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ISBN-13:

9781847778376

Publisher: Carcanet Press, Limited
Publication date: 09/01/2009
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 180
File size: 347 KB

Marina Tsvetaeva is considered one of Russia's most important postrevolutionary poets. She is the author of The Demesne of the Swans, Evening Album, and The Rat-Catcher. Elaine Feinstein is the author of many novels, radio plays, television dramas, and five biographies, including Anna of all the Russias, A Captive Lion: The Life of Marina Tsvetaeva, and Pushkin. She was also a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and the recipient of a Cholmondeley Award for Poetry.

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Bride of Ice: New Selected Poems

By Marina Tsvetaeva, Elaine Feinstein

Carcanet Press Ltd

Copyright © 2009 Elaine Feinstein
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84777-837-6

CHAPTER 1

    Verse

    Written so long ago, I didn't even
        know I was a poet,
    my lines fell like spray from a fountain
        or flashes from a rocket,

    like imps, they burst into sanctuaries
        filled with sleep and incense,
    to speak of youth and dying.
        All my unread pages

    lie scattered in dusty bookshops
        where nobody picks them up
    to this day. Like expensive wines,
        your time will come, my lines.

                            May 1913

      from GIRLFRIEND

                    1

    Are you happy? You never tell me.
        Maybe it's better like this.
    You've kissed so many others –
        which makes for sadness.

    In you, I see the heroines
        of Shakespeare's tragedies.
    You, unhappy lady, were
        never saved by anybody.

    You have grown tired of repeating
        the familiar words of love!
    An iron ring on a bloodless hand
        is more expressive,

    I love you – like a storm burst
        overhead – I must confess it;
    all the more fiercely because you burn
        and bite, and most of all

    because our secret lives take
        very different paths:
    seduction and dark fate
        are your inspiration.

    To you, my aquiline demon,
        I apologise. In a flash –
    as if over a coffin – I realise
        it was always too late to save you!

    Even as I tremble – it may be
        am dreaming – there
    remains one enchanting irony:
        for you – are not he.

                            16 October 1914

                    2

    Beneath this caressing, plush blanket
        I call up yesterday's dream.
    What was it? Whose was the victory?
        Who was defeated?

    As I think it over again and again
        I keep trying to find
    the words for what happened:
        Was it love?

    Who was the hunter? Who the prey?
        The roles reverse.
    What does the Siberian tiger
        understand as he purrs?

    Who in our duel of wills
        was left holding a bauble?
    Was it your heart – or mine
        flew off at a gallop?

    And, after all, what did happen?
        Something desired – or regretted?
    I can't decide if I won
        or if I was conquered,

                            23 October 1914

                    3

    Today it thawed, today
        I stood by the window
    soberly, with my lungs free,
        almost satisfied.

    I don't know why – maybe,
        my soul is tired –
    I had no wish to touch
        my mutinous pencil.

    Instead I stood in a mist
        neither good nor wicked,
    with my finger quietly prodding
        the window pane.

    My soul felt no better and no worse
        than that passer-by over there
    or those puddles of mother-of-pearl
        splattered by the sky,

    the bird flying above
        or a dog running;
    even a beggar's song does not
        move me to tears.

    Sweetly and cleverly, forgetfulness
        has already taken over –
    and by today another huge emotion
        has melted in my soul.

                            24 October 1914

                    4

    You were too lazy to dress yourself,
        or get up from the armchair.
    – When I go towards you, the day
        is joyful with my happiness.

    You were troubled about leaving
        so late at night in the cold.
    – Any hour when I approach you
        is healthy with my joy.

    You mean no harm by any of this,
        unchangeably innocent,
    – I am your youth, which already
        begins to pass you by.

                            25 October 1914

                    5

    About eight this evening, a sleigh
        rushed past me, recklessly,
    along Bolshaya Lubyanka
        like a bullet or a snowball.

    I heard your tinkling laugh
        in the distance and froze,
    staring: your fawn-coloured fur,
        the tall figure at your side ...

    You are enjoying the pleasures
        of a sleigh with someone else,
    a chosen lover, already more
        desired than I was!

    – Oh, je n'en puis plus, j'étouffe,
        you screamed at me today.
    And now, boldly, you cover her
        with the furs inside the sleigh.

    The rest of the world is happy.
        The evening glamorous.
    Gifts and muffs ... and you both rushing
        into the blizzard – fur to fur.

    Then a brutal surge of snow
        turns everything white.
    I could only follow the two of you
        for a matter of seconds.

    I stroke the long hair on my
        coat and feel no anger ...
    Your little Kay has frozen to death
        O great Snow Queen.

                            26 October 1914

                    6

    Night weeps over coffee grounds
        as it looks to the east.
    Its mouth is a tender blossom
        but it has a monstrous flower.

    Soon a young, thin moon will take
        the place of scarlet dawn,
    and I shall give you many
        combs and rings.

    The young moon between the branches
        never guards anyone.
    I shall give you ear-rings
        bracelets, and chains!

    Your bright eyes sparkle, as if
        from under a heavy mane.
    Are your horses jealous – those
        thoroughbreds, so light on their feet?

                      9

    You entered with incomparable panache,
        and I dared not touch your hand.
    Already I could feel the pain of longing
        as if you were my very first love.

    My heart whispered: Darling!
        I forgave you in advance,
    without knowing your name, I murmured
        Love me! Please love me!

    I looked at the curve of your lips,
        that deliberate arrogance,
    those heavy eyebrows – and
        my heart began to thunder.

    Your dress was a silky black shell,
        your voice husky as a gypsy;
    everything about you sweetly poignant
        – even the fact you are no beauty.

    You won't fade over the summer even
        if your flower and stalk are not steely,
    for you are meaner and sharper than any
        – from what island do you come,

    with that huge fan, and walking stick?
        In every bone, and wicked finger
    I make out the gentleness of a woman
        and the audacity of a boy.

    How shall I treat these ironies in verse
        or explain to the world
    all the qualities I see in you?
        My stranger with Beethoven's brow!

                            14 January 1915

                    10

    How can I forget that perfume
        of White Rose and tea,
    those figures of Sèvres above
        a blazing fireplace.

    There we stood. I was dressed
        in splendid golden silk.
    You – in a black knit jacket
        with a winged collar.

    As you entered, I remember your face
        was almost colourless;
    you stood biting a finger,
        your head slightly tilted.

    A helmet of red hair surrounded
        your powerful forehead.
    You were neither woman nor boy –
        but stronger than I was.

    With no reason to move, I stood up
        and at once people gathered round –
    someone even tried, as if in a joke,
        to introduce us.

    How calmly you put
        your hand in mine,
    and left in my palm a lingering
        splinter of ice.

    You took out a cigarette.
        I offered you a light,
    afraid of what I might do
        if you looked into my face.

    I remember how our glasses clinked
        over a blue vase. Please
    be my Orestes, I murmured
        – and gave you a flower.

    Your grey eyes flashed as you took
        a handkerchief out of your
    black suede purse – and slowly
        let it drop to the floor.

                            28 January 1915

                    11

    Many eyes sparkle under the sun
        and one day is not
    like another. Let me tell you this,
        in case I am unfaithful:

    whoever I am kissing
        in the hour of love,
    whatever vows I make
        in the dark of night

    – since I can't live like
        an obedient child
    or bloom like a flower without
        looking at anyone else –

    I swear by this cross of cypress
        – you know it well –
    if you whistle under my window
        all my love will re-awaken.

                            22 February 1915

                    12

    Moscow's hills are blue, the warm air
        tasting of dust and tar.
    I sleep all day or else I laugh
        as if well again after winter.

    I go home quietly without regretting
        the poems I haven't written,
    the sound of wheels, or roasted almonds
        matter more than a quatrain.

    My head is magnificently empty,
        my heart dangerously full;
    my days are like tiny waves
        seen from a small bridge.

    Perhaps my look is too tender
        for air that is barely warm.
    I am already sick of summer –
        though hardly recovered from winter.

                            13 March 1915

                    13

    Let me repeat, at the end of our love
        on the very eve of parting,
    how much I loved those powerful
        hands of yours,

    those eyes which do – or don't –
        look someone over, and
    nevertheless demand a report
        on my most casual glance.

    Three times is your passion cursed!
        God sees all of you
    and insists on repentance
        for every casual sigh.

    Now let me say again, wearily
        – don't be too eager to hear this –
    your soul now stands
        in the way of my own.

    And something else, since
        it is almost evening –
    that mouth of yours was young
        when we first kissed,

    your gaze was bold and light then
        your being – five years old ...
    How fortunate are those
        who have not crossed your path.

                            28 April 1915

                    14

    Some names are like sultry flowers
        and glances like dancing flames.
    There are dark and sinuous mouths
        whose corners are deep and moist.

    There are women with hair like helmets
        whose fans smell faintly of ruin.
    They are thirty. Why would you need
        the soul of a Spartan child?

                            Annunciation Day 1915

                    15

    I want to look in the mirror, where
        sleep is wrapped in mist.
    I wonder where you are going
        and where you will find solace.

    I see the mast of a ship
        with you on the deck,
    or standing in the smoke of a train
        in the sad fields of evening.

    There is dew on the night grass
        and above that – ravens.
    I send you my blessings now
        to every corner of those fields

                            3 May 1915

                    16

    At first, you loved beauty
        above everything, curls
    with a delicate touch of henna,
        the melancholy sound of the zurna,

    notes struck by a stallion's
        hooves against flint
    or semi-precious stones
        with patterned facets.

    In the next love, your second:
        an arch of fine eyebrows
    and a silky carpet from
        rose-coloured Bokhara,

    Every finger was ringed then,
        There was a birthmark on her cheek,
    tanned flesh through Victorian
        lace – and London at midnight!

    Your third love was sweet
        in some different way ...
    – But what trace remains in your heart
        of me, my faithless one?

                            14 July 1915

                    * * *

    The clock – what time is it?
        The hour has sounded.
    I can barely make out
        the hollows of huge eyes,
    the flowing satin of your dress.
        I can barely see you.

    Next door the lights are out.
        Someone is making love.
    I am frightened by the
        shape of your face.
    It is half dark in the room;
        Night is as lonely as if

    a piece of ice pierced by moonlight
        marks the window.
    – Did you surrender?
        I did not fight.
    The voice froze as if from
        A hundred miles away or the moon itself

    Moonbeams stood between us
        transforming the world.
    The metal of your dark
        furiously red hair
    glowed unbearably.
        History itself is forgotten,

    in the flint of the moon, the looking glass
        splinters: there are distant hooves,
    and the squeak of a carriage. The street light
        has gone out. Time no longer moves.
    Soon the cock will crow. And two
        young women will part.

                            1 November 1914

    Your narrow, foreign shape

    Your narrow, foreign shape
        is bent above written pages,
    with a Turkish shawl, dropped
        over you like a cloak.

    You make a single line, which
        is broken and black at once.
    And you are cold – in erotic
        gaiety – or unhappiness.

    All your life is a fever to be
        perfected, yet this young
    demon, who on earth is she
        with her cloudy, dark face?

    Everyone else is worldly,
        while you remain playful,
    with harmless lines of poetry –
        trifles – aimed at the heart.

    In a sleepy, morning hour –
        at five a.m. – I discover
    I've fallen in love with you,
        Anna Akhmatova

                            1915

      I know the truth

    I know the truth – give up all other truths!
    No need for people anywhere on earth to struggle.
    Look – it is evening, look, it is nearly night:
    what do you speak of, poets, lovers, generals?

    The wind is level now, the earth is wet with dew,
    the storm of stars in the sky will turn to quiet.
    And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we
    who never let each other sleep above it.

                          1915

    What is this gypsy passion for separation

    What is this gypsy passion for separation, this
        readiness to rush off – when we've just met?
    My head rests in my hands as I
        realise, looking into the night

    that no one turning over our letters has
        yet understood how completely and
    how deeply faithless we are, which is
        to say: how true we are to ourselves.

                            1915

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Bride of Ice: New Selected Poems by Marina Tsvetaeva, Elaine Feinstein. Copyright © 2009 Elaine Feinstein. Excerpted by permission of Carcanet Press Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Title Page,
List of Collaborators,
Introduction,
Poems,
Verse,
from GIRLFRIEND,
Your narrow, foreign shape,
I know the truth,
What is this gipsy passion for separation,
We shall not escape Hell,
Some ancestor of mine,
I'm glad your sickness,
We are keeping an eye on the girls,
No one has taken anything away,
You throw back your head,
Where does this tenderness come from?,
Bent with worry,
Today or tomorrow the snow will melt,
VERSES ABOUT MOSCOW,
from INSOMNIA,
POEMS FOR AKHMATOVA,
POEMS FOR BLOK,
A kiss on the head,
from SWANS' ENCAMPMENT,
Yesterday he still looked in my eyes,
To Mayakovsky,
ON A RED HORSE,
Praise to the Rich,
God help us Smoke!,
Ophelia: In Defence of the Queen,
from WIRES,
Sahara,
The Poet,
Appointment,
Rails,
You loved me,
It's not like waiting for post,
My ear attends to you,
As people listen intently,
Strong doesn't mate with strong,
In a world,
POEM OF THE MOUNTAIN,
POEM OF THE END,
An Attempt at Jealousy,
To Boris Pasternak,
New Year's Greetings,
from THE RATCATCHER,
from POEMS TO A SON,
Homesickness,
I opened my veins,
Epitaph,
Readers of Newspapers,
Desk,
Bus,
When I look at the flight of the leaves,
from POEMS TO CZECHOSLOVAKIA,
Notes,
Select Bibliography of Works in English,
Appendix: Note on Working Method by Angela Livingstone,
About the Author,
Also by Elaine Feinstein from Carcanet Press,
Copyright,

Bride of Ice: New Selected Poems

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Bride of Ice: New Selected Poems

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Bride of Ice: New Selected Poems

Carcanet Press Ltd

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