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Selected Poems
Joseph Brodsky was one of the younger generation of Russian poets - though most of his work has never been published in Russia. He was exiled in 1972, and settled in America. His poetry is personal and meditative, infused with a deep sense of suffering and having close affinities with the English metaphysical poets. He is concerned with the realities of love and death, of separation and solitude and with the 'unity of poetry and life' and their struggle against the 'dead things'. In the words of W.H. Auden, Brodsky is a 'poet of the first order, a man of whom his country should be proud'.
176 pages, Paperback
First published August 30, 1974
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About the author
Joseph Brodsky
318 books735 followersJoseph Brodsky (Russian: Иосиф Бродский] was a Russian-American poet and essayist. Born in Leningrad in 1940, Brodsky ran afoul of Soviet authorities and was expelled from the Soviet Union in 1972, settling in America with the help of W. H. Auden and other supporters. He taught thereafter at several universities, including Yale, Columbia, and Mount Holyoke. Brodsky was awarded the 1987 Nobel Prize in Literature "for an all-embracing authorship, imbued with clarity of thought and poetic intensity." A journalist asked him: "You are an American citizen who is receiving the Prize for Russian-language poetry. Who are you, an American or a Russian?" Brodsky replied: "I'm Jewish; a Russian poet, an English essayist – and, of course, an American citizen." He was appointed United States Poet Laureate in 1991.
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Displaying 1 - 20 of 20 reviews
September 8, 2019
POSTSCRIPTUM
How sad that my life has not come to mean
for you what your life came to mean for me.
. . . How many times in vacant lots have I
consigned my copper coin, crowned with the seal
of state, to that webbed universe of wires,
attempting hopelessly to stretch the time
of our connectedness . . . Alas, unless
a man can manage to eclipse the world,
he's left to twirl a gap-toothed dial in some
phone booth, as one might spin a ouija board,
until a phantom answers, echoing
the last wails of a buzzer in the night.
A PROPHECY
We'll go and live together by the shore;
huge dams will wall us from the continent.
A home-made lamp will hurl its warming glow
across the roundness of our centered space.
We shall wage war at cards, and cock an ear
to catch the crashing of the maddening surf.
We'll gently cough, or sigh a soundless sigh,
whenever the wind roars too raucously.
I shall be old, and you will still be young.
But, as the youngsters say, we'll count the time
that's left us till the new age breaks in days,
not years. In our reversed, small Netherland
we'll plant a kitchen-garden, you and I;
and will shall sizzle oysters by the door,
and drink the rays of the sun's octopus,
Let summer rains crash on our cucumbers;
we'll get as tanned as any Eskimo,
and you will run your fingers tenderly
along the virgin V where I'm unburned.
I'll see my collarbone in the clear glass,
and glimpse a mirrored wave behind my back,
and my old geiger counter, cased in tin,
that dangles from its faded, sweat-soaked strap.
When winter comes, unpitying, it will
twist off the thatch from our wood roof. And if
we make a child, we'll call the boy Andrei,
Anna the girl, so that our Russian speech,
imprinted on its little wrinkled face
shall never be forgot. Our alphabet's
first sound is but the lengthening of a sigh
and thus may be affirmed for future time.
We shall wage war at cards until the tide's
retreating sinuosities draw us,
with all our trumps, down and away . . .
Our child will gaze in silence at a moth,
not fathoming its urgent moth-motives
for beating at our lamp. But then the time
will come when he must make his way back through
the dam that walls us from the continent.
SEPTEMBER THE FIRST
The day was called, simply, 'September First'.
The fall had come; the children were at school.
At Poland's border, Germans raised striped bars.
Their roaring tanks, like fingernails that smooth
the tinfoil on a piece of chocolate,
flattened the uhlan lancers.
Set out glasses!
We'll drink a toast to those uhlans who stood
in first place on the roster of the dead,
as on a classroom roster.
Once again
the birches rustle in the wind; dead leaves
sift down on the low roofs of houses where
no children's voices sound, as though on fallen
Polish caps. The rumbling clouds crawl past,
avoiding the dead eyes of sunset windows.
How sad that my life has not come to mean
for you what your life came to mean for me.
. . . How many times in vacant lots have I
consigned my copper coin, crowned with the seal
of state, to that webbed universe of wires,
attempting hopelessly to stretch the time
of our connectedness . . . Alas, unless
a man can manage to eclipse the world,
he's left to twirl a gap-toothed dial in some
phone booth, as one might spin a ouija board,
until a phantom answers, echoing
the last wails of a buzzer in the night.
A PROPHECY
We'll go and live together by the shore;
huge dams will wall us from the continent.
A home-made lamp will hurl its warming glow
across the roundness of our centered space.
We shall wage war at cards, and cock an ear
to catch the crashing of the maddening surf.
We'll gently cough, or sigh a soundless sigh,
whenever the wind roars too raucously.
I shall be old, and you will still be young.
But, as the youngsters say, we'll count the time
that's left us till the new age breaks in days,
not years. In our reversed, small Netherland
we'll plant a kitchen-garden, you and I;
and will shall sizzle oysters by the door,
and drink the rays of the sun's octopus,
Let summer rains crash on our cucumbers;
we'll get as tanned as any Eskimo,
and you will run your fingers tenderly
along the virgin V where I'm unburned.
I'll see my collarbone in the clear glass,
and glimpse a mirrored wave behind my back,
and my old geiger counter, cased in tin,
that dangles from its faded, sweat-soaked strap.
When winter comes, unpitying, it will
twist off the thatch from our wood roof. And if
we make a child, we'll call the boy Andrei,
Anna the girl, so that our Russian speech,
imprinted on its little wrinkled face
shall never be forgot. Our alphabet's
first sound is but the lengthening of a sigh
and thus may be affirmed for future time.
We shall wage war at cards until the tide's
retreating sinuosities draw us,
with all our trumps, down and away . . .
Our child will gaze in silence at a moth,
not fathoming its urgent moth-motives
for beating at our lamp. But then the time
will come when he must make his way back through
the dam that walls us from the continent.
SEPTEMBER THE FIRST
The day was called, simply, 'September First'.
The fall had come; the children were at school.
At Poland's border, Germans raised striped bars.
Their roaring tanks, like fingernails that smooth
the tinfoil on a piece of chocolate,
flattened the uhlan lancers.
Set out glasses!
We'll drink a toast to those uhlans who stood
in first place on the roster of the dead,
as on a classroom roster.
Once again
the birches rustle in the wind; dead leaves
sift down on the low roofs of houses where
no children's voices sound, as though on fallen
Polish caps. The rumbling clouds crawl past,
avoiding the dead eyes of sunset windows.
February 5, 2017
The devil walks among us hour by hour
and waits, each moment, for this fatal phrase.
A combination of beautiful images and lovely writing along with greek mythology (in some of them) At first I wasn't that impressed but now I can say that i enjoyed most of his poems.
{ Nature Morte hands down the most powerful and bitter poem out of the collection and the best one for me. Actually it's one of the best poems I have ever read. }
The one line that hit me the most, for personal reasons(duh) was this one
Ich liebe life, but chaos I adore
and waits, each moment, for this fatal phrase.
A combination of beautiful images and lovely writing along with greek mythology (in some of them) At first I wasn't that impressed but now I can say that i enjoyed most of his poems.
{ Nature Morte hands down the most powerful and bitter poem out of the collection and the best one for me. Actually it's one of the best poems I have ever read. }
The one line that hit me the most, for personal reasons(duh) was this one
Ich liebe life, but chaos I adore
August 3, 2018
Intelektualaus žanro poezija apie Lietuvą, Rusijos inteligento pastebėtus kasdienybės epizodus ar buvimo mieste būsenos fiksavimas. Knygoje paskelbta Nobelio premijos įteikimo proga pasakyta kalba, Lietuvos literatūros kritikų prisiminimai apie poeto Brodskio viešnagę Lietuvoje, įtaką pasaulio kultūrai.
July 30, 2011
I saw Joseph Brodsky read once. In my memory, it was in 1973, shortly after he was exiled from Russia and well before he won the Nobel. I remember him as wearing a dark jacket, no tie, and having the serious face that some of the photos show, with a jaw that was set tight except when he was reading his poetry--and then he became animated, with a hand sometimes in the air. The poem I remember most included some German; likely, it was "Two Hours in an Empty Tank." He read with a passion; we tend to think of our poets as professors, somewhat detached and engaged in often obscure wordplay. Brodsky was passionately of this world; he didn't read poetry, he declaimed it. He didn't flee from either the literary heritage or his own as the child of the war between the Soviets and Germans; he embraced both. Above all, his poetry is visually acute and ironic, passionately engaged with the world.
August 23, 2015
Loved his poetry, I need to read more of it! Straight to the top of my list of favorite russian poets.
" For though our life may be a thing to share,
who is there in this world to share our death?
Man's garment gapes with holes.
It can be torn, by him who will, at this edge or at that.
It falls to shreds and is made whole again.
Once more it's rent.
And only the far sky, in darkness,
brings the healing needle home."
----
" Great faiths leave behind only holy relics:
Judge then of the vast power of love,
if objects touched by you I now hold,
while you live, as holy."
----
" Silence: a wave that cloaks eternity.
Silence: the future fate of all our loving. "
" Life is but talk hurled in the face of silence."
" For though our life may be a thing to share,
who is there in this world to share our death?
Man's garment gapes with holes.
It can be torn, by him who will, at this edge or at that.
It falls to shreds and is made whole again.
Once more it's rent.
And only the far sky, in darkness,
brings the healing needle home."
----
" Great faiths leave behind only holy relics:
Judge then of the vast power of love,
if objects touched by you I now hold,
while you live, as holy."
----
" Silence: a wave that cloaks eternity.
Silence: the future fate of all our loving. "
" Life is but talk hurled in the face of silence."
January 12, 2024
Usually, I'm reluctant to read poetry in translation because I don't know what will be lost in the process. Now I don't know if anything important is lost here as well, but I feel like that Brodsky is the perfect poet to read in English, maybe because of how obviously he is influenced by English poetry and how he mostly alludes to the Bible and Greek mythology and other cultural influences that are familiar to someone who mainly reads in English.
Brodsky is a great poet. His poems are deceptively simple and straightforward without bizarre metaphors and many general proclamations but at their heart they are deeply sorrowful and contain subtle and very complex emotions that are deeply impactful to the reader. His poetry reminds one of a calm stoic person with a depth of suffering in a long tragic life, whose conversation ends up much too intense despite the appearance of the calm.
I also expected Brodsky's poetry to be much more political than it is, considering that he faced prison for it. He does allude to his time in prison in multiple poems, but he's never overtly political. His poetry seem to be one of the most universal and timeless oeuvre I have seen and I guess it's because of how deeply entrenched in the classical western tradition it is.
Brodsky is a great poet. His poems are deceptively simple and straightforward without bizarre metaphors and many general proclamations but at their heart they are deeply sorrowful and contain subtle and very complex emotions that are deeply impactful to the reader. His poetry reminds one of a calm stoic person with a depth of suffering in a long tragic life, whose conversation ends up much too intense despite the appearance of the calm.
I also expected Brodsky's poetry to be much more political than it is, considering that he faced prison for it. He does allude to his time in prison in multiple poems, but he's never overtly political. His poetry seem to be one of the most universal and timeless oeuvre I have seen and I guess it's because of how deeply entrenched in the classical western tradition it is.
April 20, 2021
“Here on the hills, under empty skies,
among roads which end in forests,
life steps back from itself
and stares astonished at its own
hissing and roaring forms.
Roots cling, wheezing, to your boots,
and no light show in the whole village.
Here I wander in a no-man’s land
and take a lcase on non-existence.
Wind tears the warmth out of my hands.
A tree-hollow douses me with water;
mud twists the ribbon of the footpath.”
“Now that I’ve walled myself off from the world,
I’d like to wall myself off from myself.
Not fences of hewn poles, but mirror glass,
it seems to me, will best accomplish this.
I’ll study the dark features of my face:
my bristly beard, the blotches on my chin.
Perhaps there is no better kind of wall
than a three-faced mirror for this parted pair.
This mirror shows, in twilight from the door,
huge starlings at the edge of the ploughland,
and lakes lakes like breaches in the wall, yet crowned with fir-free teeth.
Behold, the world beyond
creeps through these lakes—these breaches in our world—indeed, through every piddle opening.
Or else this world crawls through them to the sky.”
Read
March 21, 2020You’re coming home again. What does that mean?
Can there be anyone here who still needs you,
Who would still want you to count you as his friend?
You’re home, you’ve bought sweet wine to drink with supper,
And, staring out the window, bit by bit
You come to see that you’re the one who’s guilty:
The only one. That’s fine. Thank god for that. Or maybe one should say, “ thanks for small favors.”
It’s fine that there’s no one else to blame,
It’s fine that you’re free of all connections,
It’s fine that in this world there’s no one
Who feels obligated to love you to distraction.
It’s fine that no one ever took your arm
And saw you to the door on a dark evening,
It’s fine to walk, alone, in this vast world
Toward home from the tumultuous railroad station.
It’s fine to catch yourself, while rushing home,
Mouthing a phrase that’s something else than candid;
You’re suddenly aware that your own soul
Is very slow to take in what has happened.
-
The fire, as you can hear, is dying down.
The shadows in the corners have been shifting.
It’s now too late to shake a fist at them
Or yell at them to stop what they are doing.
This legion doesn’t listen to commands.
It now has closed its ranks and forms a circle.
In silence it advances from the walls,
And I am suddenly at its dead center.
The bursts of darkness, like black questions marks,
Are mounting higher steadily and higher.
The dark drifts down more densely from above.
Engulfs my chin, and crumples my white paper.
The clock hands have completely disappeared.
One can’t see them, and one can’t hear them.
There’s nothing left but bright spots in one’s eyes-
In eyes that now seem frozen and unmoving,
The fire has died. As you can hear, it’s dead.
The bitter smokes swirls, clinging to the ceiling.
But this bright spot is stamped upon one’s eyes.
Or rather it’s stamped upon the darkness.
—
Now that I’ve walled myself off from the world,
I’d like to wall myself off from myself.
Not fences of hewn poles, but mirror glass,
It seems to me, will best accomplish this.
I’ll study the dark features of my face:
My bristly beard, the blotches on my chin.
Perhaps there’s no better kind of wall
Than a three-faced mirror for the parted pair.
This mirror shows, in twilight from the door,
Huge starlings at the edge of the ploughland,
And lakes like breaches in the wall, yet crowned with fire-tree teeth.
Behold, the world beyond
Creeps through these lakes- these breaches in our world-
Indeed , through every puddle opening.
Or else this world crawls through them to the sky.
——
And silence is the future of all days
That roll toward speech; yes, silence is the presence
Of farewell in our greeting as we touch.
Indeed, the future of our words is silence-
Those words which have devoured the staff of things
With hungry vowels, for things abhor sharp corners.
Silence: a wave that cloaks eternity.
Silence: the future fate of all our loving-
A space, not a dead barrier, but space
That robs the false voice in the blood-stream throbbing
Of every echoed answer to its love.
And silence is the present of fate of those who
Have lived before us; it’s a matchmaker
That manages to bring all men together
Into the speaking presence of today.
Life is but talk hurled in the face of silence.’
‘A squabbling of all motions, of all life.’
‘Gloom speaks to gloom and marks a hazy ending.’
‘ And walls are but protests embodied here,
The very incarnation of objections.’
—-
People and things crowd in.
Eyes can be bruised and hurt
By people as well as things.
Better to live in the dark.
I sit on a wooden bench
Watching the passers-by-
Sometimes whole families
I am fed up with the light.
This is a winter month.
First on the calendar.
I shall begin to speak
When I’m fed up with the dark.
It’s time. I shall now begin.
It makes no difference with what.
Open mouth. It’s better to speak,
Although i can also be mute.
What then shall i talk about?
Shall i talk about nothingness?
Shall i talk about days, or nights?
Or people? No, only things,
Since people will surely die.
All of them. As i shall.
All take is a barren trade.
A writing in the wind’s wall.
My blood is very cold-
Its cold is more withering
Than iced-to-the-bottom streams
People aren’t my thing
Dust. When you switch lights on,
There’s nothing but dust to see.
That’s true even if the thing
Is sealed up hermetically.
Can there be anyone here who still needs you,
Who would still want you to count you as his friend?
You’re home, you’ve bought sweet wine to drink with supper,
And, staring out the window, bit by bit
You come to see that you’re the one who’s guilty:
The only one. That’s fine. Thank god for that. Or maybe one should say, “ thanks for small favors.”
It’s fine that there’s no one else to blame,
It’s fine that you’re free of all connections,
It’s fine that in this world there’s no one
Who feels obligated to love you to distraction.
It’s fine that no one ever took your arm
And saw you to the door on a dark evening,
It’s fine to walk, alone, in this vast world
Toward home from the tumultuous railroad station.
It’s fine to catch yourself, while rushing home,
Mouthing a phrase that’s something else than candid;
You’re suddenly aware that your own soul
Is very slow to take in what has happened.
-
The fire, as you can hear, is dying down.
The shadows in the corners have been shifting.
It’s now too late to shake a fist at them
Or yell at them to stop what they are doing.
This legion doesn’t listen to commands.
It now has closed its ranks and forms a circle.
In silence it advances from the walls,
And I am suddenly at its dead center.
The bursts of darkness, like black questions marks,
Are mounting higher steadily and higher.
The dark drifts down more densely from above.
Engulfs my chin, and crumples my white paper.
The clock hands have completely disappeared.
One can’t see them, and one can’t hear them.
There’s nothing left but bright spots in one’s eyes-
In eyes that now seem frozen and unmoving,
The fire has died. As you can hear, it’s dead.
The bitter smokes swirls, clinging to the ceiling.
But this bright spot is stamped upon one’s eyes.
Or rather it’s stamped upon the darkness.
—
Now that I’ve walled myself off from the world,
I’d like to wall myself off from myself.
Not fences of hewn poles, but mirror glass,
It seems to me, will best accomplish this.
I’ll study the dark features of my face:
My bristly beard, the blotches on my chin.
Perhaps there’s no better kind of wall
Than a three-faced mirror for the parted pair.
This mirror shows, in twilight from the door,
Huge starlings at the edge of the ploughland,
And lakes like breaches in the wall, yet crowned with fire-tree teeth.
Behold, the world beyond
Creeps through these lakes- these breaches in our world-
Indeed , through every puddle opening.
Or else this world crawls through them to the sky.
——
And silence is the future of all days
That roll toward speech; yes, silence is the presence
Of farewell in our greeting as we touch.
Indeed, the future of our words is silence-
Those words which have devoured the staff of things
With hungry vowels, for things abhor sharp corners.
Silence: a wave that cloaks eternity.
Silence: the future fate of all our loving-
A space, not a dead barrier, but space
That robs the false voice in the blood-stream throbbing
Of every echoed answer to its love.
And silence is the present of fate of those who
Have lived before us; it’s a matchmaker
That manages to bring all men together
Into the speaking presence of today.
Life is but talk hurled in the face of silence.’
‘A squabbling of all motions, of all life.’
‘Gloom speaks to gloom and marks a hazy ending.’
‘ And walls are but protests embodied here,
The very incarnation of objections.’
—-
People and things crowd in.
Eyes can be bruised and hurt
By people as well as things.
Better to live in the dark.
I sit on a wooden bench
Watching the passers-by-
Sometimes whole families
I am fed up with the light.
This is a winter month.
First on the calendar.
I shall begin to speak
When I’m fed up with the dark.
It’s time. I shall now begin.
It makes no difference with what.
Open mouth. It’s better to speak,
Although i can also be mute.
What then shall i talk about?
Shall i talk about nothingness?
Shall i talk about days, or nights?
Or people? No, only things,
Since people will surely die.
All of them. As i shall.
All take is a barren trade.
A writing in the wind’s wall.
My blood is very cold-
Its cold is more withering
Than iced-to-the-bottom streams
People aren’t my thing
Dust. When you switch lights on,
There’s nothing but dust to see.
That’s true even if the thing
Is sealed up hermetically.
August 4, 2021
'How sad that my life has not come to mean/ for you what your life came to mean for me' 71
Brodsky is at times my favourite poet....
His poems can offer deep mediations on universal truths and unique perspectives on life, death and the process of decay. Dust in particular makes numerous appearances in this collection of poems.
At his best, his short poems contain and compress multiple images and kaleidoscopically expand meanings and significance. At his worst, in some of his longer poems, they verge on personal attacks and trite insight into power and politics.
There are too many favourites to mention, but below are some lines that, in particular, stood out and stand testament to his thoughtfulness as to moments where he projects a sense of deep, calm, contemplation as to time, silence and memory.
'But tell me, soul, what was the look of life,/ how did it stand up to your soaring glance?' 32
'for here I live, and somewhere there you cry' 32
'It's fine that in this world there is no one/ who feels obliged to love you to distraction.'33
'his dose of life proved fatal' 35
'The dead lie calmly in their graves and dream. the living, in the oceans of their gowns' 40
'All things are distant.What is near is dim' 43
'...you did glimpse the seas,/ and distant lands, and Hell-first in your dreams,/ then waking. You did see a jewelled Heaven/ set in the wretched frame of men's low lusts./And you saw life' 43
'May this tiny fragment/of the life we then shared/beat in your heart wildly/ like a fish not yet dead.' 53
'the night moves on inverted wings, aloft,/ above dense bushes that now hang upside-down-/insistent, like the memory of the past,/ a silent past that seems somehow to live on' 54
'What does it matter that a shadow of mindlessness/has crossed my eyes, that the damp/ has soaked my beard, that my cap, askew,/-a crown for this twilight-is reflected/like some boundary beyond which/my soul cannot penetrate?/ I do not try to get beyond my visor,/buttons, collar, boots, or cuffs./ But my hear pounds suddenly when I discover/ that somewhere I am torn. The cold/ crashes into my chest, jolting my heart' 58
'But one day we must all go back. Back home,/ Back to our native hearth. And my own path/ lies through the city's heart. God grant that I/ shall not have with me then a two edges sword-/since cities start, for those who dwell in them,/ with central squares and towers-/ but for the wanderer/ approaching-/ with their outskirts' 64
'But a talented fragment/ can pretend to be whole' 68
'No man stands as a stranger./ But the threshold of shame/ is defined by our feelings/ at the 'Never again' 68
'In their transit through time/ evenings speedily voyage/ far above starling-homes,/far beyond black tillage' 82
'In recent years whatever stand alone/ stands as a symbol of another time./His is a claim for space.' 89
'For no loneliness is deeper than the memory of miracles' 92
'a sound that's less than music, though it's more/ than noise' 93
'though there's no end to our discontent,/ there's an end to our winters' 94
'It's not that you're particularly fair/ but rather that you're unrepeatable' 96
'I dreamed the dense dark and the glow of the waves' 110
'he marched across the margin of his life,/ made absolute the concept of dismissal,/ and disappeared, leaving no trace behind.' 128
'Forever is not a word but a number' 139
'And nothing can be more impenetrable/ than veils of words that have devoured their things;/ nothing is more tormenting than men's language' 146
'life is but talked hurled in the face of silence' 147
'Silence: a wave that cloaks eternity./ Silence: the future fate of all our loving' 147
Brodsky is at times my favourite poet....
His poems can offer deep mediations on universal truths and unique perspectives on life, death and the process of decay. Dust in particular makes numerous appearances in this collection of poems.
At his best, his short poems contain and compress multiple images and kaleidoscopically expand meanings and significance. At his worst, in some of his longer poems, they verge on personal attacks and trite insight into power and politics.
There are too many favourites to mention, but below are some lines that, in particular, stood out and stand testament to his thoughtfulness as to moments where he projects a sense of deep, calm, contemplation as to time, silence and memory.
'But tell me, soul, what was the look of life,/ how did it stand up to your soaring glance?' 32
'for here I live, and somewhere there you cry' 32
'It's fine that in this world there is no one/ who feels obliged to love you to distraction.'33
'his dose of life proved fatal' 35
'The dead lie calmly in their graves and dream. the living, in the oceans of their gowns' 40
'All things are distant.What is near is dim' 43
'...you did glimpse the seas,/ and distant lands, and Hell-first in your dreams,/ then waking. You did see a jewelled Heaven/ set in the wretched frame of men's low lusts./And you saw life' 43
'May this tiny fragment/of the life we then shared/beat in your heart wildly/ like a fish not yet dead.' 53
'the night moves on inverted wings, aloft,/ above dense bushes that now hang upside-down-/insistent, like the memory of the past,/ a silent past that seems somehow to live on' 54
'What does it matter that a shadow of mindlessness/has crossed my eyes, that the damp/ has soaked my beard, that my cap, askew,/-a crown for this twilight-is reflected/like some boundary beyond which/my soul cannot penetrate?/ I do not try to get beyond my visor,/buttons, collar, boots, or cuffs./ But my hear pounds suddenly when I discover/ that somewhere I am torn. The cold/ crashes into my chest, jolting my heart' 58
'But one day we must all go back. Back home,/ Back to our native hearth. And my own path/ lies through the city's heart. God grant that I/ shall not have with me then a two edges sword-/since cities start, for those who dwell in them,/ with central squares and towers-/ but for the wanderer/ approaching-/ with their outskirts' 64
'But a talented fragment/ can pretend to be whole' 68
'No man stands as a stranger./ But the threshold of shame/ is defined by our feelings/ at the 'Never again' 68
'In their transit through time/ evenings speedily voyage/ far above starling-homes,/far beyond black tillage' 82
'In recent years whatever stand alone/ stands as a symbol of another time./His is a claim for space.' 89
'For no loneliness is deeper than the memory of miracles' 92
'a sound that's less than music, though it's more/ than noise' 93
'though there's no end to our discontent,/ there's an end to our winters' 94
'It's not that you're particularly fair/ but rather that you're unrepeatable' 96
'I dreamed the dense dark and the glow of the waves' 110
'he marched across the margin of his life,/ made absolute the concept of dismissal,/ and disappeared, leaving no trace behind.' 128
'Forever is not a word but a number' 139
'And nothing can be more impenetrable/ than veils of words that have devoured their things;/ nothing is more tormenting than men's language' 146
'life is but talked hurled in the face of silence' 147
'Silence: a wave that cloaks eternity./ Silence: the future fate of all our loving' 147
June 20, 2017
...
IX
Pollux, dear friend. All merges to a stain.
No groan shall be wrenched from my lips.
Here I stand, my coat thrown open,
letting the world flow into my eyes
through a sieve of incomprohension.
I'm nearly deaf, o God. I'm nearly blind.
I hear no words, and the moon burns steadily
at no more than twenty watts. I will not set
my course across the sky between the stars
and raindrops. The woods will echo
not my songs, but only my coughs...
(New Stanzas to Augusta, 1964)
IX
Pollux, dear friend. All merges to a stain.
No groan shall be wrenched from my lips.
Here I stand, my coat thrown open,
letting the world flow into my eyes
through a sieve of incomprohension.
I'm nearly deaf, o God. I'm nearly blind.
I hear no words, and the moon burns steadily
at no more than twenty watts. I will not set
my course across the sky between the stars
and raindrops. The woods will echo
not my songs, but only my coughs...
(New Stanzas to Augusta, 1964)
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July 26, 2022Brodsky called vegans the lettuce gang. Yeah, there's that. I read some other edition with actually decent translations of Nativity poems, but not my cuppa.
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June 23, 2018"Filosofiją studijuoti geriausiu atveju dera sulaukus pusšimčio metų. Planuoti visuomenės modelį - juo labiau. Iš pradžių išmokim virti sriubą, kepti - tegu ir ne meškerioti - žuvis, gaminti padorią kavą. Jeigu to nepramokai, dorovės dėsniai atsiduoda tėvo diržu arba vertimu iš vokiškos knygos".
October 20, 2025
"That evening, sprawling by an open fire..." and its 'blackness', "A Prophecy" and its nuclear chill, "Evening", and its moth, the T.S. Eliot verses, "A Letter in a Bottle", and its endless references, and "Gorbunov and Gorchakov", and its word-speech duels ("Once anything is given a name, it's shaped into a part of speech directly"). Gems.
October 29, 2020
Thoughtful words. Poetry loses something in translation; nevertheless I enjoyed these poems.
October 13, 2021
tiek dalykų sudeda į eiles
September 1, 2024
welp, russian poetry dive ended on the wrong foot. Tried to find more contemporary authors but most are either Putin bootlickers or not translated.
top:
1.Mandelstam
2.Tsvetaeva
3.Akhmatova
4.Mayakovsky
5.Blok
6.Brodsky
top:
1.Mandelstam
2.Tsvetaeva
3.Akhmatova
4.Mayakovsky
5.Blok
6.Brodsky
March 23, 2016
пробовал читать, половину прожевал, не моё, хотя красиво
February 10, 2017
Lovely. I have read Brodsky's essays, this is the first time I read the poems. Lovely and surprising images.
April 30, 2017
Brodskis savo eilėmis tiesiog gaudžia (!) nepateikdamas skaitytojui jokių klišių. Deja, kai kurių eilėraščių vertimai smarkiai rėžė akį, tačiau viską gelbėjo šalia esančios eilės originalo kalba.
Displaying 1 - 20 of 20 reviews