“My poems are a diary, my poetry is the poetry of proper names” — M. Tsvetaeva's poems are graceful and musical. They have a lot of pure, intimate. Her soul is in full view. Fate is painful, tragic. Poetry is immortal. And life is like a thundercloud, like the brightest ray of sunny summer, like a nightmare and the exultation of the deep sea...

Today is Marina Ivanovna's birthday. October 8, 1892 in Moscow, in the family of professor-philologist Ivan Vladimirovich and pianist Maria Mein, a daughter was born.

Mom hoped that her daughter would follow in her footsteps and become a pianist. Once she wrote the following lines in her diary: "My four-year-old Musya walks around me and puts everything into rhymes - maybe there will be a poet?" As time has shown, the prophecy came true. And since the age of six, Marina has been writing poetry in Russian, French, and German.

“They gave me a marine name - Marina,” the poetess proudly noted. Besides, it is very romantic, beautiful. Marina Tsvetaeva loved beauty and saw it in everything, even where it simply did not exist. Fantasizing and falling in love is about her. So she met her husband Sergei Efron. Married at 19.

Marina Tsvetaeva and Sergei Efron, 1911

Their acquaintance took place in Koktebel. Seryozha was a cheerful and cheerful person, the soul of any company, and Marina was deeply vulnerable, romantic, sensual, deeply immersed in the world of fantasies and girlish dreams - not like everyone else, a loner. Once on the Koktebel beach, Tsvetaeva told her friend, the poet Maximilian Voloshin: “Max, I will marry the one who guesses what my favorite stone is.” And so it happened. The young Muscovite Sergei Efron - tall, thin, with huge "sea-colored" eyes - presented Marina on the very first day of their acquaintance with a Genoese carnelian bead, which Tsvetaeva wore later all her life.

Returning to Moscow, Marina and Sergey got married. They weren't talking modern language, the most beautiful couple, but their love will give odds to anyone who doubts the beauty of their souls and immaculately young, insanely sincere and loving hearts. Beauty is not ostentatious, deeply internal - today it is a rare gift, but at the same time an illusion, naivety. Marina Ivanovna loved and was loved. I was happy and I was unhappy.

Those who are no longer alive today are either not spoken at all, or nothing bad is said. About Marina Tsvetaeva, about the great Russian poetess, about a fragile woman with a broken fate, one should speak with respect, without delving into the past, without looking for, without stirring up senseless reasons for leaving. We have something to remember, to expose. Reading the lines of a subtle human soul, we resurrect in every word, in every letter an invaluable spiritual heritage. the greatest woman Russian literature, perhaps the only poetess whose work is so deeply autobiographical.

Choosing the best in the work of Marina Tsvetaeva is a thankless task. Of the hundreds of fine vintage wines, the best is the one that suits the place and time. It is the same with poetry - in autumn we see beauty in bright yellow colors, and in spring we admire green ones. The best poems by Marina Tsvetaeva are the best for each individual. These are especially close to me:

The People's Artist of the USSR, theater and film actress, the magnificent and inimitable Alisa Freindlikh reads.

In the old Strauss waltz for the first time
We heard your silent call
Since then, all living things are alien to us
And the quick chime of the clock is gratifying.

We, like you, welcome the sunsets
Reveling in the nearness of the end.
All that we are rich on the best evening,
You put us in our hearts.

Tirelessly leaning towards children's dreams,
(Without you, only a month looked at them!)
You led your little ones by
Bitter life of thoughts and deeds.

WITH early years we are close, who is sad,
Laughter is boring and homely shelter is alien ...
Our ship is not sent off in a good moment
And floats at the behest of all winds!

All paler azure island - childhood,
We are alone on deck.
Apparently sadness left a legacy
You, oh, mother, to your girls!

Mirok

Children are the looks of timid eyes,
Playful legs knock on the parquet,
Children are the sun in cloudy motifs,
A whole world of hypotheses of joyful sciences.

Eternal mess in gold rings,
Affectionate words whisper in a drowsiness,
Peaceful pictures of birds and sheep,
That in a cozy nursery doze on the wall.

Children are evening, evening on the couch,
Through the window, in the fog, sparkles of lanterns,
The measured voice of the tale of Tsar Saltan,
About mermaids-sisters of fabulous seas.

Children are rest, a moment of peace is short,
A quivering vow to God at the bed,
Children are tender riddles of the world,
And the answer lies in the riddles themselves!

In the Kremlin

Where millions of star lamps
Burning before the face of antiquity,
Where the ringing of the evening is sweet to the heart,
Where the towers are in love with the sky;
Where in the shadow of the air folds
Dreams roam transparently white -
I understood the meaning of past riddles,
I became an attorney of the moon.

Delirious, with broken breathing,
I wanted to know everything, to the bottom:
What mysterious suffering
The queen in the sky is betrayed
And why to centennial buildings
So gently clings, always alone ...
What on earth is called a legend, -
The moon told me everything.

In silk-embroidered covers,
At the windows of gloomy palaces,
I saw tired queens,
In whose eyes a quiet call froze.
I saw, as in old fairy tales,
Swords, crown and ancient coat of arms,
And in someone's children's, children's eyes
The light that pours a magic sickle.

Oh how many eyes from these windows
Looked...

Suicide

There was an evening of music and affection,
Everything in the garden was in bloom.
In his thoughtful eyes
Mom looked so bright!
When did she disappear into the pond
And the water calmed down
He understood - with a gesture of an evil rod
Her sorcerer took her there.
A flute sobbed from a distant dacha
In the radiance of pink rays ...
He understood - before he was someone else,
Now the beggar has become a nobody.
He shouted "Mom!" over and over again
Then he made his way, as if in delirium,
To bed without saying a word
About the fact that mommy is in the pond.
Though there is an icon above the pillow,
But scary! “Ah, come home!”
…He was crying quietly. Suddenly from the balcony
There was a voice: "My boy!"

In an elegant narrow envelope
Found her "I'm sorry": "Always
Love and sadness are stronger than death.”
Stronger than death ... Yes, oh yes! ..

In Paris

Houses up to the stars, and the sky below
The earth in a daze is close to him.
In big and joyful Paris
All the same secret longing.

Noisy evening boulevards
The last ray of dawn has faded
Everywhere, everywhere all couples, couples,
Trembling of the lips and insolence of the eyes.

I'm alone here. To the trunk of a chestnut
Cling so sweet head!
And Rostand's verse is crying in my heart
As there, in abandoned Moscow.

Paris at night is alien and pitiful to me,
Dearer to the heart is the old delirium!
I'm going home, there is sadness of violets
And someone's affectionate portrait.

There is someone's gaze sadly brotherly.
There's a delicate profile on the wall.
Rostand and the martyr of Reichstadt
And Sarah - everyone will come in a dream!

In big and joyful Paris
I dream of grass, clouds,
And further laughter, and the shadows are closer,
And the pain is still deep.

Paris, June 1909

Prayer

Christ and God! I want a miracle
Now, now, at the beginning of the day!
Oh let me die while
All life is like a book to me.

You are wise, you will not say strictly:
- "Be patient, the term is not over yet."
You gave me too much!
I thirst at once - all roads!

I want everything: with the soul of a gypsy
Go to the songs for robbery,
For all to suffer to the sound of the organ
And an Amazon to rush into battle;

Fortune telling by the stars in the black tower
Lead the children forward, through the shadow...
To be a legend - yesterday,
To be madness - every day!

I love the cross, and silk, and helmets,
My soul is a trace of moments ...
You gave me childhood - better than a fairy tale
And give me death - at seventeen!

Witch

I am Eva, and my passions are great:
All my life my passionate trembling!
My eyes are embers,
And the hair is ripe rye,
And cornflowers reach out to them from the bread.
My mysterious age is good.

Have you seen the elves in the midnight darkness
Through the smoke of a lilac fire?
I will not take jingling coins from you, -
I am the ghostly elves sister...
And if you throw a witch in prison,
That death in captivity is fast!

Abbots, on midnight watch,
Said, "Close your door
A mad sorceress whose speech is a disgrace.
The sorceress is crafty, like a beast!
- It may be true, but my eyes are dark,
I'm a mystery, but...

Ase (“The evening rumble in the dying dawn ...”)

The evening rumble in the dying dawn
At dusk on a winter day.

Remember me!
The emerald wave of the sea is waiting for you,
blue paddle splash,
To live our life underground, difficult
You couldn't.
Well, go, if our struggle is gloomy
He does not call to our ranks,
If transparent moisture is more tempting,
Silvery flight of seagulls!
The sun is hot, bright, hot
You say hello to me.
Put your question to everything strong, bright
There will be an answer!
The evening rumble in the dying dawn
At dusk on a winter day.
Third call. Hurry, departing
Remember me!

mischief

Eleven strikes in the dark living room.
Will something come up today?
The naughty mom won't let you sleep!
This mom is a total nerd!

Pull off, laughing, a blanket from his shoulder,
(Cry funny and try!)
Teasing, scaring, laughing, tickling
Sleepy sister and brother.

She loosened her scythe again with a cloak,
Jumping, definitely not a lady ...
She will not yield to children in anything,
That weird mommy!

The sister hid her face in the pillow,
Deeper gone in a blanket
A boy without a count kisses the ring
Gold on mom's finger ...

little page

This baby with an inconsolable soul
Was born to be a knight
For the smile of a beloved lady.
But she found it funny
Like naive dramas
This childhood passion.

He dreamed of a glorious death,
On the might of proud kings
The country where the luminary rises.
But she found it amusing
This idea was repeated:
- "Grow up quickly!"

He wandered alone and gloomy
Between drooping, silver grasses,
Everyone dreamed of tournaments, of a helmet ...
The blond boy was funny
Spoiled by everyone
For a mocking disposition.

Over the bridge leaning over the water,
He whispered (that last one was nonsense!)
- “Here she nods to me from there!”
Quietly sailed, illuminated by a star,
On the surface of the pond
Dark blue beret.

This boy came from a dream
Into a cold world...

Among the lyrical poems of Marina Tsvetaeva there are many sad and sad

note. But the fate of Marina Tsvetaeva, and her family, and all our grandmothers and

grandfathers of that time - ruthless time, the time of the First World War,

Revolution, Stalin's concentration camps and the Second World War ... It was a time of loss,

a time of pain, suffering and poverty. Therefore, even through the great vitality of Marina

Tsvetaeva slips now and then sad, sad poems not only about love, but also

about life, about the sad fate of the Russian people.

I like that you are not sick of me

I like that you are not sick of me,
I like that I'm not sick of you,
That never a heavy globe of the earth
Won't float under our feet.

I like being funny
Dissolute - and do not play with words,
And do not blush with a suffocating wave,
Lightly touching sleeves.

I also like that you are with me
Calmly hug another
Don't read to me in hellfire
Burn for the fact that I do not kiss you.

That my tender name, my gentle, not
You mention neither day nor night - in vain ...
What never in church silence
They will not sing over us: hallelujah!

Thank you with heart and hand
Because you me, not knowing yourself!
So love: for my peace of the night,
For the rarity of meetings at sunset.

For our non-festivities under the moon,
For the sun, not above our heads,
Because you are sick - alas! - not by me
Because I'm sick - alas! - not you!

I did not love, but I cried.

I did not love, but I cried. No, I didn't, but still
Only you pointed out in the shadows the adored face.
Everything in our dream was not like love: No reasons, no evidence.

Only this image nodded to us from the evening hall,
Only we - you and I - brought him a mournful verse.
Adoration thread tied us stronger,
Than love - others.

But the impulse passed, and someone approached affectionately,
Who could not pray, but loved. Do not rush to judge!
You will be remembered to me like the most tender note
In the awakening of the soul.

In this sad soul you wandered, as in an unlocked house.
(In our house, in the spring...) Don't call me who has forgotten!
I filled all my minutes with you, except
The saddest thing is love.

I would like to live with you

I would like to live with you
IN small town,
Where is the eternal twilight
And eternal bells.

And in a small village inn
subtle ringing
Antique clocks are like droplets of time.

And sometimes in the evenings
From some attic - Flute.

And the flutist himself in the window,
And big tulips on the windows.
And maybe you would even
I was not loved...

Would you lie - how am I
I love you: lazy,
Indifferent, carefree.
Occasionally a rare crackle Matches.

The cigarette burns and goes out,
And trembles for a long, long time at its end
Gray short column of ashes.
You are too lazy to shake it off,
And all the cigarette flies into the fire...

Gypsy passion of separation.

Gypsy passion of separation!
You meet a little - you are already torn away.
I dropped my forehead into my hands
And I think, looking into the night:

No one, rummaging through our letters,
Didn't understand deeply
How treacherous we are, that is -
How true to yourself.

With great tenderness

With great tenderness - because
That I will soon leave everyone
I'm wondering who
Get wolf fur

To whom - a softening blanket
And a thin cane with a greyhound,
To whom - my silver bracelet,
Buried in turquoise...

And all the notes, and all the flowers,
Which can't be kept...
My last rhyme - and you,
My last night!

This sad verse is very autobiographical: after all, during the Soviet era, her husband Sergei Efron was shot, her daughter was imprisoned, no one hired her, even as a dishwasher, and on August 31, 1941, Marina Tsvetaeva could not stand all the hardships and deprivations of the new one, Soviet life and committed suicide. So it's not just the words "My last night!"

Rowan.

mountain ash
Chopped
Dawn.

Rowan -
fate
Bitter.

Rowan -
gray-haired
Descents.

Rowan!
fate
Russian.

You are a stranger to me

You are a stranger to me and not a stranger,
Native and non-native
Mine and not mine! going to you
Home - I won't say "visit"
And I won't say "home".

Love is like a fiery furnace:
And yet the ring is a big thing,
And yet the altar is a great light.
God did not bless!

Not kissed - kissed

They didn’t kiss - they kissed.
They didn’t speak - they breathed.
Maybe - you did not live on earth,
Maybe - only a cloak hung on a chair.

Maybe - for a long time under a flat stone
Calmed down your tender age.
I felt like wax
Little dead woman in roses.

I put my hand on my heart - it does not beat.
So easy without happiness, without suffering!
So it's gone - what people call
In the world - a love date.

Every verse is a child of love

Every verse is a child of love
Beggar illegitimate.
Firstborn - at the rut
To bow to the winds - laid.

Heart - hell and an altar,
Heart - heaven and shame.
Who is the father? Maybe the king
Maybe a king, maybe a thief.

Love! Love!

Love! Love! And in convulsions, and in the coffin
I will be alert - I will be seduced - I will be embarrassed - I will rush.
Oh honey! Not in a coffin snowdrift,
I won’t say goodbye to you in the cloud.

And not for that I have a pair of beautiful wings
Dana to keep pounds on the heart.
Swaddled, eyeless and voiceless
I will not multiply the miserable liberty.

No, I will free my hands, the camp is elastic
With a single wave from your swaddling clothes,
Death, I'll beat you! - A thousand miles in the district
The snows are melted - and the forest of bedrooms.

And if everything is - shoulders, wings, knees
Squeezing - she let herself be taken to the churchyard,
It is only then that, laughing at decay,
Rise up with a verse - or bloom like a rose!

Error.

When a snowflake that flies easily
Like a fallen star gliding,
You take it with your hand - it melts like a tear,
And it can't be returned to air.

When captivated by the transparency of the jellyfish,
We will touch it with the whim of our hands,
She is like a prisoner in bonds
Suddenly turns pale and suddenly dies.

When we want in wandering moths
To see not a dream, but an earthly reality:
Where is their outfit? From them on our fingers
One dawn painted dust!

Leave flying snowflakes with moths
And do not ruin the jellyfish on the sands!
You can't grab your dream with your hands,
You can't keep your dream in your hands!

It is impossible for what was unsteady sadness,
To say: "Be a passion! Grieve madness, rejoice!"
Your love was such a mistake
But without love, we perish. Wizard!

Your tender mouth is a solid kiss...

Your tender mouth is a solid kiss...
- And that's all, and I'm just like a beggar.
Who am I now? - United? - No, a thousand!
Conqueror? - No, conquest!

Is it love - or love,
Feather a whim - or the root cause,
Is it languishing according to the rank of an angel,
Or a little pretense - by vocation ...

Soul sorrow, eyes charm,
Is it a stroke of a pen - ah! - doesn't matter,
What will this mouth be called - how long
Your tender mouth is a solid kiss!

Tsvetaeva's prose is good too. I was shocked by the family chronicle "The House at the Old Pimen". Her letters to Pasternak are full of deep thoughts and strong feelings: “I don’t need loyalty as self-combat. I don’t understand loyalty as a constancy of passion, it’s alien to me. "Jealousy? I simply yield, as the soul always yields to the body, especially someone else's, from the most honest contempt, from unheard of incommensurability. The pain that could have been dissolved in contempt and indignation." Not a single shot in the forehead. Shoot because of Psyche! Why, she never existed (a special form of immortality). They shoot because of the mistress of the house, not because of the guest. "" In poetry, everything is eternal, in a state of eternal life, "I defended the human right to privacy - not in a room, for writing, but in the world." "It's not my fault that I can't stand idyll. collective farms and factories are the same as happy love. I can’t. "I was myself (soul) only in my notebooks and on lonely roads." I'm taking everything to the tomb! - so that after millennia the grain will sprout. Words about verses do not help, verses are needed."

I believe that Tsvetaeva is the first
poet of the 20th century. Of course, Tsvetaeva.
I. Brodsky

The red color, festive, cheerful and at the same time dramatically intense, chooses Tsvetaev as a sign of his birth:

This "red brush of mountain ash" contains the fullness of the manifestation of the life and creative forces of the poetess, an emotional and poetic explosion, the maximalism of her poetry, and - a breakdown, a future tragic death.

Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was born on September 26 (October 8), 1892 in a Moscow professorial family: father I.V. Tsvetaev - founder of the Museum of Fine Arts in Moscow, mother of M.A. Main - pianist, student of A.G. Rubinstein (died 1906). Due to the illness of her mother, Tsvetaeva lived for a long time in Italy, Switzerland, and Germany in her childhood.

The first books of poetry were The Evening Album (1910) and The Magic Lantern (1912).

In 1918-1922, Tsvetaeva, along with her children, was in revolutionary Moscow, her husband S. Efron fought in the white army (poems of 1917-1921, full of sympathy for the white movement, made up the Swan Camp cycle). From 1922 to 1939, Tsvetaeva was in exile, where she went after her husband. These years were marked by everyday disorder, difficult relations with the Russian emigration, and a hostile attitude from critics.

In the summer of 1939, following her husband and daughter Ariadna, Tsvetaeva and her son Georgy returned to their homeland. In the same year, the husband and daughter were arrested (S. Efron was shot in 1941, Ariadne was rehabilitated in 1955). M. Tsvetaeva's poems were not published, there was no work or housing. At the beginning of the war (August 31, 1941), being evacuated to Yelabuga (now Tatarstan), in a state of depression, M. Tsvetaeva committed suicide.

The main works of Tsvetaeva: poetry collections "Evening Album", "Magic Lantern", "Milestones", "Separation", "Poems to Blok", "Craft", "Psyche", "After Russia", "Swan Camp"; the poems "The Tsar Maiden", "Well Done", "The Poem of the Mountain", "The Poem of the End", "The Ladder", "The Poem of the Air", the satirical poem "The Pied Piper", "Perekop"; tragedy "Ariadne", "Phaedra"; prose works “My Pushkin”, memories of A. Bely, V.Ya. Bryusov, M.A. Voloshin, B.L. Pasternak, "The Tale of Sonechka" and others.