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Boris Pasternak

(10 February 1890 - 30 May 1960 / Moscow)

March


The sun is hotter than the top ledge in a steam bath;
The ravine, crazed, is rampaging below.
Spring -- that corn-fed, husky milkmaid --
Is busy at her chores with never a letup.

The snow is wasting (pernicious anemia --
See those branching veinlets of impotent blue?)
Yet in the cowbarn life is burbling, steaming,
And the tines of pitchforks simply glow with health.

These days -- these days, and these nights also!
With eavesdrop thrumming its tattoos at noon,
With icicles (cachectic!) hanging on to gables,
And with the chattering of rills that never sleep!

All doors are flung open -- in stable and in cowbarn;
Pigeons peck at oats fallen in the snow;
And the culprit of all this and its life-begetter--
The pile of manure -- is pungent with ozone.

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003

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  • Roman Golubev (1/25/2008 7:45:00 PM)

    February. To get some ink and cry!
    To write about February in sobs,
    While rumbling slush is
    Burning with the wet-black soils.

    To get a horse-cab. For six grivnas,
    Through peal of bells and click of wheels
    To be conveyed where the showers
    Are noisier than ink and tears.

    Where like the charcoaled pears,
    Off those trees the thousand rooks
    Will tear off into the puddles and
    Rain dry sorrow down my eyes.

    Under it black is melting through,
    And wind is ravished with the calls.
    The more they random, more they truly
    The poems are rhyming in the sobs.

    1912

    Translated by Roman Golubev @ 26 Jan 2008 (Report) Reply

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