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Слушать(AI)On The 100th Anniversary Of Anna Akhmatova
The fire and the page, the hewed hairs and the swords,
The grains and the millstone, the whispers and the clatter -- God saves all that -- especially the words Of love and pity, as His only way to utter.
The harsh pulse pounds and the blood torrent whips,
The spade knocks evenly in them, by gentle muse begotten,
For life is so unique, they from the mortal lips Sound more clear than from the divine wad-cotton.
Oh, the great soul,
I'm bowing overseas To you, who found them, and that, your smoldering portion,
Sleeping in the homeland, which, thanks to you, at least,
Obtained the gift of speech in the deaf-mute space ocean.
Joseph Brodsky
Iosif Aleksandrovich Brodsky (/ˈbrɒdski/; Russian: Ио́сиф Алекса́ндрович Бро́дский [ɪˈosʲɪf ɐlʲɪˈksandrəvʲɪtɕ ˈbrotskʲɪj] (About this soundliste
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Folk Tune
It's not that the Muse feels like clamming up,it's more like high time for the lad's last nap And the scarf-waving lass who wished him the bestdrives a steamroller across his chest And the words won't rise either like that rodor like log...
Tornfallet
There is a meadow in Swedenwhere I lie smitten,eyes stained with clouds'white ins and outs And about that meadowroams my widowplaiting a cloverwreath for her lover I took her in marriagein a granite parish The snow lent her whitenes...
Stone Villages
The stone-built villages of England A cathedral bottled in a pub window Cows dispersed across fields Monuments to kings
For Schoolchildren
You know, I try, when darkness falls,to estimate to some degree —by marking off the grief in miles —the distance now from you to me And all the figures change to words:confusion, which begins at A,and hope, which starts at B, move toward...
