Марина Цветаева, Translation of Poem by Marina Tsvetaeva, "Уж сколько их упало в эту бездну," "So many have been swallowed up and perished"

Марина Цветаева

Marina Tsvetaeva

(1892-1941)

Уж сколько их упало в эту бездну,
Разверзтую вдали!
Настанет день, когда и я исчезну
С поверхности земли.

Застынет все, что пело и боролось,
Сияло и рвалось.
И зелень глаз моих, и нежный голос,
И золото волос.

И будет жизнь с ее насущным хлебом,
С забывчивостью дня.
И будет все — как будто бы под небом
И не было меня!

Изменчивой, как дети, в каждой мине,
И так недолго злой,
Любившей час, когда дрова в камине
Становятся золой.

Виолончель, и кавалькады в чаще,
И колокол в селе…
— Меня, такой живой и настоящей
На ласковой земле!

К вам всем — что мне, ни в чем не знавшей меры,
Чужие и свои?!-
Я обращаюсь с требованьем веры
И с просьбой о любви.

И день и ночь, и письменно и устно:
За правду да и нет,
За то, что мне так часто — слишком грустно
И только двадцать лет,

За то, что мне прямая неизбежность —
Прощение обид,
За всю мою безудержную нежность
И слишком гордый вид,

За быстроту стремительных событий,
За правду, за игру…
— Послушайте!- Еще меня любите
За то, что я умру.

Dec. 8, 1913

d

Literal Translation

How many have fallen into that abyss,

Gaping in the distance!

The day will come when I as well will disappear

From the surface of the earth.

It all will congeal, everything that sang, that struggled,

That shone, strained, burst,

Both the green of my eyes, and the soft voice,

And the gold of my hair.

And life will still be, with its daily bread,

With the forgetfulness of each day.

And everything will still be—as if beneath the skies

I had never even existed!

I, with as-fickle-as-a-child expression on my face,

And I who could not be angry for long,

Who so loved the moment when the log

In the fireplace turned to ash.

The violincello, the cavalcades in the thicket,

And the bell in the village . . .

But not me, so alive, so genuine,

On this tender earth!

I turn to you all—for after all, I’ve never had

A sense of measure—who is my intimate, who is a stranger?

To all I demand I be believed,

And to all I plead for love,

Both day and night, in written word and orally,

[Love me] for the sake of truth, a simple yes or no,

[Love me] because so frequently I’m all too sad,

And I’m only twenty years old.

Because you can’t avoid the inevitable:

Forgiving me for insults,

For all of my unbridled tenderness

And the too proud look on my face,

For the rapidity of impetuous events,

For the truth, and for play . . .

Listen! Love me as well

For the fact that I will die.

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

So many have been swallowed up and perished,

Dissolving in that distant gaping chasm.

My time as well, this life that I have cherished

Will soon recede in one last gasping spasm.

Coagulate will all, will into stillness freeze,

Everything that sang and struggled, shone:

The green of my eyes, the voice with its muted unease,

And the hair streaming gold in the breeze as it’s blown. 

And life will go on, all that give-us-our-daily-bread,

With the wallow of diurnal in oblivion/forget,

And all will be the same, all pages still misread,

As if I’d never whirled my way through being’s grim roulette.

My me will be gone, the innocent look on my face,

The me who never ever held a grudge!

That me who loved to watch a hearth log dissipate,

And turn to tender ashes, smoulder-smudge.

Who saw the cavalcades of riders through the forest,

Heard cellos play, the toll of bells in village church,

That me not be? Who throbbed with life’s exultant chorus,

Who safe in earth’s fond grasp did snugly perch.

To all of you appeal I, to intimates and strangers—

For, after all, I’ve always lacked a simple sense of measure—

I say to all, “Believe me, please,” we’re all too prone to dangers,  

Please send to me some love as well, through fair or stormy weather.

You’ll do that, won’t you? Day and night, in written word

Or spoken. Send artless yeses, guileless nos, and sympathy aplenty,

For fact is little me’s so sad, a woeful dickeybird,

And one more thing you need to know: today I’m only twenty!

Send love, forgiveness, won’t you please? Send kindly dispensations,

From sinful ways, insults, offenses, calumnies, disgrace,

For my unbridled tenderness, for my perverse cunctations,

For all the pride and arrogance that’s plastered on my face,

For my impetuosity, effrontery nonplussed,

For truths I’ve told and games I play, for candor I defy . . .

Listen here now! That’s it! Love me you must

For one simple reason: because some day I’ll die.

Poem declaimed by Masha Matveychuk:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FA2DJdwcuwg