Five Poems by Marina Tsvetaeva, translated from the Russian by Mary Jane White.

ACHILLES ON THE WALL

Drained — taken — overcome —
— Flat on my back!   — I will die.
Like Polyxena, who beheld Achilles
There, on the wall —

In red — a bloody tower on the horizon
Of bodies he had laid low.
Like Polyxena praying:  "Who is this?"
(And knew — the pyre!)

The united sorcery
Of awe, of love.
Like Polyxena, who beheld the Achaean
And whispered — and —

Do you know that ebb of Atlantean
Blood down my cheeks?
Over an invincible — expanse of no-man's land —
The quaking of our blood.

13 September 1923

 

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THE LAST SAILOR

O you — of all below-line notes
The lowest! — Let's put an end to our quarrel!
Like that consumptive woman, who moaned
All night:  ravish me again!

Who wrung her hands, as fights
And close blows and ropes of oaths intruded.
(Her sailor — no longer handsome — slept
As blood dropped on his rum-
Pled pillowcase . . .)
                               And then, bottoms up
With the glass, of crystal and blood
Laughing . . . — and she mistook blood for wine,
And she mistook death for love.

"You sleep.  I'm — need to go!  No preliminaries, no rehearsals —
Just the curtain!  Tomorrow, flat on my back!"
Like that consumptive woman, who begged
Everyone:  ravish me

A bit more! . . . (My hands are clean now,
My gaze troubled, fingers stiff . . .)
Like that woman with her sailor — with you, o life,
I haggle: for another minute

Ravish me! . . .

15 September 1923

 

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THE CRY OF STATIONS

The cry of stations:  don't go!
Of terminals:  take pity!
And that of the brief stops:
Not exactly Dante's
Benediction:
"Abandon hope!"
And that of the engines.

Whose iron shuddered
Like the thunder of an ocean wave.
At the tiny ticket-window,
It crossed my mind — they traffic in space?
In seas and dry land?
In perishable meat:
We are meat — not souls!
We are mouths — not roses!
From us?  No — over us
The wheels carry off our loved ones!

At such and such miles per hour.

Tiny ticket-windows.
Little dice of passionate chance.
One of us was right,
Who said:  love — will stun the life out of you!

"This is life — on the rails!  Don't cry!"
Rights of way — easements — rights of way . . .
(Owners reluctant to look into the eyes
Of their horses bound for slaughter).

"Unbroken and seamless, there is
No such happiness.  Did I really buy it like that?"
The dressmaker was right, who held
Her tongue about it:  "Use cross-ties."

24 September 1923

 

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THE PRAGUE KNIGHT

Blanch —faced
Guardian of the age-old lapping —
Knight, knight,
Keeping watch on the river.

(O could I find peace
In it from arms and mouths?!)
Sen—-ti—-nel
Set at your post of partings.

The oaths, the rings . . .
Yes, like stones into the river
How many — of us
Over four centuries!

Admission into the waters
Is free.  As are roses — in bloom!
He's thrown me over — I'll throw myself over!
That's vengeance for you!

We never tire of this
 — So long as passion exists!
Taking our vengeance off bridges.
Making short but wide work of us,

My wings!  Into the slime,
Into the scum — like brocade!
No lament for the moment
Over the bridge — toll!

 --- "Off a fatal bridge
Down — I dare myself!"
I, at a level with you,
Prague Knight.

Whether it's sweetness or sadness
In it — is clearer to you,
Knight, watching over
The river — of days.

27 September 1923

 

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LIFE TRAIN

If not a bayonet — then a tusk, a snowbank, a squall, —
On the hour, another train — to Immortality!
I came and knew one thing:  it's just another stop.
And not worth unpacking.

Upon everyone, everything — my indifferent eyes,
Come to rest — on the immemorial.
O how natural to enter third class
Through the closeness of the ladies' rooms!

Where after warmed-over cutlets, cheeks
Are grown cold . . . — Can't we go further,
My soul?  I'd sooner go down a streetlamp's drain
To escape this deadening discord:

Of end papers, diapers,
Red-hot curling irons,
Scorched hair,
Women's hats, oil cloths,
All the eau-de-Col—-ognes
Of families, the joys
Of sewing (Mere trifles!)
Is there a coffeepot?
Crackers, pillows, matrons, nannies,
The closeness of nurseries, and baths.

I don't want to be in this box of women's bodies
Waiting on the hour of my death!
I want this train to be drinking and singing:
Death — too, belongs in another class!

In a daze, a stupor, on a concertina, in distress, in vanity!
— These unbelievers do cling so to life! —
Prompting some pilgrim or other to say:  "In the next world" . . .
So I interrupt to say:  it must be better!

A platform.   — And sleepers.  — And a last shrub
In my hand. — I let loose.   — It's too late
To hang on.  — Sleepers.   — I'm tired
Of so many mouths.   — I look to the stars.

So through a rainbow of all the vanishing
Planets — did someone at least number them? —
I look and see one thing:  another end.
And not worth regretting.

6 October 1923