In Memoriam, July 19, 1914 by Anna Akhmatova, translated by Stephen Edgar

In Memoriam, July 19, 1914

by Anna Akhmatova, translated by Stephen Edgar

We aged a hundred years and this descended

In just one hour, as at a stroke.

The summer had been brief and now was ended;

The body of the ploughed plains lay in smoke.

The hushed road burst in colors then, a soaring

Lament rose, ringing silver like a bell.

And so I covered up my face, imploring

God to destroy me before battle fell.

And from my memory the shadows vanished

Of songs and passions—burdens I'd not need.

The Almighty bade it be—with all else banished—

A book of portents terrible to read.

Sometimes, I search for a long time to find the rights poem to post; other times, it is like I am drawn to the perfect poem. So many components go into my choices, the first, of course, being that I love the poem. After that, I need to feel compelled to write about it, it must be the right time of the year and/or suit something going on in the world OR be an antidote to what is going on in the world. I try not to repeat too many poets too many times. I try to post poems from smaller journals and/or by lesser-known poets OR lesser-known poems by well-known poets. I look through my books and journals, my files on my computer, various places online (journals, poet websites, etc.). It usually takes a while.

But today, I opened the folder on my computer labeled "Poetry By Others" and today's poem was one in the group that was visible. Without knowing what this poem is--I no longer am able to retain thousands of poem titles--but feeling "this is the one," I opened it. Yes, the date is not quite right, but this fit.

Anna Akhmatova is one of Russia's greatest poets. She lived from 1889-1966; even if you know very little about Russian history, I think you can understand that a few revolutions and a couple of world wars are a lot to live through. Akhmatova was censored by Stalin and also won a Nobel Prize. One husband was killed by the Secret Police and another died in a gulag.Her son was arrested and spent time in a gulag. Unofficially banned, she lived in poverty. Friends of hers--artists, writers, and intellectuals--were murdered, imprisoned, or committed suicide. Others denounced her, helped to surveil her, and ignored her various plights. She was followed and her apartment had listening devices. She had both tuberculosis and typhoid at different times. It was not until the last few years of her life that her son was freed, her works were published, she was allowed to travel out of the USSR to accept awards, and she received the honors she deserved. Saint Petersburg even has the Anna Akhmatova Literary and Memorial Museum.

The poem above is a response to Germany declaring war on Russia, forcing Russia's entry into World War I. An assassination, misguided appeasement, and long-standing conflicts between European peoples pulled countries outside of Austria-Hungary, Serbia, and Germany into what is also known as The Great War.

In this poem's first stanza, the speaker literally sees the start of Germany's aggression toward Russia, although this is imagined, not what happened on this day. Although it is still July, she claims that summer has ended.

In the next stanza, she continues to imagine bombings and hopes that God will kill her before the battles begin. Although what she creates in her mind will come to pass, and is horrifying, I find this most striking:

songs and passions—burdens I'd not need

How true that a nation at war, and particularly thinking of what Russia went through in this war, songs and passions do become burdens and are definitely not needed. Russia was not prepared for war in 1914; its technology was behind other nations, and the Russian army was not a major force. Conflicts within Russia that would lead to revolution were dividing the country in 1914. The losses the country suffered at the start of the war--things Akhmatova lived through, and many she experienced--were devastating.

She states in this stanza that she is writing from memory and ends the stanza, as well as the poem, by mentioning "A book of portents too terrible to read." Not only is that an interesting metaphor for war, but it also describes much of Akhmatova's work, which chronicles the devastation of wars and the devastation Russian and Soviet leaders enacted on their own people especially in her best-known poem, "Requiem."