pidgevorg's review against another edition
5.0
By far the absolute best translations of Tsvetaeva I've ever seen. Everything matches the original: meaning, form, sound, rhythm, rhyme, actually good poetry... You get the point. This should be the definitive translation. No translation is ever perfect, but this one is like 99.44% faithful.
It's a good sample of her work as well: 67 poems ranging from 1909 to 1938. The progression of her style is pretty well represented.
It's a good sample of her work as well: 67 poems ranging from 1909 to 1938. The progression of her style is pretty well represented.
maya_irl's review against another edition
5.0
"What could you know about me if
We never slept or drank together?"
We never slept or drank together?"
slowheaven's review against another edition
3.0
I really wish I could understand these poems in the original language because, while the translation may have tried to keep true to Tsvetaeva's rhythms, I have read other renditions of certain poems in this collection that I much prefer. A lot of these poems kept giving me a frustrating sense of proximity to what she wanted me to feel/know/see, like trying to make out a figure in detail through frosted glass. But seldom could I break through the haze; perhaps the fault is with me. I would like to try other translations despite this. Some favorites:
"For Mama"
"You walk, somewhat like myself..."
"P.E."
"In my unending city there is night... "
"There's a window lit..."
"My day's peculiar and mad..."
"Nights without the beloved..."
"An attempt at jealousy"
"For Mama"
"You walk, somewhat like myself..."
"P.E."
"In my unending city there is night... "
"There's a window lit..."
"My day's peculiar and mad..."
"Nights without the beloved..."
"An attempt at jealousy"
grotesqueanimal's review against another edition
3.5
“Where does such tenderness come from?
These curls that I stroke with my hand
Aren’t the first I’ve stroked, and I
Knew lips that were darker than yours.
The stars rose in the sky and faded,
Where does such tenderness come from? —
And glowing eyes also rose and faded
Right next to my own two eyes.
And I used to listen to greater hymns
In complete darkness, at night,
Betrothed — Oh, tenderness! —
On the chest of the singer himself.
Where does such tenderness come from,
And what do I do with it, you, sly,
Adolescent, vagabond singer,
Whose lashes couldn’t be longer?”
February 18, 1916
These curls that I stroke with my hand
Aren’t the first I’ve stroked, and I
Knew lips that were darker than yours.
The stars rose in the sky and faded,
Where does such tenderness come from? —
And glowing eyes also rose and faded
Right next to my own two eyes.
And I used to listen to greater hymns
In complete darkness, at night,
Betrothed — Oh, tenderness! —
On the chest of the singer himself.
Where does such tenderness come from,
And what do I do with it, you, sly,
Adolescent, vagabond singer,
Whose lashes couldn’t be longer?”
February 18, 1916
punkgodofthestraightrazor's review against another edition
4.0
Bittersweet
This is the first time that I have read Marina Tsvetaeva's work. I was ambivalent about her early work, but entranced by her later poems, particularly the ones involving God and religion.
This is the first time that I have read Marina Tsvetaeva's work. I was ambivalent about her early work, but entranced by her later poems, particularly the ones involving God and religion.
lokster71's review
4.0
I picked this up following my introduction to Tsvertaeva in Four of Us: Pasternak, Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva, Mandelstam, also translated by Andrey Kneller. I thought I'd follow-up by reading more of her work and so picked this volume.
Once again I can't speak for the accuracy of the translation, but Kneller brings them to life and his short introduction explains his translation philosophy: to translate not to transgress. They certainly feel alive and have a voice of their own. This doesn't feel like a tediously literal translation that loses sight of the poetry in a quest for absolute accuracy. And until I learn to read Russian I'm unlikely to be able to test it.
The poetry is wonderful. There is a real energy about them. You sometimes feel Tsvetaeva is like an old Testament prophet shouting about love and loss; life and death. Tsvetaeva is one of the 'big four' of modern Russian poetry and one can see why. I found her work more accessible than the Pasternak that I have read so far - which isn't a huge amount I'll admit. I have read little Mandelstam, although I am about to correct that. I love Akhmatova, but even there I need to read more of her work.
These poems are worth reading for their vividness and because they seem to reach both backwards and forwards in history. They seem modern, but they also call back to older traditions.
Again I wish I could write better reviews of poetry. All I can tell you is whether it moved me or not. And these poems did. More Tsvetaeva to come.
I have also, as a result of reading this and the 'Four of Us' book bought The Penguin Book of Russian Poetry to expand my reach beyond 'the Four' and to get a clearer understand of the tradition from which they come and where they will go.
Once again I can't speak for the accuracy of the translation, but Kneller brings them to life and his short introduction explains his translation philosophy: to translate not to transgress. They certainly feel alive and have a voice of their own. This doesn't feel like a tediously literal translation that loses sight of the poetry in a quest for absolute accuracy. And until I learn to read Russian I'm unlikely to be able to test it.
The poetry is wonderful. There is a real energy about them. You sometimes feel Tsvetaeva is like an old Testament prophet shouting about love and loss; life and death. Tsvetaeva is one of the 'big four' of modern Russian poetry and one can see why. I found her work more accessible than the Pasternak that I have read so far - which isn't a huge amount I'll admit. I have read little Mandelstam, although I am about to correct that. I love Akhmatova, but even there I need to read more of her work.
These poems are worth reading for their vividness and because they seem to reach both backwards and forwards in history. They seem modern, but they also call back to older traditions.
Again I wish I could write better reviews of poetry. All I can tell you is whether it moved me or not. And these poems did. More Tsvetaeva to come.
I have also, as a result of reading this and the 'Four of Us' book bought The Penguin Book of Russian Poetry to expand my reach beyond 'the Four' and to get a clearer understand of the tradition from which they come and where they will go.
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