Marina Tsvetaeva and Marty Smith - Workshop 20/06/22
Hello, everyone.
Marina Tsvetaeva died in 1941 at the age of 48. She lived through the Russian Revolution. Her husband was executed for espionage.
Marty Smith is an ex-trackwork rider from New Zealand. She attended Institute of Modern Letters courses held by Greg O'Brien.
Themes from the first poetic text are decay and descent. Think about how things can deteriorate or go downhill. Write about that.
A theme from the second poetic text is memory and uncertainty. Try to convey a sense of uncertain memory in your writing.
The structure of the first text is in the 'we' voice. How can you write while using the word 'we'.
The structure of the second text is much shorter and more cryptic. Try to leave some of your meaning uncertain.
Six words to attempt to incorporate into your writing from Tsvetaeva: cell, manage, bend, scarcely, lost, gentle.
Six words from Smith: leave, carry, net, pick, time, unlit.
If you have a copy of The Exercise Book (Manhire, Duncum, Price & Wilkins), turn to "#44: Transliteration" for a related challenge. For a real challenge, attempt to find some Tsvetaeva in Russian as your source material.
That's all. I hope you are inspired to write today.
Bound for Hell
by Marina Tsvetaeva
translated by Stephen Edgar
Hell, my ardent sisters, be assured,
Is where we’re bound; we’ll drink the pitch of hell—
We, who have sung the praises of the lord
With every fiber in us, every cell.
We, who did not manage to devote
Our nights to spinning, did not bend and sway
Above a cradle—in a flimsy boat,
Wrapped in a mantle, we’re now borne away.
Every morning, every day, we’d rise
And have the finest Chinese silks to wear;
And we’d strike up the songs of paradise
Around the campfire of a robbers’ lair,
We, careless seamstresses (our seams all ran,
Whether we sewed or not)—yet we have been
Such dancers, we have played the pipes of Pan:
The world was ours, each one of us a queen.
First, scarcely draped in tatters, and disheveled,
Then plaited with a starry diadem;
We’ve been in jails, at banquets we have reveled:
But the rewards of heaven, we’re lost to them,
Lost in nights of starlight, in the garden
Where apple trees from paradise are found.
No, be assured, my gentle girls, my ardent
And lovely sisters, hell is where we’re bound.
The Unforgiven Grandmother
by Marty Smith
I come from over the hills,
leave my tell-tale horse in the trees
and come by walking, silent.
I carry my good right hook, just in case
she tries anything.
I catch her near the gooseberry nets.
Surprised, she comes too close
then has to pretend she never
says or thinks anything.
I am a flowerfield she has to pick
her way through very carefully.
There are wasps all over the jam
in the kitchen. She hasn't had time.
I go with her to the ship in the unlit room
building itself slowly stick by stick in the dark.