For My Poems, Written So Early

Poem By Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva

For my poems, written so early
That I didn't even know I was a poet,
Hurled like drops from a fountain,
Like sparks from rockets,

That burst like tiny devils,
Into the sanctuary of sleep and incense,
For my poems about youth and death
-- For my unread poems!

Scattered in dusty bookstores,
Where no one ever buys them!
For my poems, like precious wines,
A time will come.

Comments about For My Poems, Written So Early

It is often said that the earlier poems and stories of writers are least interested in that time and when fame and coverage is came the same poems and stories are most welcomed by the readers. The poet narrates her earlier poem which is not at all sold but kept in dust of shelf which is interesting.
nice poem that I completely identify with...


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Other poems of MARINA IVANOVNA TSVETAEVA

Grey Hairs

These are ashes of treasures:
Of hurt and loss.
These are ashes in face of which
Granite is dross.

Lady With Camelias

Your whole way with shining evil's coal
Margaret, they all do bravely judge.
What's your fault? The body sinned as such,

Little World

Children - are staring of eyes so frightful,
Mischievous legs on a wooden floor,
Children - is sun in the gloomy motives,
Hypotheses' of happy sciences world.

Much Like Me

Much like me, you make your way forward,
Walking with downturned eyes.
Well, I too kept mine lowered.
Passer-by, stop here, please.

To Asya

Evening noise in the burning sunset
On twilight of winter day.
The third call. Hurry, remember me,
You that are going away!

To Mother

In the old Strauss waltz for the first time
We had listened to your quiet call,
Since then all the living things are alien
And the knocking of the clock consoles.