1. "I ya kogda-to zhil v gorode, gde na domah rosli..."

2. "Kolokola do sih por zvonyat v tom gorode, Teodora...'

3. "Tol'ko pepel znaet, chto znachit sgoret' dotla..."

By Joseph A. Brodsky

Three English Poetic Translations, by Anna A. Polibina-Polansky

* * * In Italy (1)

To Roberto and Fleur Calasso

I once lived at a city where statues hinted at lust.

I indulged to wisdom that bloomed at the aged dust.

And the embankment got short. Cariatides got blind.

Those who loved me more than they did themselves, are now dead, as a species and a kind.

When there's noone to trace, dogs dig at leftovers. The memory lasts, so.

The twilight emphasizes the cries: "oh you, filthy bastard!"

But the tongue is strange. Those words are, yet, clear and stark.

The best lagoon is of golden doves. Tears shine 'gainst the dark.

So the man is alive till he is able to be adored.

I avoid swimming 'gainst the stream; I mean, the prospective, not to distort.

So I hide away at the contours of the embankment.

Boats swing about, at their unseen, scratching anchors.

Tr. 2020

* * * At the Via Julia (2)

To Theodora L.

So the bells are still chiming at that sweet town, oh Theodora.

As if you didn't fade away like a flake or like a twilight of corals.

You moved with your marble printing machine, to the Piazza.

We leave a cafe, we rove, we sip twice - that stout puzzle.

We omit the words of angels and thirsty horses beyond local fountains.

A bunch of rails hides rather a desert than ceaseless mountains.

So the stream gets swallowed taking a mouthful of your gorgeous view.

Extra thoughts come up thinking of those details undue:

Hues of skin, shades and  length of ankles and wrists, the hairdo - all is unusual;

You are what you look at. Though the spectacles may be confusing.

Like a far-watching son of Julias, Octavias, Livias -

The city watches you slowly, never oblivious.

The longer and the broader are streets - the happier are cities.

Abusing of towns, is awaiting for its victims, jolly and pretty.

Tr. 2020

* * * (3)

Only the ashes know what it means, to be out burnt.

I am short-sighted. I watch further on, as if a bird.

Not everything will be swept away, with a broom adroit.

We'll be left in a shadow, like a butt; we'll avoid

Death; we will lie at a safe nook, as do, dirt and dust.

Days may come decayed, but to the residue, we ought to trust.

Archeologists will be baffled, but exalted, with the desperate world.

The celestial corpse turns an opening; birds beyond, soar and twirl.

It's the liberty duly set free from a gloomy cage. Oh the aged page!

So the wholesome thaws, and particles come to the stage.

Tr. 2020