# Again, out of Joseph Brodsky
By Joseph Brodsky
The English Poetic Translations, by Anna Polibina-Polansky
"1972. To Victor Golyshev: an Excerpt"
...What I could lose, is lost now, almost cheerfully,
At a rough measure, reached is all, nearly.
What was prescribed, I approached, dear me!
Those cuckoo's sounds late, no one's counting.
All the existence lies up lied by gossipers;
Justified is, by aging, what causes pang.
Hearing all, what was meant for up voicing, now
Is for that sheer silence resounding.
I was like others, I entered corridors.
With roses at hands; I acted fools 'fore authrities.
Nothing seemed so remote and horrible.
I drank like others and took what was offered.I was like others, I entered corridors.
With roses at hands; I acted fools 'fore authrities.
Nothing seemed so remote and horrible.
I drank like others and took what was offered.
My heart felt no greed for what didn't belong to me.
And the space around, fit the sound of my gong that sweet.
My foundation did seem to grow stronger then.
What can I add, at the end, to all those crop fieds?
Look, cherished friends! Here is what I'm yet waiting for.
Brethren and foes! To you, those words are catering.
Should I speak at the epoch of movies and radio?
Words are produced in the name of the native speech!
I'm a guru, however, alienated of
My cup at the feast of the motherland. Deities good!
Cure yourselves, doctors. That is the attitude.
I find myself, at unknown places lost.
This given song is no wailing masterful.
It's a result of turning wild, gasping so.
The throat cries with silence, all flabbergasted though,
As tranquility is just a summation
Of all the sounds, fresh at first, later deadening;
Well, however, the notes are an entity.
The verse, under other terms, could have been of letters neat.
So the death is still a lucky occasion.
Tr. 1993-2010
My heart felt no greed for what didn't belong to me.
And the space around, fit the sound of my gong that sweet.
My foundation did seem to grow stronger then.
What can I add, at the end, to all those crop fieds?
Look, cherished friends! Here is what I'm yet waiting for.
Brethren and foes! To you, those words are catering.
Should I speak at the epoch of movies and radio?
Words are produced in the name of the native speech!
I'm a guru, however, alienated of
My cup at the feast of the motherland. Deities good!
Cure yourselves, doctors. That is the attitude.
I find myself, at unknown places lost.
This given song is no wailing masterful.
It's a result of turning wild, gasping so.
The throat cries with silence, all flabbergasted though,
As tranquility is just a summation
Of all the sounds, fresh at first, later deadening;
Well, however, the notes are an entity.
The verse, under other terms, could have been of letters neat.
So the death is still a lucky occasion.
Tr. 1993-2010
