Russian poet, whose novel DOKTOR ZHIVAGO brought him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1958. Pasternak had to decline the honour because the protests in his home country. The novel was banned in the Soviet Union and Pasternak was expelled from the Union of Soviet Writers. After Doctor Zhivago had reached the West, it was soon translated into 18 languages. Pasternak was rehabilitated posthumously in 1987, which made possible the publication of his major work.
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March

Sunlight scorches to a seven-fold swelter,
Frenzied life surges from the ravine,
And a thousand labors seethe and prosper
In the hands of strapping milkmaid Spring.

The last snow's traces waste away and sicken
In enfeebled, livid, branching veins,
But life-force fumes and vapors in the cowshed
And health comes bursting from the hayfork tines.

Nights and days and nights - endless succession,
Drubbing droplets of the midday rains,
Trickle of an icicle's anemia,
Bubbling chatter of unsleeping streams!

Doors stand open - stable, cowshed. Pigeons
Pick at oats among the snow. Out there
Breathes the source and author of this life force -
The dung heap with its breath of space and air.

Boris Pasternak

**********************


"White Night"


Amid visions of eras long past
I see a house in the Petersburg quarter,
And the daughter of steppe-dwelling gentlefolk,
Born in Kursk and now auditing courses.

You're attractive, with many admirers.
And in the pale Petersburg night
The two of us sit at your window
Peering down at the town from on high.

The streetlamps - like moths made of gauze -
Are touched with the morning's first shivers,
And all that I softly recount
Bears the mark of that sleeping far distance.

And the two of us sit in the thrall
Of a shared timid faith in some secret -
Like the outspreading Petersburg scene
Beyond the expanse of the Neva.

And now, on that white night in spring,
In the distance of faraway forests
Nightingales flood each wooded reach
With the peals of their thunderous praises.

The lunatic trillings unfurl,
And the voice of that delicate songster
Awakes a commotion and thrill
In the depths of enraptured forests.

And the night steals away to those places,
Past the fence, like a barefooted vagrant;
In its wake, from the eavesdropping sill
Hangs the trail of our half-heard exchanges.

In those echoes of overheard dialogue,
Across the lath fencing and gardens
The boughs of the apple and cherry
Are decked in their white blossom garments.

And into the street from the orchard
The trees' pallid phantoms come drifting,
As if bidding farewell to the white
Night, and to and all it witnessed.

"The Wind"


I am no more, but you're alive.
And the wind with plaint and wailing
Sets the woods and villa swaying.
It rocks not only single pines
But all the trees in joint array
And the remote, unbounded skyline -
Like wooden hulls of frigates riding
On the broad surface of the bay.
And this - not out of waywardness,
Nor in a fit of fury blind,
But in life's anguish to seek out
Words to compose your lullaby.

Boris Pasternak

Indian Summer

Currant leaves, rough and hirsute as hessian.
There is laughter and ringing of glass,
And slicing and pickling and peppering,
And cloves marinating in jars.

For a jest the woods hurl all this uproar
Pell-mell down the steep hillside slope,
Where the hazels stand scorched in the sunshine,
Toasted brown in a bonfire glow.

Here the roadway leads down to the hollow,
One feels sad for these dry, broken boughs,
And for autumn, the old rag-and-bone man,
Who swept everything into this trough -

Sad that the world is much simpler
Than smart Alecs seem to suppose,
Sad for the tree grove that's drooping,
Sad that everything comes to a close.

But when all you survey burns to cinders,
And when flakes of autumnal white soot
Drift like gossamer strands through the window,
There's no purpose in any blank looks.

A garden path leads through the fencing,
Then loses its way in the birch.
Household hubbub and laughter ring out, and
From afar their faint echoes return.

Fairy Tale
by Boris Pasternak


In a land far away
And in days long ago
Over stubble and steppe
Rode a warrior bold.

From afar he espied
Through the dust of the plain
A dark forest rise up,
But he rode on a-main.

Uneasy feelings
Gnawed at his heart:
"Beware of the water!
Tighten your girth!"

But no heed paid the horseman
And spurred on his mount,
And he galloped full tilt
To the wood on the mound.

With a turn at the barrow
He rode into the vale,
Crossed over the hill
And skirted the glade.

Then into a hollow
With wild animal trail,
Down a path through the wood
To a watering place,

And paying the voice
Of his instinct no heed,
He rode down the ravine
To water his steed.

* * *
Fording the stream,
The knight came to a cave
Whose entrance was lit
By a sulfurous flame,

His vision was clouded
By thick crimson smoke,
But a call of appeal
Rang out through the grove.

The knight gave a start
And spurred on his horse
And rode down the gorge
To answer that voice.

At the sight he beheld
He clenched firmly his lance:
The head and tail of a dragon
With scale-covered flanks.

The flames from its maw
Cast a glow all around,
And round a fair damsel
Its coils had been wound.

And over the shoulder
Of the hapless fair maid,
Like the thong of a whip,
The dragon's neck swayed.

By local tradition
In form of a ransom
Fair girls were delivered
To the lair of the monster.
By paying this tribute
The folk of the region,
While living in hovels,
Could purchase their freedom.

And as it tormented
Its newly won victim,
Round her arm and her throat
The snake slithered and twisted.

In prayer to the heavens
The knight raised his glance
And for the battle
Made ready his lance.

* * *
Eyelids tight closed,
Fords, rivers and streams,
Cloudy height of the heavens,
And ages and years…

The knight fell from the saddle,
Losing his helmet.
With its hooves his proud steed
Meanwhile trampled the serpent.

Then both horse and dragon
Fell dead on the sand:
The rider lay swooning,
The damsel in trance.

Bathed in blue light
Was the vault of the heaven.
Who was she? Tsar's daughter?
Or princess? Or peasant?

Oh, excess of gladness!
Her eyes brimmed and wept,
Then she collapsed
In oblivion and slept.

The knight's strength returned
And then waned once again.
His pulse from such bloodshed
Scarce beat in his veins.

But their hearts were still pounding.
Now maiden, now warrior
Strove to wake up,
Then relapsed into slumber.

Eyelids tight closed,
Fords, rivers and streams.
Cloudy height of the heavens,
And ages and years…

Winter Night

It snowed and snowed, the whole world over,
Snow swept the world from end to end.
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

As during summer midges swarm
To beat their wings against a flame
Out in the yard the snowflakes swarmed
To beat against the window pane

The blizzard sculptured on the glass
Designs of arrows and of whorls.
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

Distorted shadows fell
Upon the lighted ceiling:
Shadows of crossed arms,of crossed legs-
Of crossed destiny.

Two tiny shoes fell to the floor
And thudded.
A candle on a nightstand shed wax tears
Upon a dress.

All things vanished within
The snowy murk-white,hoary.
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

A corner draft fluttered the flame
And the white fever of temptation
Upswept its angel wings that cast
A cruciform shadow

It snowed hard throughout the month
Of February, and almost constantly
A candle burned on the table;
A candle burned.

-- Boris Pasternak

[edit] Doctor Zhivago (1957)

Snow, snow over the whole land
across all boundaries.
The candle burned on the table,
the candle burned.

Boris Pasternak

Thank you for posting Pasternak's works.
I have his book of the Lara poems at home.
I used to write poetry, so I can really appreciate this topic.

Sincerely,
Gisele

Doctor Zhivago ( Russian: Доктор Живаго) is a highly significant 20th century novel by Boris Pasternak. The novel is named after its protagonist, Yuri Zhivago, a medical doctor and poet. The word zhivago shares a root with the Russian word for life (жизнь), one of the major themes of the novel. It tells the story of a man torn between two women, set primarily against the backdrop of the Russian Revolution of 1917. The book was made into a film by David Lean in 1965 and has also been adapted numerous times for television, most recently as a miniseries for Russian TV in 2005.
********************
Thank you for your replies.
I think it is Yuri Zhivago who actually wrote the Lara poems. I have to look into this.

Thank you for the awesome topic dear Inda!!!

quote:

Originally posted by dear Inda:
Doctor Zhivago ( Russian: Доктор Живаго) is a highly significant 20th century novel by Boris Pasternak. The novel is named after its protagonist, Yuri Zhivago, a medical doctor and poet. The word zhivago shares a root with the Russian word for life (жизнь)...

I saw the movie, wow, one of the saddest! Because he wrote poems about feelings he was persecuted?

They got to that town, devestated, asked "which army did this? White? Red?" the people didn't even know, or likely care, they were half dead... boyo miseries....

A powerful work, and now I get to enjoy his marvelous poems!


Again thanks for this awesome topic, amazingly the Russian letters work?!? Yay!
жизнь
to all!

I LOVE BORIS PASTERNAK WITH ALL MY HEART!
Of all the authors I "met" in my youth, he is the one who touched me in the most overwhelming way.

"As in an explosion, I would erupt with all the wonderful things I saw and understood in this world." Boris Pasternak

I even began to study Russian in order to read him in the original language, but I never arrived at that level.

Boris' work which impressed me more than any other was a small book containing a collection of letters he had written to his Mother, the acclaimed pianist Rosa Kaufman. The most beautiful language one can imagine!

Thank you dear Inda for this beautiful post, honoring this truly outstanding Author. He was given the Nobel prize with this motivation:
""for his important achievement both in contemporary lyrical poetry and in the field of the great Russian epic tradition"

Boris was the one who made me fall in love with the WORD.

This snow landscape reminds me of the movie Doctor Shivago when Yuri and Lara go to live in the country ...


Thank you Boris!

Love,
Margherita

Thank you all for contributing to this wonderful topic.


Winds

I have died.You live alone with woe.
Now stormwinds, keening and repining,
Rock house and pine trees to and fro-
Not tree by tree, but at one blow
All groves together intertwining
With the illimitable space.
Thus sailboats sheltered at their base
Are rocked by winds along a bay.
But not in senseless agitation
The stormwind rages day by day:
Alone of grief its lamentation
And for you its lullaby of desolation.

Boris Pasternak

Thank you all for your wonderful contributions to this topic.

Thank you Margherita for your touching reply.

quote:

I LOVE BORIS PASTERNAK WITH ALL MY HEART!
Of all the authors I "met" in my youth, he is the one who touched me in the most overwhelming way.

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Intoxication

Nearth a willow with ivy entangled
We take cover in blustery weather.
My arms are wreathed about you;
In my raincape we huddle together.

I was wrong: Not ivy, my dearest,
But hops encircle this willow.
Well, then, let's spread in its shelter
My cape for a rug, and a pillow!

Boris Pasternak

Wonderful thread. Thank you everyone.

Sincerely,
Gisele

Thank you Gisele and everyone for sharing your thoughts.

I found a sligntly different translation to a small section of Boris pasternak's poem from March

The translations will be varied, and it is always difficult to do justice to a poem when translating it.

O nights, O passing days and nights!
The drip from eaves and window sills,
The thinning icicles on gables,
The chatter of unsleeping rills!

Boris Pasternak

Adrienne Segur


MEETING

The snow will bury roads
And houses to the roofs.
If I go to stretch my legs,
I see you at my door.

In a light fall coat, alone,
Without overshoes or hat,
You try to keep your calm,
Sucking your snow-wet lips.

The trees and fences draw
Far back into the gloom.
You watch the street, alone
Within the falling snow.

Your scarf hangs wet with snow,
Your collar and your sleeves,
And stars of melted flakes
Gleam dewy in your hair.

A shining wisp of hair
Lights suddenly your face,
Your figure in the cold,
In that thin overcoat.

Flakes gleam beneath your lashes
And anguish in your eyes.
You were created whole,
A seamless shape of love.

It seems as if your image
Drawn fine with pointed steel
Is now in silver lines
Cut deep within my heart.

Forever there you live
In your true humility.
It does not really matter
If the world is hard as stone.

I feel I am your double,
Like you outside, in dark.
I cannot draw the line
Dividing you from me.

For who are we, and whence,
If their idle talk alone
Lives long in aftertime
When we no longer live?

Boris Pasternak