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Boris Pasternak (1890 – 1960)
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WIND
I am no more but you live on,
And the wind, whining and complaining,
Is shaking house and forest, straining
Not single fir trees one by one
But the whole wood, all trees together,
With all the distance far and wide,
Like sail – less yachts in stormy weather
When moored within a bay they lie.
And this not out of wanton pride
Or fury bent on aimless wronging,
But to provide a lullaby
For you with words of grief and longing.
ÈÜÚÜÜÏ
ÇáÚÜÇÕÜÝÜÜÉ
AFTER THE STORM
The air is full of after-thunder freshness,
And everything rejoices and revives.
With the whole outburst of its purple clusters
The lilac drinks the air of paradise.
The gutters overflow; the change of weather
Makes all you see appear alive and new.
Meanwhile the shades of sky are growing lighter,
Beyond the blackest cloud the height is blue.
An artist’s hand, with mastery still greater
Wipes dirt and dust off objects is his path.
Reality and life, the past and present,
Emerge transformed out of his colour-bath.
The memory of over half a lifetime
Like swiftly passing thunder dies away.
The century is no more under ward ship:
High time to let the future have its say.
It is not revolutions and upheavals
That clear the road to new and better days,
But revelations, lavishness and torments
Of someone’s soul, inspired and ablaze.
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·
AFTER THE STORM : On the conclusion of a vast
half-a-century –long period and the necessity of breaking the continuity and
interpreting the liberated blank space of the future, Pasternak wrote to N. A.
Tabidze :”A vast site has been freed, as yet empty and unoccupied, for the new
and unimaginable, for what will be divined by a mind of great genius,
independence, freshness, for those new dates and days that will be inspired and
prompted by life”.
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FEBRUARY
Black spring. Pick up your pen, and weeping,
Of February, in sob s and ink,
Write poems, while the slush in thunder
Is burning in the black of spring.
Through clanking wheels, through church bells ringing
A hired cab will take you where
The town has ended, where the showers
Are louder still than ink and tears.
Where rooks, like charred pears, from the branches
In thousands break away, and sweep
Into the melting snow, instilling
Dry sadness into eyes that weep.
Beneath – the earth is black in puddles,
The wind with croaking screeches throbs,
And – the more randomly, the surer
Poems are forming out of sobs.
1912.
Translated by ;
Lydia Pasternak Slater
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·
FEBRUARY:The image “black spring” goes back to
the title of a poem by Innokenti Annensky, of 1909. Pasternak was later to
explain this image as “the time of first noticed, urban spring, when the day
gets so much longer that you are suddenly made aware of it” ( Letters to
O.Sillova, 22 February, 1935).
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December 27, 2000