TO MY POEMS, WRITTEN SO EARLY
WHAT I DIDN’T KNOW I WAS A POET,
DARTING OFF AS THE SPLASHES FROM THE FOUNTAIN,
AS THE SPARKS OF THE RAKETS,
BURSTING as SMALL DEVILS,
INTO SANCTUARY, WHERE ONLY SLEEP AND INCENSE,
TO MY POEMS, ABOUT THE YOUTH AND DEATH—
— NOT YET READ! —
SCATTERING IN THE DUST IN THE STORES
(WHERE NOBODY BOUGHT THEM AND DOES NOT BUY!)
TO MY POEMS, AS TO THE PRECIOUS WINES, WILL COME ITS TURN.
May 1913.
MARINA was 18 when she published her first book, The Evening Album.
*** *** ***
A kiss on the forehead—to wipe away the troubles.
I kiss you on the forehead.
A kiss on the eyes— to take off insomnia.
I kiss on the eyes.
A kiss on the lips— to give water.
I kiss the lips.
A kiss on the forehead—to wipe off the memory.
I kiss on the forehead.
June 1917
***. *** ***
I am not a pretender — I came home,
I am not a maid— I don’t need bread.
I am your passion, your Sunday rest,
Your seventh day, your seventh sky.
There, on the land, they lent me a penny
And hung milestones on my neck.
My beloved! Don’t you recognize me?
I am your swallow, your — Psyche!
May 1918
*** ***. ***
As the right and left hands—
Your soul is so close to my soul.
We are close, warm, and blissful
As the right and left wings.
But the storm begins —and abyss lies
From right — to left wing.
July 1918
To Pasternak:
***. **** ***
Wherever you have been— I overtake you,
I suffer you — and bring you back.
For with my pride, as from a cedar
I look around the world: ships are floating,
The glows are roaming… Sea depths,
I pull out—and get you from the bottom!
Have suffered me! I am- everywhere:
Dawns and ores, bread and breath—I,
I am, and I will be, and I get
The lips— like god gets the soul.
***. ****. ***
Give up! It is not a fairy tale!
—Give up! —Arrow, making a circle…
— Give up! Not yet one escaped
From the overtaken, without arms:
Through the breathing… (Breasts soar up,
Eyelids don’t see, around lips— mica…)
As a clairvoyant, I freeze Samuil—
And return alone:
For the other with you, and on the Day of
Judgment, you do not sue…
I am, and I will be, and I get
Your soul— like lips get lips
Resting Soul…
Mart 1923
My thanks go to Grief Reliefs, Auri Nurmio, Konstantin Asimonov, Ichristopher, Richard Bryant, Eugine Terekhin, Jorgen Lovenfeldt, Dostoevsky's Corner, and others for your interest in my essay about the tragic Marina Tsvetaeva and her poetry. It would be so inspiring to read your comments...
I still know the first one by heart, reciting it now- probably because it was the first one I heard, first that my Mom read to me. I guess I was pretty little. Mom explained to me that Marina was 14 when she wrote it. I might be wrong, I just remember my awe.
Then, much later, I had a " период" when I'd read all of hers, greedily, non-stop, many times over ...I had my favorites of course, but "favorite" is somehow not a right word...
Thank you, dear Larisa