[for Anna Akhmatova]
you should have been painted in a lilac mist
looking out to sea yet-
holding the sea within.
you would have stood apart
by an open window, breathing-
immemorial-
the scent of pine trees where
another poet walked-
hearing the sound of the sea
holding the sea within,
its dove-grey caesuras
meted out so carefully
like the steps to the fairytale
castle and the end of the story;
your raspberry syllables spilling over
where there could be no decrees;
with your friend who loved Africa
and drew giraffes on your school
slate, possibly, who hated raspberry
jam even then;
with your small son playing
learning to walk in the
pine-needled shade;
with your other friend, who loved life
and pure delight, praising its syllables
of true delight and small feasts managed
in distress: a tin of sardines, Armenian grapes,
a miracle;
banished like a real prince:
by his side, his starling wife
hid all his poems in crummy saucepans -
and in her heart ever after
o darkened wing - o muse
o hidden stars half-turning into fire,
Cassandra, who is listening
like snow it all disappeared
shining into a farther sea
inside you
after nothing like a Golden Age
no one in any language
can explain.
I sit at my kitchen table in America
as white as you were at the
height of Terror,
Anna Akhmatova, getting paler by
the minute, in public housing
with other golden refugees of a
free nation
the kitchen radio proclaims:
"A Great Nation deserves Great Art"
I think sometimes
great art deserves a great nation;
I'm
selling my books off, one-by-one, to live;
when I get to the last book I'll go
live under a pine tree and make
books out of pine bark
but this morning
you shine on my momentary wall
the color of buttermilk
looking for Russia, still-
looking for an open window
for the sound of the sea
for an undeniable clarity
that can't be bought or sold...
Anna Akhmatova.
ask God for me
if you don't know yourself,
is it anywhere in the world
or only in
the next poem
that we live-
mary angela douglas 18 june 2009
2 comments:
author's note:
I tried to have a conversation with Anna Akhmatova in this poem from my current situation. I actually do live in public housing. I am actually selling my personal library of poetry and other lovely books off one by one to survive, not having found a job for four years now.
I read once shortly after Yugoslavia was freed and the war in Sarajevo commenced a famous Yugoslav author was burning his personal library book by book for fuel in a hard winter.
At the time I thought how lucky I was to live in America where this could never happen. No matter what anyone else says about the "recession" now, pro or con, this is the image I have in mind personally. It is a heartbreaking thing to me and why I "said" to A. Akhmatova who endured aeons more than anything I have or could, do we live on earth, or only in the next poem. For me, right now, although I hope in God, I am living only in the next poem.
Author's note (cont.)
I wanted to paint a picture kind of in the style of Cezanne in which Anna Akhmatova's life would appear as it might have if there had been no Russian Revolution and aftermath. Also, without the heavy references. So instead of Tsarskelo etc. only pine trees would appear, and Pushkin in the poem would only be, another poet.
Gumilev, in this impressionistic manner is the friend who hated raspberry jam even at a young age (a reference to Akhmatova's poem about him) and the giraffes on the slate refers to Gumilev's love of Africa and the fact that they were childhood sweethearts.
Also, as I'm sure you know, Akhmatova has been painted and depicted in sculpture, etc. by many.
This was my small portrait and "non-conversation" with her.
-Mary Angela Douglas
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