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. Poets (Excerpt) 4/13/2010
7. Dis-Stance: Versts, Miles 4/13/2010
8. Conversation With A Genius 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. Before A Little Coffin 4/13/2010
21. The Window 1/1/2004
22. From Four Till Seven 4/13/2010
23. In Paris 4/13/2010
24. To Mother 1/1/2004
25. Whence Cometh Such Tender Rapture? 1/1/2004
26. The Demon In Me 1/1/2004
27. Lady With Camelias 4/13/2010
28. Little World 1/1/2004
29. Much Like Me 1/1/2004
30. Grey Hairs 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

Grey Hairs

These are ashes of treasures:
Of hurt and loss.
These are ashes in face of which
Granite is dross.
Dove, naked and brilliant,
It has no mate.
Solomon's ashes
Over vanity that's great.
Time's menacing chalkmark,
Not to be overthrown.
Means God knocks at the door
-- Once the house has burned down!
Not choked yet by refuse,
Days' and dreams' conqueror.
Like a thunderbolt -- Spirit
Of early grey hair.
It's not you who've betrayed me
On the home front, years.
This grey is the triumph
Of immortal powers.

Read the full of Grey Hairs

To Mother

In the old Strauss waltz for the first time
We had listened to your quiet call,
Since then all the living things are alien
And the knocking of the clock consoles.

We, like you, are gladly greeting sunsets,
And are drunk on nearness of the end.
All, with which on better nights we're wealthy
Is put in the hearts by your own hand.

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