James Dickson Innes, “South of France, Bozouls Near Rodez”
Monday
My mother alerted me to this “July” poem by Boris Pasternak, author of Doctor Zhivago. I gather from it that, in the part of Russia where Pasternak lived, the summer winds blow with considerable force.
Like the month of July generally, the winds get in the way of efficiency. Like a summer lodger, July has its own agenda and we can’t really complain if it interrupts our carefully regulated life. After all, July dances so enchantingly and it smells so lovely.
July
By Boris Pasternak
A ghost is roaming through the building,
And shadows in the attic browse;
Persistently intent on mischief
A goblin roams about the house.
He gets into your way, he fusses,
You hear his footsteps overhead,
He tears the napkin off the table
And creeps in slippers to the bed.
With feet unwiped he rushes headlong
On gusts of draught into the hall
And whirls the curtain, like a dancer,
Towards the ceiling, up the wall.
Who is this silly mischief-maker,
This phantom and this double-face?
He is our guest, our summer lodger,
Who spends with us his holidays.
Our house is taken in possession
By him, while he enjoys a rest.
July, with summer air and thunder—
He is our temporary guest.
July, who scatters from his pockets
The fluff of blow-balls in a cloud,
Who enters through the open window,
Who chatters to himself aloud,
Unkempt, untidy, absent-minded,
Soaked through with smell of dill and rye,
With linden-blossom, grass and beet-leaves,
The meadow-scented month July.
