Marina Tsvetaeva
Marina Tsvetaeva
Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaevawas a Russian and Soviet poet. Her work is considered among some of the greatest in twentieth century Russian literature. She lived through and wrote of the Russian Revolution of 1917 and the Moscow famine that followed it. In an attempt to save her daughter Irina from starvation, she placed her in a state orphanage in 1919, where she died of hunger. Tsvetaeva left Russia in 1922 and lived with her family in increasing poverty in Paris, Berlin...
NationalityRussian
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth9 October 1892
CountryRussian Federation
I am a moonbeam, free to go whenever I choose.
My desk, most loyal friend thank you. You've been with me on every road I've taken. My scar and my protection.
Who sleeps at night? No one is sleeping. In the cradle a child is screaming. An old man sits over his death, and anyone young enough talks to his love, breathes into her lips, looks into her eyes.
My verses are my diary. My poetry is a poetry of proper names.
What is the main thing in love? to know and to hide. To know about the one you love and to hide that you love. At times the hiding (shame) overpowers the knowing (passion). The passion for the hidden - the passion for the revealed.
For the spell is older than experience. For the tale is older than the record.
I opened my veins. Unstoppably life spurts out with no remedy. Now I set out bowls and plates. Every bowl will be shallow. Every plate will be small. And overflowing their rims, into the black earth, to nourish the rushes unstoppably without cure, gushes poetry ...
In this most Christian of worlds all poets are Jews.
The one that burned the hottest is the first to die.
And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we who never let each other sleep above it.
Think about me lightly, think of me, and forget.
How quiet the writing, how noisy the printing.
However much you feed a wolf, it always looks to the forest. We are all wolves of the dense forest of Eternity.
An amazing observation: it is precisely for feelings that one needs time, not for thought. ... Feelings, obviously, are more demanding than thought.