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I remember you cuddling me in sleep, close to your chest.

I couldn't breathe for your arms arrest me so tight.

I imagined thousands of nights with you

Something went wrong then, and it left us in each corner of bed.

There was no laughter, no fights, no togetherness.

Every night i wished that you turn and see me, drag me close, make love.

But there was only Silence.

-Queeny đź‘‘
Savio Fonseca Jun 15
Date an Air Hostess
and U shall fly,
First Class on Her Flight.
Date a Lady Teacher
and She will Teach U,
how to Read and Write.
Date a Poetess
and She will Compose U,
A Poem filled with Verses.
Date a Lady Doctor,
U will be attended by
all Her Pretty Nurses.
Date a Lady Cop
and U shall find Yourself,
behind Bars.
Date a Female Alien
and U will land Yourself,
on Saturn or Mars.
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
Ann B Apr 24
Her spilled thoughts have not
cups that runneth over, but
a  pen on pursuit.
From time immemorial
Its women, who have been supressed,
Its high time
For them to be addressed.

Men are humans too
Its not always a woman’s fault
We need to change this mindset,
Which has been set as default.

From GHUNGATS to SHORTS
Why are girls always blamed?
From RAPES to EVE TEASING
Why are they always put to blame?

From administration till army
Everywhere they are
Still at the night
Safety is a thing very far.

From Sakshi Malik to Chanda Koecher
From Indra Nooyi to Hima Das
Why are women always scepticiced
And not treated as something “KHAAS”? I know just writing poems or giving speeches,
Wont make a difference any day,
But a step ahead is always better than a pause,
In a race towards equality, it may create a new way?

We as women should rise
Not our voices, but intellect,
We as women should fight
Not for short dresses, but for correcting societies defect.

Before any man’s support,
Vow to stand by each other first,
Along with being during the best,
Also promote each other during their worst.
Songstress
by Michael R. Burch

for Nadia Anjuman

Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart
must flutter wildly, O, and always sing
against the pressing darkness: all it knows
until at last it feels the numbing sting
of death. Then life’s brief vision swiftly passes,
imposing night on one who clearly saw.

Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw—
envenomed, fanged—could swallow, whole, your Awe.

And yet it was not death so much as you
who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing
and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb’s
white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!

But you’ll not be imprisoned here, wise wren!
Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again

Keywords/Tags: Nadia Anjuman, Afghanistan, Afghani poet, poetess, death, martyr, hero, heroine, voice, freedom, equality, justice
Lily Jan 29
Untied shoelaces,
Untied heart,
Her words flowing freely from
Her mind,
Her black boots tapping a rhythm
Known only to
Her.
Her eyes bloomed like
Orchids
When she blinked,
And her chocolate fountain hair
Spilled over her gray graphic tee,
The messy bun
Unraveling
As her thoughts slowly
Unraveled
Themselves onto the page.
Lily Jan 16
Her creamy chocolate hair
Flows down into caramel,
And the ends tickle her rosy lips
As she bites them in concentration.
Her Ticonderoga taps anxiously on her cheek,
And the wheels turning in her head;
Almost visible.
Maroon sweater against ivory shoulder,
Caramel hair against a black bra strap.
When she talks, the room melts away
And all that is heard is her accent,
The way she creates music with her phrases.
Her smile radiates sunshine,
And her eyes are a kaleidoscope,
Always changing,
Green and gray and amber specks
Colliding to make a sweet mosaic.
Poetry girl,
The universe can’t wait to hear
Your words.
Marri Dec 2019
Hush.
I used to think you were Godly.
I used to think you were velvet.
I used to think you were perfect.
Shh.
You’re nothing now.
Silence.
You’re pathetic now.
You’re only a feeble boy playing God.
You’re only a quaint thing pretending to be holy.

I used to worship you.
I used to pray to you.

But now you pray to me.
“Oh poetess God.”
Now you worship me.
“Oh sweet Holy One.”
And don’t you dare forget it.
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