Anna Akhmatova
Caught Off Guard

1

It was bright and stifling, a summer’s day;
his glances, too, were beams
my eyes couldn’t meet. And, warm as it was,
I shivered, thinking “This man could tame me . . .”
He leaned in, as if he meant to say something
not everyone needed to hear. I went white,
felt faint. Once again I was ready
to set up love like a headstone
on the grave of my former life.

2

You don’t love me. You don’t even look at me,
and you’re so handsome, you bastard.
I can’t seem to fly from this,
though from childhood I never wanted for wings—
no one caught this bird. And now—
my eyes mist over, people and things
blur together, all I can really see’s
the tulip,
the little red tulip you pinned to your lapel.

3

As the most rudimentary politeness requires,
he approached me, smiled, his lips grazed my hand
in a kiss undistinguished
by any particular affectionate pressure.
I seemed for an instant to see again
old, forgotten faces, to briefly meet
their enigmantic glances;
I relived in an instant all the anxieties,
tears, sleepless nights, that have been mine
in this decade since I discovered love—

all of which I somehow summarized
in a calm and conventional phrase of reply,
with a subtle but unmistakable emphasis.
Wasted. You noticed nothing, passed on.
I felt then in my soul, with new lucidity,
that you meant nothing to me at all.

Translated by Seraphina Powell