(8 October [O.S. 26 September] 1892 – 31 August 1941)
Verses Translated by Becca Menon
Let JUMBO teach you Russian – Джамбо: он слон, он лучший. (Dzhambo: on slon, on luchshiy.)
Marina Tsvetaeva, like older contemporary Symbolist, W.B.Yeats, wove the canny and the uncanny in audacious poetry of love, faith and politics. These translations try to bring forward formal and spiritual concerns difficult to find elsewhere.
I’m happy to live the standard, simply:
Like a calendar – a pendulum – like the sun.
A worldly, scrawny pilgrim who never whimpers,
Wise – like all things God has begun.
Understand: Spirit goes with me – Spirit, my guide! –
Enters without a trace, like a flash or a ray.
I live the way I write: spare as a cord.
As the Lord commanded but friends never sway.
– November 22, 1918
Я счастлива жить образцово и просто:
Как солнце — как маятник — как календарь.
Быть светской пустынницей стройного роста,
Премудрой — как всякая Божия тварь.
Знать: Дух — мой сподвижник, и Дух — мой вожатый!
Входить без доклада, как луч и как взгляд.
Жить так, как пишу: образцово и сжато, —
Как Бог повелел и друзья не велят.
– 22 ноября 1918
Available translations appear to me to have overlooked Tsvetaeva’s formal and spiritual concerns. So I take the liberty of interpolating a title from a word in this untitled poem from November 22, 1918.
To A Stranger
They aren’t mine, your banners of warriorship!
Our minds won’t come close, never verging.
But think! Don’t transform by the serpent’s grip
The Dove of Peace in her surging.
I won’t be joining the lively red dance
’Round your May-Day pole with its hoping —
Above this globe lives our one true chance:
It shall be when Heaven’s gates open.
Your ascendant ambitions are not mine!
I dream, too — of life’s consolations!
Our world’s not divided from poles with a ball of twine —
We each stand in diverse constellations!
We’re zealots, each from a different star.
And what do you see me doing —
Me? Tossing this guy-line that far
With my pen, the doughty and true!
My icons sit beside me as I write,
The only treasures I seek.
Listen: there’s a law of Wrong and Right,
Not yours, but dispensed by one meek.
Before Him knees bend without command,
All lights in His seem less glowing.
His law is to extend His hand —
That the soul unfurl, grow knowing.
And we shall be judged by a single measure —
One for both, you may trust this.
We’ll be summoned forth from the ledger
In Paradise, where there’s Justice.
– November 28, 1920. Moscow
Твои знамена — не мои!
Врозь наши головы.
Не изменить в тисках змеи
Не ринусь в красный хоровод
Вкруг древа майского.
Превыше всех земных ворот —
Врата мне — райские.
Твои победы — не мои!
Мы не на двух концах земли, —
На двух созвездиях!
Ревнители двух разных звезд —
Так что же делаю —
Я, перекидывая мост
Есть у меня моих икон
Ценней — сокровище.
Послушай: есть другой закон,
Законы — кроющий.
Пред ним — все́ клонятся клинки,
Все́ меркнут — яхонты.
Закон протянутой руки,
И будем мы судимы — знай —
И будет нам обоим — Рай,
В который — верую.
– Москва, 28 ноября 1920
The writer’s preoccupations with the political and the sacred are treated to an unexpected synthesis here.
History alone lets us understand.
Bolsheviks, that is, the Communists, taken power in October 1917. Russia and its empire, involved in Europe’s Great War since 1914, would fight on till what became known as World War I ended in 1918.
Lenin’s government had followed world peace by articulating a Soviet policy of War Communism – an economic parallel to the political Red Terror.
The “Stranger,” Tsvetaeva is writing to is Peoples Commissar, playwright Anatoly Lunacharsky, one of the lethal plan’s chief proponents.
Marina Tsvetaeva married poet-soldier Sergei Efron in 1912.
Gone — I can’t eat:
Empty — bread, tasteless.
Everything — chalk.
Whatever I touch, wasted.
…My bread was gotten.
And snow had fallen.
And the snow had been trodden.
And the bread was rotten.
– January 23, 1940
Ушёл — не ем
Ушёл — не ем:
Пуст — хлеба вкус.
Всё — мел.
За чем ни потянусь.
…Мне хлебом был,
И снегом был.
И снег не бел,
И хлеб не мил.
– 23 января 1940
Sergei Efron fought with the White Armies who had battled the Bolsheviks. He fled to Europe in the early 1920’s, and took the couple’s eldest daughter, Ariadna, with him.
Did Tsvetaeva’s husband become, in his latter days abroad, an agent of the Soviets? The course-reversal grew common among nationalist fighters in the face of new economic and political pressures. Hitler’s threat was only one of the developments to consider.
Did Efron participate in the execution of other Communist operatives? “His trust might have been abused — my trust in him remains unchanged.” His wife gave the French police the impression she was deranged, yet never waivered.
The Soviets took and tortured Sergei and Ariadna on charges of espionage.
Marina followed from Paris with the remaining children in 1939, at once herself in imperiled.
In an epistle dated December 23, she pleads for him with Stalin’s Chief of Security.
“Gone” is a poem of January 1940.
Sergei Efron was shot October 17, 1941.
You Left Me Out
The verse goes ’round in my head
That first line keeps circling back:
— “Here’s our table for six that I spread….”
But one, the seventh – you lack.
But your party looks less than vivacious.
You gave your table six places, then quit it –
What made six, six, six so tenacious?
You left out the seventh — the seventh: omitted…
Appetite too’s not vivacious.
No one sips Dionysus’ relief.
Grief alone is voracious,
Nameless sorrow – greedy grief.
No vivacity, no vivacity…
Oh! Don’t eat, and Oh, no drinking!
— How could you have counted wrong, where was pity?
Six, only six places – what were you thinking?
Can you misunderstand – can you dare?
Count with me: you brothers-three, plus your wife,
Your father and mother make six: it’s unfair —
There’re seven! Seven while I still taste life!
Here is the table for six that you spread,
But death doesn’t swallow the world by six.
Instead of un-living among the non-dead,
Let me come as a real ghost, no tricks.
(Just your own)….
— Shy as a thief in retreat.
Oh so polite, and not hurting a soul!
Just making your set complete:
The seventh: the Uninvited’s role.
Time! It knocked over the glass, which shattered! —
And every thing that thirsted to pour,
All the salt from the tears, and blood that spattered,
Left the tablecloth — knew the floor.
No coffin! All parting, ceased!
The table, the house cast off spells as if shaken.
Like death at a wedding feast,
My presence awakens, me, the forsaken.
Father, Mother, you both had your roles,
All relatives supping here: I allege
Setting the table for only six souls
You left me out – beyond the edge.
– March 6, 1941
Всё повторяю первый стих…
Всё повторяю первый стих
И всё переправляю слово:
— «Я стол накрыл на шестерых»…
Ты одного забыл — седьмого.
Невесело вам вшестером.
На лицах — дождевые струи…
Как мог ты за таким столом
Седьмого позабыть — седьмую…
Невесело твоим гостям,
Бездействует графин хрустальный.
Печально — им, печален — сам,
Непозванная — всех печальней.
Невесело и несветло.
Ах! не едите и не пьёте.
— Как мог ты позабыть число?
Как мог ты ошибиться в счёте?
Как мог, как смел ты не понять,
Что шестеро (два брата, третий —
Ты сам — с женой, отец и мать)
Есть семеро — раз я́ на свете!
Ты стол накрыл на шестерых,
Но шестерыми мир не вымер.
Чем пугалом среди живых —
Быть призраком хочу — с твоими,
Робкая как вор,
О — ни души не задевая! —
За непоставленный прибор
Сажусь незваная, седьмая.
Раз! — опрокинула стакан!
И всё, что жаждало пролиться, —
Вся соль из глаз, вся кровь из ран —
Со скатерти — на половицы.
И — гроба нет! Разлуки — нет!
Стол расколдован, дом разбужен.
Как смерть — на свадебный обед,
Я — жизнь, пришедшая на ужин.
…Никто: не брат, не сын, не муж,
Не друг — и всё же укоряю:
— Ты, стол накрывший на шесть — душ,
Меня не посадивший — с краю.
– 6 марта 1941
Marina Tsvetaeva’s untitled last poem stands frequently (to my mind erroneously,) as something like “All repeat the first line.” I lay the title “You Left Me Out” on these highly regular verses because it’s the single-mindedtheme – which other versions overlook. The poet-haunt builds on “Here’s our table for six that I spread,” a verse by Arseny Tarnovsky, whom she had just encountered again on a Soviet prison-line.
Alexander Pushkin (born May 26 [June 6, New Style], 1799, Moscow, Russia—died January 29 [February 10], 1837) a contemporary of Lord Byron, became Russia’s eternal literary lodestar – fully European, fully Russian.
What did a notoriously independent woman seek in the alpha male nearly 100 years after his death? The virtuosic Tsvetaeva turned to that proud descendant of a court-African for models of verse form, meters, rhythms and rhymes. These she made her own: modern, less rigid.
This tale of a bewitcher’s ties to a preternatural mate fell into place as Tsvetaeva’s fourth and final long folkloric fable – for which she had taken another lesson from the master: the telling of old stories that matter in new ways.
For the complete text in Russian https://www.tsvetayeva.com/big_poems/po_molodec
(Frequently rendered as The Swain)
Completed in Prague, Christmas Eve 1922
Boris Pasternak —
“As gest before your greatness,
As pleasure before your indulgence…”
To the blue-green woods past the village!
The oak fell but its trunk’s still a pillar.
The widow could use it, she’s weary,
And daughter, Marusya’s so cheery.
The bells ring for church – guys jostle
To take her inside, be her bridegroom!
Marusya’s blush could make even
The Trinity divide!
“Let me go with the girls, mother dear.
I promise I’ll always stay near.
Your brother can shake out the bedding.
Take rest, let your health be fed.
But I sleep like a rock —
Rocks hide ore, it’s the truth!”
“My child, go walk, go walk,
While you have your youth!”
“The lads are chasing,
Our silk tresses lacing,
Russian boys — bracing,
Mine — so graceful,
Yours — so graceful,
Marushka’s most graceful of any!
Up the way wending
The hill, go ascending
With your intended —
Mine’s tall — splendid,
Yours tall — splendid,
Marushka’s most splendid of any!
Let gladness begin —
Weave and spin —
Oh, it’s lovely to whisper and talk!
Each day, let’s begin!
At the door, call within:
There is no flame
And nothing that burns
As bright as a beau who yearns.
You close up in vain.
Can you hold back the sun?
No home can be locked up to such a one!
A real Russian learns
To bow in society.
And a purse with its silver-stream rain
Is always the height of propriety!
“From its sweets to its edges,
Hawk-falcon, you’re fledging!
Escort pretty girls — who can tell!
A glass cup with a rim is poured,
Going ’round with one accord.
Now people enjoy the reward.
How those fancy shirts itch that were stored!”
“They’re glowing, they’re blazing,
They’re hot — Oh, we’re brazing!
Red cheeks that were ivory —
Mine’s — fiery,
Yours — fiery,
Marushka’s most fiery of any!”
No temperance —
Mine’s — obstreperous,
Yours — obstreperous,
Marushka’s most obstreperous of any!
Little Lubki lick
Ripe berry-lips quick!
Stay — bells ring above!
The hawk finds the dove!
“We probably should get going.
Sokol, Hawk, lead us.”
“No, since he’s new and we’re going,
This Beau stranger here should precede us!”
“I will choose, no discussion,
The girl who’s most Russian.
Let there be repercussion:
It’s Marusya or Luba I’ll summon.”
“Dance, Masha, show him,
And, Sweety, too, show him,
The way our girls whirl in the Sun-dance!
Mine’s — glowing,
Yours — glowing,
The guest is most glowing of any!”
“Jump! With the knack
The boards tremble and crack!
Fly high if you want to amaze.
Beneath guys are boards,
And beneath fellows, boards,
But under the Beau Guest, a blaze!”
“Drop hands, just retire.
Out to the yard!
Surrounding the birch too — a fire.
Hair — all awry,
Breathing — jarred,
The chapel yard is on fire!”
Whistling down hurdles —
“My heart’s-food!” “My turtle-dove!”
The embrace comes, a hurtle.
Oh yes, but what is it!
Oh yes, but where’s here!
More, please, more pleasing pains!
Oh yes, but what is it!
Oh yes, but where’s here!
And best, something piercing the veins!
Dance, little spinner,
Your spirit caught, need not be taught:
By someone — a captor,
By someone — a raptor,
This someone — this Beau Guest, unheard-of.
Never before — nothing’s hard anymore —
Swirl, breath, swirl, breath, swirl!
No grand earl — dashing churl!
Whirlwind, whirlwind, whirlwind!
“Let me touch your magical gold,
Beau Guest, that I’m certain you hold!”
“Maiden, let me feel
Your raspberry filling is real!
You — the sap
You — the berry,
I, the knife for paring!
Up we snatch what is found!
Around and around and around!
Neither smiled on nor frowned!
Around and around and around!
Your milky skin
Cries, ‘Drink me in!’
Secret sweetness in flower
I therefore devour.
Nearer, still nearing,
Heart comes to heart
A scythe so Russian
Brings bread from the harvest!”
“What is it that stirs,
So that everything blurs
As if limbs were dissolving?”
“Love’s fatal flaw:
Cause of all weakness.
Turtle-dove, we must now withdraw
Or your home-ties will seek us.”
(A madness — not used to —
My mouth feels bizarre.)
“To the gate, Marusya,
Together that far?”
“Well, aren’t you a no-account,
But better late than never.”
You weren’t waiting come to the holy fount,
Just the merchant of whatnot-whatever.”
“He sells tea for next to nothing.”
“Did you come for his baking?”
“I can’t get enough.
My sweet-tooth is aching.”
“Our bag of gold overflows,
Our horses —” “I’m sure are swift.”
“But the village — ” “It’s not on your side?”
“They’ll ring the alarm, I suppose.
My mother is furious.
She slapped my face red.”
“But swear, Marusya:
You will be wed?”
end of section 1, part 1