The Newest of My English Poetic Translations out of Brodsky
By Joseph A.Brodsky
The English Poetic Translations, by Anna Polibina-Polansky
(the Equity-Rhythmic Renditions)
***
You are the wind, my friend.
I am your woods, out sent
To you, in bows of leaves that are sipped
And eaten up by caterpillars os scripts.
The more furious is the Northern wind,
The whiter are the leaflets out winned.
The deity of wintry seasons does borrow
A lot, from their incessible sorrow.
So the frost is coming to-morrow.
1962/tr. 2020
***
What do the bushes talk of
With the wind? Dark is the mocking.
Dingling are tubes, and squeaking
Is the chair, the rain is leaking.
So the wintry season
Like love, searches for its reasons.
Death, and madness, and passion...
The trembling attic denies any strict fashion.
The twilight is all about.
As far as you are one,
You are alert, alarmed and aloud.
But down, gets the sunken sun.
1962/ tr. 2020
A Wintry Wedding (Version 2)
We wedded up when there was frost.
The guests, all outside, got lost.
The bell was jingling, hands were crossed,
The chime, about, was tossed.
Out of the wreath, from altars bright,
There lies a way, to both sides,
And so my pupils, of a bride,
Strand wide, they do stand wide!
The bell is jingling, bold and meek.
In awe, my bridegroom watches me.
The candles, all the best, do mean:
All their demands, I meet.
1963, Leningrad/tr. 2012, Saint Louis (Elsace, France)
For the School Age
You know , when it turns to be the night,
I try to count up the miles at sight
From woe profound to our former point
Where we met once. The distance is up spoilt.
The figures all turn words. The hopes do come.
The bafflement gets deeper. That's the sum.
Two pilgrims with their lamps, move in the night.
Their aspirations cannot be denied.
So pain, by their parting's multiplied.
The joy is kept in mind, though thin and light.
All the reduced, about, so, will glide...
1964/tr. 2020
***
Days are running about,
All beyond that sweet forest.
Like a flock, fat and stout,
At the back, at a chorus.
They do low like sheep,
Over brooks, but can't jingle.
So the hedges, they shift.
And the clouds, are blinking.
Oh the horizons calm,
Oh the dawn hiding stitches!
There are days, up to sum.
Out dated, are tickets.
So the yesterday guest
Is yet roving and gliding
Over ploughs and nests,
Over fields, dark and idle.
1964/tr. 2020
***
Oh, that red fall season!
With its star, it's teasing
Flocks, by no reason.
Left are eggs in nests,
Twisted is their chest.
Winds do keep the rest.
The revenging spirit of
Cocks, is no miracle.
It is of no lyrics sweet.
Oh the hens, all chuckling!
So the hut is buckled,
Like a mushroom suckled.
1964/tr. 2020
