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I Know The Truth
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I know the truth―abandon lesser truths!
There's no need for anyone living to struggle!
See? Evening falls, night quickly descends!
So why the useless disputes―generals, poets, lovers?

The wind is calming now; the earth is bathed in dew;
the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens.
And soon we'll sleep together, under the earth,
we who never gave each other a moment's rest above it.

###

I Know The Truth (Alternate Ending)
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I know the truth―abandon lesser truths!
There's no need for anyone living to struggle!
See? Evening falls, night quickly descends!
So why the useless disputes―generals, poets, lovers?

The wind caresses the grasses; the earth gleams, damp with dew;
the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens.
And soon we'll lie together under the earth,
we who were never united above it.

###

Poems about Moscow
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

5
Above the city Saint Peter once remanded to hell
now rolls the delirious thunder of the bells.

As the thundering high tide eventually reverses,
so, too, the woman who once bore your curses.

To you, O Great Peter, and you, O Great Tsar, I kneel!
And yet the bells above me continually peal.

And while they keep ringing out of the pure blue sky,
Moscow's eminence is something I can't deny...

though sixteen hundred churches, nearby and afar,
all gaily laugh at the hubris of the Tsars.


8
Moscow, what a vast
uncouth hostel of a home!
In Russia all are homeless
so all to you must come.

A knife stuck in each boot-top,
each back with its shameful brand,
we heard you from far away.
You called us: here we stand.

Because you branded us criminals
for every known kind of ill,
we seek the all-compassionate Saint,
the haloed one who heals.

And there behind that narrow door
where the uncouth rabble pour,
we seek the red-gold radiant heart
of Iver, who loved the poor.

Now, as "Halleluiah" floods
bright fields that blaze to the west,
O sacred Russian soil,
I kneel here to kiss your breast!

###

Insomnia
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

2
In my enormous city it is night
as from my house I step beyond the light;
some people think I'm daughter, mistress, wife...
but I am like the blackest thought of night.

July's wind sweeps a way for me to stray
toward soft music faintly blowing, somewhere.
The wind may blow until bright dawn, new day,
but will my heart in its rib-cage really care?

Black poplars brushing windows filled with light...
strange leaves in hand... faint music from distant towers...
retracing my steps, there's nobody lagging behind...
This shadow called me? There's nobody here to find.

The lights are like golden beads on invisible threads...
the taste of dark night in my mouth is a bitter leaf...
O, free me from shackles of being myself by day!
Friends, please understand: I'm only a dreamlike belief.

###

Poems for Akhmatova
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

4
You outshine everything, even the sun
at its zenith. The stars are yours!
If only I could sweep like the wind
through some unbarred door,
gratefully, to where you are...

to hesitantly stammer, suddenly shy,
lowering my eyes before you, my lovely mistress,
petulant, chastened, overcome by tears,
as a child sobs to receive forgiveness...

###

This gypsy passion of parting!
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This gypsy passion of parting!
We meet, and are ready for flight!
I rest my dazed head in my hands,
and think, staring into the night...

that no one, perusing our letters,
will ever understand the real depth
of just how sacrilegious we were,
which is to say we had faith,

in ourselves.

###

The Appointment
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I will be late for the appointed meeting.
When I arrive, my hair will be gray,
because I abused spring.
And your expectations were much too high!

I shall feel the effects of the bitter mercury for years.
(Ophelia tasted, but didn't spit out, the rue.)
I will trudge across mountains and deserts,
trampling souls and hands without flinching,

living on, as the earth continues
with blood in every thicket and creek.
But always Ophelia's pallid face will peer out
from between the grasses bordering each stream.

She took a swig of passion, only to fill her mouth
with silt. Like a shaft of light on metal,
I set my sights on you, highly. Much too high
in the sky, where I have appointed my dust its burial.

###

Rails
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The railway bed's steel-blue parallel tracks
are ruled out, neatly as musical staves.

Over them, people are transported
like possessed Pushkin creatures
whose song has been silenced.
See them: arriving, departing?

And yet they still linger,
the note of their pain remaining...
always rising higher than love, as the poles freeze
to the embankment, like Lot's wife transformed to salt, forever.

Despair has arranged my fate
as someone arranges a wedding;
then, like a voiceless Sappho
I must weep like a pain-wracked seamstress

with the mute lament of a marsh heron!
Then the departing train
will hoot above the sleepers
as its wheels slice them to ribbons.

In my eye the colors blur
to a glowing but meaningless red.
All young women, at times,
are tempted by such a bed!

###

Every Poem is a Child of Love
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Every poem is a child of love,
A destitute ******* chick
A fledgling blown down from the heights above―
Left of its nest? Not a stick.
Each heart has its gulf and its bridge.
Each heart has its blessings and griefs.
Who is the father? A liege?
Maybe a liege, or a thief.

Keywords/Tags: Marina Tsvetaeva, Russia, Russian, translation, Akhmatova, Moscow, Tsar, poet, poetess, poets, poetry, lovers, generals, truth, earth, stars, life, death, grave
Maria Mitea May 17
I feel
the burn in my chest,
as the sunny dream chops its edges
I run happy warming up in La vita è bella,
while the soles of my feet are burning
into the dark earth. Who cares? only
into the dark earth roots grow,
all lilac is still there at the Moscow Metro, while illusion succumbs to temptation running faster and harder,
the underworld has a life of its own,
a life of greater depth and purity, while
my eyes touch the cold striking murals, and
the book falls on the
Whisper
"The book.." is all knowledge we humans created and possess, and that still doesn't answer our big questions.                                                            
"Whisper" is the invisible reality;  that which is present but overlooked, obvious but not seen with an opened eye, the mystic, the soul, the spirit, inspiration, imagination, desire, passion, inner drive, ...
Maria Mitea May 17
just checking in as
madness and earth are shaking,
while the sun rises in Thunder Bay, and
the trucks at the Moscow subway take speed, all
I need is a piece of earth under my feet.
How Much?
Maria Mitea May 16
I look into the deep earth,
and I have eyes, and I have depth,
I have speed, as I am earth moving through earth from all perspectives, apparently, I think and I know,
but how do I reach there? at Prospect Mira,
I asked auntie Liudmila,
while she was selling sunflowers at
Lyublinsko station, and I was running to catch up my breath beyond the boundaries in which has been conceived, while the worldly murals violate the norms and  “The Idiot” reaches greatness on the Moscow walls silhouettes wrestling on a mortal terrain; his umbra, my umbra. Whose and which, and when? I simplify it down to the breath and keep running. What a rush?
Maria Mitea May 10
The underworld movement
makes me feel utterly incapable, and grown
feet condense into droplets of freezing blood, as I wait at Dostoevskaya station, where the intimidating marble has a soul of its own.

I Look
into the deep earth and I have eyes and I have depth, and I have speed, as I am earth moving through earth from all perspectives, apparently, I think and I know, but how do I reach there? at Prospect Mira,
I asked auntie Liudmila, while she was selling sunflowers at the Lyublinsko station, and I was running to catch up my breath beyond the boundaries in which has been conceived, while the worldly murals violate the norms and  “The Idiot” reaches greatness on the Moscow walls silhouettes wrestling on a mortal terrain; his umbra, my umbra. Whose and which, and when? I simplify it down to the breath and keep running.
What a rush?

When the geometry of  sombra
seems to have a life of its own on the underworld walls, above the surface arrogance takes shape believing that it is more intelligent than, I who can see the train coming. Uncertainty won’t bother impotence resting on earth’s shoulders, and Sleeping Giant can wait forever for the lost sailor.
What a blessing!

The blanket hugs Earth's chest, and steps move holding bouquets of sunflowers while gazing like a thief, whose big eyes are
rolling on the ground, “don’t you see how steps flow with Parisian prudence, I am brave and happy on top of Your Eiffel.”  When?  
the eyes become wizards of clouds, and
“I”- Rest in wonder.
How Long?

I feel
the burn in my chest,
as the sunny dream chops its edges.
I run “happy” warming up in “ La vita è bella, ”
while the soles of my feet are burning
into the dark earth. Who cares? only
into the dark earth roots grow,
all lilac is still there at the Moscow Metro, while illusion succumbs to temptation running faster and
Harder,
the underworld has a life of its own,
a life of greater depth and purity, while
my eyes touch the cold striking murals, and
the book falls on the
Whisper

Not again,
I thought you settled the matter of
unattainable, while lilac was waiting, on my way, eating the cherry gem with
the spoon touching Earth's lips, and only
auntie Liudmila is content for selling every
sunflower that day her glowing eyes soothe in hypnotizing beauty at the Moscow Subway,
I let it be!
Dostoevskaya is a Moscow Subway station. The station walls contain murals/ illustrations of Fyodor Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment, along with many other scenes (including illustrations of The Idiot). Prospect Mira (Peace) is a large open road, central to a big city.  "The book.." is all knowledge we humans created and possess, and that does not answer our big questions."Whisper" is the invisible reality; the essence, the mystic, the soul, the spirit, ...
Maxim Keyfman Jun 2018
I'm on my way
I'm walk in rain
I'm on my way
I'm walk in rain

Across a Novorossiysk
Across a Moscow
Across a Novossibirsk
Across a Russia

I'm on my way
I'm walk in rain
Today was sunny day
A now rain

A now rain
A now rain


I'm on my way          
I'm walk in rain
I'm on my way
I'm walk in rain

Across a Novorossiysk
Across a Moscow    
Across a Novossibirsk    
Across a Russia

2016
Mirlotta Feb 2018
I never thought that Lucifer would be so pretty.
He has your hands, darling- pink and white:
like roses in Russia, or else a scab that hasn't quite healed.
His hair is hot as hell, which is unsurprising, honestly.
He shuffles through the Moscow streets with reality
peeled away from his eyelids. I don't think he sees me at all
and yet I feel him, cold as the ice on which we tread towards each other. I wonder if he closed his eyes when he fell from heaven.

You did, I know. You hate heights, or perhaps just the falling.
Maybe that's why the love-thing never worked out.
the story behind this one is the fact I can recognise my ex just from her hands. how can HANDS inspire so much emotion???? wow
G Rog Rogers Sep 2017
Way beyond Moscow
where the people they live
The steppes and the forests
the shores and the streets

They sing the new songs
of a people now free
The tunes of great gratitude
for a place far away

That place where good people
they never would stop
Persistent and patient
they played all for one

Hardly a doubt
and forever a pledge
to share what they had
with those who had none

So when you lay down
and you have said
all your prayers
remember in Russia
the inconquerable brave-hearts
We America have won.

"It is good to have Russian friends."

-R.
(11.02.14)
Observations of my travels in Russia. They love America but they support Putin.

©ASGP
G Rog Rogers Aug 2017
I thought of you in Paris
and remembered
you in Zurich

I was reminded of
you in Moscow
and I could not forget
you in Cancun

My memories were of you when I went back
to New Orleans
and Tampa Bay

I continue thinking of you
in Dallas and LA.

-R.

(16)
-LA
©2017
Äŧül Jul 2016
Oh I wish to be a bird,
For then there would be freedom.

I could be here or there,
And freely without borders.

Then I will not be blinded,
Flight of my will power would be untamed.

I could be flying in Srinagar,
And then in Peshawar afterwards.

Then nothing would restrict me,
Unaffected personal would be my choice.

I could be in Moscow,
And even in Washington.
First step towards one world would be the allowance for passport-free movement.

My HP Poem #1103
©Atul Kaushal
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