27-10-2000
Марина Цветаева
Marina Tsvetaeva
(1892 - 1941)
| Considered one of the greatest Russian poets of the 20th century, Marina Ivanova Tsvetaeva wrote poetry born of great pain. Her poetry is lyrical, linguistically inventive and complex, and deeply philosophical. From the time that she was a child to the end of her life she struggled, but the traumas of her life found expression in her writing. Born into the upper class to an art historian father and a musician mother, from an early age Marina was exposed to the leading intellectuals of Moscow. Her mother wanted her to be a great musician, but Marina's talent was for writing, not for music. To try to discourage her early interest in poetry, Marina's mother destroyed all her work, but Marina kept at it despite the lack of support, and once her mother died, Marina gave up music and focused on her writing. She was an accomplished linguist in Russian, French, and German. Her first book of poems was published in 1910, and the book's success brought her acceptance among the members of the Russian literary circle. She married and moved to the Crimea with her husband. But once the Russian Revolution began, Marina was caught up in its consequences. Her husband fought on the wrong side, supporting the White Army against the Bolsheviks. Marina moved back to Moscow with her children, in the hope of meeting her husband there, but she had no way to support her family and instead found herself in the midst of a famine that claimed the life of one of her daughters. During her five-year separation from her husband, Marina wrote a series of political poems called The Demesne of the Swans and also wrote several plays for her friend, the actress Sofia Gollidey, but existence was difficult and unpredictable. She finally heard from her husband who had escaped to Berlin, and Marina joined him there in 1922. During their exile, the family lived in increasing poverty in Germany, Prague, and finally Paris, remaining there until 1939. Marina continued to write both poetry and prose, and through letters developed a lasting friendship with Russian author Boris Pasternak. But a number of factors were at work that would eventually lead her to disaster. Her husband became a Soviet spy and eventually had to flee France to escape indictment for the murder of another Soviet agent. Although by all accounts Marina had no idea that her husband was a spy, the Paris intelligentsia blamed her for his actions and turned their backs on her. So with remarkably bad timing and judgment, Marina returned to Russia during the height of the Stalin terror. Her husband was arrested and executed (his attempt to gain Communist acceptance with his spying activities had failed), and she was totally ostracized and prevented from supporting herself and her son (Marina's other daughter had deserted her in Paris and returned to Russia where she was imprisoned). When Germany attacked Russia, Marina's son joined the army and was lost at the front. Marina was evacuated from Moscow to the Tartar Autonomous Republic where penniless, alone, and unknown, she hanged herself in 1941. Marina was born on October 9, 1892. |
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Мне
нравится, что
вы больны не
мной, Мне нравится, что я больна не вами, Что никогда тяжелый шар земной Не уплывет под нашими ногами. Мне нравится что можно быть смешной - Распущенной - и не играть словами, И не краснеть удушливой волной, Слегка соприкоснувшись рукавами. Мне
нравится еще,
что вы при мне Спасибо
вам и сердцем
и рукой 3 мая 1915
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I'm
glad that I long not for you That
the heavy sphere of Earth Does
not flow under our feet I
am glad that it's allowed to be funny-- --spoiled--and
waste no words for games; And
not to be chocked by a wave of blushing When our sleeves touch ever so slightly.
I
also like that in my presence undisturbed Your
arms surround another woman, That
you don't ask me to burn in poisoned Flames
when I am kissing not you; That,
sweetheart, you don't call my sweet name Any
day nor night, at any time, That
in the calm of an Eastern Church They'll
never sing for us: hallelujah!
I
thank you with my heart and hand For
your--unknown to you!--love of me, For
my peace at night, for the seldomness Of
our meetings at the sunset hour; For
our non-walks under the moon, For
the sun not over our heads, For
your longing--alas!--not for me, For my longing--alas!--not for you.
3.05.1915
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Идешь, на
меня похожий, Глаза устремляя вниз. Я их опускала - тоже! Прохожий, остановись! Прочти -
слепоты
куриной Не думай,
что здесь -
могила, И кровь
приливала к
коже, Сорви
себе стебель
дикий Но только
не стой
угрюмо, Как луч
тебя
освещает! 3 мая 1913
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You're
me in the way. I used to Walk
so, without looking up. Stop,
passerby! Don't refuse to. I
beg and I pray you -- stop!
You'll
read, as you lay the glowing Red
blossoms on the mound of grass: Marina.
And then more slowly: The dates -- of my birth and death.
Yes,
there is a grave, but leave it And
hount you I won't, no fear. I
too, you can well believe it, Once laught in the midst of tears.
The
blood through my veins coursed freely, The
locks curled around my face. Stop,
passerby! Can't you feel it? I
too, passerby, once was.
A
strawberry. Pluck it, eat it! It's
there, near the very ground. No
berries are ever sweeter Then
those in a graveyard found.
But
only no gloom, no tightly Closed
lips, do not brood or fret. Think
lightly on me, and lightly My
name, passerby, forget.
The
sun's dust-like beams caress you, Your
shoulders and head they lave. Please
don't let the voice distress you That
cames to you from grave.
3.05.1913
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Это пеплы сокровищ: Утрат, обид. Это пеплы, пред коими В прах - гранит. Голубь голый и светлый, Не живущий четой. Соломоновы пеплы Над великой тщетой. Беззакатного времени
Грозный мел.
Значит Бог в мои двери -
Раз дом сгорел!
Не удушенный в хламе,
Снам и дням господин,
Как отвесное пламя
Дух - из ранних седин!
И не вы меня предали,
Годы, в тыл!
Эта седость - победа
Бессмертных сил.
27 сентября 1922
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Cinzas dos tesouros. (*) Das perdas, ofensas. Cinzas ante as quais O granito é pó.
Pombo nu e claro, Sozinho, sem par. De Salomão as cinzas Sobre a grande vaidade.
Cal ameaçando O tempo sem ocaso. Deus passou-me à porta – Já que a casa ardeu!
Livre da tralha velha, O espírito, chama recta, É amo de sonhos, dias E do – precoce encanecer!
Não foram os anos quem Me traiu na retaguarda! Cabelo branco é a vitória Dos poderes imortais.
27 de Setembro de 1922 |
ПоэтПоэт — издалека
заводит речь.
|
POETAS (*)
O poeta – começa a falar de longe. Ao poeta – a fala leva-o longe.
Por planetas, agoiros, buracos de fábulas Sinuosas… Entre sim e não, mesmo Ao lançar-se do campanário fará Um rodeio… Porque a roda dos cometas –
É a rota dos poetas. Com os elos dispersos Da causalidade – se liga! Com a fronte Virada ao alto – te desespera! Não constam Do calendário os eclipses do poeta.
É aquele que baralha as cartas, ilude O peso e a medida, o que faz perguntas Interrompendo a professora, é aquele Que desbarata o Kant.
É ele quem, no pétreo caixão das Bastilhas, Se ergue como árvore em toda a sua beleza. Aquele de quem se perdem sempre as pegadas, É aquele comboio que toda a gente Perde…- Porque a rota dos cometas
É a rota dos poetas: queimando sem calor, Arrancando sem semear – explodir, romper – O teu rumo, a tua curva de crinas, Não consta do calendário!
8 de Abril de 1923
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| (*)Tradução de Nina Guerra e Filipe Guerra, Marina Tsvetáeva, Depois da Rússia, 1922-1925, Relógio de Água, Novembro de 2001. |
Some sites about Marina Tsvetaeva:
(390 poems): http://www.ipmce.su/~igor/tsvetaeva.html
Russian poems:http://www.litera.ru/stixiya/authors/cvetaeva/all.html
Poem of the end: http://users.tellurian.net/wisewomensweb/OnPrgudc.html#anchorAkhmatova
Russian: http://www.richardboffin.com/poets/index.html
http://www.poetryloverspage.com/index.html
(More than 100 poems in russian) http://www.geocities.com/paris/leftbank/3381/
(bio) http://writetools.com/women/stories/tsvetaeva_marina_ivanova.html
Andrey Kneller - Translations into English: http://home.comcast.net/~kneller/tsvetaeva.html
http://www.angelfire.com/tn/tysovska/tsvetaeva.html
http://www.ipmce.su/~tsvet/WIN/index.html
http://www.kulichki.com:8101/poems/Poets/mt/Eng/mt.html
http://www.silverage.ru/poets/cvetaeva_poet.html
Kirjasto: http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/tsveta.htm