Four poems by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva

Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva, 1892-1941, was one of the greatest poets of the 20th century in Russia and according to Joseph Brodsky the most innovative.  There is a House-Museum in Moscow named for her. She was married to Sergei Efron with whom she had three children.  After he was executed for espionage in 1941, she committed suicide in the same year. 

1.

Animal-- barn,
Pilgrim-- road,
Corpse-- hearse, 
For each his own.  

     
Woman dissembles,
Tsar assembles,
And I bestow praise
That calls your name.  

1916                            

2.     
 
Four years old.
Eyes frozen cubes,
brows already fated,
from Kremlin’s heights
scan for the
first time today
the ice-floe.

Ice-floes, icy-foes
and cupolas.
Ring golden,
Sling silver.
Crossed hands,
mute mouth.
knitted brow– You Napoleon!
Contemplate the Kremlin.

“Mama, where does the ice go?”
“Forward, my little swan.
Past palaces, churches, gates –
Forward, my little swan!”
Puzzled her gaze.
“Do you love me, Marina?”
“Very much.”
“For always?”
“Yes.”

Sunset’s soon, 
Got to go back:
You to the nursery, and me –
to read rude letters
that bite my lips.

The ice     
keeps
flowing.

24 March 1916
   
3.
RETURN OF THE BOSS

Lame horse.
Rusty sword.
Who’s he?
Some beloved boss?

Hours sighed.
Ages stepped
Eyes down.
It’s all there.

Foe--friend.
Thorn--laurel.
Dreams pricked
scratchy hoarse. 

Rusty horse.
Lame sword.
Fileted cloak. 
Totem straight back.

1921

4.

I’m so pleased you’re not obsessed with me.
I’m thrilled I’m not obsessed with you.
That earth’s sphere so weighty
Won’t swim out from under me or you.
I’m delighted I can be waggish –
Dissipated – and not toy with words,      
Not blush some suffocating wave,
Our sleeves barely teasing.
                                               
I’m overjoyed that to test my face
You’ll sweetly embrace another,
And won’t foretell I’ll burn in Hades
For not hungrily kissing yours.
That my tender name, my dear,
You won’t blurt to curse day and night…
That this church a touch quieter   
Won’t sing hallelujah over such heights!   

    
Thanks to your heart fist clenched
That without knowing yourself!
Love me so: for placid nights,
For the rarity of sunset trysting,
For no evening walks swathed in moonbeams,
For sun never lighting rapt heads too –
For you not obsessed – alas - with me,
For me not obsessed – alas – with you!