Poems to Blok

Apologies for this kind of thing, but I figure if Zuuko gets to do it, I do too. Two poems by Marina Tsvetaeva, translated by me.

Your name — a bird to hold
Your name — the tongue ice-cold
A single solitary move of the lips.
Your name — four glyphs.
A ball, caught, just as it fell.
A silver jingling jinglebell.

A quiet pond, when one throws a stone
sobs like the name by which you are known.
In the light clatter of hooves at night
your name thunders in all its might.
And with a ringing click it is said
By a trigger aimed at the head.

Your name — please, no!
Your name — a kiss of snow.
A kiss on the unmoving lids’ tender ice
Your name — a kiss on the eyes.
An ice-blue springwater sip
With your name, a deeper sleep.

In my Moscow there are domes ablaze
In my Moscow the song of the churchbells plays
And tsarinas and tsars lie asleep in graves
That stand in rows on and on.

And the Kremlin at dawn — if you could but see —
Nowhere else can one breathe so easy and free
In the Kremlin at dawn — if you could but see
How I pray for you till the dawn.

And along the Neva’s shore you tread
In the hour that above Moscow’s riverbed
I am standing with lowered head
And the lamp lights all are gone

With all my sleeplessness I’m in love with you
With all my sleeplessness I hearken to you
In the hour that, the whole Kremlin through,
The bellringers start their song.

But this land of yours and this land of mine
But this hand of yours and this hand of mine
Will not meet, O Joy of mine, till the time
That dawn catches up with dawn.

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