Whyte Christopher - Moscow in the Plague Year: Poems

English language translation 2014 Christopher Whyte First Archipelago Books Edition, 2014 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher. Archipelago Books
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www.archipelagobooks.org Distributed by Random House
www.randomhouse.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Tsvetaeva, Marina, 18921941, author. [Poems. Selections. 2014]
Moscow in the plague year / Marina Tsvetaeva; translated from the Russian by Christopher Whyte. 2014]
Moscow in the plague year / Marina Tsvetaeva; translated from the Russian by Christopher Whyte.

First edition.
pages; cm
ISBN 978-1-935744-96-2
eBook ISBN: 978-1-935744-97-9
I. Whyte, C. (Christopher), 1952 translator. II. Title.
PG 3476. v3.1

Sweet to be two of us on just one horse, in the one dinghy, riding one wave, sweet when the two of us chew the same crust sweetest of all when we share the same pillow. November 1st 1918 With airborne step the sign of a clear conscience with airborne step and resonant song
God set me down alone amidst the worlds immensity: Youre not a woman, he said, but a bird. November 1st 1918 With airborne step the sign of a clear conscience with airborne step and resonant song
God set me down alone amidst the worlds immensity: Youre not a woman, he said, but a bird.

Your task, therefore to fly and sing! November 1st 1918 The morning dove has found a place to perch on my right shoulder, while the eagle owl of night has found a place to perch upon my left.
Like Kazans emperor, I pass knowing I have no cause to fear enemies having joined in league to offer me common defence! November 2nd 1918 Im giving you this comb so youll remember me longer than an hour, lad, or a year.
Little gold combs got invented for that so young lovers dont forget their girls.
To stop the one I love drinking without me comb, little comb for straightening my hair!
This one is special, theres no other like it pulled through my hair, its teeth feel just like strings!
As soon as you touch it, a shiver will run all down my body, but nobody elses.
To stop the one I love sleeping without me comb, little comb for straightening my hair!
So that every inch he puts between us can seem to him a mile of burning sweat,
each mile as he returns seems like an inch little gold combs got invented for that.
To stop the one I love living without me comb, darling comb, with all your seven teeth! November 2nd 1918 A mug, the tail end of the bread, a raspberry out of the punnet, moonlight through the attic window thats how far our banquet reaches!
As a bonus, offer me a lad I can get warmed up with even when no breads included, I can never hope to pay! November 2nd 1918

Dedication:To an actor, trying to pass for an angel, or an angel, trying to pass for an actor it makes no difference, since in 1919 tenderness towards Your Worship, and not snow, had me in thrall An evening comes to mind. Early November. Rain falling, foggy. Underneath the streetlamp, your gentle features, alien, uncertain, pallid and blurred as in a Dickens novel. A shivering as of winter seas within me. Your gentle features underneath the streetlamp.
The wind howled, and the stair we climbed unravelled My eyes were riveted upon your lips; I stood, twisting my fingers, almost laughing, the version of a Muse in miniature, as blameless as the evening hour was late The wind howled, and the stair we climbed unravelled.
You overwhelmed me from beneath tired eyelids with hopes that had no chance of being fulfilled.

Touching upon your lips, my gaze slid onwards Thus does an angel, wearied by the robes that camouflage its hidden sanctity, enchant the world from underneath tired eyelids.
Another night from one of Dickens novels. Rain falls again. Again theres no escape for me, for you. A downpour in the gutters. The staircase flashes by Again, those lips Those same steps hurry off into the night, going who knows where, in one of Dickens novels. November 2nd 1918 So many wrists must have dallied and curled.

What was it made my wrist special for you?
Turning in circles cat with a mouse! Falcon, its eyes we use, not lips, to look! November 19th 1918 Not love, but feverishness! Playful combat, sly, mendacious. Sickening one day, sweet the next, at deaths door, then alive again.
Battle rages. Both enjoy it. He is smart but shes no fool! To me the hero and first lady are equally captivating.
A shepherds staff or else a sword? Sidelines, combat or a dance? One step forwards, three steps back, one step backwards, three ahead.
Honeyed lips, trust-inspiring eyes then, all at once, the eyebrow darts. Pretending in the place of love, absolute hypocrisy!
The fruit of these (uncommitted between brackets!) sins will be fluttering pages, in a stack, of impassioned poetry. November 20th 1918 With my shawls ends I tie a knot around your melancholy.

Watch me as, shawlless, I proceed singing from square to square.
The curse has been dispelled. From now on youre in thrall to me! November 20th 1918 To be my friends forbidden, and I cant be loved! Exquisite eyes keep all at bay!
Longboats are meant to sail, and mills to grind. Is stopping hearts in orbit your vocation?
My notebook will make sure you never win. Should one lavish such feeling on mere acting?
Loves cross is heavy. We wont try to lift it. November 20th 1918 Do I kiss hair, or empty space? Eyelids, or the winds breath on them? Lips, or your breath upon my lips? No way to tell, or break the charm.
One things sure: a whole history of bliss is contained in this cloudlet of breath dispersing, epic thronged with emperors, haunting, many-stringed.
All that is earthlys doomed to pass, including you and love, my friend! Your voice and locks will survive in my songs attacks, each shadowed string. November 22nd 1918 No peace for me until I see, no peace until I hear, no peace until I catch your gaze, until I hear your words.
A tiny slip set the sum wrong. November 22nd 1918 No peace for me until I see, no peace until I hear, no peace until I catch your gaze, until I hear your words.
A tiny slip set the sum wrong.

Wholl sort out the mistake? That ever so sweet smile of yours dissolved my bitterness.
My grandchildren will write a label for my ashes: off her rocker. Weakening yet stubborn, I repeat: No peace until I see, I hear