Today was not a good day. My head is fogged and heavy and thoughts can only try to trudge through the muck to connect to each other and be completed. I can blame the weather, but it is other things I just don't want to think about tonight. So, instead, poetry!
But since I'm in a mood - Akhmatova. No nonsense. Acmeistic words.

Anna Akhmatova

When I Write Poems

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, January 29, 2005
Corrected May-June 2008
Translated text via Poetry Lover's Page

When I’m embraced by airy inspiration,
I am a bridge between the sky and earth.
Of all what heart high-values in creation
I am a king, when breathing with a verse!

Just if my soul wishes it, my fairy,
I shall give you the peaceful coast band,
Where, with a hum, the pinky sea is carrying
The dreaming tide to reach the dreaming land.

I can do all, just trust in me: I’m mighty;
I have the roots for kindness and for love;
And if I want, from clouds and from the lightning
I’ll make a cover your sweet bed above.

And I can, dear, create a word such special,
That it would change laws of the whole world,
To call again its own celebration
And stop the sun from fall in the night cold.

I’m all another in my inspiration,
I am a bridge between the sky and earth.
Of all what heart high-values in creation
I am a king, when breathing with a verse!

(Couldn't find the Russian version online)

This one from here. Site did the trans. I'm too tired to translate it myself right now.


Все мы бражники здесь, блудницы,
Как невесело вместе нам!
На стенах цветы и птицы
Томятся по облакам.

Ты куришь черную трубку,
Так странен дымок над ней.
Я надела узкую юбку,
Чтоб казаться еще стройней.

Навсегда забиты окошки:
Что там, изморозь или гроза?
На глаза осторожной кошки
Похожи твои глаза.

О, как сердце мое тоскует!
Не смертного ль часа жду?
А та, что сейчас танцует,
Непременно будет в аду.

1 января 1913



***

We are all heavy-drinkers and whores,
What a joyless, miserable crowd!
There are flowers and birds on the walls
And the birds all pine for a cloud.

You are smoking your old black pipe,
And the smoke looks strange over it.
The skirt that I’m wearing feels tight,
But I hope that it makes me look fit.

What’s the weather – thunder or ice?
Here, the windows are all boarded shut.
I examine your face and your eyes
Have the look of a sly cautious cat.

Oh, what sadness I’m feeling inside!
Am I waiting for death’s solemn bell?
And that girl, who’s been dancing all night, -
She will surely end up in hell.

January 1, 1913