My Translation: *** Azure hills near Moscow linger, Tar and dust — in the lukewarm air. I sleep all day, all day I laugh — let's say I am recovering from winter. I am walking home in utter silence: For unwritten poems — no remorse! I prefer, to every single verse, The rattling wheels, the smell of fried almonds. When the mind is beautifully empty, Always blame the heart — it is too full! As though little waves, my days unfurl; From the bridge, I watch them fall aplenty. Someone's gazes are too soft and tender In the tenderness of lightly heated air... I am falling under summer's spell, Barely recovered from winter. (March 13, 1915)Continue reading “My Translation of Marina Tsvetaeva’s Cycle “Girlfriend” – Part 9”
My Translation: *** Midnight—over the coffee grounds She cries, looking toward the East. Her mouth is innocent and unbound, Half—a flower, and half—a beast. Soon a crescent—young and slender— Shall replace the scarlet dawn All my combs I will surrender, All my rings - to you alone! Waxing moon between the branches Did not shelter anyone. I will give you all my bracelets, All my chains - to you alone! As though under a heavy mane Your luminous pupils shine! Are your comrades jealous in vain? - The full-blooded horses stay light! (December 6, 1914)Continue reading “My Translation of Marina Tsvetaeva’s Cycle “Girlfriend” – Part 8”
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?