Poems For Moscow ~ by Marina Tsvetaeva

tsvetaeva MT

From ‘Poems For Moscow’ ~ by Marina Tsvetaeva


From my hands—take this city not made by hands,

my strange, my beautiful brother.


Take it, church by church—all forty times forty churches,

and flying up the roofs, the small pigeons;


And Spassky Gates—and gates, and gates—

where the Orthodox take off their hats;


And the Chapel of Stars—refuge chapel—

where the floor is—polished by tears;


Take the circle of the five cathedrals,

my coal, my soul; the domes wash us in their darkgold,


And on your shoulders, from the red clouds,

the Mother of God will drop her own thin coat,


And you will rise, happened of wonderpowers

—never ashamed you loved me.

March 31, 1916


*portrait by George G. Shishkin*


About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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