Poems by Joseph Brodsky

All Poems Original Poems Translations

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Seaward

Darling, you think it's love, it's just a midnight journey.

Best are the dales and rivers removed by force,

as from the next compartment throttles "Oh, stop it, Bernie,"

yet the rhythm of those paroxysms is exactly yours.

Hook to the meat! Brush to the red-brick dentures,

alias cigars, smokeless like a driven nail!

Here the works are fewer than monkey wrenches,

and the phones are whining, dwarfed by to-no-avail.

by Joseph Brodsky

Part Of Speech

…and when "the future" is uttered, swarms of mice

rush out of the Russian language and gnaw a piece

of ripened memory which is twice

as hole-ridden as real cheese.

After all these years it hardly matters who

or what stands in the corner, hidden by heavy drapes,

and your mind resounds not with a seraphic "doh",

only their rustle. Life, that no one dares

by Joseph Brodsky

To The Negotiations In Kabul

You, the brutal-hearted sky-scraping mountain tribes!

Lamb and horseflesh - is all your menu describes;

Long beards and handcrafted rugs, your loud guttural names;

Never before have seen a sea, not to mention a piano - in your eyes.

Legendary for your profiles, fingers attired in gold,

Joint bridge of the nose, riffle shots to deliver a word:

Never mind the envelopes, in the absence of the addresses!

Protected by their very backs from the rains and tempests;

by Joseph Brodsky

Tornfallet

There is a meadow in Sweden

where I lie smitten,

eyes stained with clouds'

white ins and outs.

And about that meadow

roams my widow

plaiting a clover

wreath for her lover.

by Joseph Brodsky

Dutch Mistress

A hotel in whose ledgers departures are more prominent than arrivals.

With wet Koh-i-noors the October rain

strokes what's left of the naked brain.

In this country laid flat for the sake of rivers,

beer smells of Germany and the seaguls are

in the air like a page's soiled corners.

Morning enters the premises with a coroner's

punctuality, puts its ear

by Joseph Brodsky

May 24, 1980

I have braved, for want of wild beasts, steel cages,

carved my term and nickname on bunks and rafters,

lived by the sea, flashed aces in an oasis,

dined with the-devil-knows-whom, in tails, on truffles.

From the height of a glacier I beheld half a world, the earthly

width. Twice have drowned, thrice let knives rake my nitty-gritty.

Quit the country the bore and nursed me.

Those who forgot me would make a city.

by Joseph Brodsky

Folk Tune

It's not that the Muse feels like clamming up,

it's more like high time for the lad's last nap.

And the scarf-waving lass who wished him the best

drives a steamroller across his chest.

And the words won't rise either like that rod

or like logs to rejoin their old grove's sweet rot,

and, like eggs in the frying pan, the face

spills its eyes all over the pillowcase.

by Joseph Brodsky

Two Hours In Reservoir

I am an anti-fascist... anti-Faust

Ich liebe life and I admire chaos

Ich bin to wish, Genosse Offizieren,

Dem Zeit zum Faust for a while spazieren.

Without embracing Polish propaganda,

by Joseph Brodsky

I threw my arms about those shoulders

M.B.

I threw my arms about those shoulders, glancing

at what emerged behind that back,

and saw a chair pushed slightly forward,

merging now with the lighted wall.

The lamp glared too bright to show

the shabby furniture to some advantage,

and that is why sofa of brown leather

by Joseph Brodsky

Letter to an Archaeologist

Citizen, enemy, mama's boy, sucker, utter

garbage, panhandler, swine, refujew, verrucht;

a scalp so often scalded with boiling water

that the puny brain feels completely cooked.

Yes, we have dwelt here: in this concrete, brick, wooden

rubble which you now arrive to sift.

All our wires were crossed, barbed, tangled, or interwoven.

Also: we didn't love our women, but they conceived.

by Joseph Brodsky

Love

Twice I awoke this night, and went

to the window. The streetlamps were

a fragment of a sentence spoken in sleep,

leading to nothing, like omission points,

affording me no comfort and no cheer.

I dreamt of you, with child, and now,

having lived so many years apart from you,

experienced my guilt, and my hands,

by Joseph Brodsky

To Urania

To I.K.

Everything has its limit, including sorrow.

A windowpane stalls a stare. Nor does a grill abandon

a leaf. One may rattle the keys, gurgle down a swallow.

Loneless cubes a man at random.

A camel sniffs at the rail with a resentful nostril;

a perspective cuts emptiness deep and even.

And what is space anyway if not the

by Joseph Brodsky