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My Poems...: Selected Poetry
Marina Tsvetaeva (October 8, 1892 - 31 August 31, 1941) is considered by many to be Russia's greatest female poet, rivaled perhaps only by Anna Akhmatova. Tsvetaeva's poetry was often of a very passionate and almost obsessive nature. She writes of unrequited love and heartbreak, of her admiration for other writers, of the devastation of war, and of her generally troubled life. Nonetheless, she is always able to contain this raw emotion in an extremely rigorous and disciplined form, unique only to her. Especially in her later poetry, frequent enjambments, inner rhymes, short lines, word play, and numerous allusions dominate her work.
In this dual-language selection, Andrey Kneller offers his attempts to capture this distinctive style of Marina Tsvetaeva's poetry by preserving both the message and the music of the originals.
In this dual-language selection, Andrey Kneller offers his attempts to capture this distinctive style of Marina Tsvetaeva's poetry by preserving both the message and the music of the originals.
167 pages, Paperback
First published April 18, 2008
54 people are currently reading
519 people want to read
About the author
Marina Tsvetaeva
529Ìýbooks543Ìýfollowers Марина Цветаева
Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was born in Moscow. Her father, Ivan Tsvetaev, was a professor of art history and the founder of the Museum of Fine Arts. Her mother Mariya, née Meyn, was a talented concert pianist. The family travelled a great deal and Tsvetaeva attended schools in Switzerland, Germany, and at the Sorbonne, Paris. Tsvetaeva started to write verse in her early childhood. She made her debut as a poet at the age of 18 with the collection Evening Album, a tribute to her childhood.
In 1912 Tsvetaeva married Sergei Efron, they had two daughters and one son. Magic Lantern showed her technical mastery and was followed in 1913 by a selection of poems from her first collections. Tsvetaeva's affair with the poet and opera librettist Sofiia Parnok inspired her cycle of poems called Girlfriend. Parnok's career stopped in the late 1920s when she was no longer allowed to publish. The poems composed between 1917 and 1921 appeared in 1957 under the title The Demesne of the Swans. Inspired by her relationship with Konstantin Rodzevich, an ex-Red Army officer she wrote Poem of the Mountain and Poem of the End.
After 1917 Revolution Tsvetaeva was trapped in Moscow for five years. During the famine one of her own daughters died of starvation. Tsvetaeva's poetry reveals her growing interest in folk song and the techniques of the major symbolist and poets, such as Aleksander Blok and Anna Akhmatova. In 1922 Tsvetaeva emigrated with her family to Berlin, where she rejoined her husband, and then to Prague. This was a highly productive period in her life - she published five collections of verse and a number of narrative poems, plays, and essays.
During her years in Paris Tsvetaeva wrote two parts of the planned dramatic trilogy. The last collection published during her lifetime, After Russia, appeared in 1928. Its print, 100 numbered copies, were sold by special subscription. In Paris the family lived in poverty, the income came almost entirely from Tsvetaeva's writings. When her husband started to work for the Soviet security service, the Russian community of Paris turned against Tsvetaeva. Her limited publishing ways for poetry were blocked and she turned to prose. In 1937 appeared MOY PUSHKIN, one of Tsvetaeva's best prose works. To earn extra income, she also produced short stories, memoirs and critical articles.
In exile Tsvetaeva felt more and more isolated. Friendless and almost destitute she returned to the Soviet Union in 1938, where her son and husband already lived. Next year her husband was executed and her daughter was sent to a labor camp. Tsvetaeva was officially ostracized and unable to publish. After the USSR was invaded by German Army in 1941, Tsvetaeva was evacuated to the small provincial town of Elabuga with her son. In despair, she hanged herself ten days later on August 31, 1941.
source:
Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was born in Moscow. Her father, Ivan Tsvetaev, was a professor of art history and the founder of the Museum of Fine Arts. Her mother Mariya, née Meyn, was a talented concert pianist. The family travelled a great deal and Tsvetaeva attended schools in Switzerland, Germany, and at the Sorbonne, Paris. Tsvetaeva started to write verse in her early childhood. She made her debut as a poet at the age of 18 with the collection Evening Album, a tribute to her childhood.
In 1912 Tsvetaeva married Sergei Efron, they had two daughters and one son. Magic Lantern showed her technical mastery and was followed in 1913 by a selection of poems from her first collections. Tsvetaeva's affair with the poet and opera librettist Sofiia Parnok inspired her cycle of poems called Girlfriend. Parnok's career stopped in the late 1920s when she was no longer allowed to publish. The poems composed between 1917 and 1921 appeared in 1957 under the title The Demesne of the Swans. Inspired by her relationship with Konstantin Rodzevich, an ex-Red Army officer she wrote Poem of the Mountain and Poem of the End.
After 1917 Revolution Tsvetaeva was trapped in Moscow for five years. During the famine one of her own daughters died of starvation. Tsvetaeva's poetry reveals her growing interest in folk song and the techniques of the major symbolist and poets, such as Aleksander Blok and Anna Akhmatova. In 1922 Tsvetaeva emigrated with her family to Berlin, where she rejoined her husband, and then to Prague. This was a highly productive period in her life - she published five collections of verse and a number of narrative poems, plays, and essays.
During her years in Paris Tsvetaeva wrote two parts of the planned dramatic trilogy. The last collection published during her lifetime, After Russia, appeared in 1928. Its print, 100 numbered copies, were sold by special subscription. In Paris the family lived in poverty, the income came almost entirely from Tsvetaeva's writings. When her husband started to work for the Soviet security service, the Russian community of Paris turned against Tsvetaeva. Her limited publishing ways for poetry were blocked and she turned to prose. In 1937 appeared MOY PUSHKIN, one of Tsvetaeva's best prose works. To earn extra income, she also produced short stories, memoirs and critical articles.
In exile Tsvetaeva felt more and more isolated. Friendless and almost destitute she returned to the Soviet Union in 1938, where her son and husband already lived. Next year her husband was executed and her daughter was sent to a labor camp. Tsvetaeva was officially ostracized and unable to publish. After the USSR was invaded by German Army in 1941, Tsvetaeva was evacuated to the small provincial town of Elabuga with her son. In despair, she hanged herself ten days later on August 31, 1941.
source:
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 32 reviews
January 12, 2018
Marina's my name, caprice is my way...
No matter what heart, no matter what net,
My will � will break through them all.
See the curls that are dangling loose on my head? -
I will never be turned into salt.
(1920)
Marina Tsvetaeva, the one born amid colors and flowers; the one that decided, immersed in despair, as usual, the last of her moments. She was gifted with a profoundly lyrical voice. She crafted that kind of poetry that mirrors every raw, unrestrained emotion. Poetry that makes the body tingle with sensations, as the mind starts to connect the dots, to think of what has been lost, of what might never come but become memories all the same, gently haunting the depths of the subconscious, giving to its uncanny nooks a heavy brushstroke of disquiet tinged with regret.
Tsvetaeva's poetry reflects an intense and rather unique lyricism, artful rhymes and keen observations on the world and its complexity just like on herself � a vulnerable position she did not even try to conceal. She was praised for the quality of her rhymes and word play. It is an enjoyable activity to analyze structures, to minutely count syllable after syllable to see how close to perfection poets may get. Whereas some people merely want to feel poetry, as they try to solve the riddles found within every verse guarded by an aura of mystique. And the only analysis they might perform relates to how to stop from feeling, once they have had enough.
I - am. You - will be. An abyss between us.
I drink. You thirst. In vain we try to agree...
(June 6, 1918)
This poet found inspiration in love; its evasive maneuvers, its complete absence. A stifling thought that would linger for a day, for decades.
Love, mutually felt, unaware of any boundary, oblivious of any gender.
Love, politely declined. Unkindly ignored.
Love, wandering around in silence, waiting for an answer that will never come for it is impossible to ask for it.
Time, wasted.
Rethinking everything once more,
I'm tortured and the pain persists.
In this, for which I know no word,
Did love exist?
(October 23, 1924)
She found inspiration in loss. In boredom, in jealousy. In a state of perpetual longing.
In resignation.
I never think or argue or whine to any one.
I do not sleep.
I strive for neither sea nor moon nor sun
Nor for the ship.
I don't perceive the warmth indoors or
The greenery of grass.
I don't await the gift I wished for
To come at last.
�
(July 13, 1924)
She found her muse even in cats.
It's funny, poet, wouldn't you say,
How hard we try to make them tame.
They will not play the roles of slaves:
The hearts of cats will not obey!
...
(Cats)
In Moscow. In several other poets she admired, whose enchanting voices also sang to the Muscovite life in general. The walls, the roads. Its magic, its doomed blood. Its idiosyncrasies, its revolutions. Everything and everyone that made her breathe so much death.
Here in my Moscow, - cupolas shine.
Here in my Moscow, - church bells chime.
...
And you stroll along your Neva River slow,
While I stand alone where my Moskva flows...
With my whole insomnia, I'm in love with you,
With my whole insomnia, I am harking you,
While the sextons awake in the Kremlin to
Carry out their morning tasks...
(May 7, 1916)
Among so many other things she portrayed with exceptional art and that represent particles of human condition in its entirety, she found inspiration in insomnia. Something this reader knows well and that made her think about many nights from the past,
many nights to come,
as a name turned into a whisper sung by chance:
Feb 02, 16
* As with every collection that Kneller translated, this book includes every poem in its original language. This was another fine work that seemed to have captured the complex essence of Tsvetaeva's poetry, so I am more than grateful.
** Also on .
*** Photo credit: Marina Tsvetaeva in her youth / via
December 21, 2022
Marina Tsvetaeva is one of those writers that I have discovered a little later than I'd like, but for a change, I feel that this particular collection has come about at exactly the right time.
Tsvetaeva has a uniquely lyrical voice, which comes through beautifully and sometimes violently in her prose. She speaks of the world in all in it's vibrant colours, she speaks of love and loss, and she speaks of war. I would even compare Tsvetaeva to a fine blend of coffee.
We are told before we read this that Tsvetaeva writes with almost an obsessive nature for the aspects of life that made her tick, and I now I've read it, I believe this to be true. Her words are evocatively powerful and gave me tingles up my spine. There is a raw beauty here, that is crying out to be uncovered.
I'd like to leave a couple of my favourites here;
~
Love! Even convulsing, even in the grave,
I’ll get attentive � squint � get scared � and dart.
My dear! We’ll part in neither snowy caves
Nor in the graves of clouds shall we part!
I have been blessed with these two gorgeous
Wings, and I refuse to load my heart with weights.
And I won’t multiply the villagers� misfortune
Of swaddled, blind, voiceless, wretched fates.
I’ll free my arms! � And then, my sturdy torso
Out of your garments, Death, with just one blow!
And for a thousand of yards, the forest
Will burn to ash and melt the fallen snow.
And even if, � pressing my wings and shoulders
And knees, I’ll let myself be taken to the tomb, �
I’ll do this only so that, later, laughing over
The ash, � I’ll rise up as a poem or a bloom
~
I'll conquer you from all lands, from all the sky,
Because forest is my cradle and in the forest I'll die,
For I stand on the ground with just one of my legs,
For I will sing to you like no one else.
I'll conquer you from all times, I will fight
All golden banners, all swords and all nights,
I will chase away dogs from a porch and I'll throw the key
For in winter night not even dogs are more loyal than me.
I'll conquer you from all others � from that one
I will be no one's wife, you � no one's groom,
And in the last argument I will take you � be quiet! �
From the one with which Jacob stood in the night.
But for now I won't on your chest the fingers cross �
With you, you remain � O the curse! �
Your two wings, that at the ether take aim �
Because the world is your cradle, and world your grave
Tsvetaeva has a uniquely lyrical voice, which comes through beautifully and sometimes violently in her prose. She speaks of the world in all in it's vibrant colours, she speaks of love and loss, and she speaks of war. I would even compare Tsvetaeva to a fine blend of coffee.
We are told before we read this that Tsvetaeva writes with almost an obsessive nature for the aspects of life that made her tick, and I now I've read it, I believe this to be true. Her words are evocatively powerful and gave me tingles up my spine. There is a raw beauty here, that is crying out to be uncovered.
I'd like to leave a couple of my favourites here;
~
Love! Even convulsing, even in the grave,
I’ll get attentive � squint � get scared � and dart.
My dear! We’ll part in neither snowy caves
Nor in the graves of clouds shall we part!
I have been blessed with these two gorgeous
Wings, and I refuse to load my heart with weights.
And I won’t multiply the villagers� misfortune
Of swaddled, blind, voiceless, wretched fates.
I’ll free my arms! � And then, my sturdy torso
Out of your garments, Death, with just one blow!
And for a thousand of yards, the forest
Will burn to ash and melt the fallen snow.
And even if, � pressing my wings and shoulders
And knees, I’ll let myself be taken to the tomb, �
I’ll do this only so that, later, laughing over
The ash, � I’ll rise up as a poem or a bloom
~
I'll conquer you from all lands, from all the sky,
Because forest is my cradle and in the forest I'll die,
For I stand on the ground with just one of my legs,
For I will sing to you like no one else.
I'll conquer you from all times, I will fight
All golden banners, all swords and all nights,
I will chase away dogs from a porch and I'll throw the key
For in winter night not even dogs are more loyal than me.
I'll conquer you from all others � from that one
I will be no one's wife, you � no one's groom,
And in the last argument I will take you � be quiet! �
From the one with which Jacob stood in the night.
But for now I won't on your chest the fingers cross �
With you, you remain � O the curse! �
Your two wings, that at the ether take aim �
Because the world is your cradle, and world your grave
August 26, 2016
¿Sera verdad que todas las mujeres intoxicadas usamos las mismas palabras? me canse de reconocerme en varios de estos poemas. Esa melancolia y al mismo tiempo esa fuerza-ternura que no se entiende de donde sale y que da un poco de miedo.
No one was left at a loss!
I’m happy we’ve come to part.
I’m kissing you now � across
The gap of a thousand yards.
We’re not equal � I understand.
I’m calm - for the first time.
A young Derzhavin, you can’t
Accept my undisciplined rhyme.
I christen your frightening flight:
Young eagle, rise in the air!
You stared at the sun! � my light
And delicate gaze can’t compare.
I stood, more tender than those
Who’ve witnessed you disappear�
I’m kissing you now � across
The gap of a thousand years.
February 12, 1916
I'll conquer you from any land and from any sky,
For the forest is my cradle and it’s where I’ll die,
Because, here, on this earth, I stand - only on one foot,
And because I’ll sing for you - like no other could.
I’ll conquer you from any epoch, from any night,
From any golden banner, from any sword in a fight,
I’ll chase the dogs off the porch, toss away the key
For, in this night, a dog is less loyal than me.
I’ll conquer you from all others and from that one too,
I’ll be no one’s wife, - you’ll be no one’s groom.
I’ll win the last battle, - hush! - and pull you aside
From the one, with whom, Jacob fought all night.
Before I cross your arms on your chest, - I’m cursed! -
And until that day, you’ll remain - just yours,
This is why your wings aim for the upper sky, -
For the world’s your cradle and it’s where you’ll die!
August 15, 1916
August 16, 2015
I discovered Marina Tsvetaeva's poetry quite by accident, while searching the quotes at Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ. Her poems are full of fire and spirit, but also longing and heartbreak. I love this: "I have been blessed with these two gorgeous/ Wings and I refuse to load my heart with weights." There are bird and sky references throughout her poems, as well as a fierce determination to love or not love on her own terms.
There is a real progression here from her early poems--some written while not yet out of her teens--and the later ones. As she goes along, she gains gravitas and skill, but her youthful fire, though tempered, remains. Tsvetaeva doesn't rely much on poetic imagery, metaphors and the like, but rather engages the reader in an almost conversational tone which belies the skill of her writing. The poems are brief, and often terribly poignant.
The translator, Andrey Kneller, tries to retain the poetry and structure of Tsvetaeva's work, and not turn it into literally translated prose, or "stick figures" as he terms it. This is particularly important with a poet such as Tsvetaeva, because structure is crucial to her work. The original text, in Cyrillic, is on each odd-numbered page, and the English translation faces it.
Recommended.
There is a real progression here from her early poems--some written while not yet out of her teens--and the later ones. As she goes along, she gains gravitas and skill, but her youthful fire, though tempered, remains. Tsvetaeva doesn't rely much on poetic imagery, metaphors and the like, but rather engages the reader in an almost conversational tone which belies the skill of her writing. The poems are brief, and often terribly poignant.
The translator, Andrey Kneller, tries to retain the poetry and structure of Tsvetaeva's work, and not turn it into literally translated prose, or "stick figures" as he terms it. This is particularly important with a poet such as Tsvetaeva, because structure is crucial to her work. The original text, in Cyrillic, is on each odd-numbered page, and the English translation faces it.
Recommended.
May 15, 2024
Excelente, dulce y profundo. DesconocÃa a esta poeta de la que probablemente jamás haya oÃdo en mi cÃrculo, pero me voy de esta lectura con muchas ganas de aprender de ella. Presenta un manejo tan sencillo y profundo del lenguaje, algo tan esencial y vestido ligeramente para ensalzar la crudeza de su emoción. Muy inspirador en forma y técnica.
September 25, 2016
I really wish I could understand these poems in the original language because, while the translation may have tried to keep true to Tsvetaeva's rhythms, I have read other renditions of certain poems in this collection that I much prefer. A lot of these poems kept giving me a frustrating sense of proximity to what she wanted me to feel/know/see, like trying to make out a figure in detail through frosted glass. But seldom could I break through the haze; perhaps the fault is with me. I would like to try other translations despite this. Some favorites:
"For Mama"
"You walk, somewhat like myself..."
"P.E."
"In my unending city there is night... "
"There's a window lit..."
"My day's peculiar and mad..."
"Nights without the beloved..."
"An attempt at jealousy"
"For Mama"
"You walk, somewhat like myself..."
"P.E."
"In my unending city there is night... "
"There's a window lit..."
"My day's peculiar and mad..."
"Nights without the beloved..."
"An attempt at jealousy"
June 12, 2016
By far the absolute best translations of Tsvetaeva I've ever seen. Everything matches the original: meaning, form, sound, rhythm, rhyme, actually good poetry... You get the point. This should be the definitive translation. No translation is ever perfect, but this one is like 99.44% faithful.
It's a good sample of her work as well: 67 poems ranging from 1909 to 1938. The progression of her style is pretty well represented.
It's a good sample of her work as well: 67 poems ranging from 1909 to 1938. The progression of her style is pretty well represented.
January 6, 2017
Marina Tsvetaeva writes with a dark, yet sleek voice that enchants readers. She writes about death, and her emotions, and (especially in this collection) you can see how she grows and changes over the years. I liked that the Russian poems were included in this text, along with the english translations. My favorites were In Paris, For Mama, and Hamlet's dialogue with his conscience.
May 31, 2016
This book is beautiful, her poems are beautiful, the translation (transgression as Mr. Kneller described it) is beautiful too.
I've read the penguin version of Marina's poems. I think Andrey Kneller's translation is the most closest to Marina's passionate soul.
I recommend it to everyone who has passion for poetry.
I've read the penguin version of Marina's poems. I think Andrey Kneller's translation is the most closest to Marina's passionate soul.
I recommend it to everyone who has passion for poetry.
January 6, 2017
Bittersweet
This is the first time that I have read Marina Tsvetaeva's work. I was ambivalent about her early work, but entranced by her later poems, particularly the ones involving God and religion.
This is the first time that I have read Marina Tsvetaeva's work. I was ambivalent about her early work, but entranced by her later poems, particularly the ones involving God and religion.
July 2, 2019
Love the selected compilation
February 26, 2020
Lucid and Subtle
This is a book of great poetry. I chose 4 because it's a little short book, there should have been more poems to keep on riding the journey we are on.
This is a book of great poetry. I chose 4 because it's a little short book, there should have been more poems to keep on riding the journey we are on.
May 31, 2020
This is the first translation of Tsvetaeva I read. The translators note at the beginning was easily the most beautiful portion and I admire the obvious dedication that went into this work on Knellers part. I found Tsevetaevas prose often beautiful and at times to be bleeding joy but the dedication of the translation to the lyric structure made me aware of the lost meaning in original Russian by conforming to the form. This is a shared issue with the Meyers O’Hara translation of the fragments of Sappho, which by keeping their rhyme scheme lose a great deal of sapphos original meaning.
Also I feel it’s important to mention both in this review and in translating works of - specifically European - writers, the derogatory depiction of Romani people. (Recognizable with the slur g***y). It is the responsibility as modern readers to recognize the prejudice of this term and the way it paints an, to this day, oppressed minority in a negative light. I’m currently looking for a translation of Tsevetaevas work that acknowledges and does not pardon her prejudiced views.
Also I feel it’s important to mention both in this review and in translating works of - specifically European - writers, the derogatory depiction of Romani people. (Recognizable with the slur g***y). It is the responsibility as modern readers to recognize the prejudice of this term and the way it paints an, to this day, oppressed minority in a negative light. I’m currently looking for a translation of Tsevetaevas work that acknowledges and does not pardon her prejudiced views.
February 16, 2024
For I’m, - at twenty years of age, -
Full of despair,
For that it’s certain - in reflection,
I never take offense,
For insuppressible affection,
And proud stance,
For all that’s happening above me,
Each truth and lie�
- O listen to me! � Also love me
For I shall die.
Full of despair,
For that it’s certain - in reflection,
I never take offense,
For insuppressible affection,
And proud stance,
For all that’s happening above me,
Each truth and lie�
- O listen to me! � Also love me
For I shall die.
May 13, 2020
"What could you know about me if
We never slept or drank together?"
We never slept or drank together?"
April 9, 2014
This is a lovely little introduction to Marina Tsvetaeva's poetry, beautifully translated by Andrey Kneller. The only thing missing that would make it perfect are more comprehensive notes on the poems, but on the bright side, if -like me- you find yourself curious, perhaps you'll pick up a biography on Tsvetaeva. Now and again, it appears that a bucket of extra commas was poured out over the pages, but that's a small aside.
July 9, 2018
Does not resonate with me. Found myself classifying her with Rimbaud and Emily Dickinson (a good class to be in, I suppose) in that I appreciate the energy and enthusiasm uncommon in literature but beyond few bright flashes I can't get into the work, find it repetitive and undeveloped, and find myself a little annoyed. Sorry Marina!
October 28, 2013
Marina's era was not recent, but the Kremlin still echoes her singings. Andrey's translation is decent, delivers her stanzas far beyond aspiring.
October 8, 2018
They tried to translate rhyming poetry from one language to another and have painfully failed.
August 5, 2019
The Ilya Kaminsky translated poems are bettah
September 3, 2023
"It'll sneak up on me, as quiet / As the forest in the night."
September 6, 2023
Now at least Four stars shine �
For her! "For the sun-holder!"
November 24, 2024
<333333
October 29, 2024
Not for me
December 6, 2022
Cats
They’ll pay a visit to our place
Just when our eyes are free of pain,
Let pain appear - they won’t remain:
The hearts of cats feel no disgrace!
It’s funny, poet, wouldn’t you say,
How hard we try to make them tame.
They will not play the roles of slaves:
The hearts of cats will not obey!
We can’t entice them quite enough,
It matters not what treats we feed them,
A moment - and they run to freedom:
The hearts of cats contain no love!
They’ll pay a visit to our place
Just when our eyes are free of pain,
Let pain appear - they won’t remain:
The hearts of cats feel no disgrace!
It’s funny, poet, wouldn’t you say,
How hard we try to make them tame.
They will not play the roles of slaves:
The hearts of cats will not obey!
We can’t entice them quite enough,
It matters not what treats we feed them,
A moment - and they run to freedom:
The hearts of cats contain no love!
November 16, 2022
A good one, not a great one.
"With my whole insomnia, I’m in love with you,
With my whole insomnia, I am harking you,
While the sextons awake in the Kremlin to
Carry out their morning tasks.
Ìý
But, my love, my river � with your river still�
But, my love, my arm � with your arm, I feel,
Will not come together, at least, until
Dawn catches dusk."
"With my whole insomnia, I’m in love with you,
With my whole insomnia, I am harking you,
While the sextons awake in the Kremlin to
Carry out their morning tasks.
Ìý
But, my love, my river � with your river still�
But, my love, my arm � with your arm, I feel,
Will not come together, at least, until
Dawn catches dusk."
March 15, 2023
No berries are sweeter than
The ones from the cemetery.
The ones from the cemetery.
Read
September 6, 2023""
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
April 1, 2024
When you are into that early 20th century Russian emo poetry but know like 12 russian words and understands nothing without translated text by the side
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