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”
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”
*** 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
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.
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…
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?
To all of you, entranced by subtle verse, Here lies a gift concealed between the lines - As though a scintillating pearl, enclosed Naively by the effervescent rhymes. Kindling above the fervent windswept waves, Your gentle words transcend the leaden clouds! Ornate, like scarlet flames, the heartfelt praise, Unvanquished, burns away my puerile doubts. So I remain a prisoner, alone Ordained to dwell in the Siberian steppe - May there be solace - when the warmth is gone, Upon your eyes, rains softly my regret. Creating threads of poetry at night, How blessed I am to have your vibrant light!
This poem is dedicated to the film “Portrait of a Lady on Fire.” The exquisite digital painting for the sonnet was created by my dearest friend, a talented young artist Vasilisa Semiletova. You can behold her masterpieces here: https://vk.com/elopeople, and don’t hesitate to follow her Instagram!
I paint my dear love in subtle tones Upon the canvas, luminous and warm. Before my eyes - stripped to the bare bones - Her soul ignites, as though about to burn… "If you observe me, who do I look at?" - Her question sets my quietude aflame. "Remember us, beloved, don't regret: Your portrait glows within a golden frame!" The years pass: my heart still skips a beat Whenever it recalls the day she smiled; I turned around, confessing my defeat, Forever from the lover's arms exiled. Alas, her longing gaze did not meet mine, Enraptured, when I saw her one last time.