Poets Marina Tsvetaeva | lucaespo
Poets Marina Tsvetaeva poetry song poems | lucaespo 𝄞 ♫ 🎸 Web: https://lucaespo.com Playlist: https://www.ganjingworld.com/channel/1i25frjloevtZEl7kSGMSJTwN1ah0c/playlist/1i2odvlme3o6OGcKptOQI071c60p Ask for a sung poetry in comment or send me a message.
Poets | lucaespo 𝄞 ♫ ♪ 🎸
From afar ... the poet speaks.
Words carry him ... far away.
Through planets, dreams, signs...Through the sideways
of allusion. Between yes and no the poet,
even taking flight from a balcony
finds a hold. For his
step is a comet. And in the scattered rings
of causality is his nexus. Despair ...
you who look at the sky! The poet's eclipse
is not on the calendars. The poet is the one
who cheats the cards at the table,
who cheats the accounts and steals the weight.
The one who questions from the bench,
who defeats Kant,
who is in the coffin of Bastille
like a tree in its beauty...
He is the one who leaves no traces,
the train that no one arrives
on time...
Because his
is the pace of a comet: it burns and does not heat,
it cooks and does not ripen... theft! break-in! ...
a winding path of foliage
unknown to all calendars...
There are superfluous beings in the world,
extra creatures, weightless additions.
(Absent from lists and handbooks,
inhabitants of the blackest wells.)
There are hollow beings in the world, beings
pushed, mute: manure
and nails for silken trains.
They are repugnant even to the mud of the wheels.
There are in the world diaphanous, invisible:
(speckled with the mark of leprosy!)
There are Jobs, who could envy
Job... but to the poets, to us poets,
we pariahs and equals to God ...
it is given, overflowing from the banks,
the banks broken, to steal
even virgins from the gods.
Blind and stepdaughter ... what will I do in the world
of sons and of the seeing? Where passion
plodes on slopes of anathemas?
Where do they call weeping
a cold?
Singer of body and profession
what will I do ... sultry in Siberia, snow in the Sahara! ...
of all my light obsessions
in the ponderous kingdom
of the steelyards?
What will I do ... firstborn and singer ...
in the world where the blackest is gray,
where they keep the heart under glass?
What will I do, immeasurable, in the empire
of measures?
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