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Moscow in the Plague Year: Poems
180![Moscow in the Plague Year: Poems](http://img.images-bn.com/static/redesign/srcs/images/grey-box.png?v11.9.4)
Moscow in the Plague Year: Poems
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Overview
"Represented on a graph, Tsvetaeva's work would exhibit a curve - or rather, a straight line - rising at almost a right angle because of her constant effort to raise the pitch a note higher, an idea higher ... She always carried everything she has to say to its conceivable and expressible end. In both her poetry and her prose, nothing remains hanging or leaves a feeling of ambivalence. Tsvetaeva is the unique case in which the paramount spiritual experience of an epoch (for us, the sense of ambivalence, of contradictoriness in the nature of human existence) served not as the object of expression but as its means, by which it was transformed into the material of art." --Joseph Brodsky
While your eyes follow me into the grave, write up the whole caboodle on my cross! 'Her days began with songs, ended in tears, but when she died, she split her sides with laugher!'
--from Moscow in the Plague Year: Poems
Product Details
ISBN-13: | 9781935744979 |
---|---|
Publisher: | Steerforth Press |
Publication date: | 08/12/2014 |
Sold by: | Penguin Random House Publisher Services |
Format: | eBook |
Pages: | 180 |
File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Moscow in the Plague Year
By Marina Tsvetaeva, Christopher Whyte
archipelago books
Copyright © 2014 Marina TsvetaevaAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-935744-96-2
CHAPTER 1
Sweet to be two of us – on just one horse,
in the one dinghy, riding one wave,
sweet when the two of us chew the same crust –
sweetest of all when we share the same pillow.
November 1st 1918
* * *
With airborne step –
the sign of a clear conscience –
with airborne step
and resonant song
God set me down alone amidst
the world's immensity: 'You're not
a woman', he said, 'but a bird.
Your task, therefore – to fly and sing!'
November 1st 1918
* * *
The morning dove has found a place
to perch on my right shoulder, while
the eagle owl of night has found
a place to perch upon my left.
Like Kazan's emperor, I pass
knowing I have no cause to fear –
enemies having joined in league
to offer me common defence!
November 2nd 1918
* * *
I'm giving you this comb so you'll remember
me longer than an hour, lad, or a year.
Little gold combs got invented for that –
so young lovers don't forget their girls.
To stop the one I love drinking without me –
comb, little comb for straightening my hair!
This one is special, there's no other like it –
pulled through my hair, its teeth feel just like strings!
As soon as you touch it, a shiver will run
all down my body, but nobody else's.
To stop the one I love sleeping without me –
comb, little comb for straightening my hair!
So that every inch he puts between us
can seem to him a mile of burning sweat,
each mile as he returns seems like an inch –
little gold combs got invented for that.
To stop the one I love living without me –
comb, darling comb, with all your seven teeth!
November 2nd 1918
* * *
A mug, the tail end of the bread,
a raspberry out of the punnet,
moonlight through the attic window –
that's how far our banquet reaches!
As a bonus, offer me
a lad I can get warmed up with –
even when no bread's included,
I can never hope to pay!
November 2nd 1918
PLAYACTING
Dedication:
To an actor, trying to pass for an angel, or an angel, trying to pass for an actor – it makes no difference, since in 1919 tenderness towards Your Worship, and not snow, had me in thrall
1
An evening comes to mind. Early November.
Rain falling, foggy. Underneath the streetlamp,
your gentle features, alien, uncertain,
pallid and blurred as in a Dickens novel.
A shivering as of winter seas within me....
Your gentle features underneath the streetlamp.
The wind howled, and the stair we climbed unravelled ...
My eyes were riveted upon your lips;
I stood, twisting my fingers, almost laughing,
the version of a Muse in miniature,
as blameless as the evening hour was late ...
The wind howled, and the stair we climbed unravelled.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Moscow in the Plague Year by Marina Tsvetaeva, Christopher Whyte. Copyright © 2014 Marina Tsvetaeva. Excerpted by permission of archipelago books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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