By Marina Tsvetaeva, Christopher Whyte
Written through the Russian Revolution of 1917 and the Moscow famine that undefined, those poems are suffused with Tsvetaeva's irony and humor, which absolutely accounted for her good fortune in not just attaining the top of the plague 12 months alive, yet making it the best of her profession. We meet a drummer boy idolizing Napoleon, an irrepressibly mischievous grandmother who refuses to ask for forgiveness to God on Judgment Day, and an androgynous (and luminous) Joan of Arc.
"Represented on a graph, Tsvetaeva's paintings could convey a curve - or relatively, a immediately line - emerging at virtually a correct perspective due to her consistent attempt to elevate the pitch a word better, an idea larger ... She continuously carried every little thing she has to claim to its achievable and expressible finish. In either her poetry and her prose, not anything continues to be striking or leaves a sense of ambivalence. Tsvetaeva is the original case during which the paramount non secular adventure of an epoch (for us, the experience of ambivalence, of contradictoriness within the nature of human lifestyles) served no longer because the item of expression yet as its skill, through which it used to be remodeled into the fabric of art." --Joseph Brodsky
While your eyes persist with me into the grave, write up the full caboodle on my pass! 'Her days begun with songs, led to tears, but if she died, she cut up her facets with laugher!'
--from Moscow within the Plague yr: Poems
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Additional resources for Moscow in the Plague Year: Poems
Sample text
Free until now, my hands can’t get past their surprise, holding a saw. Our Lady of the Snowstorms sets snowstorm on snowstorm hurtling past. November 1919 We take the road of ordinary folk without pretensions, folk who honour God, not bound by ties, indifferent to fashion, noble in our bodies and our souls. The ancient prophecies have come to pass: Where are you now, majesties, highnesses? Mother and daughter on our pilgrimage, mingling with the base and upstart mob, maybe all we shall leave behind’s a sigh, maybe the Lord turns back to look at us … Let whatever His will is be accomplished – we aren’t majesties or highnesses.
Along great, silent roads 2. All of the sea needs all of the sky 3. Odour of England – of the sea 4. All we have’s one hour of time 5. A friend eyes have not seen, ears have not heard 6. My way doesn’t lead past your house 7. Sympathy in my neighbour’s eyes 8. I’d sooner give my life than sacrifice 9. Bagged and under water – that’s real courage! 10. So trivial, so frivolous 11. Repulsed by a blow to the chest 12. Having bid all passions farewell 13. You’ve no end of complaints at my behaviour!
More than enough of us have died! Emperor’s son! Forgive the brigand! Our father’s house has many doors. Have mercy upon Stenka Razin! Razin! Razin! Your tale’s ended. The red beast’s been conquered and bound. His fearsome teeth are broken, but on account of his dark life, of his senseless daring, too – undo Stenka Razin’s bonds! Motherland! River source and mouth! Joy! Old Russia’s fragrance renewed! Eyes that grew dim can shine once more! Russian hearts can celebrate! Emperor and God! Today’s a holiday!
