Most touching Marina Tsvetaeva's poetry

Since I was a child, I had this strong and deep longing for something that is more than life, that exceeds it's boundaries and takes you on a new level of consciousnesses. And poetry has become this lever that would help me to get in touch with those realms of other souls - that lived like us,
and created amazing art.. Marina Tsvetaeva has always been my favorite - for her amazing ability to find exactly needed words that penetrate dipper than into the heart.. For her light and exceptionally meaningful poetry..
Here - I'm sharing with you some poems that are always with me - in my heart, on the tip of my tongue, circling around in my thoughts while I'm caught up in some daily routine..

I hope it will resonate with you like it does with me..

x x x

You walk, looking just like me,
     Lowering your eyes.
     I lowered them - also!
     Stop, the passerby!

     Read - having gathered a bouquet
     Of hens' blindness and poppies -
     That they called me Marina
     And how old I was.

     Don't think I'll appear with menace,
     That a grave here is hidden..
     I loved to laugh too much
     When it was forbidden.

     And blood to the skin was rushing,
     And my curls did twist..
     I once was too, passerby!
     Passerby, cease and desist!

     Tear off for yourself a wild stem
     And after him a berry:
     There are no strawberries sweeter
     Or bigger than at cemetery.

     But only don't grimly stand there,
     On the chest lowering your head.
     Lightly do think about me
     And lightly about me forget.

     How the ray alights you!
     You're all in a golden dust..
     And at my voice from below
     Do not you be nonplussed.


x x x

These my poems, written so early
     That I did not know then I was a poet,
     Which having tore, like droplets from a fountain,
     Like sparks from a rocket,

     Into a sanctuary, where there is sleep and incense
     Like little devils having burst,
     These my poems about youth and about death,
     This unread verse!

     Scattered through shops in piles of dust
     Where nobody picked them up or does,
     These my poems, like precious wine,
     Will have their time.


 x x x

Insanity - and good reason,
     Disgrace - and honor,
     All, that brings on thoughtfulness,
     Is spilling over -

     In me. - All the penal passions
     Become as one! -
     All images wage war inside
     This hair of mine!

     The lover's whisper, all around
     By rote I know,
     Experience of twenty two years
     Nothing but sorrow!

     But - won't you say - innocently pink
     Look I,
     I'm virtuoso's virtuoso
     In art of lies.

     In her let out like a ball,
     Caught once again,
     The blood of Polish great-grandmoms
     Is evident.

     I lie because in cemeteries
     The grass does grow,
     I lie because in cemeteries
     Snowstorm does blow...

     From violin - from automobile -
     From silk, from fire...
     From torment that not only me
     They all desired!

     From pain, that I am not the bride
     Of the groom...
     From poem and gesture - for the gesture
     And for the poem!

     From tender boa on the neck...
     And how can I
     Not lie - when my voice sounds more tender
     When I do lie...

x x x

Nostalgia, homesickness! Oh, what
a long-denunciated longing!
It matters absolutely not
where I would absolutely lonely

be, passing by which street-name sign
I'd roll back home my shopping barrows –
A home, yet clueless it is mine,
as if a hospital or barracks.

It makes no difference, whose grins
amid, to bristle like a captive
beast, nor from which fraternal rings
to be expelled – into effective

self-insulation – where belong.
I, an Alaskan floe-less bear, –
where not to (try to) get along,
where to abase myself – don't care!

The mother-tongue, its luring pitch,
too, to my hearing, risks no dangers.
It couldn't matter less in which
to be misunderstood by strangers

(book's readership, or gossip's ears,
consumers of newspaper pages ...)
They're in the nineteen-something years,
and I'm yet in unnumbered ages!

To me, impressionable like
a log in a forgotten forest,
all means the same, all looks alike,
and maybe most alike, and foremost

the same – and sane – remains the past.
All dates, all tags I used to bear,
have been stripped off of me at last:
A mortal given birth – somewhere.

So thoroughly my native soil
abandoned me, that – Search the ground
and far and wide across my soul! –
a single birthmark won't be found!

Each home feels void, each temple vain,
all ties are burnt, all ashes buried.
But if a bush is on my way,
especially a rowan-berry …