The Curtain

By MARINA TSVETSAEVA

 

Waterfalls of curtain like spray –
Pine needles–flame–shimmer.
The curtain has no secrets from the stage:
You are the stage, I am the curtain.

Behind painted vines (in the lofty
Theater–amazement ran riot)
I conceal the hero’s tragedy,
The time of action–and–the seat.

In waterfalls of rainbow, an avalanche
Of laurels (he expected them! he knew!)
I veil you from the audience
(I mesmerize them with my sway!),

My prize! Hid in a painted forest
Of potions, grasses, stalks…
(Now behind the shaking curtain
The tragedy–moves–like a storm!)

Weep, loges! Panic, gallery!
It’s time now! Start the play!
The curtain–moves–like a sail,
The curtain–moves–like a breast.
With all my strength I shield you
Sanctum.–But a rope slips!
Above a la–cerated Phaedra
The curtain–whips–like a griffin.

Strip the wound! Stare! It bleeds?
Then have the trough prepared!
I’ll draw this royal wound to the end!
(The hall is pale, the curtain is red).
Then, a soothing shroud, it falls,
Rippling like a hero’s banner.
The curtain has no secrets–from the hall
(Life is the audience, I am the curtain).

Poems translated from the Russian by Catherine Ciepiela

 

Marina Tsvetaeva (1892-1941) was one of Russian poetry’s most brilliant and tragic figures. She is the author of scores of lyric and narrative poems, plays, and essays, many written in European exile after the Bolshevik Revolution.

Catherine Ciepiela writes about and translates modern Russian poetry. She is the author of The Same Solitude: Boris Pasternak and Marina Tsvetaeva and co-editor of The Stray Dog Cabaret: A Book of Russian Poems, by translator Paul Schmidt.

Click here to purchase Issue 01

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

The Curtain

Related Posts

The Swan

MARZIA GRILLO
Luigi goggled his eyes and shook his arms, the veins at his neck straining, all to spit a gold nugget on her sun-polished thigh: ‘It was at the floor of the lake,’ he said, proffering her the same ring as always. And from above his bent knee was visible with little effort, aided by the currents of destiny.

Cloudy sunset over field.

Florida Poems

EDWARD SAMBRANO III
I will die in Portland on an overcast day, / The Willamette River mirroring clouds’ / Bleak forecast and strangers not forgetting— / Not this time—designer raincoats in their closets. / They will leave for work barely in time / To catch their railcars. It will happen / On a day like today.