Original poems by Marina Tsvetaeva

Lyric 1

Along these singing lines that run
From pole to pole, supporting heaven
I send along to you my portion
of earthly dust
                       from wires
to poles.    This alley sighs
the telegraphic words: I lo-o-ve

I beg.    (No printed form would
Hold that word ! But wires are simpler)
Atlas himself upon these poles
lowered the racetrack
of the Gods.
                       Along these files
The telegraphic word: g-oo-dbye…

Do you hear it ? This last word
torn from my throat: Forg-i-ve….
Over these calm Atlantic fields
The rigging holds. And higher, higher.
All the messages fuse together
in Ariadne’s web:    Ret-u-rn…
with plaintive cries of: I won’t leave…

These wires are steely guards upon
voices from Hell,

receding…far into that distance
still implored for some compassion.
Compassion ?  ( but in such a chorus
can you distinguish such a noise ?
That cry, arising as death comes---
through mounds---and ditches---that last
waft of her --- a passion that persists---
Euridice’s: A-a-alas

And not—a-

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