I’ve cried for seventeen long months, I’ve called you for your home, I fell at hangmen’ feet – not once, My womb and hell you’re from. All has been mixed up for all times, And now I can’t define Who is a beast or man, at last, And when they’ll kill my son. There’re left just flowers under dust, The censer’s squall, the traces, cast Into the empty mar… And looks strait into my red eyes And threads with death, that’s coming fast, The immense blazing star.
~above is an excerpt from “Requiem ” by Anna Akhmatova*
Tears mingle in the dirt
whose ashes are these?
they look familiar
momentarily my tears sparkle in the mud
“oh yes that was my first love
he died at the hand of Lenin
my son is still awaiting my tears”
the ashes have worked their way
into the fabric of one shoe
clinging to memory
“please God give my frailty a purpose”
this shoe I ask that they not take
I must cling to it for warmth
when the winter breezes dry my once fresh skin
kiss my cheek with remnants of him…
(my echo of a poem to this Russian woman who knew such pain)
Anna Akhmatova is known as one of Russia’s finest female poets. She lived during a time when freedom of artistic expression was unwelcome. Her losses were many…
This is being shared with Poets’ United Midweek Motif the topic Cancer.
This recent poem Winter’s Accusation deals with cancer the disease. I write occasionally about it but I usually try to stay clear of those doors.