Marina Tsvetaeva

­One of the most original and sincere Russian poets of the 20th century, Marina Tsvetaeva used her own complex personality and feelings as her primary source of inspiration.

Many of her poems were devoted to Moscow, one of the major themes of Tsvetaeva’s poetry.

You're me in the way…

You're me in the way. I used to
Walk so, without looking up.
Stop, passerby! Don't refuse to.
I beg and I pray you – stop!
You'll read, as you lay the glowing
Red blossoms on the mound of grass:
Marina. And then more slowly:
The dates – of my birth and death.
Yes, there is a grave, but leave it
And haunt you I won't, no fear.
I too, you can well believe it,
Once laugh in the midst of tears.
The blood through my veins coursed freely,
The locks curled around my face.
Stop, passerby! Can't you feel it?
I too, passerby, once was.
A strawberry. Pluck it, eat it!
It's there, near the very ground.
No berries are ever sweeter
Then those in a graveyard found.
But only no gloom, no tightly
Closed lips, do not brood or fret.
Think lightly on me, and lightly
My name, passerby, forget.
The sun's dust-like beams caress you,
Your shoulders and head they lave.
Please don't let the voice distress you
That comes to you from grave.

Still yesterday he met my gaze…

Still yesterday he met my gaze,
But now his eyes are darting shiftily!
Till birdsong at first light he stayed, –
Now larks are crows, met with hostility!
So I am stupid, you are wise,
You live, I lie dumbstricken, numb to you.
O how the woman in me cries:
“O my dear love, what have I done to you?”

The ships of lovers-lost set sail…

The ships of lovers-lost set sail,
A white road takes the lover shunning you…
Across the world a long-drawn wail:
“O my dear love, what have I done to you?”
There only yesterday he kneeled.
He called me his “Cathy” admiringly.
Then spread his palm out – to reveal
A rusty kopek, a life derisory.
Like an infanticide in court
I stand detested, shy, confronting you.
Yet still I ask, when I am brought
To Hell: “O my dear love, what have I done to you?”
I asked the chair, I asked the bed:
“Why should I bear the pain, the misery?”
“He wants to torture you” they said,
“To kiss another. Where's the mystery?”
He taught me living – at furnace heat,
In icy steppe he left me suddenly.
“That is what you, dear, did to me!
O my dear love, what have I done to you?”
Now all is plain – don't contradict!
I see again – I'm not your partner.
A heart that love leaves derelict
Is fair terrain for Death-the-Gardener.
Why shake the tree? Ripe apples fall
To earth themselves and never trouble you…
Forgive me now, forgive me all
That I, dear love, have ever done to you.

To Byron

I think about the morning of your glory,
About the morning of your days too, when
Like a demon you from sleep had stirred
And were a god for men.
I think of when your eyebrows came together
Over the burning torches of your eyes,
Of how the ancient blood's eternal lava
Rushed through your arteries.
I think of fingers – very long – inside
The wavy hair, about all
Eyes that did thirst for you in alleys
And in the dining-halls.
About the hearts too, which – you were too young then -
You did not have the time to read, too soon,
About the times, when solely in your honor
Arose and down went the moon.
I think about a hall in semi-darkness,
About the velvet, into lace inclined,
About the poems we would have told each other,
You – yours, I – mine.
I also think about the remaining
From your lips and your eyes handful of dust..
About all eyes, that are now in the graveyard
About them and us.

Who's made of stone, who's made of mud…

Who's made of stone, who's made of mud,
And I'm made from silver and shine.
My act is betrayal, my name is Marina,
The fragile sea foam am I.
Who is made from mud, who is made from flesh -
There's coffin and coffin plates..
Baptized in a sea font and unceasingly
Broken in my flight!
Through every heart, through every net
Will poke its head my will.
You will not make me the salt of the earth
Can you see these my loose curls?
I resurrect with each wave, pounding
Against your granite knees!
May be well the foam – the high foam -
The high foam of the seas!

I like it that you're burning not for me…

I like it that you're burning not for me,
I like it that it's not for you I'm burning
And that the heavy sphere of Planet Earth
Will underneath our feet no more be turning
I like it that I can be unabashed
And humorous and not to play with words
And not to redden with a smothering wave
When with my sleeves I'm lightly touching yours.
I like it, that before my very eyes
You calmly hug another; it is well
That for me also kissing someone else
You will not threaten me with flames of hell.
That this my tender name, not day nor night,
You will recall again, my tender love;
That never in the silence of the church
They will sing “halleluiah” us above.
With this my heart and this my hand I thank
You that – although you don't know it -
You love me thus; and for my peaceful nights
And for rare meetings in the hour of sunset,
That we aren't walking underneath the moon,
That sun is not above our heads this morning,
That you – alas – are burning not for me
And that – alas – it's not for you I'm burning.

These my poems, written so early…

These my poems, written so early
That I did not know then I was a poet,
Which having tore, like droplets from a fountain,
Like sparks from a rocket,
Into a sanctuary, where there is sleep and incense
Like little devils having burst,
These my poems about youth and about death,
This unread verse!
Scattered through shops in piles of dust
Where nobody picked them up or does,
These my poems, like precious wine,
Will have their time.

They cut…

They cut
Ashberry
Keen.
Ashberry -
Is bitter
Fortune.
Ashberry -
With gray-haired
Descents.
Ashbery!
Fortune
Russian.

Gypsy Wedding

Dirt flies
From under the hooves.
Shawl like a shield
Over the face.
Newlyweds, have fun
Without the young!
Eh, carry them out,
Disheveled stallion!
We didn't have freedom
Under mother and dad,
The whole field for us
Is marital bed!
Full without bread and without wine drunk -
Thus the gypsy wedding does run!
Full is the glass.
Empty is the glass.
Guitar sound, dirt and moon.
To right and to left swings the den.
Gypsy – to knight!
To gypsy – knight!
Hey mister, careful – it burns!
Thus drinks gypsy wedding!
There, on the shawls'
And fur-coats' heap
There's ringing and rustling
Of steel and lips.
Ringing of spurs,
Necklaces – in return.
Silk has whistled
Under someone's hand.
Someone has howled like a wolf,
Someone like a bull is snoring.
Thus sleeps the gypsy wedding.
The gypsy passion of parting…
The gypsy passion of parting!
You meet it – and you take flight!
I dropped the arms and the forehead
And think staring into the night:
No one, digging in our letters,
Understood in all depth
How we're sacrilegious – that is
How we in each other have faith..

­My Pushkin (translated by Sasha Dugdale)

­Excerpts from translations of works by Marina Tsvetaeva (translated by Angela Livingstone)

­Parting (translated by Sibelan Forrester)

­The Parting collection, translated by Sibelan Forrester, along with the translator's commentary, is provided by RT partner, the Cardinal Points Literary Journal.

Poems (translated by Sasha Dugdale)

­Three poems by Marina Tsevateva, translated by Sasha Dugdale, along with the translator's essay, are provided by RT partner, the Cardinal Points Literary Journal.