- Mark Olival-Bartley
- Thanks to a residency at EcoHealth, my verse these days finds inspiration in the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at LMU München, where I tutor and edit circulars on poetics and composition, I'm anatomizing the prosody of Robinson's sonnets—I also teach at MVHS and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.
by Boris Pasternak
Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping,
Of February, in sobs and ink,
Write poems, while the slush in thunder
Is burning in the black of spring.
Through clanking wheels, through church bells ringing
A hired cab will take you where
The town has ended, where the showers
Are louder still than ink and tears.
Where rooks, like charred peas, from the branches
In thousands break away, and sweep
Into the melting snow, instilling
Dry sadness into eyes that weep.
Beneath--the earth is black in puddles,
The wind with croaking screeches throbs,
And--the more randomly, the surer
Poems are forming out of sobs.
Translated from the Russian by Lydia Pasternak Slater
Note: A recitation can be heard here.