{"id":101209,"date":"2016-08-04T17:15:23","date_gmt":"2016-08-04T21:15:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=101209"},"modified":"2016-08-05T14:13:16","modified_gmt":"2016-08-05T18:13:16","slug":"secrets-of-the-trade","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/08\/04\/secrets-of-the-trade\/","title":{"rendered":"Secrets of the Trade"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_101212\" style=\"width: 610px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/08\/womanpainter.jpg\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-101212\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-101212\" class=\"wp-image-101212\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/08\/womanpainter.jpg\" alt=\"K\u00e1roly Ferenczy, The Woman Painter, oil on canvas, 53.5 in x 51 in, 1903.\" width=\"600\" height=\"450\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/08\/womanpainter.jpg 970w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/08\/womanpainter-300x225.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/08\/womanpainter-768x576.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-101212\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">K\u00e1roly Ferenczy, <i>The Woman Painter<\/i>, 1903, oil on canvas, 53.5&#8243; x 51&#8243;.<\/p><\/div>\n<p><em>Anna Akhmatova\u2019s poem\u00a0<em>\u201cSecrets of the Trade,\u201d<\/em>\u00a0translated by\u00a0Jo Ann Clark with Zhenya Zafrin, appeared in our <a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/back-issues\/141\" target=\"_blank\">Winter 1996 issue<\/a>. Akhmatova died in 1966; our columnist Anthony Madrid <a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/06\/21\/on-a-certain-epigram-by-anna-akhmatova\/\" target=\"_blank\">recently wrote about an epigram of hers<\/a>.\u00a0<\/em><!--more--><\/p>\n<p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 1. Inspiration<\/p>\n<p>It happens like this: a kind of lethargy, <br \/>In my ears the sound of a clock chiming,<br \/>Thunder fading in the distance.<br \/>Trapped, unrecognizable voices<br \/>Wail and cry out to me: the closing in\u2028<br \/>Of some mysterious circle.<br \/>But from this abyss of whispers and bells<br \/>Rises a single all-conquering sound,<br \/>Despite the forest\u2019s surrounding<br \/>Silence\u2014hear grass growing,<br \/>Hear the wood troll walking with his sack.<br \/>And listen! The sound of words,<br \/>Rhymes signaling their arrival,<br \/>And I begin to understand:<br \/>Lines simply taken down<br \/>Appear on pages white as snow.<\/p>\n<p>\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 2.<\/p>\n<p>I have no use for battlefield odes,<br \/>And the charms of an intricate elegy.<br \/>For me a poem must be impromptu\u2014<br \/>Not a matter of tradition.<\/p>\n<p>If you only knew what kind of trash<br \/>Poems shamelessly grow in:<br \/>Like weeds under the fence, <br \/>Like crabgrass, dandelions.<\/p>\n<p>An angry shout, the smell of fresh tar,<br \/>Mysterious mildew on the wall\u2014<br \/>And a poem begins sounding fervent, tender,<br \/>Making us all joyful.<\/p>\n<p>\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 3. The Muse<\/p>\n<p>How can I live with this burden\u2014<br \/>And yet she\u2019s called The Muse.<br \/>\u201cShe\u2019s with you in a meadow \u2026 ,\u201d they say.<\/p>\n<p>They say, \u201cDivine muttering!\u201d<br \/>She\u2019ll seize you worse than a fever<br \/>And then, for an entire year, nothing at all.<\/p>\n<p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 4. The Poet<\/p>\n<p>You call this <i>work<\/i>, this breezy life:<br \/>Overhearing something<br \/>In music, then passing it off<br \/>Half-seriously as your own.<\/p>\n<p>Casting someone\u2019s merry scherzo<br \/>Into lines of some sort<br \/>Swearing it\u2019s your own poor heart<br \/>That aches in a bright meadow.<\/p>\n<p>Then eavesdropping on the woods,<br \/>On the seemingly mute pine,<br \/>While everywhere fog stands<br \/>Like a smoke screen.<\/p>\n<p>I take right and left<br \/>Without the least pang of guilt:<br \/>A little from mischievous life,<br \/>All from night\u2019s silence.<\/p>\n<p>\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 5. The Reader<\/p>\n<p>The poet can\u2019t be too sad<br \/>Or, worse still, too sly.<br \/>For general understanding,<br \/>The poet must be open wide.<\/p>\n<p>The footlights in front of him,<br \/>Bare and bright, deathly;<br \/>The cold blaze of limelight<br \/>Branding his face.<\/p>\n<p>But every reader is a secret,<br \/>A buried treasure, of sorts\u2014<br \/>Even the last to come,<br \/>And remaining a lifelong mute.<\/p>\n<p>There\u2019s the one nature keeps from us<br \/>Whenever she feels like it;<br \/>There\u2019s the one who weeps helplessly <br \/>At the prearranged hour.<\/p>\n<p>And <i>there <\/i>(darkness,<br \/>shadows, chilly air)\u2014<br \/>And <i>there\u2014<\/i>the unknown eyes<br \/>That speak to me till dawn.<\/p>\n<p>About some things they rebuke me,<br \/>About others they agree.<br \/>And so it goes, like a silent confession,<br \/>The flow of our warm exchange.<\/p>\n<p>Life on earth is short,<br \/>Our given sphere constricted,<br \/>But the poet\u2019s unknown friend<br \/>Is constant and eternal.<\/p>\n<p>\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 6. The Last Poem<\/p>\n<p>Bursting into the house like startled thunder<br \/>The first one comes, breathless, laughing,<br \/>Fluttering at my throat and spinning<br \/>To the sound of its own applause.<\/p>\n<p>Another is born in the silence of midnight,<br \/>Stealing upon me from who knows where.<br \/>It peers at me from an empty mirror, <br \/>Mumbling something pitiless.<\/p>\n<p>Then from nowhere come others<br \/>Which seem not to notice I\u2019m here.<br \/>They trickle down the white page<br \/>Like spring water in a ravine.<\/p>\n<p>And there\u2019s one that roams secretly\u2014<br \/>No sound no color, no color no sound\u2014<br \/>It plays with light like a faceted stone.<br \/>It grows, thrives, and won\u2019t be taken alive.<\/p>\n<p>One, drop by drop, sucked all my blood<br \/>As young love did, that nasty girl.<br \/>Then, without a word,<br \/>Turned wholly speechless again.<\/p>\n<p>And then came the worst fate of all.<br \/>It left. In its wake it left the signs<br \/>To circumscribed infinity.<br \/>And without it, I\u2019m here with death.<\/p>\n<p>\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 7. An Epigram<\/p>\n<p>Did Beatrice have Dantesque visions?<br \/>Did Laura write Petrarchan sonnets:<br \/>I\u2019ve taught women to speak, O God\u2014<br \/>But how can I teach them silence?<\/p>\n<p>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 8. Poems<\/p>\n<p>Wrung-out insomnias,<br \/>Pooled wax at the base<br \/>Of a guttering candle,<br \/>The morning\u2019s first sound<br \/>Of a hundred white bells.<br \/>Warm sills under Chernigov moons.<br \/>Bees and clover, darkness and dust,<br \/>Suffocating heat.<\/p>\n<p>\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 9.<\/p>\n<p>Many things want my voice to praise them,<br \/>Many things rumble, seemingly speechless;<br \/>Or they gnaw at rocks underground in the dark,<br \/>Or they show up in a circle of smoke,<br \/>But because I\u2019ve not settled my score <br \/>With wind, water, and fire,<br \/>Sleepless nights can suddenly take me<br \/>To the very gates that lead<br \/>To the morning star.<\/p>\n<p style=\"text-align: right;\"><i>\u2014translated from the Russian by Jo Ann Clark, with Zhenya Zafrin<br \/><\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Anna Akhmatova\u2019s poem\u00a0\u201cSecrets of the Trade,\u201d\u00a0translated by\u00a0Jo Ann Clark with Zhenya Zafrin, appeared in our Winter 1996 issue. Akhmatova died in 1966; our columnist Anthony Madrid recently wrote about an epigram of hers.\u00a0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1028,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1188],"tags":[22903,22906,23736,16886,22909,22905,9790,23734,687,15558,7354,23733,3539,23584,165,23737,1150,23727,53,447,23729,23730,23731,23732,23728,530,23735],"class_list":["post-101209","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-from-the-archive","tag-anna-akhmatova","tag-art-of-translation","tag-chernigov","tag-darkness","tag-epigram","tag-in-translation","tag-inspiration","tag-jo-ann-clark","tag-language","tag-light","tag-moon","tag-morning-star","tag-poem","tag-poem-from-the-archive","tag-poetry","tag-poetry-in-translation","tag-praise","tag-reader","tag-reading","tag-russia","tag-russian-poets","tag-slavic-myth","tag-teaching-poetry","tag-the-last-poem","tag-the-muse","tag-translation","tag-zhenya-zafrin"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>Secrets of the Trade<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"A poem from the archive\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/08\/04\/secrets-of-the-trade\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Secrets of the Trade by Anna Akhmatova\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"August 4, 2016 \u2013 Anna Akhmatova\u2019s poem\u00a0\u201cSecrets of the Trade,\u201d\u00a0translated by\u00a0Jo Ann Clark with Zhenya Zafrin, appeared in our Winter 1996 issue. 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