SHOSTAKOVICH, Dmitri (1906-1975)
Six Poems of Marina Tsvetaeva, Op. 143a (1973)
1. My poems (3:26)
2. Such tenderness (3:53)
3. Hamlet’s dialogue with his conscience (3:23)
4. The Poet and the Tsar (1:40)
5. No, the drum beat (3:28)
6. To Anna Akhmatova (6:09)
Ortrun Wenkel, contralto
Concertgebouw Orchestra
Bernard Haitink, cond.
Marina Tsvetaeva
even know then that I was a poet;
that took flight, like spray from a fountain,
like sparks from a rocket;
that burst in, like little devils, into a temple
filled with sleep and incense . . .
to my poems of youth and death —
unread poems! —
carelessly scattered in the dust of shops
(where no one has ever bought them!) . . .
To my poems, as to previous wines,
their time will come!
These are not the first curls
I have stroked, and lips
I have known that were darker than yours.
Stars have shone and dimmed again
(where does this tenderness come from?)
eyes have shone and dimmed again
so close to my own eyes.
Songs that were greater than this
have I heard in the darkness of the night
(where does this tenderness come from?)
on the very breast of the singer.
Where does this tenderness come from?
And what to do with it, sly
boy, passing stranger,
with those eyelashes (how long they are!)?
in the mud and weeds . . .
She sought sleep there,
but there’s no sleep there either!
But I loved her;
forty thousand brothers
could not make up my sum!
Hamlet!
She’s at the bottom, in the mud:
the mud! . . .
And the last wreath has floated
up past the logs on the river bank . . .
But I loved her;
forty thousand brothers . . .
Less,
though, than a single lover.
She’s at the bottom, in the mud.
But I loved her . . .
hall of the Tsars:
who’s this proud one
carved in marble?
So magnificent,
adorned with gold?
The wretched gendarme
Of Pushkin’s glory.
He harrassed the writer,
clipped the manuscript.
The land of Poland
he butchered like an animal.
Take a good look!
Don’t forget!
The poet-killer
Tsar Nicholas the First!
No, the drum beat
before the grieving troops,
when we buried our leader;
like the teeth of the Tsar
over the dead poet
drumming the roll of honour.
Such great honour
that for his closest friends
there’s no room. At his head, his feet,
to right and to left —
arms down their seams —
the chests and ugly mugs of the police.
Isn’t it strange —
even on the quietest of beds
to be supervised like a naughty little boy?
Whatever, whatever, whatever
could surpass such honour.
This honour’s too much!
“Look my country,” he cries:
“how despite what they say,
the monarch prizes the poet!”
With honours — honours — honours —
supreme honours — honours —
to hell with it!
Who, then — like thieves with a crony
who’s been shot — did they carry out?
Some traitor? No. From the courtyard
they carried the wisest man in Russia.
O muse of weeping,
the most beautiful of muses!
O wild fiend of the white night!
You spread a black blizzard over Russia,
and your howling pierces us like arrows.
And we shy away, and a hollow whisper
a hundred thousand-fold — swears to you.
Anna Akhmatova!
This name is a great sigh,
falling into a nameless depth.
We are crowned by this —
that we tread the same earth as you,
that the sky above us is the same!
And he who has been wounded by your
mortal fate departs already immortal
to his deathbed.
The domes burn in my singing city,
and the blind wanderer
praises the Holy Saviour . . .
And I make a gift to you of my city of bells,
Akhmatova! And of my heart as well.
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Author: Lewis Saul
