The Autumn that never came

Hello everyone!

Recently i read a biography about an astonishing Russian poet, Anna Akhmatova...To be honest, i think that there are already so many important female poets and writers for whom we know

nothing about, even though they were pretty famous in their time, like Sappho in Greece, or this poet, whom honestly i knew nothing about before i read that book.

Anyway, by reading some of her poems (by the way the book i read is written in Greek) i can tell i instantly fell in love with her style. She is a mixture of patriotism and tradition along with a strong opposition towards anything conventional or anything restricting personal freedom. 

Her poems are mainly inspired by Shakespear, Rabelais, Gautier and many more which i also adore, so it was inevitable to adore her art!

She was also good friends with the painter Modgliani, how cool is that? 

(P.S. The painting above is her portrait created by Modigliani)

Here are some of her poems (some in english, some in Greek):

Το τελευταίο τριαντάφυλλο

Θα πρέπει με τη Μοζόροβα να υποκλιθώ,

Να χορέψω με του Ηρώδη την προγονή,

Με της Διδώς τον καπνό ν' ανεβώ,

Μόνο για να επιστρέψω στην πυρά της Ζαν Ντ' Αρκ.

Κύριε! Βλέπεις ότι είμαι κουρασμένη

Για να ζήσω, να πεθάνω, να αναστηθώ.

Πάρ' τα μου όλα, αλλά κάνε μου τη χάρη

Του φρέσκου βαθυκόκκινου τριαντάφυλλου να νιώσω την αφή.

(1962, Κομάροβο)

Θρήνος Θανάτου

Τη ζωή σου δεν τελείωσες, 

Από το χιόνι δεν σηκώθηκες.

28 μαχαιριές ξιφολόγχης

5 πυροβολισμοί περιστρόφου.

Έναν τόσο φριχτό έραψα

Για τον φίλο μου μανδύα.

Αίμα αγαπά και πάντα αίμα

Η ρώσική μας γη.

(1921, ποίημα για την δολοφονία του πρώτου άντρα της και μεγάλου της έρωτα Γκουμιλιόφ)

On the road where Donskoi

Once led his great army,

Where the wind recalls the enemy,

Where the moon is yellow with horns,—

I passed along as if in a deep sea…

Even the fragrance of wild roses

Was metamorphosed into words,

And I was ready to meet

The seventh onslaught of my destiny.

You are with me again, my autumn-friend!—In. Annenskii

Let who chooses, loll in the south

And pamper themselves in paradise gardens.

Here is the real north—and autumn is

The companion I choose this year.

I live, as if in a strange imaginary house,

Where, it may be, I have died.

And it seems, Finnish reflections

Appeared in its blank mirrors.

I walk among black stubby firs,

Where heather resembles the wind.

And the glow of the moon is lusterless silver

Like a Finnish saw-edged knife.

Here I carried the happy memories

Of the last non-meeting with you—

The cold, clean, unquenched flame

Of my triumph over destiny.

1956. Komarovo

Love, Eliza K