Winter Night

(The Summer Gardens in Winter, St. Petersburg, woodcut
by Anna Ostroumova-Lebedeva, 1871-1955, Russian artist)

“As they drove through Kamerger Street Yura [Zhivago] noticed that a candle had melted a patch in the icy crust on one of the windows. The light seemed to look into the street almost consciously, as if it were watching the passing carriages and waiting for someone.

“‘A candle burned on the table, a candle burned . . . ,’ he whispered to himself — the beginning of something confused, formless; he hoped that it would take shape of itself.”

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 (1890-1960), Russian poet and novelist; the above prose and poem are from his novel Doctor Zhivago

You’re Here

(The Great Gate of Kiev by Wassily Kandinsky, 1866-
1944, Russian painter)

Sometimes a poet will choose an unusual metaphor for his beloved, as does Boris Pasternak in this poem. He took a risk. Who wants to be compared to a city? Even if it’s a beautiful ancient one like Kiev on the river Dnieper. Even if it’s “wrapped in sultry sunbeams.”

And there lies the romance. The city is alive. It’s not a perfect place but he’s prepared to spend his days there with his beloved.

YOU’RE HERE

You’re here. We breathe the self same air.
Your presence here is like the city,
like quiet Kiev wrapped in sultry
sunbeams there outside the window.

It hasn’t slept its sleep yet,
but struggles in its dream, unconquered.
It tears the bricks from off its neck
like a sweaty Shantung collar.

In it, perspiring in their leaves
from obstacles they’ve just got over,
the poplars gather in a crowd
wearily on the conquered pavement.

You make me think of the Dnieper there,
in its green skin of creeks and ditches,
the center-of-the-earth’s complaint book
for us to write our daily notes in.

Your presence here is like a call
to sit down hastily at midday,
to read through it from A to Z
and then to write your nearness in it.

~ Boris Pasternak (1890-1960), Russian poet, translator and writer of the novel Dr. Zhivago