Marina Tsvetaeva: Thank God for the Rich
For their root, putrid and loose,
For their weeping-wound from the cradle,
For their perplexing habit of taking
More from my pocket into their pocket.
Chris Moran: After Reading Akhmatova
What can I name my grief, again, today?
A nickel frozen in the sidewalk?
A tumbling paper bag?
Anna Akhmatova: Lot’s Wife
“It’s not too late, you can still look back
at the red towers of your native Sodom,
the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,
at the empty windows set in the tall house
where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed.”
Yana Djin: “Days are so slow, adoni, so slow”
Days are so slow, adoni, so slow, each moment like eternity spreads and lingers In the dusk leaves like golden suns shiver and glow, and you lie still, watch the … Continue reading
Yana Djin: Sheep
I saw as they led my children away. To slaughter. One by one. I saw the sharp terror in the eyes of my daughter. As the master grabbed her by … Continue reading
Anna Akhmatova: I am not one of those who left the landÂ
I am not one of those who left the land
to the mercy of its enemies.
Their flattery leaves me cold.
My songs are not for them to praise.
