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 surely accounted for her luck in not just attaining the tip of the plague 12 months alive, yet making it the most efficient of her occupation. We meet a drummer boy idolizing Napoleon, an irrepressibly mischievous grandmother who refuses to make an apology to God on Judgment Day, and an androgynous (and luminous) Joan of Arc.
"Represented on a graph, Tsvetaeva's paintings may convey a curve - or particularly, a instantly line - emerging at nearly a correct perspective as a result of her consistent attempt to elevate the pitch a observe larger, an concept better ... She regularly carried every thing she has to assert to its attainable and expressible finish. In either her poetry and her prose, not anything continues to be placing 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 now not because the item of expression yet as its potential, wherein it used to be remodeled into the fabric of art." --Joseph Brodsky
While your eyes stick with me into the grave, write up the total caboodle on my pass! 'Her days all started with songs, resulted in tears, but if she died, she break up her facets with laugher!'
--from Moscow within the Plague yr: Poems
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Written in the course of the Russian Revolution of 1917 and the Moscow famine that undefined, those poems are suffused with Tsvetaeva's irony and humor, which unquestionably accounted for her luck in not just attaining the tip of the plague yr alive, yet making it the best of her profession. We meet a drummer boy idolizing Napoleon, an irrepressibly mischievous grandmother who refuses to say sorry to God on Judgment Day, and an androgynous (and luminous) Joan of Arc.
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Extra info for Moscow in the Plague Year: Poems
Love completed the triangle. Impudent, light-hearted smiles, collar strutting in beaver fur, and Love, waiting, without a word. 13 Flopped in an armchair, you can’t be bothered lifting a finger. I’m kneeling beside you, attentive to your next commands. Half-asleep, your arm is dangling. Noiselessly I lift your hand, the Chinese ring upon one finger. The ring has been cleaned using chalk. Happy about it? Don’t thank me! Love’s the one you need to thank. December 5th 1918 14 Too much kissing has left your lips so yielding, and me like a beggar.
STAKHOVICH A Dieu – mon âme, Mon corps – au Roy, Mon coeur – aux Dames, L’honneur – pour moi. 1 It wasn’t bakeries being shut with seven locks, or ice coating the stoves, that sent you, nobleman of Russia, to your grave with perfect posture and a lordly step! Fate took its course. The old world was ablaze. It fell to courtiers to cut wood. The mob had its heyday … In your vicinity one still could breathe the eighteenth century. The mob tore off the roofs from palaces to get its hands on what it longed for, while amidst general devastation, you taught young men maintien, tenue and bon ton.
Family trinity! Closer 20. I hear two sibilants – here silk 21. Champagne is fuel for treachery 22. They’re bored now that the drinking’s done 23. Though it’s unique, the sun parades through every city 24. Raise glasses to the Ace of Spades! 25. The very Devil took my side! Into this drink I have dissolved To Alya Emperor and God! Concede forgiveness! ’ Songs should be sung the way a man is loved Things a tsar’s son must do this Accept my thanks, oh Lord If there’s sugar, you’re pleased A red bow for my hair!
Moscow in the Plague Year: Poems by Marina Tsvetaeva, Christopher Whyte