By Joseph A. Brodsky

The English Poetic Translations, by Anna Polibina-Polansky

*** ("Vosslavim prihod vesny! Opolosnyom litso...")

Let us exhault the spring's coming. Followingly, we will wash

The face with creosote, we will burn up the pimples.

We will come at a thin shirt, outside onto the porch. The squash

Of air and horizon will strike the out coming people.

The future fills up the lungs like the soil of seeds,

Like the voices - of hospitality and sweet joy.

Hither and thither, the pendulum's strall will never cease.

So you give a stir and find yourself, to the future, up joint.

The birdies' cries get awakened in orchards and woods.

So from lizards to deer, the entire spring's nature -

Strives where the traces of officers' crimes only could

Lead the detectives. The pace is like a gust, outrageous.

1978/tr. 2020

*** ("Vremya podschota tsyplyat yastrebom; skird v tumane...")

It's time to count up hens by hawks, to sum up the ears in the rye.

Stacks and ricks of coins burn the fingers and dingle in pockets.

So the Northern rivers in mouths get frozen. To recall the entire river, it tries.

And the province gets warm, someplace in the South, in its safe sockets...

Oh a brief Arctic day! Coats and boots are swallen, and so

Shrugged is the stomach, out of the boiled dark reddish.

So the wind tatters the flags of the leaves, all soaked.

So it is high time, though the time is left, but the shields are ready.

Days are all alike, as brethren or even twins.

The dark is speeled; for the skin, fingers are shamelessly greedy.

The more are fingers, the less is the dress, 'gainst the wind.

So comes a fall season, and the warmth is retreating.

1978/tr. 2020