Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | April 19, 2009


by Marina Tsvetaeva (1892 – 1941).


My Poems… (1913)


My poems, written early, when I doubted

that I could ever play the poet’s part,

erupting, as though water from a fountain

or sparks from a petard,


and rushing as though little demons, senseless,         5

into a sanctuary, where incense spreads,

my poems about death and adolescence,

– that still remain unread! –


collecting dust in bookstores all this time,

where no one comes to carry them away,                  10

my poems, like exquisite, precious wines,

will have their day!


(transl. by Andrey Kneller)



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