As an English speaker attempting to reflect the fullness and timbre of a mighty Russian woman writing poetry, I am regrettably lacking for the task. To properly read Selected Poems by Anna Akhmatova, the best groundwork might be doctoral-level awareness of the events and atmosphere of her times. Absent that, I am left with a cup of hot tea, some bright light through the sun porch window, Cheryl Crow’s Globe Sessions, and the hope of illumination. How can a contemporary reader, one who enjoys poetry and wants to explore a selection of luxurious verse from a grand poet, possibly attempt an understanding of that work as it relates to Akhmatova‘s world? The answer is to simply fall in, allowing the words to swirl and fashion images that will have unmistakable power, if not complete resonance.

Anna Akhmatova’s Selected Poems, translated by D.M. Thomas, suggests some marvels of the artist’s path without presenting the full poet or her abundance of language. At 160 pages, Selected Poems are only a fragment of Akhmatova’s creation. The reality of translation weakens the force of the Russian as it is changed into practicable English. Any English reader of a Russian writer is at a slight disadvantage from the start in this respect, as the two languages are largely incongruous. Knowing this, and appreciating nonetheless the effort of D.M. Thomas’ translation, the reader of Selected Poems may glimpse the essence of Akhmatova’s style. And that is a wonderful thing. As Anna Akhmatova’s life saw the transition of the lush St. Petersburg into cold, utilitarian Leningrad, so the poetry of the Russian Grande dame transforms from the dynamic imagery of her early form into tighter, more rhythmic verse in her maturity.

Akhmatova’s early poems are markedly sensuous, bringing the opulence of emotion to the page without extraneous sentiment. From 1911, while she was married to her first husband, Nikolai Gumilev, but abandoned by him:

"White Night"

I haven’t locked the door,
Nor lit the candles,
You don’t know, don’t care,
That tired I haven’t the strength
To decide to go to bed.
Seeing the fields fade in
The sunset murk of pine-needles,
And to know all is lost,
That life is a cursed hell:
I’ve got drunk
On your voice in the doorway.
I was sure you’d come back.

"A Ride"

My feather was brushing the top of the carriage
And I was looking into his eyes.
There was a pining in my heart
I could not recognize.
The evening was windless, chained
Solidly under a cloudbank,
As if someone had drawn the Bois de Boulogne
In an old album in black indian ink.
A mingled smell of lilac and benzine,
A peaceful watchfulness.
His hand touched my knees
A second time almost without trembling.

Autumn changed to rainy winter,
Wind blew into the white room
Through open windows. Ivy on the garden
Wall. Strange dogs came to the yard
And howled under my window all night.
It was a bad time for the heart.

The final section includes two of Akhmatova’s masterpieces, "Requiem" and "Poem Without a Hero." "Requiem" was composed during the years of her son’s imprisonment by Stalin. It takes the form of several laments…

"4"

Someone should have shown you---little jester,
Little teaser, blue-veined charm-
Er, laughing-eyed, lionized, sylvan-princessly
Sinner---to what point you would come:
How, the three hundredth in a queue,
You’d stand at the prison gate
And with your hot tears
Burn through the New-Year ice.
How many lives are ending there! Yet it’s
Mute, even the prison-poplar’s
Tongue’s in its cheek as it’s swaying.

from "Crucifixion"

Magdalina beat her breast and wept, while
The loved disciple seemed hammered out of stone.
But, for the Mother, where she stood in silence,---
No one as much as dared to look that way.