February. Get ink, shed tears.
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.
Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.
To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.
Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out.
This has been a favourite of mine for a few years now. Regina Spektor sings some of the lyrics in Russian in her song Apres Moi. Pasternak also wrote Dr Zhivago, for those of you playing at home. Perhaps when I am alone I will record myself reading it. Not right now though because I am watching A Bit of Fry & Laurie.
That poem is so you. Very lovely.
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