Marina Ivanovna

Marina Ivanovna

[marinaivanovna]

It will sneak up on me unheard...

Like midnight in the thick of trees It will sneak up on me unheard. In the curves of my apron no one sees I’ve hidden for you a bird.

So here I stand at your door, arrest In the leaden weight of shame. But my apron is too tight a nest, And the bird will take flight all the same.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, 19 March 1920

[marinaivanovna]

I do not think, do not argue...

I do not think, do not argue, do not weep. I do not sleep. Not to the sun, the moon, the boat, or the sea, I do not flee.

I do not feel the heat within this room, nor the green of a garden in bloom. There's a longed-for gift to anticipate, I do not wait.

I feel no joy at dawn, nor as a streetcar clatters on. I live in a timeless mental block without calendar or clock.

Upon a tightrope, slashed, it seems I am a tiny, dancing figurine. I am a shadow of a shadow's gloom. I am a lunatic of two dark moons.

— Marina Tsvetaeva, 13 June 1914

[marinaivanovna]

If only fate would bring us together...

If only fate would bring us together how gaily earthly tasks we'd weather! Storms would part, one after another, My home, my darling, my homeless brother.

While the street lamps shine their final gleam, We rule the tavern, king and queen. Praise him, world, my only king! And praise his queen, who gives everything!

If only fate would bring us together the royal bells would ring forever, and o'er the Moskva their song would boom of a lovely imposter and her groom.

Having danced ourselves out at a lively feast, embraced we'd sway on an evening breeze... And the dust we'd raise would be white as ever if only fate would bring us together.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, 25 October 1915

[marinaivanovna]

On you, my dear, these tatters...

On you, my dear, these tatters, had once been gentle flesh. All torn apart and battered — Two wings are all that’s left.

Dress me in your splendor, forgive as I confess. And in the church surrendor this poor, decaying dress.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, 13 May 1918

[marinaivanovna]

To a man of genius

They bathed us in one cistern They crowned us in one ring of burrs. They pained us with one blister They marked us with one slur.

Into one house -- they crowd us. Into one grave -- they shroud us.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, 18 August 1918

[marinaivanovna]

I have loved you all my life

I have loved you all my life, every day. You are above me like a great dark cloud, or ancient smoke in the Arctic gray.

I have loved you all my life, every hour, but why don't I need your lips or eyes. Without you -- everything is born and everything still dies.  

I remember this: sounds of a meadow, star-studded antlers, a giant collar, the clean of snow...

Shadows cast to heaven where horns burst forth... like ancient smoke in the Arctic gray... Now I see: You are the stag of the north.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, December 7, 1918

[marinaivanovna]

Where does such tenderness come from?

Where does such tenderness come from? These are not the first curls I've stroked, nor are yours the darkest lips I've known.

Stars alight and go dark (Where does such tenderness come from?) Other eyes have lit and gone dark looking into my own.

I've never heard songs like these in the dark of night, resting—so tenderly!— my head on your singing chest.

Tell me, sly youth, wandering singer with the earth's longest lashes— Where does this tenderness come from, and what shall I do with it?

—Marina Tsvetaevea, 18 February 1916

[marinaivanovna]

Two roses

Written in haste — they fly, Burning from bitterness and glee. Between love and love, they'll crucify My moment, my day, my century.

Somewhere on earth, I hear — thunder, spears of the Amazons glistening again... But I do not tear my quill asunder! Two roses have made my warm heart drain.

— Marina Tsvetaeva, Moscow, 20 December 1916

[marinaivanovna]

Except for love

Didn’t love, but wept. No, I didn’t love, but nonetheless showed you in shadows an idol’s countenance. Everything in our slumber resembles lovelessness: No motives, no evidence.

Only to us did the idol nod from the vespertine hall, And only we, you and I, brought him pitiful verse. Worship had us more tightly enthralled, Than the ardor of lovers.

But the storm did pass, and a kind stranger came close, Who loved, but couldn’t pray. Do not rush to censure! You are memorable to me, like the softest note that blows when my soul gently stirs.

You’ve wandered this sad soul, like a house unlocked, unkept… (Our house, in spring…) As my memory fades, don’t call to me! All my minutes are flushed with you, except for love — the most melancholy.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, 1910

[marinaivanovna]

Old women without old men

      to Vl. Syakin

There were many old women, but old men there were few: What bent the old women, broke old men in two. Clutching their hearts, the old men were no more, and so through their closets the old women tore, to find a good suit of quality flannel, and buy a coffin from expensive oak panels, to see one last time how her spouse lies prone, the lapels of his suit beneath hands of stone. Little by little apartments appeared, and later merged into neighborhood squares, where death was abuzz and thieves were feared, as lonely old women repeated their prayers. They spoke of death as if she came in to join them each day as they sat drinking tea, much like Anna Petrovna — thin, like Maria Andreevna — melancholy. Like sailors, they rose early each morn, Like indians, sitting in darkness they’d linger, Combing through braids, sparse and torn, Turning old strings of beads in their fingers. They went to bed early like soldiers do, but to sleep isn’t sleeping for long, minds spinning with dates, where and who, those they loved, and those they’ve done wrong. Each of them gaunt, grieving, merry, toiling — waking to the sound of the night tram’s tolls, the very moment     insomnia lolls.

—Boris Slutsky, 1977

[marinaivanovna]

I like that you’re not crazy about me

I like that you’re not crazy about me, and that I’m not crazy about you, that the heavy earth we stand upon won’t float away beneath our shoes. I like that I can be loose, and funny, no need to twist words or deceive, and never blush or choke with worry at the slightest brush of your sleeve.

And I like that, right in front of me, you’ll casually embrace a lover, and not damn me to the fires of hell if I were to kiss another. And never, not by night or day, would you cry my name in vain, And we’ll never hear from a quiet church: Alleluia’s sweet refrain.

I thank you with both heart and hand, for you know not what you do: For all the nights I’ve gone right to sleep, For the rare sunset rendezvous, For the moon that never lit our stroll, For the sun that never cast us two, For alas, you’re not crazy about me, and Alas, I’m not crazy about you.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, 3 May 1915

[marinaivanovna]

How many into this abyss did fall?

How many into this abyss did fall? Far off, I wonder in earnest! My day will come, and to me call to vanish from Earth’s surface.

All will be still, that sang and did strive, that sparkled and did tear, As will my gentle voice, the green of my eyes, and the golden of my hair.

And life goes on with her daily bread, and the forgetfulness of the day. As if beneath the skies I never tread, all the rest will stay!

Capricious, like a child in every mood, never dwelling long in sternness, who loved to watch a burning wood turn to ashes in a furnace.

A cello, and a forest procession, And in the town — a bell… Upon this ground so very precious, here I am — alive and well!

Where strangers end and lovers began is measure unknown to me. I address you all, with faith’s demands, and love’s most tender plea.

Both night and day, both written and told: For the truth of yes and no, For the fact that I am but twenty years old yet so often — in such sorrow,

For that fate must offer penance and forgive me each transgression, For reckless was my benevolence, and too prideful my expression,

For truth, and for a game, For the splitting way events do fly… Hear me now! — and love me the same, For the fact that I will die.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, 8 December 1913

[marinaivanovna]

An attempt at jealousy

How is it to live with another? Dull like the thud of an oar? Memories of me retreat quickly as the tide along the shore

of this floating island (not water, but in sky it hovers!) Souls, souls! They'll be to you but sisters, never to be lovers.

How is it to live with a commoner, a woman without the divine? Having cast the empress from her throne, forced her to resign,

how is it to live and to pander? When you wake with her by your side, do you shrink from the tax of her tedium? Poor fool, how do you survive?

“Your scenes and your tantrums — I’ve had it! I’m really leaving this time.” So how is it to live with an anyone, one chosen love of mine?

Does she cook to your liking? When you’re fed up, who’s to blame? Having climbed Sinai's peak is its semblance not profane?

How is it to live with a tourist? Is this love but for the rib? Does your brow not burn with shame from the thrashing of Jovian whips?

How is it to live? Sing much? Are you able? Can you thrive with an ulcer on your conscience? Poor fool, how do you survive?

How is it to live with market goods? To inflation will her value adjust? Having known Carrara marble, how is it to live with the dust

of plaster? (God's likeness was carved, then wrecked!) Having loved Lilith, how is it to live with a shred?

Has commerce bored you so early? Are you sobered yet to this witch? How is it to live with this earthly woman, she without a sixth

  sense? For my own peace of mind: are you happy? No? In endless despair? Lover, how is it to live? So difficult — As difficult— as it is for me with another?

—Marina Tsvetaeva, 19 November 1924

[marinaivanovna]

Were you with me, hot and homeless...

Were you with me, hot and homeless, Wandering surfaces ablaze, Beneath the large moon’s loneliness — You, who measures me by days?

And in a pestilent tavern, where a frantic waltz persists, did you break my sharpened talons, in your drunken fist?

Oh, smoke and ashes! Did you hear my voice in sleep? No, never? What could you know of me, dear, if we haven't drank or slept together?

—Marina Tsvetaeva, 7 December 1916

[marinaivanovna]

Brother by melodious misfortune

Brother by melodious misfortune — I envy you. If only it could happen so — snuffed out in another room! — How many years will it take? A century? This quotidian dream of mine. ===== There’s no pity for he who lived so little, and there’s no bitterness for he who so little gave. In our lives, he lived so very much — In giving song, he gave everything. To live (of course, no newer than Death!) in defiance of veins. To some kind of ending, there will always be the hooks on the ceiling.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, January 1926, in the days following the suicide of Sergei Yesenin.

[marinaivanovna]

From the temple stern and stately

From the temple stern and stately you leave for the noise of the square... — Freedom! — so lovely a lady Marquis and knights did stare.

A horrible choir rehearsal and later, mass will take place. — Freedom! — a trolloping damsel In a foolish soldier’s embrace.

—Marina Tsvetaeva, 26 May 1917

[marinaivanovna]

The moon to a lunatic

Tangled, they’ll remain. And farther — ether. In the hour of your last delirium, don’t be stirred. The lunatic and the genius have no friends. In the hour of your last epiphany, don’t comprehend. I am your sight. A true owl, a roof with eyes. When I call you by name, don’t recognize. I am your soul: Uraniа: To the kingdom — a gate. In the hour of your last union, don’t hesitate! —Marina Tsvetaeva, 20 June 1923