Prayer Christ and God! I am longing for a miracle Now, now, at the beginning of the day Oh, let me die, until All my life is like a book for me. You are wise, you won't say strictly: "Have patience, it is not the time yet" You gave me yourself - too much! I am longing at once - for all the roads! Everything I want: with a soul of a gypsy's To go with songs and rob, To suffer for all by the sounds of an organ And run to the fight like an Amazon. Read the stars in a black tower, To lead the children forward though the shadows To make yesterday - a legend, To make every day - insane! I love the cross, the silk, the helmet, My soul is the shadow of glimpses . . . You gave me childhood - better than a tale And give me death - at seventeen! 26 September 1909 Tarusa By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
In the Hall Horror has bent and he is creeping Wrapped in stone shawl. We are becoming pale and do not dare sigh. Look, what is happening now Under cover of the enemy's darkness? Their faces are darker than they were -- We are victors once more! We are links in the mysterious chain. Our spirits will not perish in the struggle, The last battle is near. The dark power will end. We despise the old for Their dull and simple days We know, we know a great deal That they are ignorant of! 1908 - 1910 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
To Mama Tirelessly bending over our childhood dreams (You and the moon the only watchers). You guided your little ones past The bitter reality of thoughts and deeds. From earliest years, we are close to those who are sad, Laughter bores us. We are strangers to hearth and home . . . Our ship has cast off in an unpropitious hour And sails now at the whim of all the winds! Ever paler grows the azure island: childhood. On the deck we stand alone. That, oh Mama, was your legacy to us: Sadness. 1910 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Lily Feiler, in 'Marina Tsvetaeva: The Double Beat of Heaven and Hell' 1994, by the same author Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
December and January In December at sunrise there was happiness, It lasted a moment. Present, first happiness, Not from books! In January at sunrise there was sorrow, It lasted for an hour. Present, bitter sorrow For the first time! 1911 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
I don't think, don't complain, don't argue I don't think, don't complain, don't argue. Don't sleep. Don't strive either for the sun, or the moon, or the sea, Or the ship. Don't feel how hot it is inside these walls, How green it is in the garden. I haven't been expecting the desired gift For a long time. Neither the morning nor the bright run of the tram Make me happy. I live not noticing the day, forgetting The date and the century. On this partially severed rope I--a small dancer. I--a shadow of somebody's shadow. I-- a lunatic Of the two dark moons. 13 July 1914 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
Not forever Not forever the ship can sail Or the nightingale sing. I wanted to live so many times And so many -- to die! Having got tired, like in childhood -- of lotto, I'm rising from the game, Happy to believe, that There are still worlds. 3 May 1915 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
I like it that you are not ill for me I like it that you are not ill for me, I like it that I'm not ill for you, That never will the heavy globe of the earth Flow down below our feet. I like it that it is possible to be funny -- I like it that you are not ill for me. I also like it that in my presence You calmly embrace another, Do not foretell me in the hellish fire- To burn because I do not kiss you. That my tender name, my tender spirit, you don't Remember neither in the day, nor at night -- in vain... That never in the silence of church Shall we be sung: Hallelujah! Thank you with my heart and with my hand For you -- not knowing yourself! So much love me: for my peace at night, For the rareness of our meetings at sunset hours, For our walks not under the moon, For the sun not above our heads, -- For that you are ill -- alas! --not with me, For that I am ill -- alas! -- not with you! 3 May 1915 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Notes: Poem addressed to M.A.Mints who later became her sister's husband. Lyrics set to music by M. Tariverdiev for a song in the 1976 Russian motion picture "The Irony of Fate or Have a Light Steam" Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
Some ancestor of mine Some ancestor of mine was a violinist and a thief into the bargain. Does this explain my vagrant disposition and hair that smells of the wind? Dark, curly-haired, hooknosed, he is the one who steals apricots from the cart, using my hand. Yes, he is responsible for my fate. Admiring the ploughman at his labor, he used to twirl a dog rose in his lips. He was always unreliable as a friend, but a tender lover. Fond of his pipe, the moon, the beads, and all the young women in the neighborhood . . . I think he may have also been a coward, my yellow-eyed ancestor. His soul was sold for a farthing, so he did not walk at midnight in the cemetery. He may have worn a knife tucked in his boot. Perhaps he pounced round corners like a sinuous cat. I wonder suddenly: did he even play the violin? I know nothing mattered to him any more than last year's snow. That's what he was like, my ancestor. And that's the kind of poet I am. 22 June 1915 By Marina Tsvetayeva From Poems of Youth 1913 - 1918 Translated by Elaine Feinstein Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
With great tenderness With great tenderness - because, I'll leave everybody, - I am still deliberating , who Shall receive my wolf-skin fur. Who shall have the soft woolen plaid And the thin cane with borzoi* head, Who shall - my silver bracelet, Strewed with turquoise . . . And all the notes, and all the flowers, That I find unbearable to treasure . . . Who'll have this last rhyme - and you, My last night! 22 September 1915 By Marina Tsvetayeva From Poems of Youth (1913 - 1918) Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Notes: *borzoi, a Russian dog like a large greyhound. Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
I know the truth! I know the truth! Give up all former truths! On this earth people should not fight people! Look -- it is evening, it will be night soon. Tell me about poets, lovers, commanders? The wind is spreading now, the ground is wet with dew, The starlight snowstorm will soon freeze in the sky, And soon we will all fall asleep beneath the ground, We who did not let each other sleep above it. 3 October 1915 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
I was opening the iron casket I was opening the iron casket, I was taking out the teary gift: A ring with a big pearl, With a big pearl. Like a cat I crept out on the porch, Braving the winds. The winds - were blowing; the birds - were soaring, Swans - on the left, on the right - crows . . . Our paths - to different places. You will move away - with the first rays of the sun, Your place will be - in dense forests, With burning tears. Your soul - will call out, Your eyes - will cry out . . . And above me - the owl will screech, And above me - the grass will moan . . . January 1916 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
No one has taken anything away (Translation by Kuchkina) No one has taken anything away I am delighted that we are apart! I kiss you across hundreds Of separating versts*. I know: our gift is unequal. My voice for the first time, quiet. What to you, young Derzhavin**, My illbred verse! On a scary flight I bless you: Fly, young eagle! You have suffered the sun, without blinking, Is my young glance too heavy? More tender and irrevocable Nobody watched you going away... I kiss you - across hundreds Of separating years. 12 February 1916 By Marina Tsvetayeva From Bon-Voyages (1921-1922) Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Notes: Poem to Osip Mandelstam, of whom she always thought highly. He and Marina Tsvetayeva had a brief romance in 1916. *Versts...Old Russian measures of distance. ** Derzhavin(1743-1816) was a famous poet. Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
No one has taken anything away (Translation by Feinstein) No one has taken anything away-- there is even a sweetness for me in being apart. I kiss you know across the many hundreds of miles that separate us. I know: our gifts are unequal, which is why my voice is--quiet, for the first time. What can my untutored verse matter to you, a young Derzhavin? For your terrible flight I give you blessing. Fly, then, young eagle! You have stared into the sun without blinking. Can my young gaze be too heavy for you? No one has ever stared more tenderly or more fixedly after you . . . I kiss you--across hundreds of separating years. 12 February 1916 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Elaine Feinstein Note: Derzhavin (1743-1816) was the most important Russian poet writing before Pushkin. Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
No one has taken away anything (Translation by McDuff) No has taken away anything. I savor our separateness. I kiss you across the hundreds Of disunited versts. I know our gifts are not even. My voice is calm, for the first time. What good to you, young Derzhavin, Are my undisciplined rhymes? For your fearsome flight I christen you: Young eagle, you must fly on. You suffered the sun, unblinking, Does my young gaze weigh you down? No one watched more stalwart and tender Than I as you disappeared. I kiss you across the hundreds Of disunited years. 12 February 1916 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translation by David McDuff Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
Where does such tenderness come from? Where does such tenderness come from? Not the first -- these curls I am stroking, and the lips I knew -- darker than yours The stars rose and diminished (Where does such tenderness come from?) The eyes rose and diminished Right next to mine. And yet no such songs Did I listen to in the darkness of night (Where does such tenderness come from?) On this singer's chest Where does such tenderness come from? And what am I to do with it, sly Youth, a transient singer, With eyelashes -- longer than any other's? 18 February 1916 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Notes: Poem addressed to Osip Mandelstam Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
Your name -- a bird in the hand Your name -- a bird in the hand, Your name -- a piece of ice on the tongue, A single movement of lips, Your name - five signs A ball, caught flying, A silver bell in the mouth. A stone, thrown in a still pond, Will sound the way you are called. In the light clattering of night hooves Your loud name is thundering And a loudly clicking gun cock Will call it in your temple. Your name- ah, impossible!-- Your name- a kiss in the eyes, In the tender cold of motionless lids, Your name- a kiss in the snow. A gulp of an icy blue spring, With your name- the sleep is deep. 15 April 1916 From 'Poems to Blok' 1 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
3 In the immense city of mine--night, Out of my sleepy home I go--away. And the people are thinking: wife? Daughter? But I remember only one thing: night. July's wind blows for me--the way, And somewhere there is music in the window--faint. Ah, today the wind can blow till dawn In through the thin ribcage walls--to the breasts. There is a black poplar, and in the window there is--light, Ringing is the tower and in my hand--a flower. And in my steps--following--nobody, And of my shadow, there is nothing--of me. The lights--like threads of golden beads, In my mouth the night's taste--leaf. Release me from the day's bonds, My friend, understand, I am coming--in your dream. 17 July 1916 Moscow By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina From INSOMNIA (3) Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
5 Nowadays I am heavens' guest, In that country of yours: I saw the insomnia of the forest And the dream of the fields. Somewhere in the night the horse's shoes Were tearing up the grass. Heavily did a cow sigh In a sleepy cowshed. I'll tell you with sadness, With all tenderness About the goose, a watchman And the sleeping geese. Of hands buried in the dog's fur, Gray --the dog-- Then near six, The dawn comes. 20 July 1916 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina From INSOMNIA (5) Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index |
October 13, 1999
