March Poem by Boris Pasternak
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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/25/2024 12:15:42 PM # 1.0.0.1119
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