#moscow
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
May 28, 2020
May 28, 2020 at 2:46 AM UTC
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
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
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.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
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)
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 10:43 AM UTC
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
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
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.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 3:20 PM UTC
The girl from Moscow
wants to hear, my
voice.
She is in love already,
with another,
but
is so beautiful,
do I really have, a
choice?
I call her,
using the international
connection line,
called Facebook.
I can hear her
but
she cannot hear
me.
I enable video,
and wave, but
she covers her
face, with her
hand.
Am I being mislead,
biting at the transcontinental line,
or
as they say,
cat-fished?
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 8:18 AM UTC
#22 | 31 Poems for August
You’ve got your hand comfortably placed in mine.
A few minutes ago I was placing kisses down your spine.
Who gave you curves like those and said that you could keep them?
You know how it goes, the thicker the better.
But don’t get too complacent, I’m still drawn to your grey matter.
It’s evident that you’re more about bass than treble.
This is all new to me, I’ve never been on this level.
Let’s become a poem that Pretoria can always snap its fingers to.
But if that doesn’t work out then we’ll travel to Venice, Paris or Moscow.
Maybe even Florence, Rome or Vienna, anywhere you want to go.
When you finally make up your mind then love let me know.
Your fascinating thoughts always inspire the movement of my flow.
It’s within your simplicity where I discovered how beautifully complex you are.
In a sky full of constellations, you are my favourite star.
Don’t leave me behind, I just want you to gently place your hand in mine.
Don’t leave me behind, you’re the one I’ve been patiently waiting to find.
No matter what happens don’t ever let your hand slip out of mine.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
#1 | 31 Poems for August
I want to do more than just write poetry.
I want to paint pictures.
So be my muse and surrender your body as my canvas.
I’ll make every single swift stroke bring you to life.
I’ll show you what this brush of mine is capable of.
You are the sun that my sky yearns to hold.
Beautiful cocoa butter skin.
Your beauty is not only found on your exterior but every single place within.
I want to insert my poems in every single atom in this galaxy.
So that you can feel my love wherever you go.
From Pretoria to Toronto.
From Jo’burg to Moscow.
From Cape Town to Glasgow.
Static thoughts and kinetic conversations inspire my flow.
I have thoughts that my words cannot describe and I wish to share them with the world.
I wish to share them with you.
I love the way your eyes see past my smile and deep into the fibres of my soul.
I love the way your smile makes me whole.
Let’s become a poem our friends can always snap their fingers to.
I want to hold your body the way canvas portrays paint.
I want to kiss your lips while I gently hold your waist.
I want to do more than just write poetry.
I want to tell the world about you.
Let me tell the world about you.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC