One of the last poems by B. Pasternak "The Only Days" was written in 1959 and first published in the collection "Poems and Poems" (M., 1961), and later included in the book of poems "When it clears up" (1956-1959).
After a number of years of silence, when the poet was forced to deal only with translations, verses appear in which "natural, direct simplicity prevails ... capacious, complex simplicity, Pushkin's and human simplicity ...".

In these verses there are surprisingly transparent linguistic images, without losing their expression and depth. Comparisons and personifications, as in Pasternak's previous poems, play a leading role in creating expressiveness, and the dynamics of action is contained in the verb and metaphor.
The poet describes the days of the solstice (as the people call the solstice), lined up in a series in his memory. Days of many winters of a lived life, and each of these "repeating without counting" days was "unique", one of a kind. In this poem there are no complex associative moves, great philosophical reflections, which form the basis of many of B. Pasternak's poems. But under the external simplicity, the concreteness of poetic images lies the emotional and semantic richness of the verse. Researchers note salient feature Pasternak's poetry is the presence of the author's "I" in every poem. The realities of the outside world are not described for their own sake, they are a way of expressing personal feelings and thoughts. B. Pasternak himself wrote that art is a record of the displacement of reality produced by feeling. The surrounding reality is not the ultimate goal of creativity, but, personified, becoming the subject of action, reflects the movements of feelings ("Certificate of Conduct").
In "The Only Days" the poet sought to convey the very "look" of the days, the feelings that visited him then. These feelings for the author are continuously connected with the impressions of the surrounding world, the state of people these days.

Winter is coming to the middle
The roads are wet, the roofs are leaking...
.......................................................
And loving, as in a dream,
Pulling towards each other faster...

With the expressive simplicity of the lines, B. Pasternak achieves that poetic revelation is not perceived as someone else's, the reader's sense of detachment disappears: visual associations give rise to emotional associations. A figurative and emotional rapprochement with the personal experiences of the poet is also achieved by the lines:

The only days when
It seems to us that the time has come.

Here the pronoun us changes state I the previous stanza, and stringing subordinate clauses ( The days when we feel like...), in which the word When introduces a shade of subjective modality, creates a colloquial character.
We will not find in a poem a verbally expressed description of a personal emotional state(with the possible exception of the line It seems to us that the time has become). Feelings are characterized abstractly and metaphorically, and even very specific paintings "acquire the value of beautiful poetic abstractions", creating a feeling of foreboding change, the seeming infinity of the day ( AND over a century lasts a day).
Compositionally, the poem is divided into two parts. The first two stanzas are an introduction to the topic, and the third, fourth and fifth are the disclosure of the topic. The unity of the poem is created by the general emotional mood penetrating it and the structural connection of the parts: the second part is a poetic explanation of the first. Moreover, the whole poem is a disclosure of the meaning of the title "The Only Days". Title word days does not yet have any other semantics for the reader, except for the general vocabulary. But in the text, this general dictionary meaning acquires a meaning based on the semantic basis of the entire poem.
Word the only, enhanced by inversion repetition ( Those only days) and contextual synonyms ( solstice days, each was unique), in the second part of the poem receives a specific figurative expression, acquiring new semantic and emotional increments.
Contextual synonym unique not only related to the word the only, but also with the word repeated. In lines And each was unique And repeated again without counting connected by semantic unity, anaphoric and sound repetition, there is also an internal semantic interdependence of words unique – repeated forming a semantic oxymoron.
Thus, in the first part of the poem, the poet prepares the reader for memories of the "only days", at the same time pointing out the repetition, the regularity of what is happening. And repeated again without counting, and whole them succession...
The third and fourth stanzas are a description of the "solstice days" themselves. The conciseness of syntactic constructions, characteristic of the entire poem, is especially emphasized here by the meaningful composition of stanzas. Their lines are reminiscent of mean, but expressive strokes of painting. draws attention almost complete absence epithets and comparisons, which are so rich in the early poems of B. Pasternak. Deprived of tropes, the third stanza only ends with a semantic oxymoron with simultaneous personification: And the sun is basking on the ice, where is the oxymoron bask on the ice complicated by noun Sun entering into an unusual combination with the verb bask. Apparently, such linguistic figurativeness is caused by the picture of the sun reflected in the melted ice floe.
The fourth stanza is a semantic continuation of the enumerations of the third stanza. This is also emphasized by the anaphoric And: And the sun is basking on the ice. And loving, as in a dream ...
The lines themselves, which make up the fourth stanza, turn out to be pairwise parallel: the first-second - third-fourth lines are based on the anaphoric And the first and fourth lines and the identity of the rhythmic construction.
In the fourth stanza, the nature of the enumerations is violated: the description of nature is suddenly replaced by a description of the manifestation of feelings: And lovers, as in a dream, are drawn to each other more hastily. The lyrical tone of the line seems to be discordant with the phrase hurry up, but the meaning of the word hurry up("very quickly, hastily") is not actualized in them due to the comparison like in a dream. This comparison gives a positive color to the word hurry up and at the same time, forming a semantic unity with the words loving, hurry up, contributes to the emergence of a new meaning: "vaguely, unsteadily, instinctively."
The last two lines of the fourth stanza are a return to the description of nature: And on the trees above, the starlings sweat from the heat. With the help of personification, the poet creates a metaphorical image here: Sweating from the warmth of the starlings- become wet from the melted snow.
The third and fourth stanzas, filled with expressive images, reveal the inner state of the poet, convey his worldview, infect the reader with his mood.
But the semantic quintessence of the entire poem is the last, fifth stanza. And half-asleep hands are too lazy To toss and turn on the dial ... From the scope of the meanings of words half asleep, lazy, toss and turn a common semantic core stands out - time stopped. The meaning of this is further specified in the line And the day lasts longer than a century, which is built on the reception of a semantic oxymoron. In general, the topic is temporary O th duration, length runs through the whole poem. It also appears in the first part of the poem: It seems to us that the time has become, and in the second - as a kind of semantic roll call:

And half-asleep shooters are too lazy
Toss and turn on the dial
And the day lasts longer than a century ...

The theme of time is lexically expressed in the first two stanzas, which form a kind of contextual-synonymous series: repeated, without counting, a whole ... a series was formed little by little. The feeling of the infinity of the day is also emphasized by the imperfective present tense verbs used in the description: fits, gets wet, warms up, stretches, sweats, lasts, does not end. In line And the day lasts longer than a century the topic is temporary O th duration receives a natural, organic completion, here, as it were, the stopped time, meaningful by the poet as a reality, "focuses".
To understand the last line ( And the hug never ends), it is probably necessary to keep in mind "extra-linguistic factors". The poem was written by the poet at the end of his life, but it is all permeated with a bright feeling. Semantic content of the word hug suggests a positive theme: "a feeling of joy, of life." The peculiarity of B. Pasternak's poetry is that in verses he seeks to convey to the reader thoughts much more complex than those that arise from the sum of the meanings of words. It is possible that much of the good, bright that was in life, the poet associates with the "days of the solstice", when they live with a sense of change, in anticipation of joy ... And the word hug in the context of the poem receives new semantic increments. And the hug never ends- the joyful, bright feeling does not end, life does not end.
One of the figures organizing the poem is the anaphora. She intertwines, pulls poetic lines into a single semantic whole. Semantic unity is also created by interstrophic repetitions: I remember the days of the solstice... I remember them all...
There are practically no words in the poem that would require linguistic interpretation. There are no archaisms, phraseological units or colloquial vocabulary often used by the poet (with the exception of the word solstice). Poeticity, expressiveness of a poem are created not by an abundance of linguistic means, but by an unexpected combination of the simplest, well-known words.

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The season is winter. Around the snow, frozen trees, birds chilled by the wind. Most people warm up with hot chocolate and wait for spring to come under a blanket. And poets see real magic in winter and dedicate poignant lines to it.

website I have collected for you five bewitching poems, after which you will want to run out into the street, expose your face to the frosty wind, taste the snow and plunge into the beauty of this season.

cold

January burst into trains
Door stiffeners.
High midnight star
Through the clouds fell into the snowdrifts.
And the wind, humming in the spruce forests,
He brought clouds over the cities
And, passing through attics,
He dried rows of crackling sheets.
He mowed the birds flight,
Long fought under bridges
And he left.
There was dark ice
Swept to a shine in places.
And only in the mornings thick
The snow was falling, tired of spinning.
Freezing.
And vertical smoke
It stands above the roofs of the capital.
And the day comes from all sides
And from outpost to outpost
Grasses shining in the sun
Frost seized windows.

Sergei Mikhalkov

First snow

Silver, lights and sparkles, -
A whole world of silver!
Birches burn in pearls,
Black and naked yesterday.

Crews, pedestrians,
White smoke on the sky.
The life of people and the life of nature
Full of new and holy things.

The embodiment of dreams
Life with a dream is a game
This world of charms
This world of silver!

Valery Bryusov

Snow

Again he falls, wonderfully silent,
Swings and falls easily...
How sweet is its happy flight to the heart!
Non-existent, he is reborn ...
All the same, came again, no one knows where,
There is cold temptation in it, oblivion in it ...
I always wait for him, as I expect a miracle from God,
And I know strange unity with him.

Let him leave again - but the loss is not terrible.
I rejoice in his mysterious departure.
I will forever wait for his silent return
You, O sweet one, you, the only one.

He falls quietly, and slow and powerful ...
I am immensely happy with his victory ...
Of all the wonders of the earth you, O beautiful snow,
I love you... Why I love you, I don't know.

Zinaida Gippius

Frost on glass

On the windows, completely frosty,
February issued a frost
Plexus of herbs milky white
And silver-sleepy roses.

Tropical summer landscape
Draws a cold on the window.
Why does she need roses? Apparently, this
Winter yearns for spring.

Boris Leonidovich Pasternak (1890–1960), poet, prose writer, translator, one of the brightest representatives of Russian literature of the 20th century.
His subtle, deep and philosophical poems are very musical and imaginative - and this is no coincidence. It all started with music. And painting. The mother of the future poet R.I. Kaufman was a talented pianist, a student of Anton Rubinstein. Father - L.O. Pasternak, the famous artist who illustrated the works of Leo Tolstoy, with whom he was close friends. In the Pasternak house, home concerts were often held with the participation of Alexander Scriabin, whom Boris adored and under whose influence he became interested in music, which he studied for several years. After six years of study, he had to give up his career as a professional musician - Pasternak himself believed that he did not have an absolute ear for music, although the preludes and sonata for pianoforte composed by him were preserved. Then, from under his pen, poetic lines began to be born, and not a dark ligature of notes. It was also music, but already the music of words. His first poems were published in 1913...

Fate was favorable to him: he survived all the upheavals of the twentieth century - due to a slight lameness, he was released from military service and did not fall into the meat grinder of the First World War, survived the storm of 1917, survived the Patriotic War, although he extinguished incendiary bombs on Moscow roofs and went to the front with writers' teams. He was not swept away by waves of repression - in the late twenties, late thirties, mid and late forties. He wrote and published, and when his original poems were not published, he was engaged in translations, for which he also had a natural gift (his translations of Faust, Mary Stuart, Othello are considered the best). Finally, he won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1958, the second Russian writer after I. A. Bunin to receive this prize.
Boris Pasternak was simply idolized by women - he was always gentle, caring and patient with them. Three times in my life I was in love and happy, despite some tragic moments of these three stories.
The main women in his life are Evgenia Lurie, Zinaida Neuhaus and Olga Ivinskaya, the poet's muse and last love.

Boris Pasternak met Olga Ivinskaya in 1946, at the editorial office of the Novy Mir magazine, where he brought the first book of his novel Doctor Zhivago. Olga was 34 years old, he was 56. She is a twice widow and mother of two children, he is married with a second marriage to Zinaida Neuhaus, the ex-wife of his friend Heinrich Neuhaus. Some admired her, others were less supportive, but everyone agreed on one thing - Olga Ivinskaya was unusually soft, feminine, exquisitely ironic. Short - about 160 cm, with golden hair, huge eyes and a gentle voice, she could not help attracting men. And she also adored Pasternak's poems, knew them by heart, and as a girl she attended poetry evenings with his participation. And yet it was not only poetry. Pasternak also attracted her as a man. The novel developed rapidly.
Several times the lovers tried to part, but not even a week passed, when Pasternak, blaming himself for weakness, again went to his beloved. The lovers could not hide their passionate relationship for a long time. Soon friends and colleagues found out about their romance.
Pasternak recalled that the image of Lara in the novel "Doctor Zhivago" was born thanks to Olga, her inner beauty, amazing kindness and strange mystery.

In the fall of 1949, Olga Ivinskaya was arrested. The reason was her connection with Pasternak, who was suspected of contacts with British intelligence. During the interrogations, the investigators were interested in one thing: what caused the connection between Ivinskaya and Pasternak. The investigation, during which she lost their child, ended, and she was sent to Potma, to a camp. For four long years, Pasternak took care of her children and constantly helped them financially. Olga Ivinskaya was released from the camps in the spring of 1953. The novel resumed with the same force ....
Until the end of his life, Boris Pasternak could not make a choice between his wife and Olga. He dedicated his best poems to her, a close relationship between them until his death in 1960. Shortly before his death, he refused to meet Olga, ordered her not to be allowed into the house, because he did not want quarrels between her and his wife. Ivinskaya was never able to say goodbye to him, she came only to the funeral ...

Olga Ivinskaya outlived her beloved by 35 years, having managed to write a book of memoirs “Captured by Time. Years with Boris Pasternak. She died in 1995 at the age of 83. Once she wrote to him -
"Play the whole keyboard of pain,
And let your conscience not reproach you,
For the fact that I do not know the role at all,
I play all Juliet and Marguerite ... "
And they both played their roles to the end - a great poet, seized in maturity with almost youthful love, and a woman who showed courage and loyalty to her idol.
Today, masterpieces of B. Pasternak's late lyrics dedicated to Olga Ivinskaya - "The Only Days", "Winter Night", "Date", "Autumn" ...

***
In everything I want to reach
To the very essence.
At work, in search of a way,
In heartbreak.

To the essence of past days,
Until their reason
Down to the roots, down to the roots
To the core.

Grasping the thread all the time
destinies, events,
Live, think, feel, love,
Complete opening.

Oh if only I could
Although in part
I would write eight lines
About the properties of passion.

About iniquities, about sins,
Run, chase,
Accidents in a hurry,
Elbows, palms.

I would deduce her law
her beginning,
And repeated her names
Initials.

I would break poetry like a garden.
With all the trembling of the veins
Limes would bloom in them in a row,
Guskom, in the back of the head.

In verses I would bring the breath of roses,
mint breath,
Meadows, sedge, haymaking,
Thunderstorms.

So once Chopin invested
living miracle
Farms, parks, groves, graves
In your studies.

Achieved triumph
Game and flour -
Strung string
Hard bow.

THE SINGLE DAYS

Through many winters
I remember the days of the solstice
And each one was unique.
And repeated again without counting.

And a whole series
Made up little by little
The only days when
It seems to us that the time has come.

I remember them well:
Winter is coming to the middle
The roads are wet, the roofs are leaking
And the sun is basking on the ice.

And loving, as in a dream,
Pulling towards each other faster
And in the trees above
The starlings sweat from the heat.

And half-asleep shooters are too lazy
Toss and turn on the dial
And the day lasts longer than a century,
And the hug never ends.

Olga Ivinskaya. Early 30s.

WINTER NIGHT

Melo, melo all over the earth
To all limits.
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.

Like a swarm of midges in summer
Flying into the flame
Flakes flew from the yard
to the window frame.

Snowstorm sculpted on glass
Circles and arrows.
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.

On the illuminated ceiling
The shadows lay
Crossed arms, crossed legs,
Crossing fates.

And two shoes fell
With a knock on the floor.
And wax with tears from the night light
Drip on the dress.

And everything was lost in the snow haze
Gray and white.
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.

The candle blew from the corner,
And the heat of temptation
Raised like an angel two wings
Crosswise.

Melo all month in February,
And every now and then
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.

DATE

Snow will fall on the road
Will fill up the slopes of the roofs.
I'm going to stretch my legs:
You are standing behind the door.

One, in an autumn coat,
No hat, no galoshes
You fight anxiety
And chew wet snow.

Trees and fences
They go into the distance, into the darkness.
Alone in the snow
You are standing on the corner.

Water flows from the scarf
On the sleeve in the cuff,
And drops of dew
Shine in your hair.

And a strand of blond
Enlightened: face,
Kerchief, and figure,
And this is a coat.

The snow on the eyelashes is wet,
Sadness in your eyes
And your whole appearance is harmonious
From one piece.

As if with iron
Soaked in antimony
You were cut
According to my heart.

And it's stuck in it forever
The humility of these traits
And that's why it doesn't matter
That the world is hardhearted.

And that's why it doubles
All this night in the snow
And draw boundaries
Between us I can't.

But who are we and where are we from?
When from all those years
Remaining gossip,
Are we not in the world?

I let my family go,
All relatives have long been in disarray,
And constant loneliness
Everything is full in the heart and nature.

And here I am here with you in the gatehouse.
The forest is empty and deserted.
Like in a song, stitches and tracks
Overgrown by half.

Now we are alone with sadness
Looking log walls.
We did not promise to take barriers,
We will die frankly.

We'll sit down at one and get up at three,
I am with a book, you are with embroidery,
And at dawn we won't notice
How to stop kissing.

Even more magnificent and reckless
Make noise, crumble, leaves,
And a cup of yesterday's bitterness
Exceed today's longing.

Attachment, attraction, charm!
Let's dissipate in the September noise!
Bury yourself in the autumn rustle!
Freeze or go crazy!

You also take off your dress
Like a grove sheds its leaves
When you fall into an embrace
In a dressing gown with a silk tassel.

You are the blessing of a disastrous step,
When life is sicker than sickness,
And the root of beauty is courage,
And it draws us to each other.

FEBRUARY

Get ink and cry!
Write about February sobbing,
While the rumbling slush
In the spring it burns black.

Get a span. For six hryvnias,
Through the blessing, through the click of the wheels,
Move to where it's raining
Noisier than ink and tears.

Where, like charred pears,
Thousands of rooks from the trees
Break into puddles and bring down
Dry sadness at the bottom of the eyes.

Under it, the thawed patches turn black,
And the wind is pierced by cries,
And the more random, the more true
Poems are folded up.

TENDERNESS

blinding with brilliance,
Evening at seven.
From the streets to the curtains
Darkness came up.
People are mannequins
Only passion with longing
Leads the Universe
Shaking hand.
Heart under the palm
Gives a shudder
Run and chase
Thrill and flight.
Feeling free
Freely light,
Just tearing the reins
Horse in the mouthpiece.

When you only think: how to make money - this is work for wear and tear. Man, little by little, without noticing it, loses himself.

And yet, we will believe in miracles,
See the world with loving eyes
Then heaven will be closer to us,
And we can touch them with our hands.

pleasure from good quality lasts longer than the joy of a low price. And so it is with everything...

Whoever enters us with a sword will die by the sword. On that stood and stands the Russian land!

"Tomorrow" is one of the most dangerous words in the world. It paralyzes the will worse than any other spell, inclines to inaction, destroys plans and ideas in the bud.

I remember waking up one day at dawn and there was this feeling of unlimited possibilities. And I remember how I thought then: "Here it is - the beginning of happiness, And, of course, there will be more of it." But then I did not understand that this was not the beginning. That was happiness itself. Right then, at that moment.

They must be subtracted from the calendar,
And life is getting shorter.

I was busy with stupid vanity,
The day slipped - I did not see a friend
And did not shake his hand alive ...
Well! This day I must throw off the circle.

And if I didn’t remember my mother in a day,
Didn't call my sister or brother at least once,
There is nothing to say in justification:
That day is gone! Priceless waste!

I'm lazy or tired -
Didn't see the fun show
I did not read magical poems
And he cheated himself in some way, didn't he?

And if I didn't help someone,
Didn't compose a frame or a line,
That robbed today's result
And made life a day shorter.

Fold - so scary how much I squandered
At gatherings where it's neither warm nor hot...
But he didn’t say the main words to his beloved
And didn't buy flowers or a gift.

How many days that are wasted
Days that died somehow by the way.
They must be taken off the calendar.
And measure your life even shorter.

In my youth, I demanded more from people than they could give: constancy in friendship, fidelity in feelings. Now I have learned to demand less from them than they can give: to be there and be silent. And I always look at their feelings, their friendship, their noble deeds as a real miracle - as a gift from God.

How many Sunny People!
Not those who laugh senselessly,
when they are pinched and tickled,
and those who look like children
who without self-interest, gross flattery,
as if together with the bright sun,
we generously brighten up the days.
People like lights - among the problems and hassle,
when involuntarily pulls to the stack,
light up the dark day
and the evil shadow disappears.
We have fun and easy with them,
and the stars shine brighter in the sky,
we forget about sadness.
Haven't you met them?
Then wake up from sleep and you will understand
there are so many Sunny People among friends!
They, like eternal Spring, give us light and renewal,
confidence and rebirth.
I believe no one will judge
when I say with all my heart without flattery and beautiful lies:
Thank you Sun People!