Our common voice echoes a general rhetoric


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Nawfal Nayouf

Marina Tsvetaeva is among the brightest counterparts of the constellation among the Russian “Silver Age” poets: Valery Bryusov, Vyacheslav Ivanov, Mikhail Cosmin, Maximilian Voloshin, Alexander Blok, Andrei Bely, Nikolai Gumilyov, Anna Akhmatenova, Iger Severianen, Boris Akhmatenak, Iger Severianen. Vladimir Mayakovsky … and others. The “Silver Age” (1890-1930) covers a period most of which until recently remained very ambiguous and complex. The term “Silver Age” came to refer to the birth of a second renaissance, parallel with the renaissance of the “golden age” (the first third of the nineteenth century) in the history of Russian poetry.
1. A CV
I was born on September 26, 1892, in Moscow. My father: Ivan Vladimirovich Tsvetaev, professor at Moscow University, founded and collected materials for the Museum of Fine Arts (now called the Museum of Fine Arts), and a brilliant philologist. My mother: Mariya Alexandrovna Mayne, a fond musician, passionate about poetry and writes as well. My fondness for poetry I took from my mother, and my passion for work and nature took it from both of my parents.
The first languages ​​I learned: German and Russian, then French before I was seven. What I loved most since the age of four: reading, and from the age of five: writing. All that I loved, I loved before seven, and after that I loved nothing. I say, at the age of forty-seven, that all that I was destined to know, I knew before the age of seven, and over the next forty years, I worked on his awareness and awareness.
My mother is nature’s lyrical component itself. I am the eldest daughter of my mother, but not her beloved daughter. She is proud of me, but she loves her second daughter. I have been troubled by a lack of love since I was a child. My first school is the music school I was the youngest student in, before I was six years old. Then the school (Lycee), in which you joined the preparatory class. In the autumn of 1902, I travel with my ailing mother to the Italian Riviera, the town of Nervi near Genoa, where I begin my first acquaintance with the Russian revolutionaries and the concept of revolution. I write revolutionary poems for publication in Geneva. In the spring of 1902 he joined a French boarding school in Lausanne, where he stayed for a year and a half. I write French poems. In the summer of 1904 I accompany my mother to Schwarzwald, Germany, where in the fall I enroll in a boarding school in Freiburg. I write German poems. My favorite book at the time is “Liechtenstein” by F. Huff. Summer of 1906 I return with my mother to Russia. Before arriving in Moscow, my mother dies in the country house “Besuchnaya”, near the city of Tarossi.
Fall 1906 enrolled in boarding school in Moscow. I write revolutionary poems. After this school, I go to another boarding school, then finish the sixth and seventh years in a third regular school. We spend the summer outside, once in Paris, once in Dresden. I become friends with the poet Ellis and philologist Nellinder. In 1910, while still in high school, I publish my first collection of poems, “The Evening Album” – my poems are included at the ages of 15, 16, and 17 – and I get to know the poet Maximilian Voluchin, who wrote my first large article (if I’m not mistaken). In the summer of 1911, I travel to visit him in Cocotebel (on the Crimean Peninsula. -NNN), and there I meet my future husband, Sergey Efron, who is 17 years old at the time, and since that day we have not separated. In 1912 we get married. In 1912 my second collection of poetry, “The Magic Lamp,” was published, and my first daughter, Ariadna, was born. 1913 the death of my father …
From 1912 until 1922 I do not stop writing, but I do not publish books. I publish in the periodical press only a few times in the magazine “Severniye Zapski”. From the revolution until 1922 I lived in Moscow. In 1920, my 3-year-old daughter Irina dies in the shelter. In 1922, I traveled abroad, where I stayed for 17 years, including three and a half years in the Czech Republic, and 14 years in France. In 1939 I return to the Soviet Union to join my family and give my son Georgy (born in 1925) a nation.
I like it from the writers: Salma Lagerlef, Zigrid Undeset, Mary Pepe.
From 1922 until 1928 my following books were published: On “House of Gossizdat” – “The Caesar Girl”, “Farsakh” 1916, and the group “Frasakh” In Berlin, there were different publishing houses – the epic “The Kaiser Girl”, and the poetry collections (“Parting,” “Poems to Block,” “The Profession” and “The Spirit”) that did not absorb much of what I wrote between 1922 and 1928. In Prague, in 1924, I published the epic “The Brave”; And in Paris, in 1928, my collection of poetry “After Russia”. I do not have other books. The periodical press publishes abroad: the lyriques I wrote in Moscow: “Destiny”, “Adventure”, “The End of Casanova”, “Snowstorm”. Poetic epics: “The Mountain Epic”, “The Epic of the End”, “The Ladder”, “From the Sea”, “The Attempt of a Chamber”, “The Epic of Air”, two parts of the “Theseus” trilogy: C1 “Aryadna”, C2 “Phaedra”, “ New Year, “Red Bull”, “Siberian” saga. My translations into French: “Le Gars” (I originally translated the epic “Jade” according to the poetic sea) with paintings by Natalia Goncharova, I translated a number of Pushkin’s poems, my translations of Russian, German and Soviet revolutionary songs as well. After returning to Moscow, I translated a number of Lermontov’s poems. After that, no other translations were published for me.
Prose: “The Hero of Action” (an interview with F. Bryusov), “What is alive from my neighborhood” (an interview with M. Voloshin), “Natalia Goncharova” (Life and Creativity), short novels from childhood: “A house with an old woman”, “My mother and music”, “the devil” … Articles: “Art in the light of conscience”, “King of the jungle”, stories: “Whips”, “Opening a museum”, “A tower in the ivy”, “A groom”, “The Chinese”, “My Mother’s Tale” and many other things. All my prose writings are based on my autobiography.January 1940 Golitsino
2. To a traveler, do not leave me
You stand in the door with your suitcase.
How sad in your face!
If you want, before it’s too late, we’ll read

Poetry together last time.
Let our common voice echo
General words yet,
But the heart split into two branches

Our common path split by two.
Before it’s too late, bow your head
Above the piano, as in the old days.
Let’s sing our last farewell

With bilateral smiles and sorrows.
It’s time! Carton boxes strapped,
And the quilt is tied with a belt for a long time …
May God preserve your resonant voice

And your wise mind is sixteen years old.
When all the heavens freeze into the stars
Over forests and fields,
Two sprints never parting towards
Different people on different trains.

3. A meeting with Pushkin
I go up a white road,
Dusty, buzzing, steep.
My light legs do not tire

From height over heights.
To my left is the high mountain Io-Dag,
A blue chasm surrounded it.
I remember the wizard of these places

The Poetry Seal.
On the road and in the cave
I see his brown hand near his forehead …
Like a cart made of glass

Click on the bend …
Smoke from childhood
Or some tribes …
The sedition of Crimea, which was

In the precious days of Pushkin.
Pushkin! You would have known from the first word
Who is on the way to you!
You shone, and you didn’t show me

Stretch your arm and go to the mountain …
I used to tell you while walking,
Not resting on your brown arm,
How deep I despise science

I reject the leader,
How I love the names and the banners,
Poetry and Sounds,
Old wines and old thrones,

And every dog ​​I come across! –
Responding with half smiles to the questions,
Young Kings …
How I love the torch of the tobacco roll

In the paths of the velvet forest,
Puppets and the ringing of the drums,
Gold and silver,
Unique names: Marina,

Bayern and the bolero,
Amulets, playing cards, perfume bottles and candles,
The smell of nomads and their fur coats,
What the adorable lips say

From false words enter the soul.
These two phrases: No, ever, and forever,
A groove left by the wheel …
Brown hands and blue rivers,

Drum beating – the commander’s coat –
The windows of palaces and horse carriages,
Trees in the mouth of a burning stove,

And the flying sparks are red stars …
My Eternal Heart and His Service
الملِكَ وحدَه!
My heart and my picture in the mirror …

How much I love it …
Of course … – When I was speaking,
I lowered my gaze …
Then you were silent with great sadness and kindness

I’m embracing a slender cypress.
But we were both silent, right?
And we look at how the first light turns on
Somewhere at our feet,

In a cute little mountain hut.
And because the distance between the worst sorrows and play
A step – no more!
We were just bursting into laughter and running
Hand in hand we go down the mountain.

4. Extracts from notebooks and diaries

February 16, 1936. If they had the choice between never seeing Russia and never seeing my draft notebooks (I say this, which contains various formulations of the “Tsar’s family”), I would not have wavered, and immediately. And it is clear what. Russia can do without me. As for my notebooks: No. I can do without Russia, but I can do without my notebooks: No. Not at all for the sake of: living and writing, but for the sake of living – writing, and: writing – living. That is, everything is achieved and even lived only in the notebook. As for life, what? In life there is home life: tidying up the house, washing, lighting the heater, caring. In life: service and absence.
1917. On love: The nobility of the heart is compelling. Precaution that does not diminish. He is always the first to raise the alarm. I can say: Love calls for the heartbeat in me, and the heartbeat calls for love.
■ ■ ■
The heart is more efficient than an organ.
■ ■ ■
The heart is a measure of anything, not an accurate measure of love.
■ ■ ■
Every time, when I know that a person loves me, I am astonished, he does not love me, I am astonished, but I am most surprised when he does not care about me.
■ ■ ■
The first look of love is the shortest distance between two points. That divine straight line that has no second.
■ ■ ■
In my feelings, as in the feelings of children, there are no degrees.
■ ■ ■
a story. When I was eighteen years old, a Jewish banker loved me crazy. I was married and he was married. He was fat, but very attractive. We were never alone, except very rarely, but in that case he would only say one word to me: “Live! Live! ” He never kissed my hand. One time he held a party for me personally, and he invited amazing dancers to it, because I was fond of dancing at the time! As for him, he could not dance, because he was very fat. Usually, in such parties, he played cards. On this evening he did not play. (Age thirty-six years old speaker, Fatina)
■ ■ ■
A story of some of the encounters. Feelings balanced. The story of a student at the Military College:… “I confess to her with love, and of course, I condemn.”
■ ■ ■
How many kisses of mothers fall on the heads of those who are not children, and how many kisses of those who are not mothers fall on the heads of children!
■ ■ ■
About the Song of Songs: The song of songs influences me, like an elephant: a terrifying and funny effect.
■ ■ ■
The Song of Solomon was written in a country of grapes the size of a muddle.
■ ■ ■
Song of Solomon The world of plants and animals in five parts is the earth, all combined in one / one woman. (Including undiscovered America).
■ ■ ■
The best thing about the Song of Solomon is the saying of Akhmatova: “And in the Bible there is a red poplar leaf / sign of the Song of Solomon.”
■ ■ ■
I should have drunk you from a quarter, but I drink you drop by drop, so I go.
■ ■ ■
1918. I am not a love hero, I will never drown in my lover. Always immersed in love.
■ ■ ■
The whole life is divided into three stages: love prediction, the act of love, and the memory of love. Me: On average, from 5 years to 75, yes?
■ ■ ■
1919. March 14. Of course, I will end my life with suicide, because all my desire for love is a desire to die. This is much more complicated than “I want” and “I do not want.” Perhaps I will die not because it is so bad here, but because it is “good there.”
■ ■ ■

My love is a hot motherhood, which has nothing to do with children.
5. Goodbye candle
In life I have always avoided adults, surrounding them like a planet surrounds a planet. Why do I add a mountain of my love to their life and spiritual concerns as well? If not for love, then why meet? If for another reason, there are books. And if love is not a mountain, I use this word in all its dimensions, then what love is that … self-preservation? From what did I come into this world for? No, in my dictionary the other is always “safeguarded”.
■ ■ ■

The kiss of the one who does not love says much more, and the kiss of the one who loves says much less. The kiss by itself is not enough. It’s drinking so we can drink again. The kiss of love is sea water at the time of thirst (sea water or blood that is good for those whose ship has been destroyed!). If this has been said before then I repeat it, because the most important thing is not to say new but to find the only right word. I prefer not to quench my thirst in the first place. Here is another thing that no one has written about before, although it is clearly visible: the kiss of love is a bad way that leads to forgetfulness. The kiss is from the lover, not to the beloved. They start with the kiss of the soul, they proceed to the kiss of the lips, and they end with the kiss of the kiss. To destruction.

Excerpts from a recently released book, entitled: “Marina Tsvetaeva: Some Life and Poetry”, collections of poetry, prose, diaries, and testimonies about them and about them, compiled and translated by: Nawfal Nayouf, Dar Al-Takween, Damascus.

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