
Mighty river ceases in mid-flow,
But the sturdy prison gate view narrows,
And behind it wind the convict burrows
Theatre of deadly woe.
Fresh, the wind may blow in people’s faces,
Others wallow in the sunset’s blaze –
We, however, cannot see such places,
Only hearing hateful keys and paces
As the heavy-booted soldier strays.
[...]
Epilogue
I
So now I know how faces start to crumble,
How terror from beneath the eyelids peeps,
How cuneiform’s sharp strokes begin to chisel,
How suffering cuts the cheeks of one who weeps,
How curly hair, that once was black and ashen,
All of a sudden turns to silver grey,
How fades the smile on lips bereft of passion,
How trembles fear in laughter dry, not gay.
Not only for myself I utter prayer,
For all who with me stood, their sad watch keeping,
Who bitter cold and summer heat did share,
Beneath unseeing red partition weeping.
II
The hour of remembrance has come round again.
I see you and hear you and feel you with pain.
The one whom the window just couldn’t beguile,
The one who won’t trample beloved earth’s mile,
The one who with shake of her beautiful head:
“The gate of this prison’s become home,” she said.
I’d like to record all the names in a book,
They’ve taken the list, there is nowhere to look.
I’ve woven a shroud that will cover them all
From words of the wretched ones heard at this wall.
Wherever I am I’ll remember them yet,
Whatever new pain, I just cannot forget,
And if they’re successful in sealing my lips –
The lips from which millions’ and millions’ cry trips –
Let this be the thing that the bastards reminds
As yearly the day of my leaving unwinds.
If Russia decides – an unlikely event –
To put up a statue as my monument,
I’ll grant my permission for project’s design
As long as this stricture they all underline:
The seafront’s no longer the place it should be –
I’ve severed connections, from sea I’m now free –
And nor in Tsar’s garden at stump where we met,
Where desolate shadow’s awaiting me yet,
But here, where three hundred long hours I stayed
Where no one would open the latch as I prayed.
For I am afraid that when comes blissful death
Police-wagon’s rumble will cease with last breath,
That then I’ll forget how the hateful door slammed –
That like a wild beast did I cry with the damned.
And let from bronze motionless eyelids then flow
In place of my teardrops the fresh melting snow,
And coo let the dove of the jail from afar,
And ships pass by silent along the Neva.
Translation by Rupert Moreton.