Marina Tsvetaeva- the Essential Poetry Read online

  * * *

  Your turn will come:

  It will also be your daughter

  To whom you’ll give away your Moscow

  With tender bitterness.

  For me now unbroken sleep, the ringing of bells,

  The early dawns

  At Vagankovo Cemetery.5

  March 31, 1916

  * * *

  POEMS FOR AKHMATOVA

  1

  O Muse of lament, the most beautiful of all the muses!

  O you, wild6 offspring of the white night!7

  You send a black snowstorm into Rus,

  And your wails pierce us like arrows.

  * * *

  We dash and a muffled: oh! —

  The hundred-thousandth — pledges to you: Anna

  A(k)h-matova! This name is a colossal sigh,

  And it falls into a depth that has no name.

  * * *

  We are crowned by the fact that we tread on

  The same earth as you, that the sky above us is the same,

  And whoever is mortally wounded by your fate

  Already goes to her deathbed as an immortal.

  * * *

  The cupolas shine in my singing city,

  And a wandering blind man glorifies the bright

  Church of the Savior… And I give you my city of bells

  As a gift, Akhmatova! — and also my heart.

  June 19, 1916

  * * *

  *

  In days of olde you were like a mother to me,

  I could call you in the middle of the night,

  The light of feverishness, the light of sleeplessness,

  The light of my eyes in nights of olde.

  * * *

  Full of grace, remember,

  Sunsetless days of olde,

  Both a mother’s and a daughter’s,

  Sunsetless, eveningless.

  * * *

  I haven’t come to trouble you, but only to say good-bye,

  I’ll just kiss the hem of your dress,

  And I’ll look into your eyes with my eyes

  That used to be kissed in nights of olde.

  * * *

  There will be a day — when I’ll die — and a day — when you will too,

  There will be a day — when I understand — and a day — when you will too.

  And on that day of forgiveness8

  That irretrievable time will return to us.

  April 26, 1916

  * * *

  INSOMNIA

  2

  I love to kiss

  Hands, and I love

  To give out names,

  And also — to open up

  Doors!

  — Wide open — into dark night!

  * * *

  Clasping my head,

  Listening as a heavy gait

  Lightens somewhere,

  As the sleepy wind

  Sways the sleepless

  Forest.

  * * *

  Ah, the night!

  Somewhere springs are running,

  Inclined – to sleep.

  I’m almost asleep.

  Somewhere in the night

  Someone is drowning.

  May 27, 1916

  * * *

  3

  In this huge city of mine there is — night.

  From a sleepy home I go — away.

  And people think: a daughter, a wife —

  But I recalled just one thing: night.

  * * *

  July wind is sweeping the path for me,

  And through the window somewhere faint music is — heard.

  O, today it’s for the wind to blow — till dawn

  Through the thin walls of the chest — into a chest.

  * * *

  There is a black poplar, and in the window — light,

  And a bell in a tower, and a flower — in a hand,

  And that footstep following — after — no one,

  And this shadow here, but I am — gone.

  * * *

  Lights — like threads of golden beads,

  The taste of a nocturnal leaf in your — mouth.

  Free yourself from daily fetters,

  Friends, remember, I’m being dreamt — by you.

  July 17, 1916

  * * *

  5

  Today I am a heavenly guest

  In your land.

  I saw the sleeplessness of the forest

  And the sleep of the fields.

  * * *

  Somewhere in the night horseshoes

  Tore up the grass.

  A cow sighed heavily

  In a sleepy cowshed.

  * * *

  With sadness I’ll tell you,

  With all tenderness,

  About a guard — goose

  And sleeping geese.

  * * *

  Hands drowned in canine fur,

  The dog was — gray.

  Then, toward six,

  It began to dawn.

  July 20,1916

  * * *

  6

  This night I am alone in the night —

  Sleepless, a homeless nun! —

  This night I have the keys

  To all the gates of the one and only capital city!

  * * *

  Insomnia pushed me on my way.

  — O, how beautiful you are to me,

  my dimly lit Kremlin! —

  This night I kiss the breast

  Of the entire round warring earth!

  * * *

  It’s not hair that stands on end — but fur,

  And a stifling wind blows straight into my soul.

  This night I pity everyone —

  Both those being pitied and those being kissed.

  August 1, 1916

  * * *

  7

  Tenderly — tender, delicately — delicately

  Something whistled in a pine tree.

  I saw a child with eyes of black

  In a dream.

  * * *

  This is the way hot resin drips

  From a small red pine.

  This is the way in my beautiful night

  A saw blade passes through my heart.

  August 8, 1916

  From POEMS FOR BLOK

  (1922)

  POEMS FOR BLOK9

  1

  Your name’s — a bird in the hand,

  Your name’s — a bit of ice on the tongue.

  A single-solitary movement of lips.

  Your name’s — four letters long.10

  A tiny ball caught in flight,

  A silver bell in the mouth.

  * * *

  This way a stone thrown into a placid pond,

  Will sob when it sounds your name.

  In the slight clicking of nocturnal hooves

  Your clamorous name thunders.

  And a clearly clicking rifle cock

  Will say it pressed to my temple.

  * * *

  Your name — ah, it’s forbidden! —

  Your name’s — a kiss to the eyes,

  On the tender cold of motionless eyelids

  Your name is — a kiss on the snow,

  A brook’s icy light blue gulp…

  With your name — sleep is deep.

  April 15, 1916

  * * *

  2

  Tender specter,

  A knight without reproach,

  By whom are you summoned

  Into my young life?

  You stand in the gray —

  Fog, clothed

  In a snowy vestment.

  * * *

  It’s not the wind

  That chases me through the city:

  Ah, it’s already the third

  Evening I sense the enemy.

  * * *

  Blue-eyed —

  The snowy bard

  Has bewitched me.

  * * *

  A snow swan
/>
  Spreads feathers at my feet.

  The feathers soar

  And slowly disappear in the snow.

  * * *

  And so, along the feathers,

  I walk to the door

  Beyond which is — death.

  * * *

  He sings to me

  Beyond the deep blue windows.

  He sings to me

  With distant bells.

  * * *

  With a long shout,

  With a swanlike shriek —

  It calls.

  * * *

  Tender specter!

  I know I’m dreaming all this.

  Just do me one favor:

  Amen, amen, disintegrate!

  Amen.

  May 1, 1916

  * * *

  3

  You pass to the West of the Sun.

  You’ll see the evening light.

  You pass to the West of the Sun,

  And a snowstorm covers your tracks.

  * * *

  Past my windows — dispassionate —

  You pass in snowy silence,

  My beautiful (righteous) man of God,

  Quiet light of my soul!

  * * *

  I do not covet your soul!

  Your path is hallowed for me.

  I will not hammer a nail

  Into your hand, pale from kisses.

  * * *

  I will not summon you by name,

  I will not outstretch my hands.

  I will bow down from the distance

  To your waxen holy face.

  * * *

  Standing beneath slowly falling flakes,

  Into the snow I will fall on my knees,

  * * *

  And for your holy name

  It is that evening snow I will kiss —

  * * *

  There, where you passed in sepulchral silence

  With a majestic gait,

  Silent light — holy glories —

  The Almighty of my soul.

  May 2, 1916

  * * *

  4

  For the beast — a den,

  For the pilgrim — a road,

  For a dead man — a hearse,

  To each — his own.

  * * *

  For a woman — to be coy.

  For a tsar — to rule,

  And for me — to sing the glory of

  Your name.

  May 2, 1916

  From THE SWAN’S ENCAMPMENT

  (1917-1920)

  THE RIVER DON11

  2

  He who survived — will die, he who is dead — will rise.

  And here descendants, having remembered times of olde, will say:

  “Where were you?” The question crashes like thunder,

  The answer crashes the same way: “On the River Don!”

  * * *

  “What did you do there?” “We accepted suffering,

  Then grew weary and lay down to sleep.”

  And in the dictionary pensive grandsons

  After the word “duty” will write the words: “The River Don.”

  March 17, 1918

  * * *

  ANDRE CHENIER12

  1

  Andre Chenier ascended onto the scaffold,

  Yet I live — and this is a terrible sin.

  There are times — iron ones — for everyone.

  And it’s not a singer singing in gun powder.

  * * *

  And it’s not a father who, trembling,

  Tears away the warrior’s armor from his son.

  There are times when the sun is — a mortal sin.

  It’s not a human being — who lives in our days.

  April 17, 1918

  * * *

  2

  In the darkness I can’t recognize

  Hands — are they mine or someone else’s?

  The black conciergeries dart about

  In a frightening dream.

  * * *

  Hands drop a notebook,

  They grope for a thin neck.

  The morning skulks like a thief.

  I won’t be able to finish my writing.

  April 17, 1918

  * * *

  *

  For the flesh is — flesh, for the spirit is — spirit,

  For the flesh is — bread, for the spirit is — tidings,

  For the flesh is — worms, for the spirit is — a sigh,

  Seven crowns, seven heavens.13

  * * *

  Weep already, flesh! — Tomorrow is dust!

  Spirit do not weep! — Glory to You, spirit!

  Today — a slave, tomorrow — a king

  For all seven — heavens.

  May 9, 1918

  From MILEPOSTS II

  (1922)

  For Anna Akhmatova

  * * *

  Universal migration has begun in darkness.

  It is trees wandering through — the nocturnal earth,

  It is clusters of grapes fermenting — as golden wine ,

  It is the stars roaming — from house to house ,

  These are rivers beginning their path — backward!

  And I want to lie my head on your chest and — sleep.

  January 14, 1917

  * * *

  *

  As soon as I close my burning eyelids — Roses and rivers of paradise...

  * * *

  Somewhere off in the distance

  As though in oblivion, —

  The tender articulations

  Of the serpent of paradise.

  * * *

  And I recognize,

  Pensive Eve,

  The Lord’s tree

  In the perfect circle of paradise.14

  January 20, 1917

  * * *

  *

  Dear fellow travelers, sharing a night’s lodging with us!

  Miles, more miles, and miles, and stale bread.

  * * *

  The rumbling of gypsy wagons,

  The rumble of rivers running —

  Backward...

  * * *

  Ah, at a paradisal, early, gypsy dawn —

  Remember the hot neighing and the steppe all in silver?

  Blue smoke on a mountain,

  And a song about the king of —

  The gypsies...

  * * *

  At black midnight, beneath the cover of ancient branches,

  We have given you sons — as beautiful — as the night,

  Sons — destitute — as the night...

  And a nightingale trilled —

  Glory...

  * * *

  The fellow travelers of a wondrous time failed to hold you up,

  Wretched pleasures and our wretched feasts.

  Campfires flamed hotly,

  And onto our carpets the stars —

  Fell...

  January 29, 1917

  * * *

  *

  I gazed into your eyes

  Dully and with dread.

  Somewhere the thunder sternly — answered.

  “Oh, you’re so young!

  Let me tell

  Your earthly lot.”

  Dark blue clouds swirled into a funnel.

  It’s thundering somewhere, the clouds are thundering!

  The fortune teller directed her sleepy gaze

  Straight at my child.

  * * *

  “What will you tell us?”

  “Everything with no lies.”

  “It’s too late for me,

  Still too early for her...”

  “Oh, hold your tongue, beauty!

  * * *

  What’s the point saying before it’s time: I don’t believe it!”

  And a black hand — all in silver —

  Flashed open a playing card fan,

  * * *

  “Brazen in talk,

  Simple in character,

  You live a generous life


  Not hoarding your beauty.

  In a teaspoon of water — ah — a wicked man

  Will drown you.

  * * *

  Soon in the night you’ll have an unexpected path...

  The line is too short,

  Too little good-fortune.”

  Make it golden!

  * * *

  And with a crash of thunder

  A black — on black — ace sprouts.

  May 19, 1917

  * * *

  *

  You kiss the forehead — to wipe away fear.

  I kiss the forehead.

  * * *

  You kiss the eyes — to take away sleeplessness.

  I kiss the eyes.

  * * *

  You kiss the lips — to quench thirst.

  I kiss the lips.

  * * *

  You kiss the forehead — to wipe away memory.

  I kiss the forehead.

  June 5, 1917