Anna Akhmatova
I have no need for armies of the ode,
Or for the charm of elegiac schemes.
For me, in poetry, everything should be out of place,
Not as it is with other people.
If only you knew what rubbish
Poems grow out of, knowing no shame —
Like a yellow dandelion by the fence,
Like burdock and wild orache.
An angry shout, the fresh smell of tar,
Mysterious mildew on the wall …
And suddenly the poem is sounding — spirited, tender,
To the delight of you and me.