Marina Tsvetaeva - My Poems: Selected Poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva

Ask your loved one to pose before you. Looking at your model, draw a stick figure. Make sure it has two arms, two legs and a head. Are you now an artist? The essential elements might be there, but without the detailed features, - without proper curves, without light and shadow, without color, without capturing your loved-ones facial expression or quirky posture, all you have in the end is a stick figure. Unfortunately, thats the approach that translators often take on when working with poetry. They focus so much on word choice and literal meaning that in the end all of the supporting details get lost, and the reader is left with a skeleton of what used to be a beautiful poem.

This is not a translation , this is a transgression . In this book, Ive tried my best to preserve details, without losing sight of the big picture. Meter, rhyme, line length all of these elements are essential in understanding the complexity and beauty of Marina Tsvetaevas work. For those of you who are able to enjoy Marina Tsvetaeva in the original Russian language, I hope that you still recognize your loved one in my work. For those of you, who are reading Marina Tsvetaeva for the first time, I hope that you see something that you like in this portrait. And finally, I humbly ask all of you to forgive me my short-comings, since a perfect translation is a goal that simply cannot be reached.

Andrey Kneller
"Represented on a graph, Tsvetaeva's work would exhibit a curve--or rather, a straight line--rising at almost a right angle because of her constant effort to raise the pitch a note higher, an idea higher (or, more precisely, an octave and a faith higher.) She always carried everything she has to say to its conceivable and expressible end. In both her poetry and her prose, nothing remains hanging or leaves a feeling of ambivalence. Tsvetaeva is the unique case in which the paramount spiritual experience of an epoch (for us, the sense of ambivalence, of contradictoriness in the nature of human existence) served not as the object of expression but as its means, by which it was transformed into the material of art." -Joseph Brodsky
Table of Contents
Marina Tsvetaeva Selected Poems: 1909-193 , , . . , . . ! , . , ! , - . - -. . .

Rostand ! , , , , . 1909 In Paris Skyscrapers, and the sky below,
It nears the earth in misty layers.
The same covert and secret woe
Persists in vast and happy Paris.
The evening boulevards are loud,
The sunsets final glimmer dies.
And there are couples all around,
And trembling lips and daring eyes.
Im here alone. Its nice to rest
Ones head against the chestnut tree!
Just as in Moscow, here, the chest
Cries out with Rostands poetry.
Dear are the long gone days of folly,
Paris at night is strange and dull,
Im walking home to grieving violets
And someones portrait on the wall.
That profile glance, as of a brother,
Is intimate and sad. It seems,
Tonight Ill see the Reichstadt martyr,
Rostand and Sarah, in my dreams!
In vast and happy Paris, here,
I dream of grass and cloudy nights,
And laughters far and shadows near,
Again, the same deep pain abides. June, 1909 ! , , ! , , . -- ! -- ! : , ; , , ... -- , -- ! , , ... -- -- ! 26 1909 Prayer I need a miracle, Christ, My Lord!
Here, now, before the sun can rise!
O, let me pass on, while the world
Is like a book before my eyes.
No, You are fair and will not judge:
Its not your time, and so live on.
For You have given me too much!
I long to take all roads - in one!
I crave it all: With a gypsys passion,
To raid and loot, singing a song,
And hearing organs, feel compassion,
And rush to war, - an Amazon;
Wish on the stars, up in the dungeon,
Lead kids through shadows on the way,
Turn yesterday into a legend,
And suffer madness every day!
I love this cross and this silk veil,
My soul is but a moments gleam...
Youve made my youth a fairytale, -
Now, let me die - at seventeen! September 26, 1909
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, , ! 1910 For Mama For the first time, in the Strauss waltz,
We discerned your quiet, haunting calling.
Now, were strangers to the living souls,
And we find the racing clocks consoling,
Just like you, we hail the setting sun,
Get intoxicated with the nearing end.
We are rich with all that you have done
And instilled into our hearts again.
You served our dreams without growing weary,
(Only the moon takes notice of them now)
As you led your children past the dreary,
Hectic life, - evading it somehow.
From early on, we loved the broken-hearted,
And knew that home-life wasnt made for us.
One dismal day, our ship had left the harbor
And now its freely tossed by every gust.
The azure isle of our childhood drifts farther,
We stand alone upon the deck, in disbelief.
It appears that for your daughters, mother,
Youve bequeathed just melancholy grief! 1910 , - , , , . . ... : , . . ? ? ? 1910 Meeting The evening mist appeared above the town,
Submissively, the trains sped through the haze,
Clear as the petals of anemones, a face
Flashed in a window, youthful and round.
A shadow on her eyelids. ? ? ? 1910 Meeting The evening mist appeared above the town,
Submissively, the trains sped through the haze,
Clear as the petals of anemones, a face
Flashed in a window, youthful and round.
A shadow on her eyelids.

Like a crown,
Those golden curls I hushed myself, amazed:
I understood that with our moans, we raise
The long deceased from underneath the ground.
In valley of my dreams, Ive often greeted
- An apparition in the crowded station -
This youthful lady by the window seated.
But why was she so sad on this occasion?
What did this silhouette seek out and why?
Was she not happy - even in the sky? 1910 ! , ! , . , , -- , ! Farewell! By God, I think that while Were both alive, we shall not meet! We lack the courage for the feat Of sharing words to reconcile. Your tender face is kind and sweet, My heart will cherish it, inspired, And yet, by God, I think that while Were both alive, we shall not meet! ,
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. In The Winter The bells again break the silence,
Wailing with remorse
Only several streets divide us,
Only several words!
A silver sickle lights the night,
The city sleeps this hour,
The falling snowflakes set alight
The stars upon your collar.
Are the sores of the past still aching?
How long do they abide?
Youre teased by the captivating,
New and shimmering eyes.
They (blue or brown?) are dearer
Than anything pages hold!
Their lashes are turning clearer,
Out in the freezing cold
The church bells have faded to silence
Powerless from remorse
Only several streets divide us,
Only several words!
The crescent, at this very hour,
Inspires poets with its glow,
The wind is gusting and your collar
Is covered with the snow.
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! 1911 Cats For Max Voloshin Theyll pay a visit to our place