Boris Pasternak

(10 February 1890 - 30 May 1960 / Moscow)

Feasts - Poem by Boris Pasternak

I drink the gall of skies in autumn, tuberoses'
Sweet bitterness in your betrayals burning stream;
I drink the gall of nights, of crowded parties' noises,
Of sobbing virgin verse, and of a throbbing dream.

We fiends of studious fight a battle everlasting
Against our daily bread - can't stand the sober mood.
The troubled wind of nights is merely a toastmaster
Whose toasts, as like as not, will do no one much good.

Heredity and death are our guests at table.
A quiet dawn will paint bright-red the tops of trees.
An anapaest, like mice, will on the bread-plate scrabble,
And Cinderella will rush in to change her dress.

The floors have all been swept, and everything is dainty,
And like a child's sweet kiss, breathes quietly my verse,
And Cinderella flees-by cab on days of plenty,
And on shanks' pony when the last small coin is lost.

Comments about Feasts by Boris Pasternak

  • Susan Williams (2/4/2016 3:28:00 PM)

    Thud! That is the sound of my head hitting the table! I am so astounded by this man's talent that I am dropped like a deer from a gun shot. It is such an honor and a privilege to read his words so many years after he laid his pen down. (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, April 3, 2010

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