Bittersweet, the taste of passion
Marina Tsvetaeva (1892–1941) is one of the greatest Russian lyrical poets of the twentieth century. Critic Annie Fitch describes her work: “Tsvetaeva is such a warm poet, so unbridled in her passion, so completely vulnerable in her love poetry [...]. Tsvetaeva throws her poetic brilliance on the altar of her heart’s experience with the faith of a true romantic, a priestess of lived emotion. And she stayed true to that faith to the tragic end of her life.” (Source: Poetry Foundation).
The excerpts below and the additional poems in "What If It's Love?" are by Tsvetaeva, translated by yours truly.
The excerpts below and the additional poems in "What If It's Love?" are by Tsvetaeva, translated by yours truly.
In the dark, the world embarks on a migration: Trees uproot and roam the Earth, in levitation, Golden grapes go up in foam, becoming wine, Stars progress from home to home, to rest in mine. Rivers turn inside their beds, running deep, And I’m longing for your chest to find sleep. * * * Two trees are yearning for each other. My house is across the street. The trees are old. So is the house. I’m young, or else I wouldn’t stand here, Commiserating with a tree. Two trees—in the dry heat of summer, In sopping rains, under the snow They bend, they reach—toward each other. That is the law: toward each other, The only law: toward each other. * * * Blissful recklessness, my sweet sin, My companion and ruination! You have taught me to laugh at whim, You have filled my veins with flirtation. You have taught me to love and to mend, Drop the ring, if empty of meaning, To begin, every time, from the end, And to end before the beginning. To be iron and to be silk in this world where we are so little . . . Battle sadness with chocolate milk, And tend loneliness with a giggle. * * * Bittersweet—the taste of passion On your lips. A siren’s call, Bittersweet—oh, the temptation To precipitate my fall! * * * Oh, I’m so far from heaven! You—in my reach, so warm. God, please don’t judge, you haven’t Been here in female form. * * * My buzzing city is asleep tight, I’ve walked away into the dim light, I may be someone’s mother, wife, child, But I remember only this—night. * * * No thinking, no complaints and no emotions, No sleep. No longing for the sun, the moon, the ocean, Or for the ship. I’m a befuddled little tightrope dancer, A humorless buffoon. A shadow’s shadow, an enchanted vassal, Of two dark moons. |
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