By Marina Tsvetaeva
Written throughout 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 achieving the top 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 could express a curve - or quite, a immediately line - emerging at virtually a correct perspective as a result of her consistent attempt to elevate the pitch a observe greater, an idea greater ... She continuously carried every little thing she has to claim to its achieveable and expressible finish. In either her poetry and her prose, not anything continues to be putting or leaves a sense of ambivalence. Tsvetaeva is the original case during which the paramount non secular event of an epoch (for us, the experience of ambivalence, of contradictoriness within the nature of human life) served now not because the item of expression yet as its capacity, through which it was once reworked into the fabric of art." --Joseph Brodsky
While your eyes keep on with me into the grave, write up the total caboodle on my move! 'Her days started with songs, led to tears, but if she died, she cut up her aspects with laugher!'
--from Moscow within the Plague yr: Poems
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Extra resources for Moscow in the Plague Year: Poems
You rattled down on the train to catch a steamboat for home; or other postmarks: Paris, Verona, Rome. This is Italy. You learn its mother tongue. I read how you walked on the Palatine among the ruins of the palaces of the Caesars; alone in the Roman autumn, alone since July. When you were mine they wrapped you out of here with your best hat over your face. I cried because I was seventeen. I am older now. I read how your student ticket admitted you into the private chapel of the Vatican and how 10 you cheered with the others, as we used to do on the Fourth of July.
I rinsed it off in Reno and hurried to steal a better proof at tables where I always lost. Today is made of yesterday, each time I steal toward rites I do not know, waiting for the lost ingredient, as if salt or money or even lust would keep us calm and prove us whole at last. T H E R O A D BACK The car is heavy with children tugged back from summer, swept out of their laughing beach, swept out while a persistent rumor tells them nothing ends. Today we fret and pull 30 on wheels, ignore our regular loss of time, count cows and others while the sun moves over like an old albatross we must not count nor kill.
I cried because I was seventeen. I am older now. I read how your student ticket admitted you into the private chapel of the Vatican and how 10 you cheered with the others, as we used to do on the Fourth of July. One Wednesday in November you watched a balloon, painted like a silver ball, float up over the Forum, up over the lost emperors, to shiver its little modern cage in an occasional breeze. You worked your New England conscience out beside artisans, chestnut vendors and the devout. Tonight I will learn to love you twice; learn your first days, your mid-Victorian face.