شعرهای برگزیده آنا آخماتووا | Anna Akhmatova Selected Poems

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  شعرهای برگزیده آنا آخماتووا ۱۹۸۸ به انگلیسی

Anna Akhmatova Selected Poems 1988


ترجمه به انگلیسی توسط :

D. M. Thomas

انتشارات :


معرفی کتاب مجموعه شعرهای برگزیده آنا آخماتووا به انگلیسی

درباره آنا آخماتوا (Anna Akhmatova) بیشتر بدانیم :

آنا آخماتووا (Anna Akhmatova) (به روسی: Анна Ахматова) با نام اصلی آنا آندرییوا گارینکو زاده ۱۸۸۹، اودسا – درگذشته ۱۹۶۶، مسکوشاعر و نویسنده اهل روسیه بود.

او یکی از بنیان‌گذاران مکتب شعری آکمه‌ئیسم بوده‌ است. بن‌مایه‌های اشعار وی را گذر زمان، خاطرات و یادبودهای گذشته، سرنوشت زن هنرمند و دشواری‌ها و تلخی‌های زیستن و نوشتن در زیر سایه استالینیسم تشکیل می‌دهد.

بهترین مجموعه شعر ترجمه شده به انگلیسی از آنا آخماتووا (Anna Akhmatova)

فهرست شعرهای موجود در کتاب اشعار برگزیده آنا اخماتووا (Anna Akhmatova) به انگلیسی:

from Evening
The pillow hot
Reading Hamlet
Evening Room
I have written down the words
Memory of sun seeps from the heart
Song of the Last Meeting
He loved three things alone
Imitation of Annensky
I came here in idleness
White Night
Legend on an Unfinished Portrait
from Rosary
I have come to take your place , sister
I t goes on without end
We’re all drunkards here
A Ride
‘Nobody came to meet me
So many requests
The Voice of Memory
November 1913
‘Blue heaven, but the high
‘Do you forgive me
The Guest
I won ‘t beg for your love
I came to him as a guest
By the Seashore
fr om White Flock
How can you look at the Neva
The road is black
I don ‘t know if you’re alive or dead
There is a frontier-line
Freshness of words
Under an empty dwelling’s frozen roof
The churchyard ‘s quiet
Neither by cart nor boat
Lying in me
there are words
fr om Plantain
Now farewell, capital
I hear the oriole’s always grieving voice
Now no-one will be listening to songs
he cuckoo I asked
Why is our century worse than any other ?
from AnnoDomini
Everything is looted
They wiped your slate
To earthly solace
I’m not of those who left
Blows the swan wind
To fa ll ill as one should
Behind the lake
Lot’s Wife
fr om Reed
To an Artist
The Last Toast
Dust smells of a sun-ray
Some gaze into tender faces
Boris Pasternak
Imitation from the Armenian
In Memory of MikhailBulgakov
‘When a man dies
Not the lyre of a lover
Way of all the Earth
from The Seventh Book
In 1940 6g
And you, my friends
That’s how I am
Three Autumns
The souls of those I love
The fifth act of the drama
It is your lyn x eyes, Asia
In Dream
So again we triumph !
Let any, who will, still bask in the south
from Northern Elegies : The Fifth
The Sixth
Seaside Sonnet
Summer Garden
In black memory
Could Be a trice write
Death of a Poet
Th e Death of Sophocles
Alexander at Thebes
Nauv Soil
There are Four of Us
If all who have begged help
Last Rose
It is no wonder
‘What’s war ? What’s plague ?
In Memory of V. C.Sreznevskaya
‘You will hear thunder and remember me
Poem without a Hero

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چند نمونه شعر از متن کتاب شعرهای برگزیده آنا آخماتووا (Anna Akhmatova) به انگلیسی:


from Evening
The pillow hot
On both sides,
The second candle
Dying, the ravens
Crying. Haven’t
Slept all night, too late
To dream of sleep . . .
How unbearably white
The blind on the white window.
Good morning, morning !

Reading Hamlet
A dusty waste-plot by the cemetery,
Behind it, a river flashing blue.
You said to me: ‘Go get thee to a nunnery,
Or get a fool to marry you . . . ‘
Well, princes are good at such speeches,
As a girl is quick to tears,-
But may those words stream like an ermine mantle
Behind him for ten thousand years.

Evening Room
I speak in those words suddenly
That rise once in the soul. So sharply comes
The musty odour of an old sachet,
A bee hums on a white chrysanthemum.
And the room, where the light strikes through slits,
Cherishes love, for here it is still new.
A bed, with a French inscription over it,
Reading : ‘Seigneur, ayez pi tie de nous.’
Of such a lived-through legend the sad strokes
You must not touch, my soul, nor seek to do . . .
Of Sevres statuettes the brilliant cloaks
I see are darkening and wearing through.
Yellow and heavy, one last ray has poured
Into a fresh bouquet of dahlias
And hardened there. And I hear viols play
And of a cia vecin the rare accord· .

I have written down the words
I have long not dared to speak.
Dully the head beats,
This body is not my own.
The call of the horn has died.
The heart has the same puzzles.
Snowflakes,-ligh t-au tumnal,
Lie on the croquet lawn.
Let the last leaves rustle !
Let the last thoughts languish !
I don’t want to trouble
People used to being happy.
Because your lips are yours
I forgive their cruel joke . . .
۰, tomorrow you will come
On the first sledge-ride of winter.
The drawing-room candles will glow
More tenderly in the day.
I will bring from the conservatory
A whole bouquet of roses.

Song of the Last Meeting
My breast grew cold and numb,
But my feet were light.
On to my right hand I fumbled
The glove to my left hand.
It seemed that there were many steps
-I knew there were only three.
An autumn whisper between the maples
Kept urging: ‘Die with me.
Change has made me weary,
Fate has cheated me of everything.’
I answered: ‘My dear, my dear!
I’ll die with you. I too am suffering.’
It was a song of the last meeting.
Only bedroom-candles burnt
When I looked into the dark house,
And they were yellow and indifferent.

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