Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva

(8 October 1892 – 31 August 1941 / Moscow)

From Four Till Seven - Poem by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva

Like in a mirror, there's shade in the heart
I'm bored alone - and with men…
Slowly drags the light of the day
From four till seven!
Everybody is cruel in the dusk,
Don't go to people - they'll lie.
Fingers have wound into a knot
The kerchief. I want to cry.
Only don't torture me so,
If you hurt me I'll forgive!
From four till seven o'clock
I endlessly grieve.

Comments about From Four Till Seven by Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva

  • Daniel Brick (9/11/2015 11:22:00 PM)

    This is such a broken poem. It's as if Marina could not hone her thoughts into a coherent pattern but still HAD to write. As she says at the end, she is writing from four to seven probably in a feverish state. When she writes that her fingers are twisting the scarf, I shudder at what could be her premonition of her suicide. Marina corresponded with Rilke in the last years of his life, and in one letter she told him, YOU ARE NOT JUST A GREAT POET, Y0U ARE POETRY ITSELF.How generous. And we today look at her in the same way, MARINA, YOU ARE POETRY ITSELF. (Report) Reply

    1 person liked.
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  • Pamela Sinicrope (9/3/2015 5:24:00 PM)

    Love this one. Great poem! Well written. (Report) Reply

  • (9/3/2015 11:40:00 AM)

    hurt by a man.... withdrawn.... untrusting. Too many women like this. Guessing her free time each day was between four and seven, spent in dire loneliness... (Report) Reply

  • Pijush Biswas (9/3/2015 7:37:00 AM)

    Perhaps the poet felt loneliness between four and seven,
    and thought it would be better to remain apart from people for it may lie

    like this
    (Report) Reply

  • Ramesh T A (9/3/2015 12:26:00 AM)

    loneliness of the woman is a torture between four to seven indeed! (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, April 13, 2010

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