Speaking in Tongues
Scribbling In Voices
Marina Tsvetayeva
šTranslated by Alex Sitnitsky
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Two Songs
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1
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To one, whose craft is parting, fire
Simmering down - is naught! A wave
Which surge upon and flood entirely -
Another one - would sweep away.
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With ire servile I would not bother
To crawl cripplingly, my dear,
I - who's enwombed not by a mother,
But in the belly of the sea.
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Here's the apple - the earthy sphere,
Would you, my honey, - bite it? With
Whom you still argue here, dear? -
You're reasoning with sea' abyss!
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Unlike earthborn maids, I would rather
Not cross my hands, for I am free -
The daughter enwombed not by a mother
But in the belly of the sea.
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Nay, our gals cry not, write nothing,
Not long for a long hoped - for mail!
Nay. Once again, I fish with lasses
Without seines and I won't fail.
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My strains have power for others -
Although why that - wis not to me -
Me - who's enwombed not by a mother,
But in the belly of the sea.
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And that is my possession: which is -
To give away - there are still more.
And, crashing rocks at seashore' beaches,
My own chest I'm crashing though.
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For captive Quinn the court will gather.
What shell I quoth ? - Come in and see!
Me - who's enwombed not by a mother,
But in the belly of the sea.
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2
Still yesterday my eyes met yours,
Today - you gazed askance. Oh , heavens!
You stayed with me till morning birds, -
But now all skylarks are - ravens!
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You are so smart, I'm silly.- Nice!
You are alive, I am stunned. And - wandering
Through Time, the women's wails rise,
'What have I done to you, my darling?!'
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The tears are - water, as her blood.
By tears, by blood she laves and no one sees.
Like a stepmother, Love is hard.
Don't count on - being judged with clemency.
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Ships take away my darlings. Those -
Who choose the white way. And a dark, grim
Lament ascends along the earth,
'What have I done to you, my darling?'
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Yet, yesterday - you hold me, lied,
'I won't exchange you for a crown!'
You took the hands off - and my life-
A rusty kopeck - is rolling down!
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The murderer of my own child
I stand before a court. But dying,
Even in Hell, I'll ask you, 'Why,
What have I done to you, my darling?'
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I ask the chair, the bed at night,
'Why should I tolerate my misery?'
'He kissed - it's time to crucify -
To kiss the next one' - answer easily.
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You taught me, 'Like the fire be!'
The icy steppe - Here I've been hurled in.
My darling, - that - you've done to me.
What have I done to you, my darling?
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Don't argue that - all is disclosed!
I am your concubine no longer!
When everlasting Love is lost -
The Gardener-Death comes with a longing.
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An apple - by itself - will lose!
There is no use in shaking, snarling...
For everything I beg excuse -
All I have done to you, my darling!
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The Poet
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A poet - from afar begins his speech,
A poet - far away is taken by his speech.
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By planets and by tokens: by gone
Tales potholes: Amidst his Yea and Nay,
He - even whopping from a belfry- gets along
With a hook: For comet's way -
Is poets' way. A scattered links
Of causality - It is his bond. Are
You looking up? - Give up! For poet's eclipse
Is not foreseen by calendar.
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He is the one, who tosses cards,
Who easily cheats weight and count,
Who from the school desks asks. His art
Would definitely beat up Kant.
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Who - in Bastilles' stone coffin blooms
Like trees in their prime. The one
Who leaves no traces, and for whom
As for the train - you're late, he's gone!
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- for comets' way -
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Is poets' way: burning, not warming us,
And tearing up, not rearing - brake in and - everything - explode!
- The ridged way - not the clear-cut path
As calendars foretold.
Psyche
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Nor - an impostor, nor - an uninvited guest
Neither a maid I am - you have the wrong impression.
I am thy seventh day, I am thy Sunday's rest
I am thy seventh sky, I am your passion.
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There, on earth with pennies I was doled,
With their millstones round my neck - and - Do you like it?
My dear! Recognize me! - Not at all?
I am your little swallow, your Psyche!
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II
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Take all my tatters, don't be abashed,
They were - before - my tender flesh.
Now wasted, torn, bestowed away, -
Only two wings remain today.
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Dress me up in your splendour,
Have mercy upon me.
Those poor rags... - You render
Them back to the vestry.
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I'm the jailbird, you are my warden.
It is something you can not avoid
'Cause we share both fate and the order
For post-horses relays in the void.
I am sure my temper is quiet!
I am sure my eyes are fine!
Let me, Guard, for God's sake, untied,
Take a walk to the nearest pine!