The Poet

This is my translation of a poem by the great Anna Akhmatova.  I never would have started translating poetry or writing my own stuff if my wife hadn't given me a book of her poems.  I'm posting this today because I noticed yesterday that I received more hits on my blog from Russia than the US. 

The Poet

Who sees himself sidelong

Through eyes of the horse

By such divergent means

He recognizes instantly

How the puddle shines

As melted diamonds

And the ice fractures

Intricate as lace

Or in lilac repose

By the station platform

Noticing the logs leaves

And clouds piled high

And the steam engine’s hiss

And the crunch of watermelon rind

How she holds scented glove

So delicately in hand

Or at thundering pace

Launching out

To beat against the turf

Then suddenly slowing

To let heartbeat subside

On entering the forest pavilion

Advancing cautiously so as

Not to disturb things sleeping

In such a sacred place

Mentally taking note

Of each stalk of grain

To the graveyard 

He quietly returns

With hoof downward sloping 

And gracefully paws the earth 

And how once more 

Amidst Moscow's throngs

It ill behooves him

This burning

At the back of his throat

Yet he tries to find 

A livable space

Hearing far off the peal

Of the deathly bell

That tolls for one

Who lost the way

Knee deep in snow

But only steps away

From the front door

Of his home

But as he compared  

Rising smoke

To the Laocoon

And celebrated

The cemetery thistles

Braving the void

With the sound

Of his verse as it  

Reverberated in space

He found reward

In childhood eternal

With generosity aplenty

And a shining kind heart

Making the earth

An inheritance

To be shared

Indiscriminately