Bride of Ice
MARINA TSVETAEVA
Bride of Ice: New Selected Poems
Translated with an introduction by
Elaine Feinstein
from literal versions by
Daisy Cockburn, Valentina Coe, Bernard Comrie, Simon Franklin, Jana Howlett, Angela Livingstone, Cathy Porter, Tatiana Retivov, Maxwell Shorter and Vera Traill
Contents
Title Page
List of Collaborators
Introduction
Poems
Verse
from GIRLFRIEND
Your narrow, foreign shape
I know the truth
What is this gipsy passion for separation
We shall not escape Hell
Some ancestor of mine
I’m glad your sickness
We are keeping an eye on the girls
No one has taken anything away
You throw back your head
Where does this tenderness come from?
Bent with worry
Today or tomorrow the snow will melt
VERSES ABOUT MOSCOW
from INSOMNIA
POEMS FOR AKHMATOVA
POEMS FOR BLOK
A kiss on the head
from SWANS’ ENCAMPMENT
Yesterday he still looked in my eyes
To Mayakovsky
ON A RED HORSE
Praise to the Rich
God help us Smoke!
Ophelia: In Defence of the Queen
from WIRES
Sahara
The Poet
Appointment
Rails
You loved me
It’s not like waiting for post
My ear attends to you
As people listen intently
Strong doesn’t mate with strong
In a world
POEM OF THE MOUNTAIN
POEM OF THE END
An Attempt at Jealousy
To Boris Pasternak
New Year’s Greetings
from THE RATCATCHER
from Chapter 1
from Chapter 2: Dreams
from The Children’s Paradise
from POEMS TO A SON
Homesickness
I opened my veins
Epitaph
Readers of Newspapers
Desk
Bus
When I look at the flight of the leaves
from POEMS TO CZECHOSLOVAKIA
Notes
Select Bibliography of Works in English
Appendix: Note on Working Method by Angela Livingstone
About the Author
Also by Elaine Feinstein from Carcanet Press
Copyright
Literal versions of the poems were provided by the following:
Valentina Coe
POEM OF THE MOUNTAIN
Daisy Cockburn
Verse
Your narrow, foreign shape
Bernard Comrie
Yesterday he still looked in my eyes
Simon Franklin
God help us Smoke!
Ophelia: In Defence of the Queen
from WIRES: Lyric 1
Sahara
Appointment
Rails
You loved me
To Boris Pasternak
from THE RATCATCHER: from Chapter 1 and from Chapter 2
Desk
Bus
Jana Howlett
from SWANS’ ENCAMPMENT
Angela Livingstone
I know the truth
What is this gypsy passion for separation
We shall not escape Hell
We are keeping an eye on the girls
No one has taken anything away
You throw back your head
Where does this tenderness come from?
Bent with worry
Today or tomorrow the snow will melt
VERSES ABOUT MOSCOW
from INSOMNIA
POEMS FOR AKHMATOVA
POEMS FOR BLOK
A kiss on the head
Praise to the Rich
The Poet
POEM OF THE END
Epitaph
Homesickness
Readers of Newspapers
When I look at the flight of the leaves
from POEMS TO CZECHOSLOVAKIA
Cathy Porter
From POEMS TO A SON
Tatiana Retivov
GIRLFRIEND
ON A RED HORSE
from WIRES
POEM OF THE END: Lyric 11
New Year’s Greeting
Maxwell Shorter
Some ancestor of mine
I’m glad your sickness
To Mayakovsky
It’s not like waiting for post
My ear attends to you
As people listen intently
Strong doesn’t mate with strong
In a world
I opened my veins
Vera Traill
from THE RATCATCHER: from The Children’s Paradise
The poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva drew me initially1 through the intensity of her emotions, and the honesty with which she exposed them. In this, she has remained an enduring and exacting mentor. Her themes, too, seemed immediately relevant: her desperate need for love, and the tension between poetry and domestic responsibilities. Over the years I celebrated her dedication to poetry, while hardly touching on the ruthlessness which underpinned her stamina, still less the inner vulnerabilities that lay beneath her wilfulness. In 2008 I invented her as a Virgil to lead me around Stalin’s Hell in The Russian Jerusalem. In doing so, I became uneasily aware of elements in her complex personality given greater prominence in other biographies. This new selection of her poems contains several sequences which suggest the sources of her own inspiration, and her longing for intimacy with poets of equal genius.
Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva (1892–1941) was the daughter of a Professor of Fine Arts at Moscow University, and grew up in material comfort. Her mother, Maria, was by far the most powerful presence in the household; a gifted woman, of bitter intensity, she had renounced her first love to marry a widower much older than herself. Her considerable musical talents were frustrated, and she turned all her energies towards educating Marina, her precocious elder daughter. Insistence on hours of music practice and a stern refusal of any words of praise made Marina’s childhood unusually austere.
When Marina was fourteen, her mother died of tuberculosis, expressing a passionate indifference to the world she was leaving: ‘I only regret music and the sun.’ After her death, Marina abandoned the study of music and began to develop her passion for literature. ‘After a mother like that,’ she reflected, ‘I had only one alternative: to become a poet.’2
Her mother remained in her dreams, sometimes as a longed-for, benevolent figure. In one dream, however, Tsvetaeva meets a bent old woman who whispers surprisingly: ‘A mean little thing she was, a clinging one, believe me, sweetheart.’ This is the witchy crone of Russian folklore, and we meet her again in Tsvetaeva’s cruel fairy tale ‘On a Red Horse’.
By the age of eighteen, Tsvetaeva had acquired sufficient reputation as a poet to be welcome as a house guest at the Crimean dacha of Maximilian Voloshin. There she met her future husband, Sergei Efron, the half-Jewish orphan of an earlier generation of revolutionaries. At seventeen, he was shy, with huge grey eyes, overwhelmed by Tsvetaeva’s poetic genius. They fell instantly in love, and his was the most loyal affection Tsvetaeva was ever to find. They were married in January 1912. For two years after their marriage, they were irresponsibly happy together. Seryozha, as he was usually known, was an aspirant writer and a charming actor. Most people who knew Efron liked him, but some thought him too much under the influence of his wife. He was certainly weak physically – he suffered from TB all his life – but Irma Kudrova, recently allowed access to files of his 1940 NKVD interrogations,3 has uncovered a man of unusual courage and integrity.
When war came in August 1914, Seryozha was eager to enlist, and was sent initially to the front line as a male nurse in an ambulance train. Soon afterwards, Tsvetaeva fell in love with Sofia Parnok, a talented poet from a middle-class Jewish family in the Black Sea port of Taganrog. Tsvetaeva had been wildly but innocently attracted to beautiful young girls in her early adolescence, but Parnok was an open lesbian. She was not exactly beautiful, but she possessed a sexual assurance which had never been the main bond in Tsvetaeva’s affection for Seryozha.
Tsvetaeva was well provided for since her father’s death in 1913, and for fifteen months she threw herself into her passion for Parnok, with little thought for her husband and two-year-old child. She and Parnok travelled brazenly over the wilds of Russia together and even visited Voloshin’s dacha. The lyrics for Parnok are both more sensual, and less tormented, than other love poetry written by Tsvetaeva. Sergei had a brief love affair of his own.
In Parnok’s poems for Tsvetaeva, she describes her as an ‘awkward little girl’, but her claim to have been the first to give Tsvetaeva intense sexual pleasure may have been no more than a boast. In any case, as the affair came to an end, it soon became clear that it was to Seryozha that Tsvetaeva felt the strongest bond. When the Revolution came, she was in hospital giving birth to their second child. Separated from him in the confusion at the start of the Civil War, she wrote in her diary: ‘If God performs this miracle and leaves you alive, I will follow you like a dog.’
Through the Moscow famine, Tsvetaeva and her two children lived in Boris and Gleb Lane, in unheated rooms, sometimes without light. She and Efron were to be separated for five years.
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