Waiting

My love will come,
Will throw open her arms and fold me within them,
Will understand my fears, note my changes.
In from the pouring dark, from the pitch night
Without stopping to slam the taxi door
She’ll run upstairs, across the rotting porch,
Burning with love and love’s happiness,
She’ll run dripping upstairs, she won’t knock,
Will take my head in her hands,
And when she flings her coat on a chair,
It will slip to the floor in a blue heap.

Yevgeny Yevtushenko (translated by me)

Comments

[wren]

Excellent poem. The passion is great, and so carefully described. I don't know the original, but you express a great tension between the motion of the lover's arrival and the longing for rest, i.e. taking head in hands, folding in arms. Like love, I suppose, both exist at once?

I know nothing of Yevtushenko. Is this typical?