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The selection is fairly representative of Akhmatova's life work, with early poems from 1909, through her affair with the poet Blok in the teens, the Terror and War, to her deathbed in 1961. I particularly enjoyed the translation of the epic "Requiem". Without a doubt, this is the best English version I have ever read. My only complaint is its berevity - at 40 poems, it merely whets the readers appetite for more - a pity, given the outstanding nature of both poet and translator.
For those who are not familiar with Anna Akhmatova, this is a gem. If you have read some of her work, this is a must-have volume. Enjoy!
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Akhmatova is one of the premier 20th century poets, and it is a shame that her reputation is still only establishing itself among English speaking countries. This volume should help in that regard. However, it must be strongly emphasized that readers who hear Akhmatova only in English are really missing most of the beauty of her poems. Russian poetry is musically beautiful, and this is NOT carried over into the Enlglish, although it must be granted that Hemschemeyer does make some pretty valiant attempts to do just this.
So the reason for the four stars is that there is no Russian in this edition. Granted, the size of it would hardly permit it. So I would ask that people complement it with an edition of Akhmatova's poems in the original, and either learn cyrillic or get someone who can read them to read them to you! You will hardly recognize them, they are so beautiful. She is a master of alliteration, assonance and rhyme... all of these being so important to her lyricism.
I actually bought this edition, and when I found there was no Russian, I returned it and got Hemschemeyer's "Selected Poems of Anna Akhmatova" instead, which only has 100+ poems but has the Russian on the opposing pages. It was sad to have to do this, but after I sat down and read through some of the poems, I realized I had made the right decision. What I miss most are the pictures...
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Readers who know enough Russian to read the cyrillic text will appreciate Akhmatova's musical lyricism, the alliteration and natural rhymes and cadences she is able to (so easy, seemingly!) create. The English translations naturally do not have this music, despite the very valiant attempts to recreate it by Hemschemeyer. She usually gets the cadence, rhythm and stress pretty well, but... well... it's never the same. However, since the poetry is difficult, those who have some Russian (but not perfect, like myself) will really enjoy having both languages present on opposing pages.
This is a chief complaint I have with the "Complete Poems", by the way, which have 800 poems, a lot of essays and tons of beautiful photographs, but NO RUSSIAN ORIGINALS! Argh. What is that? The translations are much less than half the worth of these poems.
One big complaint with this volume, though, is that it leaves out Akhmatova's major long poem, "Poem without a Hero". It baffles me why it wasn't included in this volume, even though it runs a bit long. They should have added it to the end. The editor's notes that a subsequent volume of "Poem without a Hero" is forthcoming on its own is small consolation...
There are short introductions (abridged from the "Complete Poems" and not terribly interesting), and some notes at the end (somewhat useful).
So, this is a great poet, and this may be one of the better editions for readers. Because of the slight complaints, it only gets four stars, but Akhmatova herself deserves all five!
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Akhmatova has been called "the greatest Russian woman poet ever, and perhaps the greatest woman poet ever." I can't help but think those lauding on these kinds of laurels are looking more at her life than her work. There are certainly flashes of great brilliance here, but to put Akhmativa's work up against that of, say, Elizabeth Bishop, Deborah Allbery, or even the underrated Dorianne Laux would quickly reveal many of its flaws.
This is not to say that Akhmatova's poetry is completely without merit, and one must be forced to consider the viability of the work of any translator who would consider "He, was it, through the packed hall/Sent you (or was it a dream?)" to be the best way to translate anything, much less poetry. And thus, perhaps, the original is far more eloquent than what we receive here. That taken into account, there is still the problem to contend with that much of Akhmatova's work is, for obvious reasons, overtly political, and makes no attempt to convey its message artistically; worse yet, a good deal of that work is imagist, impressionist. The end result is something that's thick, sludgy, and impossible to read.
However, every once in a while a good line will shine through, and occasionally we find ourselves staring at a poem that seems to exist well outside the boundaries of this particular collection:
* * *
Voronezh
And the town is frozen solid, leaded with ice.
Trees, walls, snow, seem to be under glass. Cautiously I tread on crystals. The painted sleighs can't seem to get a grip. And over the statue of Peter-in-Voronezh Are crows, and poplars, and a pale-green dome Washed-out and muddy in the sun-motes. The mighty slopes of the field of Kulikovo Tremble still with the slaughter of barbarians. And all at once the poplars, like lifted chalices, Enmesh more boisterously overhead Like thousands of wedding-guests feasting And drinking toasts to our happiness. And in the room of the banished poet Fear and the Muse take turns at the watch, And the night comes When there will be no sunrise.
* * *
Unfortunately, there's too little of this and too much of the rest. Giving the benefit of the doubt where the translation is concerned, I can still only manage ** 1/2.
The volume contains her "Requieum," a ten pagel lyric sequence which is my choice for the greatest poem of the twentieth century, as it combines personal lyricism, social witness, historical density, a primal narrative moment -- in poems which are stunning, one after another.
Perhaps only Yeats has rivalled Akhmatova's exploration of love in modern times, and there are many moments when her symbolism, her brevity, her song-like qualities are reminiscent of the best of Yeats.
This is a wonderful book, a fine introduction to a great, powerful, haunting poet.
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It would be awful for me to joke about the contents of this book, but I think I found a joke by Jane Kenyon in the article, "Poetry and the Mail," originally published in "The Concord Monitor," 16 August 1993. "All poets share one thing, however--a daily dependence on the mail. `It is joy, and it is pain,' as the great Russian poet Anna Akhmatova once said, though not about the mail." (p. 128). The poem itself, "Like a white stone in a deep well," (p. 16) is included in this book. Memory is mentioned in the second line, and in the final line of the poem, and must be what Anna Akhmatova was thinking about, or about "how the gods turned people/ into things, not killing their consciousness." (p. 16)
Most of the poems by Kenyon in this book show up in the Interview with Bill Moyers (1993). What I find most modern is the open discussion of depression, crept up on with a question about the melancholy of winter in the poem, "February: Thinking of Flowers." (p. 151). In a poem, "Having it Out with Melancholy," the second part starts with a list of pills that takes up three lines, and I would bet that none of them ever appeared in any book that Freud read. I like the poem "Otherwise" on pages 168-69. The last one in the Moyers interview was "Let Evening Come." (pp. 170-71). I suspect that most of the readers of this book will be serious poets. It is difficult to imagine another group who would be eager to contemplate an article like "The Physics of Long Sticks." The last paragraph of that article is devoted to the question, "Why can't people be more like dogs?" (p. 103).