The Hour of the Soul - Marina Tsvetayeva

The Hour of the Soul

1

 At the deep hour of the soul and night,
Not figured yet on any clock,
Into a young boy's eyes I led my sight
Not figured yet as a double lock

On the flow of nights for anyone,
Pond filled to oblivion, to the rims,
And resting tranquilly.
                                    From now on
Your life gets underway, begins.

The greying Roman she-wolf's eye,
Espying in her nursling - Rome.
Dream-conjuring maternity
Of the rock... There is no name, no home

For my perplexities... I've shed
My every veil, have grown from loss.
Thus kneeling, bowing down her head
Over the wicker basket was

Egypt's daughter...

[14 July 1923]

2

At the deep hour of the soul,
Deep hour - nocturnal...
(Gigantic stride of the soul,
Soul in night's hold.)

At that hour, soul, rule all
The worlds you will
To govern - palaces of soul,
Soul, rule them all.

Make rusty your lips, with snow
Powder your lashes
(Atlantic sigh of soul,
Soul in night's hold...)

Soul, with darkness kohl
The eyes where like Vega
You arise... Of sweetest fruit
Make bitter gall.

Make bitter, dark as coal.
Grow great: and rule.

[8 August 1923]

3

For the soul there's an hour, as there is for the moon,
For the owl, the gloom, the dark.
For the soul there's an hour as there was for the tune,
In Saul's dream, of David's harp...

Vanity, tremble at that hour,
Wash away your rouge and your shine.
For the soul there's an hour like the thundershower,
My child, and this hour is mine.

The hour of the breast's most precious depths,
The breaking of a dam.
All things are torn from familiar berths,
All secrets from each mouth's clam,

All veils from eyes. All footprints led
To their source. All the notes unstuck
From their staves. The soul's hour is the hour of Dread,
My child, and that hour has struck.

'O Dread of mine.' That's what you'll coak.
Thus, tortured by the knife
The surgeon plies, children reproach
Their mother: 'Why are we alive?'

And she, with her hands' cool palms relieves
Their fever. 'It must be. Rest.'
'My child, the Soul's hour is like the knife's.
But the knife is blessed.'

[14 August 1923]

Marina Tsvetayeva. Selected Poems.Translated by David McDuff. Highgreen: Bloodaxe Books, 1991.