Smiling nervously but brightly,
conscious of her youth and fame,
she set the way that she was asked to
indifferently — or playing games.
Under heaven's dome's eternal childhood
April nineteen hundred twelve
has promised her in Ospedaletti
only prosperity and sun.
She looks out from a lacy nimbus,
her hands folded in her lap.
The shadow of her future torments
lies locked inside her photo's trap.
Coalesced with that sweet April —
read Aprille — wet and warm,
like amber that has petrified,
she will abide unharmed.
When the age comes to its end
some late-arriving sleuth will find
that tender, craggy profile preserved
forever in a clot of light.
How calm, facete the well-dressed lady
in whose clear-cut tone and look
the signs of talent show as easy
as the title of a book.
Who asked her for a present of
this dolefule commentary framed
on paper without a pencil mark,
this forehead, and this fringe of bangs?
What's in her portrait for herself?
She gives a shrug: please yourselves!
And paints a picture - Ospedaletti,
April nineteen hundred twelve.
How fresh, still early here on earth!
O morrow, let her have more time!
Wait until she's done, signs «Anna
Akhmatova» on the last line.
Улыбкой юности и славы
Чуть припугнув, но не отторгнув,
От лени или для забавы
Так села, как велел фотограф.
Лишь в благоденствии и лете,
При вечном детстве небосвода,
Клянётся ей в Оспедалетти
Апрель двенадцатого года.
Сложила на коленях руки,
Глядит из кружевного нимба.
И тень её грядущей муки
Защёлкнута ловушкой снимка.
С тем — через «ять» — сырым и нежным
Апрелем слившись воедино,
Как в янтаре окаменевшем,
Она пребудет невредима.
И запоздалый соглядатай
Застанет на исходе века
Тот профиль нежно-угловатый,
Вовек сохранный в сгустке света.
Какой покой в нарядной даме,
В чьём чётком облике и лике
Прочесть известие о даре
Так просто, как названье книги.
Кто эту горестную мету,
Оттиснутую без помарок,
И этот лоб, и чёлку эту
Себе выпрашивал в подарок?
Что ей самой в её портрете?
Пожмёт плечами, как угодно!
И выведет: Оспедалетти.
Апрель двенадцатого года.
Как на земле свежо и рано!
Грядущий день, дай ей отсрочку!
Пускай она допишет: «Анна
Ахматова», — и капнет точку.
«I’m neither flesh, nor spirit yet / And daily bread seems hardly needed, / As if my punctured finger bled / Not blood, but sky drops faintly sleeted. And there are times when pouring wine / Up to the brim feels hardly ample, / When bread all drenched in salty brine / Does not singe li...»
«Upon the voluptuous chestnuts you yet again / Place Sunday’s wedding candles, dear spring. / I construct my soul as in the olden days / And aught to break into song, but only dirges / And lullabies sound – sleep’s sweet gladdeners.»
«I know the price of my poems. / I’m sorry for them, that’s all. / But the glory of the verse of others / I experience as betrayal. Through digressions, repetitions, / Without colours and almost without words, / One single vision, / Like the moon through the clouds. Now it shows, no...»
«Thank you for everything. For the war, / For the revolution and exile. / For the indifferent bright country / Where we now ‘drag out our existence’. / There is no sweeter destiny than to lose everything. / There is no happier fate than to become a vagabond. / And you’ve never been ...»