The poem as an occasion of the extraordinary, of imagining, of intenser time.
Marina Tsvetaeva wrote this about Alexander Alexandrovich Blok:
Your name is a—bird in my hand,
a piece of ice on my tongue.
The lips’ quick opening.
Your name—four letters.
A ball caught in flight,
a silver bell in my mouth.
A stone thrown into a silent lake
is—the sound of your name.
The light click of hooves at night
Your name at my temple
—sharp click of a cocked gun.
kiss on my eyes,
the chill of closed eyelids.
Your name—a kiss of snow.
Blue gulp of icy spring water.
With your name—sleep deepens.
April 15, 1916
from “Poems for Blok”
translated by Ilya Kaminsky and Jean Valentine
Why did she write such a thing in such a way? I’ll not interrogate personal motivation. I’ll restrict my curiosity to that phrase “in such…
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