Why then do we not despair?
Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold
Death's great black wing scrapes the air,
misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?
By day, from the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.
And the miraculous comes so close
to the ruined, dirty houses--
something not known to anyone at all,
but wild in our breasts for centuries.
Anna Akhmatova
(Translated by Stanley Kunitz.)
Thank you, Rebecca, for posting this poem over on your blog a day or two ago; as poems do, it turned up at just the right time.
with Oh, Dirty River
And in other writerly news, Tuesday Poem curator Mary McCallum's story Dead Space was one of the prize winners in the 2013 National Flash Fiction competition. . . and Rachel van Blankenship's story Dear Phoenix was placed 4th in the International Flash Mob section of the same comp. Congrats to you both, and to all who entered. Michelle Elvy (one of our TP-ers) is to be lauded for her zeal in organising these events; no matter that she's on the other side of the world from NZ at the moment!
