The forbidden cabinet. The forbidden fruit. That fruit is—a volume, a huge blue-lilac volume with a gold inscription slantwise: Collected Works of A.S. Pushkin. I read the fat Pushkin in the cabinet with my nose in the book and on the shelf, almost in darkness and almost right up against it and even a little bit suffocated by his weight that came right into the throat, and almost blinded by the nearness of the tiny letters. I read Pushkin right into the chest and right into the brain.
Marina TsvetaevaFor the spell is older than experience. For the tale is older than the record.
Marina TsvetaevaOne should write only those books from whose absence one suffers. In short: the ones you want on your own desk.
Marina TsvetaevaStichwörter: poetry writing-advice russian
Your name is a -- bird in my hand
a piece of -- ice on the tongue
one single movement of the lips.
Your name is: five signs,
a ball caught in flight, a
silver bell in the mouth
a stone, cast in a quiet pool
makes the splash of your name, and
the sound is in the clatter of
night hooves, loud as a thunderclap
or it speaks straight into my forehead,
shrill as the click of a cocked gun.
Your name -- how impossible, it
is a kiss in the eyes on
motionless eyelashes, chill and sweet.
Your name is a kiss of snow
a gulp of icy spring water, blue
as a dove. About your name is: sleep.
На одного маленького ребенка в мире не хватило любви.
Marina Tsvetaevaتذكرني بيسر، وبيسرٍ انسني !
Marina Tsvetaevaأشعاري المبعثرة فوق الغبار في المكتبات (حيث لا أحد إشتراها ولن يشتريها) أشعاري تلك كما النبيذ المعتق سيأتي دورها !
Marina Tsvetaevaكم أحب أنصاف الإبتسامات رداً علي الأسئلة !
Marina Tsvetaevaالرأس فارغ الي درجة فاتنة ..
لأن القلب مفعم حتي الإمتلاء !
الشاعر من بعيد يبدأ الكلام .. الشاعر بعيداً يأخذه الكلام !
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