The Fresh English Poetic Renditions out of Brodsky (two out of three of them)

By Joseph A. Brodsky

The English Poetic Renditions, by Anna A. Polibina-Polansky

***

("Topilas' pech'. Ogon' drozhal vo t'me...")

The oven kept its fire, in the night.

The coal was of sparks - the stirring vessel.

But thoughts of wintry seasons were at sight,

So oddly fluttering, and of access, so.

Oh what should be the sadness that instead

Of parks nearby, you do recall the dim land

That disappeared! Weaves the distant thread,

Revising, and rewarding, and redeeming.

So everything came to its bitter end

Two centuries ago, or almost so.

You rove in night woods, with your thoughts out sent.

But you don't hear the axe, with your sunk soul.

The trunks, the bushes, panoramic hills,

All looks so saddened, at its clumsy rows.

The moon is burning, and the trunks are killed.

The moon is noiseless and so, lacking foes.

1962/tr. 2020

*** January the 1st, 1965

("Volhvy zabudut adres tvoy...")

The wizards didn't find your house.

The stars are lacking, as white cows.

The wailing winds just do arouse

Their ancient riot brisk.

You cast a shadow, as you throw

Away, a scarf, so, at your role.

You put out candles that are prone

To take the utmost risk.

The lights are few. Will my pain, go?

So with the chorus, I can't cope.

It is occurring, like a code.

So let it go forth.

The mortal hour grants to us,

The gratitude; in no fuss

We watch what cannot be discussed:

The firmament of doors.

You watch the ceiling, silent, sage.

The sock is empty 'hind the cage.

The greed is giving out, the age.

It's late for wondrous creed.

So lift up pupils, to the sky.

You'll see, you're infor missions high.

You are a pure-hearted sigh;

A gift, a crop of seeds.

Jan, 1965/tr. in Apr, 2020