stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 19549
    [post_author] => 23
    [post_date] => 2018-10-10 16:43:09
    [post_date_gmt] => 2018-10-10 16:43:09
    [post_content] => 1.
I can.
It is terrible, terrible,
To view the dead bloodless animal
that hides between the silences,
To meet its eyes and stare and stay alive.

I have been waiting until my fingers grow tired
Of holding my voice, fluttering like a half torn flag,
In the lines of my palms,
I have been waiting for the cold, my cold,
my son, my city, to bite its teeth and lock its jaw.

I will burn my voice to keep you warm,
my son, my city, Leningrad.
I can.

2.
The silence has fallen on the faces
That are not truly faces anymore,
Painting lips blue with disuse.

It has been spread over us all,
Cleaving distance in the lines
Of half mothers and half wives.

I will remember this for us,
Empty mouths hungry with loss
Of Russia and each other.

It is my long monthed weight,
Carried in my stomach,
My burden and its muted strength.

3.
My God, my mother-land, my city
And my son.
I promise, I promise
I can.
    [post_title] => Anna
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => anna
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2018-10-11 09:21:13
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2018-10-11 09:21:13
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=19549
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
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    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2018
            [wpcf-summary-description] => This poem is commended in the Timothy Corsellis Poetry Prize 2018 on Young Poets Network (YPN).

One of the judges, Fran Brearton, said that the poem is "ambitious and dramatic; and takes the phrase from Akhmatova and uses it to good effect."

Matilda, the poet, commented, "In the preface of “Requiem”, Akhmatova recalls standing in a prison queue in Leningrad. When a woman asks “Could one ever describe this?”, Anna Akhmatova replies “I can.” I was struck with the terrible responsibility Akhmatova must have felt to carry, remember, and honestly translate the atrocities she experienced in the city and country she loved. In my poem, I wanted to focus on the burden of poet and mother, but also the deep seated strength this must have brought, the strength which helped “Requiem” survive in the Russian underground for years, whispered as a form of resistance."
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Commended, Timothy Corsellis Prize 2018
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 16682
            [forename] => 
            [surname] => 
            [title] => Matilda Houston-Brown
            [slug] => matilda-houston-brown
            [content] => Matilda is a first-prize winner in the Wish List challenge on Young Poets Network and runner-up in the Namedropping challenge with People Need Nature and Jen Hadfield. She is also a commended poet in the secondary category of the Agincourt 600 Poetry Competition, and commended in the Timothy Corsellis Poetry Prize 2018 on Young Poets Network.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 16682
    [forename] => 
    [surname] => 
    [title] => Matilda Houston-Brown
    [slug] => matilda-houston-brown
    [content] => Matilda is a first-prize winner in the Wish List challenge on Young Poets Network and runner-up in the Namedropping challenge with People Need Nature and Jen Hadfield. She is also a commended poet in the secondary category of the Agincourt 600 Poetry Competition, and commended in the Timothy Corsellis Poetry Prize 2018 on Young Poets Network.
)

Anna

Matilda Houston-Brown

1.
I can.
It is terrible, terrible,
To view the dead bloodless animal
that hides between the silences,
To meet its eyes and stare and stay alive.

I have been waiting until my fingers grow tired
Of holding my voice, fluttering like a half torn flag,
In the lines of my palms,
I have been waiting for the cold, my cold,
my son, my city, to bite its teeth and lock its jaw.

I will burn my voice to keep you warm,
my son, my city, Leningrad.
I can.

2.
The silence has fallen on the faces
That are not truly faces anymore,
Painting lips blue with disuse.

It has been spread over us all,
Cleaving distance in the lines
Of half mothers and half wives.

I will remember this for us,
Empty mouths hungry with loss
Of Russia and each other.

It is my long monthed weight,
Carried in my stomach,
My burden and its muted strength.

3.
My God, my mother-land, my city
And my son.
I promise, I promise
I can.