My Translation: *** Her neck is lifted—young and free, Like spring in reverie. Who knows her name—who knows her age, Who—home, who—century? There is no light on these curved lips— Capricious and gentle— Yet I am blinded and eclipsed By her Beethoven's temple. It makes me tender—clear and lit, Her face, a melted oval, Her hand, in which a whip would fit, And—in the silver—opal. A violin bow could serve her hand, But into silks it went, How unrepeatable—this hand, Unique, beloved hand. (January 10, 1915)Continue reading “My Translation of Marina Tsvetaeva’s Cycle “Girlfriend” – Part 7”
~ The Poetics of Digital Media ~ Podcast
Are you interested in digital poetry? Do you want to know how technology transforms literary art? Then, this podcast is for you! Hosted by Veronika Sizova, “The Poetics of Digital Media” episode evaluates the advantages and disadvantages of posting poetry on social media, illustrates the concept of E-Poetry, and explains how digital media liberates literature through a combination of verbal, visual, and musical expressions. Finally, it provides a reminder that social media, despite its creative benefits, may also cause significant distress.Continue reading “~ The Poetics of Digital Media ~ Podcast”
My Translation of Marina Tsvetaeva’s Cycle “Girlfriend” – Part 6
My Translation: *** How merrily the snowflakes brightened Your—grey, my—sable fur, How at the Christmas fair excited We looked for ribbons—best of all. How rosy-pink and very savoury I ate too many waffles—six! How every ginger horse delighted me— In honour of Your noble deeds. How vendors traded garments—full like sails— They sold the cheapest shreds and swore, How at the Moscow ladies, young and strange, The country women gaped in awe. How in the evening, when the crowds had left, We entered the cathedral, bored, How on the Virgin Mary's face bereft Your gaze fell like a solemn sword. How gloomy was her countenance and gentle The love in her exhausted eyes, Locked in the icon case with chubby angels From the Elizabethan times. How You let go of my hand tenderly And whispered: "Oh, I want her so!" How you have placed a candle carefully In candelabrum - yellow, tall… —O, with an opal ring mysterious Your Hand! —O, all my wretched plight— How I have promised You, my dearest, To steal this masterpiece tonight! How to the inn of this grand monastery —The rumbling bells and setting sun— Blessed like two baptized girls with honesty Like a battalion, we have come. How I have told You—to remain as beauteous— With age—and always spilled the salt, How for three times—You were so furious— In cards, my King of Hearts had won. How You have squeezed my hair in sweet reproach, Caressing every single curl— How cold was Your enamel flower brooch Which made my lips tremble and burn. How I, against Your slender fingers. Have brushed my tired, sleepy head, How You have teased me like an infant, How You have loved me just like that… (December 1914)Continue reading “My Translation of Marina Tsvetaeva’s Cycle “Girlfriend” – Part 6”
My Translation of Marina Tsvetaeva’s Cycle “Girlfriend” – Part 5
*** I want to ask the looking glass With dusty, mistful dreams, Which road - which country shall You pass, And where Your shelter gleams. Here, I behold: the ship's tall mast, And You - on deck alone... You - in the train's steam... Fields at dusk Are gloomy and forlorn... The dusky meadows bathe in dew, Above - the ravens soar... To the four winds I scatter You And bless Your soul! May 3, 1915
Ode to Saint Petersburg
Saint Petersburg - the city of the Dead, Where dreaming spirits haunt the mist-cloaked streets. A diadem of rubies crowns your head, And silver armour lines your mighty fleet. Let myriads of angels guard your spires Against the pain and suffering of war: Rejoice, the bygone northernmost empire, Built on deception, cruelty, and gore! The Winter Palace flaunts its azure gown - A ballerina on the frozen lake, Whose beauty flares, as if about to drown Beneath the burden of her last mistake. May a luxuriant, wild garden grow Where once was land of misery and snow.
The Star Festival
My distant angel, Only you can decipher This secret message. Deep in the shadows Where summer turns to autumn Once a year, we meet. Two star-crossed lovers Separated by darkness, United by light. The sky will show you Our celestial counterparts: Vega and Altair.
The Nymph and the Dryad ~ Part 2
The Nymph and the Dryad ~ Part 1
Song of the Raven
We are spending more time apart than together Playing silent games… Are we lovers or ghosts, lighter than feathers, Leaving nebulous stains? Let my longing be nectar to your amorous venom, Which leads me astray - Our memories echo a murderous raven Looking for prey. Tenderness has become a torturous weapon In your loving hands, And I swallow my words like the earth swallows Heaven Each time it rains…
Ceci n’est pas une Rose
If you were a rose, You would hide in the dark Until I discovered your delicate spark. If you were a rose, Every flower would fade, Entranced by the perfume which you radiate. If you were a rose, Your soft, velvety skin Would cover my eyes with the raptures unseen. If you were a rose, I would kiss your wild thorns, Crimson with blood, as it lingers and burns. If you were a rose, You would bloom all year long, Drinking my tears when I cry, all alone. If you were a rose, You would grow in my heart, Entwining it gently, as you tear me apart. My garden has blossomed With sorrow and loss. Why didn't you tell me that you were a rose?