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MuseumofSoph Dec 2021
Independent
A bit headstrong,
Her kindness,
Transcendent

Her accent shapes her character.

She doubts her abilities
When she is among the strongest
The hurt of her people
Is all she sees

She’s learning to look in the mirror
Not to see the imperfections
But all the possibilities

She rarely forgets
Although she hides behind a silhouette

A fierce protector
Without discrimination

They can’t all defend themselves
So she steps in

She will give her life for her country
And for it
They love her.
I hope she sees the change she creates
A magnificent ruler.

Each step in her red spiked boots
Paving a new path
For those forgotten or lost
Walking with her,
Their roots

She takes their hand
And leads them on

No persecution

Only solutions.

A tireless advocate for those without.

No need to ask
She understands her task

…………………………….

Could you use some help?
No need to ask

Just open your eyes
And seek her out

She’ll find you
Eventually
She sees through it
The lies.

I hope one day this queen
Will find a proper king
For now she rules independently

Fighting
Endlessly.
A poem dedicated to a dear friend that inspires me daily.
JKirin Nov 2021
Ночь темна. Пусть не видно дороги,
Фонарей недостаточен свет,
Покидают пустые тревоги.
В тишине исчезает их след.

Подлетают к огням мотыльки,
Пронесётся песнь сонных цикад.
На ветру шелестят лепестки
Ста магнолий, пьянит аромат.

Бледный облик луны
Высоко над горой,
Заезды ярко видны,
С моря слышен прибой.
На душе покой.
about a summer night
JKirin Nov 2021
Вкус соли морской на губах,
Прохлада предутреннего бриза.
Две чайки парят в облаках,
Подсвеченных золотом, и близок
Жемчужный рассвет –
Красив его свет.

Прозрачна, спокойна вода,
Цвета перламутрового неба.
К себе приглашает волна,
И нежно её прикосновенье.
Сомнения нет –
Ныряю в ответ.
about the sea
Jennifer DeLong Apr 2021
There is 2
One is Zoey
Black and fat
One is Battle
Grey and tall
Russian blue
Can be moody
loves to be petted
Short hair domestic
Eats alot
needs attention
but must have her space
Characters they are
So opposite
So alike
it's quite fun
having these two
they are my joy
they give me
alot to look forward to
I know they care
No matter what
These 2 cats
really are so special
we are family
I got them
and they got me to
I love these 2 cats
they are so cool
They know I love them
They are kinda spoiled
but deserve it
that much is true
These 2 cats
My 2 cats
© Jennifer L DeLong 🦏
4/2021
Michael R Burch Feb 2021
THE MUSE by Anna Akhmatova

This is my English translation of an epigram by Anna Akhmatova …

The MUSE
by Anna Akhmatova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My being hangs by a thread tonight
as I await a Muse no human pen can command.
The desires of my heart — youth, liberty, glory —
now depend on the Maid with the flute in her hand.

Look! Now she arrives; she flings back her veil;
I meet her grave eyes — calm, implacable, pitiless.
“Temptress, confess!
Are you the one who gave Dante hell?”

She answers, “Yes.”



I have also translated this tribute poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova:

Excerpt from “Poems for Akhmatova”
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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...


Keywords/Tags: Anna Akhmatova, Marina Tsvetaeva, Russia, Russian, translation, Muse, sun, stars, poems, poetry, poets, writing, mrbtran
Mahdi Akhloumadi Dec 2020
Открытость твоего лица и твоих руки
И твой соглашающийся язык

И твой ароматный  попутный ветер дыхания

От солнца твое питание
И от бога

И как красиво ты говоришь

برگشاده روی و دستانت
و بر زبان آری گویت،
و بر نفحات انفاس موافقت،
و از خورشیدت خورش
و از خدایت
و چه زیبا سخن می گویی ای مرد
و من می گویم
مرا ببالان
مرا فراخ کن
Mahdi Akhloumadi Dec 2020
После поздных свиданий
Ночных
Уже не выбраешь сидения
А выбраешь вагон
Носишь огонь
Же ты Дракон.
E Aug 2020
TikTok comps
Russian bots
Makeup tutorials
"I'm not like other girls"

Trolls and incels
BuzzFeed articles
Gay fan fiction
Many a pun

Demonetization
Censorship
People hiring hitmen
Buy some hair clips

Twitter ramblings
Anti-vaxxers
Flat earthers
And a partridge in a pear tree
Dante Rocío Jun 2020
Arm trembling no longer holding up.
Spasms.
Pain.
Feverish commotion moved unsatedly. Longing already before their departure from the knowledge of it to come.
Anguish in sorrow of sobbing
and self-quenching.
Two hearts’ Life has been made, disgustingly ripped away
and then at all costs retrieved
through the cold,
shame
and flame of ashes.
A chain memory
gaining its voice,
shaping into separate mind
and place.
I’m in torenness.
‘ve been through a lifetime and act,
never allowed to come back again
to the same (whirl of trepidations
and convulsions).
I tamed yet another fox
and have to deal with the tears
of the ends.
Tear away someone else’s presence
from me
and so shall be no difference.
I’m in hurt as in loss.
Losing a precious to me
foreign presence
will feel even greater
or have I just lost one,
with a piece of myself
alongside?
The binding isn’t locking away
one’s memory for a story,
it is giving them a person
called “Story”
and stealing their porcelain pieces
with its charm and frazzleness.
That’s why I account Literature
into sacralities
of my astrality
and perfect chosen arts of being.
Their non-verbal is
my most cherished music there is
as in Phronemophilia
or feelings,
a form of incalescence and confession made between a pair of words,
plucking the perfect chord
of comprehension
and Heart’s painfully sweet thrillance
and, between the verses,
speaking the ideal maternal language
not yet known to Mind.
As a Book contains all millions
of little aspects of moments,
words,
flesh,
tiny traits,
demeanour,
beginnings
and endings
and middles,
as it throws a wave after wave
of conundrums
of alchemy of emotions,
of all the unnameable things
of acting/being/breathing/affecting…
it is a Person.
One of many supposedly
not ones in Me.
​Sorry, plushie dearies,
it will be the faux-Victorian tale
of volumes and affection
tucked close to my chest
tonight,
you rest next,
aside me.
Спокоиней ночи,
всё кто живет во мне и не.
Thank you, Bridget Collins, for your book “The Binding”.
You master binder bound me away too.
Couldn’t look at any other book the other day.
Congratulations dearly for tearing out my heart so well.
Michael R Burch May 2020
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
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