By Joseph A. Brodsky

The English Poetic Translations, by Anna Polibina-Polansky

* * * "Ogon', ty slyshish', nachal ugasat'..."

The fire is now quenched. Can you hear me?

The shadows are stirring at their nooks.

You cannot point at them, nor even heal them,

Nor tell them to get stopped, at their crooked

Routes. So the troops are following in chains.

Oh noisy soldiers! I stay at the center.

Exploding darkness, from beneath, will enter.

Exclamatory marks, will be in vain.

So dense is that mere darkness, from beyond.

It reaches my chin. Paper is get crumpled.

The hands of clock are seen, and yet, unheard.

There is a ray sweet only; it can't rustle.

The ray immovable, put out the fire!

The rotten fume is fluttering above.

This ray does not leave eyes, by them, admired.

It is within that darkness, like a dove.

1962/tr. 2020

* * * "Teper' vsyo chasche chuvstvuyu ustalost'..."

I am too tired. Go gloomy spells, off.

I talk with space, and our thoughts are swapped.

Oh troops of workers, or the crew of sellers;

Hilarious, laborious sweet shop!

My soul dear, what birds are you inventing?

To whom you grant them? What is their price?

Do you abide there at the nests unending?

Oh do you sing, instead of telling lies?

Get back and take away your feather sharp!

Let radio sing of our fame, deserved yet.

So dream of death and cry like birds and harps.

The avenue's uneven like a serpent.

So tell me, soul, what was the humble life,

From out of the flight of larks and eagles?

From nowhere, the snow twirls, so light;

It will cut up the prose, like a sickle.

So I walk, and somewhere, flies the snow.

It can't make out our pain and our complaining.

I live, and someplace lives your ceaseless woe.

Your anxious wing there quivers, blankly fainting.

1960/tr. 2020

* * * ("Vsyo chuzhdo v dome novomu zhil'tsu...")

Oh homeplace, devoted and dark:

It stands alienated of new dwellers.

The sight slips over the shadows marked

With objects that belonged to other fellows.

So jealous, it still means to be filled up.

But it lacks daring. The lock is closed,

Yet tight, - the daydreams not to interrupt.

With coziness, the dwellers could have boasted.

Inhabitants of warming, caring nooks

Came out and died; they were not back to here.

Emotions can't return their path'es crooked.

But features do still agonize, in fear.

There is a thread bleak that may rest or roam.

And normally it is named, "oh sweet home".

October, 1962/April, 2020

* * * ("Vorotish'sya na rodinu. Nu chto zh...")

So you'll return to motherland, and so.

Look up who needs you still, despite the years.

To whom you will make such a friend, whose soul

Is up for it. Buy for yourself, through tears,

Some sweet, sweet wine. Look into windows dark,

And think, through drops, that it's still you, to blame now.

Thanks God, the feeling is so sheer and stark.

It is you fault. It is, yet, unallowed

To love forevermore, to blame, in ties.

It's good that females didn't watch your darkness.

You watch your route, in freed and lonesome eyes.

The railway station, by your bliss, is marked, yet.

You catch yourself at such unfair words,

You see, the soul is affording changes.

The homeland, so clearly, is heard,

And to the novelty, it slowly ranges.

1962/tr. 2020