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Anna Akhmatova: Poems
English, Russian (translation)
134 pages, Hardcover
Published January 1, 1983
About the author
Anna Akhmatova
427 books989 followersalso known as: Анна Ахматова and Anna Ajmátova
Personal themes characterize lyrical beauty of noted work of Russian poet Anna Akhmatova, pseudonym of Anna Andreevna Gorenko; the Soviet government banned her books between 1946 and 1958.
People credit this modernist of the most acclaimed writers in the canon.
Her writing ranges from short lyrics to universalized, ingeniously structured cycles, such as Requiem (1935-40), her tragic masterpiece about the Stalinist terror. Her work addresses a variety of themes including time and memory, the fate of creative women, and the difficulties of living and writing in the shadow of Stalinism. She has been widely translated into many languages, and is one of the best-known Russian poets of 20th century.
In 1910, she married the poet, Nikolay Gumilyov, who very soon left her for lion hunting in Africa, the battlefields of World War I, and the society of Parisian grisettes. Her husband did not take her poems seriously, and was shocked when Alexander Blok declared to him that he preferred her poems to his. Their son, Lev, born in 1912, was to become a famous Neo-Eurasianist historian.
Nikolay Gumilyov was executed in 1921 for activities considered anti-Soviet; Akhmatova then married a prominent Assyriologist Vladimir Shilejko, and then an art scholar, Nikolay Punin, who died in the Stalinist Gulag camps. After that, she spurned several proposals from the married poet, Boris Pasternak.
After 1922, Akhmatova was condemned as a bourgeois element, and from 1925 to 1940, her poetry was banned from publication. She earned her living by translating Leopardi and publishing essays, including some brilliant essays on Pushkin, in scholarly periodicals. All of her friends either emigrated or were repressed.
Her son spent his youth in Stalinist gulags, and she even resorted to publishing several poems in praise of Stalin to secure his release. Their relations remained strained, however. Akhmatova died at the age of 76 in St. Peterburg. She was interred at Komarovo Cemetery.
There is a museum devoted to Akhmatova at the apartment where she lived with Nikolai Punin at the garden wing of the Fountain House (more properly known as the Sheremetev Palace) on the Fontanka Embankment, where Akhmatova lived from the mid 1920s until 1952.
Personal themes characterize lyrical beauty of noted work of Russian poet Anna Akhmatova, pseudonym of Anna Andreevna Gorenko; the Soviet government banned her books between 1946 and 1958.
People credit this modernist of the most acclaimed writers in the canon.
Her writing ranges from short lyrics to universalized, ingeniously structured cycles, such as Requiem (1935-40), her tragic masterpiece about the Stalinist terror. Her work addresses a variety of themes including time and memory, the fate of creative women, and the difficulties of living and writing in the shadow of Stalinism. She has been widely translated into many languages, and is one of the best-known Russian poets of 20th century.
In 1910, she married the poet, Nikolay Gumilyov, who very soon left her for lion hunting in Africa, the battlefields of World War I, and the society of Parisian grisettes. Her husband did not take her poems seriously, and was shocked when Alexander Blok declared to him that he preferred her poems to his. Their son, Lev, born in 1912, was to become a famous Neo-Eurasianist historian.
Nikolay Gumilyov was executed in 1921 for activities considered anti-Soviet; Akhmatova then married a prominent Assyriologist Vladimir Shilejko, and then an art scholar, Nikolay Punin, who died in the Stalinist Gulag camps. After that, she spurned several proposals from the married poet, Boris Pasternak.
After 1922, Akhmatova was condemned as a bourgeois element, and from 1925 to 1940, her poetry was banned from publication. She earned her living by translating Leopardi and publishing essays, including some brilliant essays on Pushkin, in scholarly periodicals. All of her friends either emigrated or were repressed.
Her son spent his youth in Stalinist gulags, and she even resorted to publishing several poems in praise of Stalin to secure his release. Their relations remained strained, however. Akhmatova died at the age of 76 in St. Peterburg. She was interred at Komarovo Cemetery.
There is a museum devoted to Akhmatova at the apartment where she lived with Nikolai Punin at the garden wing of the Fountain House (more properly known as the Sheremetev Palace) on the Fontanka Embankment, where Akhmatova lived from the mid 1920s until 1952.
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Displaying 1 - 22 of 22 reviews
September 11, 2026
Joseph Brodsky writes of this poet in the Introduction, “the five open a’s of Anna Akhmatova had a hypnotic effect and put this name’s carrier firmly on top of the alphabet of Russian poetry.”
He adds that “she never resembled anyone,” and, of course, that is true (who does, really?), but I would argue that Akhmatova’s work is not unlike that of her American contemporaries at the time: Robert Frost and Edna St. Vincent Millay.
Here’s an example of Akhmatova’s verse, from 1917:
I hear the oriole’s voice, clear and distressed,
I greet the waning of the summer but
One wheat ear against another pressed
The sickles with reptilian hisses cut.
The short hems of the women in the field
Fly in the wind like flags on a holiday.
Now I yearn for the joyful bells that pealed,
His dusty lashes—And he didn’t look away.
I don’t expect caresses or words to spare
In expectation of that dark descent,
But do come look at the paradises where
Together we were blissful and innocent.
I can feel a little of Frost in her carefully metered lines and natural subject; I can feel a bit of Millay in her sentiment. And who would be resentful of sharing anything in common with these two?
These poets were writing in dark times; they were all three witnesses to both world wars, and, in Akhmatova’s case, an entire take-over of the government and life as they formerly knew it.
Akhmatova’s life was filled with death: murder, execution, war, revolution and, later, a life of surveillance and suspicion.
It's not surprising that my introduction to her poetry found her to be almost obsessively preoccupied with death.
This was a compilation of collected poems throughout her life, ordered only chronologically. I prefer individual collections, but beggars can’t be choosers.
The poetry she produced in the early years of her adulthood were a bit mundane, perhaps a bit too focused on rather forgettable commentaries on love and death.
And then. . . BAM!
As she hit the middle years of her life, her poetry just exploded. I found myself reading each individual poem over and over (and over) again.
Her bird imagery throughout had me spellbound. No wonder she thought of birds—she was a caged one; the wild ones were free. Of course she envied them.
As soon as I came home that day,
I screamed like a bird of prey
You can almost hear her screams throughout.
In this one little book alone, she writes of peacocks, cuckoos, owls, orioles, birds of prey, doves, swans, swallows, and pigeons!
I hope Mary Oliver knew of her work. I suspect that she did.
There is a lot here. I need far more time with her work than one quick read, in one week. I also always feel a little glum (a Nancy Drew word!) when I read poetry that has been translated from a language I don’t read or speak. I feel cheated, with each poem. I know I’m missing out.
Nonetheless, Akhmatova’s work is brilliant, upsetting, complex, and, sadly, as relatable now as ever.
In the push-pull of her words, she manages to express both a deep passion for life and a grief that burdens her almost to toppling. Who can’t relate to loving this life, but being so very tired of the blows? And, can you say it better than this:
I warn you, that's the way things are:
This is my final lifetime.
Not as a swallow, reed, or star,
Not as a bell to ring or chime,
Not as the water in a spring,
Not as a maple, branch or beam--
I won't alarm those who are living,
I won't appear in anyone's dream,
Unappeased and unforgiving.
How I translate this powerful stanza: I have noticed everything beautiful here. Forgive me. I have loved my life the best that I could, but I am not coming back here as anything, not even a ghost. Set me free, set me free when I leave this place. Let me know peace again.
He adds that “she never resembled anyone,” and, of course, that is true (who does, really?), but I would argue that Akhmatova’s work is not unlike that of her American contemporaries at the time: Robert Frost and Edna St. Vincent Millay.
Here’s an example of Akhmatova’s verse, from 1917:
I hear the oriole’s voice, clear and distressed,
I greet the waning of the summer but
One wheat ear against another pressed
The sickles with reptilian hisses cut.
The short hems of the women in the field
Fly in the wind like flags on a holiday.
Now I yearn for the joyful bells that pealed,
His dusty lashes—And he didn’t look away.
I don’t expect caresses or words to spare
In expectation of that dark descent,
But do come look at the paradises where
Together we were blissful and innocent.
I can feel a little of Frost in her carefully metered lines and natural subject; I can feel a bit of Millay in her sentiment. And who would be resentful of sharing anything in common with these two?
These poets were writing in dark times; they were all three witnesses to both world wars, and, in Akhmatova’s case, an entire take-over of the government and life as they formerly knew it.
Akhmatova’s life was filled with death: murder, execution, war, revolution and, later, a life of surveillance and suspicion.
It's not surprising that my introduction to her poetry found her to be almost obsessively preoccupied with death.
This was a compilation of collected poems throughout her life, ordered only chronologically. I prefer individual collections, but beggars can’t be choosers.
The poetry she produced in the early years of her adulthood were a bit mundane, perhaps a bit too focused on rather forgettable commentaries on love and death.
And then. . . BAM!
As she hit the middle years of her life, her poetry just exploded. I found myself reading each individual poem over and over (and over) again.
Her bird imagery throughout had me spellbound. No wonder she thought of birds—she was a caged one; the wild ones were free. Of course she envied them.
As soon as I came home that day,
I screamed like a bird of prey
You can almost hear her screams throughout.
In this one little book alone, she writes of peacocks, cuckoos, owls, orioles, birds of prey, doves, swans, swallows, and pigeons!
I hope Mary Oliver knew of her work. I suspect that she did.
There is a lot here. I need far more time with her work than one quick read, in one week. I also always feel a little glum (a Nancy Drew word!) when I read poetry that has been translated from a language I don’t read or speak. I feel cheated, with each poem. I know I’m missing out.
Nonetheless, Akhmatova’s work is brilliant, upsetting, complex, and, sadly, as relatable now as ever.
In the push-pull of her words, she manages to express both a deep passion for life and a grief that burdens her almost to toppling. Who can’t relate to loving this life, but being so very tired of the blows? And, can you say it better than this:
I warn you, that's the way things are:
This is my final lifetime.
Not as a swallow, reed, or star,
Not as a bell to ring or chime,
Not as the water in a spring,
Not as a maple, branch or beam--
I won't alarm those who are living,
I won't appear in anyone's dream,
Unappeased and unforgiving.
How I translate this powerful stanza: I have noticed everything beautiful here. Forgive me. I have loved my life the best that I could, but I am not coming back here as anything, not even a ghost. Set me free, set me free when I leave this place. Let me know peace again.
Read
October 7, 2020"Where nothing is needed, I walk like a child,
My shadow serves as the friend I crave.
The wind breezes out of a grove grown wild,
And my foot is on the edge of the grave."
From POEMS of Anna Akhmatova, translated from the Russian by Lyn Coffin
▪️Akhmatova's selected poems were stunning, as expected. There's a great introduction to them by Joseph Brodsky where he lavishes praise on her work, which is widely recognized as some of the best Russian poetry of the 20th century. Just over 130 pages, and I was noting poems left and right. If you haven't read any of her work yet, I highly recommend.
My shadow serves as the friend I crave.
The wind breezes out of a grove grown wild,
And my foot is on the edge of the grave."
From POEMS of Anna Akhmatova, translated from the Russian by Lyn Coffin
▪️Akhmatova's selected poems were stunning, as expected. There's a great introduction to them by Joseph Brodsky where he lavishes praise on her work, which is widely recognized as some of the best Russian poetry of the 20th century. Just over 130 pages, and I was noting poems left and right. If you haven't read any of her work yet, I highly recommend.
Read
August 30, 2026Akhmatova poetry - 5*
Lyn Coffin’s translation - 2.5 rounded up to 3*
What drew my to this collection of Akhmatova’s selected verse was that the introduction was written by the great Joseph Brodsky. I’m not sure about the circumstances for him agreeing to do it, but it speaks louder than words that he is completely silent about Coffin’s translations. And the best part of this book is his introduction to Akhmatova’s poetic craft.
Except in his later epic narrative cycles (REQUIEM or the modernist tryptich POEM WITHOUT A HERO), she wrote in the classical form of rhythm and rhyme, and it is admirable to attempt to transpose this beautiful musical prosody of the original into another language. I was at first excited to see that Coffin used rhymed verse and a handful of her renditions are excellent but often the rhyming is awkward (too many inserted “and” or “but” hanging at the end of the line for rhyming purposes), odd compound words (like “nurse-insomnia” whatever it means) whereas Akhmatova’s is known for the simplicity of words, sometimes excessive padding (like adding “fact” to the original “passion” and inventing the oxymoronic “passionate fact” only for the apparent metric purposes). But worst of all is the inclusion of only some parts of her long REQUIEM, apparently the “easier” ones to translate judging from the selection. Such a butchered version of this great tragic poetic cycle is unforgivable.
My thoughts about Akhmatova’s poetry, including a few sampled poems, and other translations, are in this review of her Complete Poems.
Lyn Coffin’s translation - 2.5 rounded up to 3*
What drew my to this collection of Akhmatova’s selected verse was that the introduction was written by the great Joseph Brodsky. I’m not sure about the circumstances for him agreeing to do it, but it speaks louder than words that he is completely silent about Coffin’s translations. And the best part of this book is his introduction to Akhmatova’s poetic craft.
Except in his later epic narrative cycles (REQUIEM or the modernist tryptich POEM WITHOUT A HERO), she wrote in the classical form of rhythm and rhyme, and it is admirable to attempt to transpose this beautiful musical prosody of the original into another language. I was at first excited to see that Coffin used rhymed verse and a handful of her renditions are excellent but often the rhyming is awkward (too many inserted “and” or “but” hanging at the end of the line for rhyming purposes), odd compound words (like “nurse-insomnia” whatever it means) whereas Akhmatova’s is known for the simplicity of words, sometimes excessive padding (like adding “fact” to the original “passion” and inventing the oxymoronic “passionate fact” only for the apparent metric purposes). But worst of all is the inclusion of only some parts of her long REQUIEM, apparently the “easier” ones to translate judging from the selection. Such a butchered version of this great tragic poetic cycle is unforgivable.
My thoughts about Akhmatova’s poetry, including a few sampled poems, and other translations, are in this review of her Complete Poems.
February 7, 2009
I don't get these poems easily--I can't just pick this book up and understand. Still, there are some that strike immediately:
"The three things he loved most in life
Were white peacocks, music at mass,
And tattered maps of America.
He didn't like kids who cried and he
Didn't like raspberry jam with tea
Or womanish hysteria.
...And I was, like it or not, his wife."
"The three things he loved most in life
Were white peacocks, music at mass,
And tattered maps of America.
He didn't like kids who cried and he
Didn't like raspberry jam with tea
Or womanish hysteria.
...And I was, like it or not, his wife."
March 6, 2017
***
2. The First Warning
When it comes down to it, what do we care
That everything finally turns into dust,
Over how many abysses I sang in despairs,
Or in how many mirrors I lived as I must?
So I'm not a dream, not a comfort, not good,
And least of all am I a blessing,
But you'll recall more often than you should -
I'm not sure, of course, I'm only guessing -
The rumble of lines which are quieting down,
And the eye concealing on its floor
That rusted little thorny crown
In its uneasy silence, and more.
***
Brodsky: "Apart from the general sacred aspects of the said entity, its uniqueness in the case of Akhmatova was further secured by her actual physical beauty. She looked positively stunning. Five feet eleven, dark-haired, fair-skinned, with pale grey-green eyes like those of snow leopards, slim and incredibly lithe, she was for a half a century sketched, painted, cast, carved and photographed by a multitude of artists starting with Amadeo Modigliani. As for the poems dedicated to her, they'd make more volumes than her own collected works".
A snow leopard, slim and incredibly lithe. Seriously?
***
Broad and yellow is the evening light,
The coolness of April is dear.
You, of course, are several years late,
Even so, I'm happy you're here.
Sit close at hand and look at me,
With those eyes, so cheerful and mild:
This blue notebook is full, you see,
Full of poems I wrote as a child.
Forgive me, forgive me, for having grieved
For ignoring the sunlight, too.
And especially for having believed
That so many others were you.
***
1.
Not weeks, not months - it took us years
To part. And now at last we feel,
Having a gray wreath over our ears,
The breeze of freedom, cool and real.
No more being betrayed and betraying,
And you don't have to listen all night
To the evidence I've been busy arraying
Which proves me incomparably right.
2.
In the breaking-up days, as must always happen,
The ghost of the first days knocked on our door,
And the silvery willow rushed right in,
Gray, glorious branches trailing the floor.
Frenzied, proud, bitter, we stood still
While a blissful bird sang to us from above,
We stood looking down as he sang his fill
About the way we defined our love.
***
Everything here will outlive me --- Everything.
Even those ramshackly birdhouses there
And all this air, this springtime air,
That has made the oceanic crossing.
And the voice of eternity is calling
Otherworldly, irresistible,
And over the cherry tree, blooming, full,
The moon's brilliant light is falling.
And the road running easy and white,
In emerald thickets is lost to sight,
I don't know where it will end . . .
It's lighter among the trees,
It's all like the paths one sees
By the Tsarskoselsky pond.
---- (I'm thinking of the Baltic in December)
2. The First Warning
When it comes down to it, what do we care
That everything finally turns into dust,
Over how many abysses I sang in despairs,
Or in how many mirrors I lived as I must?
So I'm not a dream, not a comfort, not good,
And least of all am I a blessing,
But you'll recall more often than you should -
I'm not sure, of course, I'm only guessing -
The rumble of lines which are quieting down,
And the eye concealing on its floor
That rusted little thorny crown
In its uneasy silence, and more.
***
Brodsky: "Apart from the general sacred aspects of the said entity, its uniqueness in the case of Akhmatova was further secured by her actual physical beauty. She looked positively stunning. Five feet eleven, dark-haired, fair-skinned, with pale grey-green eyes like those of snow leopards, slim and incredibly lithe, she was for a half a century sketched, painted, cast, carved and photographed by a multitude of artists starting with Amadeo Modigliani. As for the poems dedicated to her, they'd make more volumes than her own collected works".
A snow leopard, slim and incredibly lithe. Seriously?
***
Broad and yellow is the evening light,
The coolness of April is dear.
You, of course, are several years late,
Even so, I'm happy you're here.
Sit close at hand and look at me,
With those eyes, so cheerful and mild:
This blue notebook is full, you see,
Full of poems I wrote as a child.
Forgive me, forgive me, for having grieved
For ignoring the sunlight, too.
And especially for having believed
That so many others were you.
***
1.
Not weeks, not months - it took us years
To part. And now at last we feel,
Having a gray wreath over our ears,
The breeze of freedom, cool and real.
No more being betrayed and betraying,
And you don't have to listen all night
To the evidence I've been busy arraying
Which proves me incomparably right.
2.
In the breaking-up days, as must always happen,
The ghost of the first days knocked on our door,
And the silvery willow rushed right in,
Gray, glorious branches trailing the floor.
Frenzied, proud, bitter, we stood still
While a blissful bird sang to us from above,
We stood looking down as he sang his fill
About the way we defined our love.
***
Everything here will outlive me --- Everything.
Even those ramshackly birdhouses there
And all this air, this springtime air,
That has made the oceanic crossing.
And the voice of eternity is calling
Otherworldly, irresistible,
And over the cherry tree, blooming, full,
The moon's brilliant light is falling.
And the road running easy and white,
In emerald thickets is lost to sight,
I don't know where it will end . . .
It's lighter among the trees,
It's all like the paths one sees
By the Tsarskoselsky pond.
---- (I'm thinking of the Baltic in December)
January 21, 2013
Perhaps it's the translation, but this collection read very unevenly to me -- I liked half of it, and really disliked half of it, give or take. On the whole, I enjoyed the later works far better than the earlier ones, and liked the longer poems better than the shorter ones. I wish I could read these in Russian to truly get the flavor, as I suspect reading them in English leads one to miss a lot. My favorite here was "The First Long-Range Artillery Shell in Leningrad", and a close second was "Music", for Shostakovitch.
March 4, 2024
صحيح لم أفهم بعض السطور لصعوبة قرائتها، لكن لايعني عدم إعجابي ببعض أفكارها.
فريدة من نوعها.
فريدة من نوعها.
December 10, 2011
I think I would have liked a different translation better or to read this in Russian (which is as yet beyond my ken). The rhymes were heavier than they needed to be and I kept wondering what else I was losing.
Read
August 12, 2019Shattering... “Requiem,” “Midnight Verses (Seven Poems)” and “Music (for DDS)” are especially intense, but the whole collection is mental/emotional gymnastics, especially since I just read Roberta Reeder’s biography not long ago.
January 15, 2008
Still my favorite book of poetry. Coffins translation stays true to the original and keeps the music of the poetry.
February 17, 2008
lyn coffin
February 5, 2010
Lovely. Especially the early ones.
June 29, 2010
I think I would've preferred to see the side by side version of her poems in her native language.
August 28, 2026
Lyn Coffin translation.
Something terrible happened here. Akhmatova is supposed to be one of the greatest poets of the twentieth century, but this reads like doggerel; like third-rate Victorian verse. See, for example, one of the many putrid stanzas in the collection:
"But do not try to keep or protect
That which was given to you from heaven:
We know we're supposed to be like leaven—
We're condemned to squander, not to collect."
You may find more elegant rhymes in a middle school poetry competition. One can't help but feel that this is an assassination of Akhmatova's artistry.
Something terrible happened here. Akhmatova is supposed to be one of the greatest poets of the twentieth century, but this reads like doggerel; like third-rate Victorian verse. See, for example, one of the many putrid stanzas in the collection:
"But do not try to keep or protect
That which was given to you from heaven:
We know we're supposed to be like leaven—
We're condemned to squander, not to collect."
You may find more elegant rhymes in a middle school poetry competition. One can't help but feel that this is an assassination of Akhmatova's artistry.
December 28, 2023
4.5⭐️
The poetry is beautiful.
Skip the introduction.
The poetry is beautiful.
Skip the introduction.
November 18, 2024
Wonderfully selected poems and truly impressive concepts. I loved reading a few before I began writing myself, really thought provoking and excellent use of poetry. Loved it!
July 17, 2026
I don't think this was a very good translation
January 7, 2019
Some of it I loved and some of it was just okay. My opinion was never consistant. Akhmatova seems to explore the same themes and it became a little redundant for me. They were also very specific to her time and place, and I found it hard to relate and feel for them. Though I can appreciate her perspective, I didn't find most of her poems timeless. Her more metaphysical poems that explored life and death were the ones that stuck with me. They were beautiful in a haunting way... The translation was excellent though.
October 7, 2017
Iris Dement led me to this poetry. Her words in a concert told of adopting a child from Russia and receiving a gift book of Anna Akhmatova's poetry. Upon reading some of the selections, Iris started to hear music. Then she created an album of Akhmatova's poems set to the music she heard.
May 13, 2017
Task: Read a collection of poetry in translation on a theme other than love - 3/5 stars
July 23, 2017
I haven't read any other translated versions, but I felt like some of these came off stilted and inane
Read
July 28, 2021Choosing not to rate because I don’t have an over all feeling about the book as a whole.
That being said I tabbed almost every poem. So I guess I loved it?
Lot’s Wife really spoke to me 🤍
That being said I tabbed almost every poem. So I guess I loved it?
Lot’s Wife really spoke to me 🤍
Displaying 1 - 22 of 22 reviews