Marina, we - the sea ....

[Евгений]

On the 70th anniversary of the death of Marina Tsvetaeva
       August 31, 2011 marks the 70th anniversary of the death of the great Russian poet Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva. On this anniversary, "Lenta.ru" recalls the perceived personality, talent and poetry Tsvetaeva people who loved her and respected - Pasternak, Rilke, Mandelstam, Akhmatova, Brodsky and Tarkovsky.
   
 
Boris Pasternak

  
* * *
 Favorite - rumors of saccharine,
As omnipresent coal cinders.
And you - an underlying mystery of Fame
Sucking dictionary.

But fame - soil thrust.
Oh, if I came straight!
But even if so - not as a vagabond,
Native will go into their mother tongue.

Now do not peers poets
The whole expanse of country roads between Leh and
Rhymes with Lermontov summer
And with Pushkin and snow geese.

And I'd like, so that after death,
As we close and we are gone,
Closer than the heart and atrium
W and p and p m to about a liter and us alone.

So we agree to a combination of
Covered with a hearing somebody
To all those that do drink and draw
And we'll pull the mouths of herbs.

1931


* * *

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Do not worry, do not cry, not labor
Issyakshih forces and hearts do not torture.
You're alive, you are in me, you're in the chest,
As a prop, like a friend and as is the case.

Faith in the future is not afraid
You seem mongers.
We have no life, no spiritual union -
Mutual deception breaks.

Of typhoid anguish mattresses
Won but the air-latitude model!
He and my brother's hand. It is such
What do you like the letter is addressed.

Nadorvi Well its expanse, like a letter
On the horizon, entered into correspondence,
Win exhausting attrition,
Start the conversation in Alpine.

And over the Bavarian Lakes
From the brain of the mountains, like the bones moslastyh,
Make sure that I do not phraseman
With harvested to the point podslastkoy.

Good luck. Good luck. Our relationship
Our honor is not under the roof of the house.
As the germ in the light straightened
You look at things differently.
 1931
   
 
Rainer Maria Rilke

  
From a letter to Rilke, Tsvetaeva, 1926:
 "I admire your ability to accurately search for and find your way inexhaustibility to what you mean. Every time I write to you, I want to write like you: tell yourself in your language with your unruffled calm and, at the same time of such passionate means. As a reflection of the star, Marina, your speech, when she appears on the surface of the water and distorted, disturbed by the water, overnight escapes and there again, but at a greater depth as you stick with this mirror world - so after each extinction: deeper and deeper in the waves! "
 Elegy
  
Marina

Oh, the loss of the Universe, Marina! Like falling stars!
We do not save them, not make up for what would not rush to uplift us
Upwards. All death, all permanently in space as a whole.
And our sudden death
Holy does not reduce the number. We fall in the source
And it heal and raise up.
So what does all this? Game innocently simple, risk-free, no name, no acquisitions? -
Waves, Marina, we - the sea! Depth, Marina, we - the sky!
We - thousands of springs, Marina! We - the larks over the fields!
We - the song has caught up with the wind!
Oh, it all started with glee, but overflowing with enthusiasm,
We felt the weight of the ground and slopes down to the complaint.
Well, after a complaint - this is the forerunner of a new invisible joy,
Veiled in the darkness before the deadline ...
And the dark depths of the gods, too, want praise, Marina.
The gods, as schoolchildren, like, so we praise them.
So they sing praises! Lavish praise at all! To the end!
All that we see - not ours. We only touch upon the world, as touching a fresh flower.
I've seen on the Nile to Kom Ombo, as the victim brings kings. -
Oh, regal gesture renunciation!
So the angels were labeled with souls who must save them -
Instantaneous light touch. That's it.
And flew away. Gentle scattered gesture
In the souls left a mark - that's our quiet affair.
If, however, did not stand, someone wants to grab the thing and give yourself.
The thing is killing him in revenge for himself.
For deadly force, hidden in things.
Oh, we know it - this mighty force
Which carries us into a whirlwind over the brink of being in the cold NOTHING.
You know how it attracted us through icy space predzhizni
Among the new birth ...
Us? -
Those eyes without a face, without numbers ... Zryaschee, ever singing a kind heart -
In the sequel! Similarly, birds migrating to an unknown goal - to a new way!
The Transfiguration of our soaring.
But love is always new and fresh and should not know anything about the darkening depths.
Loving - beyond death.
Only the grave to decay, there, under a weeping willow, burdened by the knowledge
Remembering the departed. Well gone yourself alive, as the young shoots of an old tree.
Wind the spring by flexing, twist them into a wonderful wreath, no breaking.
There, in the heart of the world, where you love
No fleeting moments.
(As I understand you, light feminine flower bush in an immortal!
As I dissolve in the air this evening, which
Soon you will touch!)
The gods at first we falsely imply to the floor to another, like two halves of unity.
But everyone has to make himself grow as the month before the full moon waning.
And the fullness of life will only lonely the drawn path
After a sleepless space.

1926, translated ZA Mirkin

   
 
Osip Mandelstam

  
* * *
Not believing a miracle on Sunday,
At the cemetery we walked.
- You know me all over the earth
Reminiscent of the hills
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Where Russia is cut off
Above the sea black and deaf.

From the monastery hillsides
Runs a wide meadow.
Vladimir I of spaces
So reluctant to south,
But in this dark, wood
And holy fool Quarter
With such vague nun
Stay - means to be trouble.

I kiss your elbow tanned
And a piece of wax forehead.
I know - he was white
Under the dark lock of gold.
Exact hand, where the bracelet
Another band is white.
Tauris fiery summer
Do such miracles.

As soon as you become Darkie
And poor Savior came
Without stopping kiss,
And in Moscow was a proud.
It only remains to name -
Wonderful sound for the long term.
Take my hands Well
Interspersed with sand.

1916
   
 
Anna Akhmatova

  
Elegy

Beloruchenka my chernoknizhnitsa ...
Invisible, double, mockingbird,
What are you hiding in the bushes of black,
That zabeshsya in holey birdhouse,
That melknesh dead on the crosses,
That scream of Marina Tower:
"Today I got home.
Enjoy, my dears arable land,
What kind of happen to me.
Swallowed favorite abyss,
And destroyed his parents' home. "
We are with you today, Marina
As the capital of the midnight walk.
But for us these millions
And silent procession there,
And around the death knell,
But Moscow's wild cries
Blizzards, our cover their tracks.

1940
   
 
Joseph Brodsky

  
From an interview with Solomon Volkov:
 "Tsvetaeva - indeed the most sincere Russian poet, but this sincerity, above all, honesty is the sound - like when they shout in pain. Pain - biografichna, cry - vnelichen. One of its 'failure' of which we have just now said, overrides, including themselves, in general, no matter what happened. including personal grief, country, foreign land, you bastard here and there. The most important that this intonation - the intonation failure - Tsvetaeva was preceded by experience. 'On your insane world /one answer - the refusal '. It's not so much in' Mad World '(for such a feeling is enough meeting with a disaster), the case in the letter - sound -' a ', who played a role in this line common denominator. You can certainly say that the life developments only confirmed the rightness of the original Tsvetaeva. But the experience did not confirm. In the belles-lettres, as in music, the experience is something secondary. In the material that has this or that branch of art - has its own linear, recoilless dynamics. That is why the shell and flies, figuratively speaking, so far as the material dictates. And do not experience. Experience in all more or less the same. You can even suggest that there were people with experience more serious than Tsvetaeva. But there were people with such ownership - with such subordination material. Experience, life, body, biography - they are at best absorb impact. projectile sent into the distance dynamics of the material. In any case, the parallels to his life experience I'm not looking for poems Tsvetaeva. And do not feel anything beyond the absolute stupefaction before its poetic force. "
   
 
Arseny Tarkovsky

  
From the series "In Memory of Marina Tsvetaeva"

I hear, I can not sleep, call me, Marina,
Eat, Marina, me, face the wing, Marina
As the tube over the city of angels sing,
And only the sorrow of his incurable
Our bread poisoned you take on the Last Judgement,
How to take the ashes home from the walls of Jerusalem
Exiles, when the Psalms, David resigned
And the enemy had pitched their tents in Zion.
And in my ears your death should call,
A black cloud over your wing off
Prophetic fire on a wild scene.

1946
http://lenta.ru/articles/2011/08/31/tsvetaeva/

[Tamila]

I like her work .

Add one more poem by Boris Pasternak


In memory of Marina Tsvetaeva

I also still difficult to
Imagine you died ,
How skopidomkoy milonershey
Amid the hungry sisters.

What do you me to please ?
Give something like this news.
In the silence of your departure
Unspoken reproach is.

Always mysterious loss.
In fruitless search for a response
I am suffering with no result :
In death there is no outline .

Everything is - hint and shadow
Slips of the tongue and self-deception ,
And the only faith on Sunday
Some index data .

Winter - a lavish funeral :
Out to leave the shelter,
Add to dusk currants ,
Pour the wine - that's kutya .

Before the house of apple in a snow drift .
And the city in the snowy shroud -
Your vast tomb ,
As a whole year seemed to me .

Person to turn to God ,
You pull him off the ground,
As in the days when you total
More on it did not disappoint .

1943

[Кирилл Сызранский]

Сообщение от Tamila

In Memory of Marina Tsvetaeva

And me and "Elabuzhusky nail" Yevtushenko.

[Игорь Гурьев]

Her articles and essays - excellent, and poetry - for lovers in general.

Not everyone, you understand, agree to pass through a current of high voltage little wife (or rather the voltage-women).

[Кирилл Сызранский]

Сообщение от Guriev, Igor

Not everyone will agree to pass through a high current napryazhenka.

That's for sure.

Much nicer to read about whispers, timid breathing, trill of a nightingale, silver, and heaving a sleepy creek.
(C) >