Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Rediscovering Boris Pasternak

What We Had

And then we had a loft of hay;
It smelt like cork, or wine.
August is gone, and since that day
Unweeded paths entwine.

The tendrils and the lips among,
Hoarse diamonds shiveed, drizzling,
In their numbness to the tongue
Reminiscent of Riesling.

September was a small expense
The way we were spending
It pruned our trees and rimed our fence,
It said the summer's ending.

Diluting wine in puddles, broke the bread
Of glaucous sand baked white,
yringed from heaven, melting into lead
The latticed glass of light.

Or it would melt light into sand
In flight, igniting trees and leaves,
And then our glass could not withstand
The sight of burning leaves.

For there are brands of joy-the oaths
Vin gai, vin triste. Have trust-
These tendrils are but slender growths,
And Riesling-only rust.

Thus we had night. We had the strain
Of lips. Hoarse diamonds sought
The eyes, where the autumn rain
Rebounded, unechoed in thought.

It seemed that we so loved to pray,
And kissed as though to miss
The briefest years that take a ray
To reach the glow of bliss.

Like music: years spent in awe,
A song would never holler-
One tremulous, uninterrupted O!-
The trembling pith of coral.

Translated by A.Navrozov