Translation of Poem by Marina Tsvetaeva, МАРИНА ЦВЕТАЕВА, "Молитва," A PRAYER

 

МАРИНА ЦВЕТАЕВА

(1892-1941)

 

 

 

Молитва

Христос и Бог! Я жажду чуда

Теперь, сейчас, в начале дня!

О, дай мне умереть, покуда

Вся жизнь как книга для меня.

 

Ты мудрый, Ты не скажешь строго:

— «Терпи, еще не кончен срок».

Ты сам мне подал — слишком много!

Я жажду сразу — всех дорог!

 

Всего хочу: с душой цыгана

Идти под песни на разбой,

За всех страдать под звук органа

и амазонкой мчаться в бой;

 

Гадать по звездам в черной башне,

Вести детей вперед, сквозь тень…

Чтоб был легендой — день вчерашний,

Чтоб был безумьем — каждый день!

 

Люблю и крест, и шелк, и каски,

Моя душа мгновений след…

Ты дал мне детство — лучше сказки

И дай мне смерть — в семнадцать лет!

 

Sept. 26, 1909

Tarusa

 

d

 

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

 

A Prayer

 

Lord God and Christ! I thirst for wonders,

Just now, right now, at dawn of day!

O, let me die bereft yet of the thunders,

While life’s still a book in a showcase display.

 

Omniscient one, Thou willst not utter,

“Persist, thy end lies far ahead.”

My soul Thou kindled, now I sputter;

All roads at once I thirst to tread!

 

I want the whole of it: the gypsy ethos,

To the strains of an organ to suffer for man;

Lusty songs I’d bawl out amidst plunder and chaos,

Be an Amazon queen in defense of homeland.   

 

I’d conjure by stars ’neath a black tower spire,

Hold a child by the hand, lead her through the dim drabness . . .

A legend I’d make out of yesterday’s mire,

Each and every day I’d strive for madness!

 

I love soldiers’ spiked helmets, the cross, and soft cashmere,

Ephemeral trace of my soul’s earthly breath . . .

Thou gave me child years by a fairyland mere,

Now at age seventeen please send me a Death!

 

 

d

Translator’s Note

A poem reeking with almost hysterical teenaged Amor fati. A bit of too, too much here. As if to say, “Give me all you’ve got, Lord; I want to live life to the full. And, by the way, send me an early death.” This recalls, in some respects, another of Tsvetaeva’s verses, the much better and more mature poem written four years later, in Dec., 1913, "Уж сколько их упало в эту бездну" ("So many have been swallowed up and perished).” Here are two stanzas in my literary translation:

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!

 

One can’t help thinking that—given the short life that Marina Tsvetaeva was to lead, and given the horrendous griefs and depredations she would bear—she might better have prayed at age seventeen for succor and peace of mind: more tranquil days beside a softly lapping mere in her beloved Tarusa. Not that that prayer was likely to have been answered.

 

This tumultuous prayer—composed, oddly enough, amidst the serenity of Tarusa—asks for two things at once. Marina prays, first of all, for an early death at age seventeen, and that plea is not answered. She prays as well for a wild and chaotic life, for the chance to live rapturously, while burning the candle at both ends. The Lord saw fit to grant her that wish, maybe ten times over.

 

                                                           Max Ernst, "La Fuite," 1940