By Joseph A. Brodsky
The English Poetic Renditions by Anna Polibina-Polansky
* * *
I do succeed as I divide myself
From other folks; I mean from my soul,
To get alienated. Hedges, shelves
And poles are no good. The mirror's role
Is all of impact. I watch gloomy features,
The bristle and the chin. The glass besieges
A couple in divorce. They get consoled.
The twilight watches my eyes and my soul.
The soil with ploughs, ponds and thrushes loud.
The hole at a wall is teethy, but,
Tucks its long nose, the entire crowd
From outer worlds. It's vainful, doors to shut.
And this world also tries to crawl outside...
The puddles are black holes where we abide.
Do not regard a hinderance, as a plight.
We can't tell the unseen from what's at sight.
Tr. 2020
* * * 1973. The Venetian Lagoon at Wintry Time
1. Three ladies in their deep arm-chairs
Talk at the hall, of God's hardships unshared.
The Academia hostel flies
Along with the Universe, to Christmas.
The murmuring TV is all on business.
The clerk turns the ruling wheel. The boat glides.
2. The tourist is ascending a-board,
Keeping grappa at hands. Deep's the ford.
He is noone at a dark, sullen coat.
He lost son, memory, motherland's borders.
His pain, his loneliness, his discord are
All forgoten. He is at the boat.
3. Oh Venetian chiese, as cups with plates,
They are jingling and chiming, at random. So late
Is revealing of chandeliers and tables. At the bottom,
All is in mire and threads of sea grass.
It is held so close to someeone's breast.
Dirty dreams in moist, you are turning rotten.
4. Adriatic blows at night, with the Eastern wind,
Are filled up. The channel searches for hints.
So the cribs of boats are swinging about.
So the fish is licking the bull, out of wood.
And the sea star, by windows, comes understood.
So the curtain is whistling, yet not out loud.
5. So the flame of grappa is going dead.
And the fish is cut, all in needs unsaid.
So the Christmas lacks fir-trees, balls, and snow.
So the conch gets downside, and the time hides its face.
So gorgeous is its silhouette's lace.
And the hand at a tower, erases its own glow.
6. Oh the drowning city, at wintry seasons
Its wet eyes do keep firm and sudden reasons.
So the dragon sphynxes, are kpt, on the North.
So the literate up winged lion
Flips through pages and gives orders, all of iron.
Wavy mirrors are choking and running forth.
7. So rotten are piers. The sound is self-negating.
Words and ears, for their existance, are waiting.
Icy hands are spreading to pines, all of claws.
Two hands meet, like hummer and sickle under a burden;
So the epoch is prancing under the girdle.
Nightmares take away their scratchy paws.
8. So the body dwells in realms of canvas.
Love and Hope and Faith grow gloomy and envious.
And the wisdom is kept for the current hours.
No footprints. The sea licks the zeroeing space.
At the piazza, there is left just not a trace.
Like two loving soul - narrowing are the towers.
9. Speels and columns and cariatides and torches.
Bridges, arches, lions' smiles, lofty porches.
'stead of ditches of time, are these stems of towers.
Nights at San-Marco. The skin is crumpled.
The marital ring is in vain, at the face of troubles.
"Nowhere" eats up the mind, empowered.
10. Over ridges and rims, over frontiers dim,
There is something watched, endearing,
Perhaps even a body of forms precise.
The speed of light is the speed of sight.
That simple truth, I ought to blankly recite.
The light is yet nothing, for curious eyes.
Tr-ed in the spring season, 2020, at the city of Moscow