God stooped with care God stooped with care And grew silent. Here he smiled, and came Holy angels in a crowd. With shimmering bodies Created. Some are with huge wings, And some have no wings. That's why I cried so much, That's why -- Because I love more than God His dear angels. 15 August 1916 By Marina Tsvetayeva From Bon-Voyages (1912-1922) Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

I shall win you from all the lands I shall win you from all the lands, from all the skies For the forest is my crib, and my grave the forest For although I'm standing on the earth, I am only on one leg, For I will sing of you as nobody else will. I shall win you from all the times, from all the nights, From all the golden banners, from all the swords, And I will throw away the keys and drive the dogs from the porch For in the dead of night I am more faithful than a dog. I shall win you from all the others - from the one, You will be nobody's groom, I - nobody's wife And in the last argument, I'll take you - make no sound! - From the one with whom Jacob stood in the night. But until I've crossed my fingers on your chest, - Your curse! - you will possess - yourself: Two wings of yours aimed at the ether, -unfurled For the world is your crib, and your grave - the world! 15 August 1916 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

On the forehead a kiss On the forehead a kiss -- cares to erase. I kiss your forehead. On the eyes a kiss -- insomnia to remove. I kiss your eyes. On the lips a kiss -- with water to quench your thirst. I kiss your lips. On the forehead a kiss -- memory to erase. I kiss your forehead. 5 June 1917 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

I saw the New Year in alone I saw the New Year in alone, I, rich was poor, I,winged, was damned. Somewhere there were lots of clenched Fists -- and lots of old red wine. And, winged, I was -- damned! And, united, I was -- alone! Like the moon -- alone, in the eye of the window. 31 December 1917 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

God - is right (29) God - is right, With the grass decaying, With the dryness of rivers, With the cripples' scream, With the thief and the skunks, The plague and the hunger, The shame and the stink, The thunder and the hail. With the defied Word. The cursed Year. The Tsar in captivity. The risen people. 29 April 1918 From the cycle of poems: 'The Demesne of the Swans' By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

I -- a page for your quill pen I -- a page for your quill pen. Everything I'll accept. I am a white page. I am a guardian over your property: I'll return it and return it more. I -- a village, a fertile soil. You for me -- a sunbeam and the rain's mist. You -- the Lord and Master, and I -- A fertile soil -- and white paper! 10 July 1918 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljuba V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

Like the right to the left hands Like the right to the left hands -- Your soul is close to mine. We are befriended, soulfully and warmly, Like the right to the left wing. But the storm is starting -- and an abyss opens Between the right and the left wing! 10 July 1918 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

I am happy to live like a paragon I am happy to live like a paragon, simply Like a sun -- like a pendulum -- like a calendar, To be a worldly recluse of slender figure, Wise -- as any lamb-like creature. To know the Spirit -- my colleague and the Spirit -- my leader! To enter without an introduction, like a beam of light and like a glance. To live like I write: as a paragon, concisely, As God tells me and my friends do not. 22 November 1918 By Marina Tsvetayeva From Poems of Youth (1913 - 1918) Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

I love you all my life and every day I love you all my life and every day. You are like a big shadow above me, Like an ancient smoke of the polar villages. I love you all my life and every hour. But I do not need your lips and eyes. Everything began and finished - without you. I remember something: a bright arch, Huge collar, clean snows, Horns beaded with stars* And from the horns - half sky sized - shadows* And the ancient smoke of the polar villages* --I understood: you are a northern deer. 7 December 1918 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

My humble footprints (45) My humble footprints-- Off this godly grief of mine: On with my blue mittens-- Two waxen tears are here. Inside the chilled church--severe frost, Steamy smoke of our breath- thick. The breath from our lips, blends With the blue incense. Have you noticed, my dear, --the humblest of them-- In all the other steamy smokes- the smoke Of my breath? With you, your hands, beyond reproach In all the small towns throughout the land Glorified- forgive me, my friend, For having my mittens on! March 1919 From the cycle of poems: 'The Demesnse of the Swans' By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

One day, pretty creature One day, pretty creature, I'll become a memory for you, There, in your deep memory, Lost -- so far far away. You'll forget my hook nosed profile, And my forehead in the tempest of a cigarette, And my eternal laughter, annoying you, -- And on my working hand, a hundred silver rings, -- an attic-cabin*, Of my heavenly confusion of papers* Frightening year, reasoned by the sorrow, You -- were small, I -- was young. November 1919 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Notes: Poem addressed to her daughter Alya. *attic-cabin refers to the living room in her flat in Moscow Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

I wrote on the aspid board (to S.E.) I wrote on the aspid* board, And on the papers of the faded fans, And on the sea and the river sand, With skates on the ice and with a ring On the windows I'd etch it, - And on the trunks of trees which Are hundreds of winters old And, finally, - for everybody to know! - That you are loved! Loved! Loved! Loved! - Signed in the sky with a rainbow. So much are wanted, that everyone bloomed In centuries with me! Under my fingertips! And after with my forehead on the table, I was crossing out his name with a crucifix But you in the hand of the corrupt scribe That pressure! You who burns my heart! Not having been sold out by me! Within** the ring! You will survive unscathed in the annals. 18 May 1920 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Notes: A poem addressed to her husband Sergey Efron. *Aspid board, a chalkboard **On the inner side of her wedding ring was inscribed her husband's name and their wedding date. Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

Delighted and delightful Delighted and delightful, Able to dream in the daytime, Everybody saw me asleep, Nobody saw me tired. And because of that, all day long Dreams flow before my eyes, It's lazy if I go to bed at night So here I am, a longing shadow, Watching over my sleeping friends. Between 21 and 30 May 1920 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

Silently, with a hand Silently, With a hand, careful and fine, I'll untie the bonds: The hands, --and, to the neighing Obedient, will the Amazon rustle, Along with the bright, empty staircase of parting Stomping and neighing On the shining aisle The winged one is. -- In the eyes -- The flaming sunrise Hands, hands! You are calling in vain: Between us -- a finely cascading Staircase of Time 27 June 1921 By Marina Tsvetayeva From Parting, 3 Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

Gray Hair Here, ashes of treasures: Of bereavements, of hurt. These are aches before which Granite becomes dust. The dove naked and bright, Not living in a pair. Ashes of Solomon Over vanity that's great. The threatening chalk mark Of sunsetless time. God is at my doors -- As the house has burnt! Not having stifled in trash, A master of my dreams and days, Like a flaming thunderbolt -- The Spirit of early gray hair. It's not you who have betrayed me, Years, behind me! This gray hairness is a victory Of immortal strength. 27 September 1922 By Marina Tsvetayeva From After Russia (1922-1925) Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Notes: A poem sent to Boris Pasternak in a letter of 19 November 1922 in which she calls him . . .my love Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

The Window In the sweet, Atlantic Breathing of spring My curtain's like a butterfly, Huge, fluttering Like a Hindu widow To a pyre's golden blaze, Like a drowsy Naiad To past-window seas. 5 May 1923 By Marina Tsvetayeva From After Russia (1922-1925) Translated by David McDuff Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

From Hour of the Soul (2) 2 At the deep hour of the soul, At the depth of night . . . (A gigantic step of the soul, the soul in night). At that hour, soul, rule The worlds where you wish to Reign, - the palace of the soul, Soul, rule. Rust the lips, with snow The lashes - powder. (The Atlantic sigh of soul; The soul - in the night . . .) In that hour, soul, darken The eyes, where you'll rise Like Vega . . . The sweetest fruit, Soul, make bitter. Make bitter and darken: Grow: rule. 8 August 1923 By Marina Tsvetayeva From After Russia (1922 - 1925) Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

You having loved me You having loved me with the hypocrisy Of truth - and the truth of a lie, You having loved me - more As nobody else! - Beyond boundaries! You, having loved longer Than time itself - destiny waves a right hand! - Then - love for me is over! The truth is in those five words. 12 December 1923 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Notes: A poem written as an epitaph to the end a passionate love affair with Konstantin Rodzevich. Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

An Attempt at Jealousy How is your life with another? Easier? A stroke of oars! Did all memory so quickly (Like a coastline's sinking shores) Fall away from me, an island Floating (on the sky, not sea!)? Souls, Souls! You were meant for sisters, Not lovers . . . your destiny! How is your life with a simple Woman? All divines unknown? Having overthrown the Empress, You yourself stepped from the throne. What's your life like? Do you hurry Still, with cringing? Who wakes you? What happens when that eternal Tax of commonness is due? 'Stop! Enough breakdowns and shudders! I'll rent a house - and have done.' Can you live with any person, Tell me, my selected one! Tastier and better food? If You are fed-up, blame none . . . sigh . . . How is your life with a copy, You who trampled Mount Sinai? How is your life with a stranger, One from here? Her rib suits you? Does not shame whip round your forehead Like the reins of Zeus? How do You live? How's your health? What's doing With you these days? Can you sing? What happens when that eternal Conscience (Poor man!) starts to sting? How's life with goods from a market? Are the taxes much too high? After marble from Carrera - How is your life with the dry Dust, plaster of Paris? (Chiseled Block was once a God: our myth Crashed!) One of the hundred thousands Is yours. You, who knew Lilith. Does the market kind of plaything Please you? Doffing magic tricks, How's your life with just a mortal Woman, without the extra sixth Sense? So hold your head. Well, happy? No, Endless abyss in view. How is your life, darling? Harder Or like mine with one not you? 19 November 1924 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Vladimir Markov and Merrill Sparks From 'Modern Russian Poetry: an Anthology with Verse Translations' Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

Garden For this hell, For this gibberish Send me a garden In my old age. In my old age, In my old misfortunes: Working - years, Backbreaking - years . . . In my old age Dog's reward - a bone, Burning years - A cool garden . . . For this outcast Send me a garden: Without - people, Without - soul! A garden: not a step! A garden: not an eye! A garden: not a laugh! A garden: not a cry! Send me a garden Without an ear, deaf: With no sweetheart, No soul! Say:-that's enough torture,- for A lonely garden, like myself. (But don't stand nearby yourself!) a lonely garden, like I, myself. Such a garden in my old age . . . - That garden? And maybe that new world?- Send it me in my old age - For my soul's absolution. 1 October 1934 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

8 What tears in eyes now weeping with anger and love Czechoslovakia's tears Spain in its own blood And what a black mountain Has blocked the world from the light. It's time--It's time--It's time to give back to God his ticket. I refuse to be. In the madhouse of the inhuman I refuse to live. With the wolves of the market place I refuse to howl. Among the sharks of the plain I refuse to swim down where moving backs make a current. I have no need of holes for ears, nor prophetic eyes: to your mad world there is one answer: to refuse! 1938 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina From Poems to Czechoslovakia Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index

 

You are going west of the sun You are going west of the sun, You will see the evening light, You are going west of the sun, And the snowstorms are covering up your tracks. Past my windows -- passionless -- You go past in the snowy silence, My wonderful meek righteous man, The quiet light of my soul! I do not have my eye on your soul! Your path is inviolable. Your hand, pale of holy caresses, In it I will not hammer my nail. And I will not call you name I will not draw my hands To your saintly waxen face I will only bow from afar Standing in the slow falling snow, I will kneel in that snow And for your saint name I will kiss the evening snow -- There, where by your stately step You went in snowy silence Quiet silence -- the saintly glory -- The holder of my soul. 2 May 1916 From 'Poems to Blok' 3 By Marina Tsvetayeva Translated by Ljubov V. Kuchkina Return to Tsvetayeva's index Return to Russian Poet's index