I am not one of those who left the land.

We are the peope without tears – straighter than you, and more proud.

But I am one of those who has left his land, passing over equator and time zones too many for comfort, away from friend and family and even comfortable foe, if there were such a thing for me, and now reside on the Eastern coast of a very foreign and yet familiar land. I make tracks here like grooves in rock ground by glaciers, like kettle lakes spun by whirlpools under ice by mere water as happened a few metres down the street at the top of the hill a few thousand years ago. And where again day by day I spin my own circles and wear my own track.
Akhmatova, trapped by her own loyalty and love affair with her language was alone, sharply isolated, kept in a dark room in winter, face illuminated by the rays of a distant fireplace as she concentrated on her craft. Not knowing Russian I have to read in translation, but I can see the patterns of syllables in the original her mind at work, and catch a glimpse of the workings of her mind. A distant glimpse.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: