Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva

(8 October 1892 – 31 August 1941 / Moscow)

Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva Poems

1. Poems for Blok, 1 9/15/2015
2. No Longer Now 5/26/2014
3. I Like That You Are Crazy Not With Me 2/23/2015
4. You Walk, And Look Like Me 4/13/2010
5. Prayer 4/13/2010
6. Dis-Stance: Versts, Miles 4/13/2010
7. Conversation With A Genius 4/13/2010
8. Poets (Excerpt) 4/13/2010
9. Books In Red Binding 4/13/2010
10. New Moon 4/13/2010
11. You Who Loved Me With The Falseness 4/13/2010
12. Tryst 4/13/2010
13. Dialogue Between Hamlet And His Conscience 4/13/2010
14. To The Next One 4/13/2010
15. To Asya 4/13/2010
16. Meeting 4/13/2010
17. Girlfriend 1/1/2004
18. Terminal Silhouette 4/13/2010
19. For My Poems, Written So Early 4/13/2010
20. The Window 1/1/2004
21. From Four Till Seven 4/13/2010
22. In Paris 4/13/2010
23. To Mother 1/1/2004
24. Whence Cometh Such Tender Rapture? 1/1/2004
25. Before A Little Coffin 4/13/2010
26. The Demon In Me 1/1/2004
27. Lady With Camelias 4/13/2010
28. Grey Hairs 1/1/2004
29. Little World 1/1/2004
30. Much Like Me 1/1/2004

Comments about Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva

  • Rich Persoff (4/11/2014 6:03:00 PM)

    To the editor:
    These sentences should not follow each other in the same paragraph!
    During the famine one of her own daughters died of starvation. Tsvetaeva's poetry reveal her growing interest in folk song and the techniques of the major symbolist and poets, such as Aleksander Blok and Anna Akhmatova.

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Best Poem of Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva

Much Like Me

Much like me, you make your way forward,
Walking with downturned eyes.
Well, I too kept mine lowered.
Passer-by, stop here, please.

Read, when you've picked your nosegay
Of henbane and poppy flowers,
That I was once called Marina,
And discover how old I was.

Don't think that there's any grave here,
Or that I'll come and throw you out ...
I myself was too much given
To laughing when one ought not.

The blood hurtled to my complexion,
My curls wound in flourishes ...
I was, passer-by, I existed!
Passer-by, stop here, please.

And ...

Read the full of Much Like Me

The Window

In the sweet, Atlantic
Breathing of spring
My curtain's like a butterfly,
Huge, fluttering
Like a Hindu widow
To a pyre's golden blaze,
Like a drowsy Naiad
To past-window seas.

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