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Brodsky's popular love poems
White sky
spinning over me.
Gray earth
rumbles under my feet.
Left trees. On right
another lake
with stone shores
with wooden shores.
I pull out, pull out
feet from the swamp
and the sun illuminates me
in small rays.
Field season
fifty-eighth year.
I am to the White Sea
I slowly make my way.
Rivers flow north.
The guys wander - waist-deep - along the rivers.
White night above us
lightly squeamish.
I'm looking for. I make myself
person.
And so we find
go to the coast.
Bluish wind
is already reaching us.
Earth goes into water
with a short splash.
I raise my hands
and raise my head
and the sea comes to me
its whitish color.
Who do we remember
whom we forget now
what we’re worth
what we’re not yet worth;
here we are by the sea
and the clouds are floating
and our footprints
drawn in by water.
* * *
Field season
fifty-eighth year!
Find out:
this is your beginning.
Still alive Dobrovolsky,
smiling, walking around the city.
In dactyl rhyme
I still do not understand.
* * *
Say goodbye.
See you in the grave.
Our time is drawing near.
Well?
We did not win.
We will die in the arena.
All the better.
Not bald
from women, from over-drinking.
... And the sky above the Coliseum
same blue
as over our homeland
which in vain left
for the sake of truth
and
for the wealth of the Romans.
However,
we are not offended.
Is this an insult?
Just like that
it is seen,
it fell to us
the plan ...
Our time is drawing near.
People are already seated.
We will die in the arena.
People want spectacles.
* * *
Why are we swapping places again
why again, all less needed,
swims to me with Moscow bridges
embassy lanes silence?
And again, the automobile flight
at night to half-empty mansions,
Like a swindler, oh, an unloved city,
to curved and stone colors.
And the twigs are shaking invisibly
let sorrow spin unknown:
dull and easy debauchery,
aloofness weak seal.
Then. Then in a hurry to live.
Then that humor is inappropriate,
then that our heads are spinning
twentieth century, crazy sports.
But, breathing alternating air,
inglorious maya not exceeding
Serve your own, disgraced soul,
not doing short things.
Change life. Change at least from the outside
to dances, to the Opera, to the waters;
Matins - to the bell for me;
madness - on paid freedom.
Look, look for the glorious wreath
then that we become any
less arrogant yet
and therefore more and more loved.
* * *
And the eternal battle.
Rest only in our dreams.
And let nothing
Do not disturb dreams.
Gray night,
and dormant birds
swinging from the blue silence.
And the eternal battle.
Attacks at dawn.
And the bullets
forgotten how to sing
shouted to us
what else is Immortality ...
... And we just wanted to survive.
Forgive us.
We were seething to the end
and the world was perceived
like a parapet.
Hearts were breaking
rushed and snored
like horses
falling under shelling.
... say ... there ...
so they don’t wake up anymore.
Let nothing
Do not disturb dreams.
... Which of the
that we did not win
what from
that we didn’t return? ..
* * *
Little dog death.
Little bird's death.
Normal sizes
human death.
* * *
Snow circling at dusk, circling.
The courtyard smolders under a light bulb.
In a fork in a tree lies.
On a broken branch it whitens.
Not that it’s white and light.
But it seems (almost exciting
fence) at the trunk
appears, bypassing the bark.
On a long felled pine
she is studying the truth
that inability to whiteness
it differs from the garden.
What a white light is inside of it.
But, almost cracking from a cold,
almost without feeling
that snow covered her outside.
But still lifeless look.
Dead lake is empty.
They only cough revive
its underlying redness.
* * *
Who is deaf to the past
and for the future is simple,
directs his ears
in premature growth.
Like earth, like water
under the darkness of heaven
in every feeling always
life force with a needle.
And involuntarily embraced
fear, startled like a mouse,
the one you look at
you’ll shoot from the corner.
Light the candle
on the edge of darkness.
I want to see
what you feel.
In this night house
where hides the window
like a tablecloth with a stain
darkness canvas.
Put a glass on the tablecloth
so that he doesn’t fall,
so that through the idol table,
like salt came out
invisible in the window
blinding way -
as if wine is pouring
and his chest heaves.
The wind, the wind has come
rustles at the window
the table is hiding
per square canvas
and flutter flowers
behind him
on the edge of darkness
like a heart in a chest.
And ink darkness
comes again
like a mind movement
swept back
and star shine
on brass axles
drowns out the sounds of riding
at a distance of all.
* * *
They tell me to leave.
Yes Yes. Thank you I'm going to.
Yes Yes. I understand. To see off
it does not follow. Yes, I won’t get lost.
Ah, what you say is a long journey.
Some nearest stop.
Oh no, don't worry. Somehow.
I'm light at all. Without suitcases.
Yes Yes. Time to go. Thank you
Yes Yes. It's time. And everyone understands.
Joyless winter dawn
trees rise above the motherland.
Its end. I will not mind.
Palms to shake - and goodbye.
I recovered. Need to leave.
Yes Yes. Thank you for the breakup.
Take me home, taxi.
As if I’m forgetting the address.
Take me to silent fields.
You know, I’m leaving the homeland.
As if I forgot the address:
to the window, the fogged one
and over the river that I loved
I will cry and shout to the boatman.
(It's over. Now I'm not in a hurry.
Drive back calmly for God's sake.
I'll look into the sky and breathe
by the cold wind of the shore of another.)
Well, here’s the long-awaited move.
Katy back without feeling sad.
When you enter the entrance at home,
I am on a shallow pier.
The best poems of Joseph Brodsky
We will be invisible, so that again
play at night and then look
in the blue phenomenon of the word
unreliable grace.
Is the sound careful before?
Are there dragee names for that?
We exist by the grace of God
contrary to the words of the witches.
And brighter than un rusted steel
fleeting oval of the wave.
We are free to discern the details,
we are full of river silence.
Let them not become older and stricter
and live on the edge of the river,
we are submissive to the grace of God
steepness of rains in spite of.
* * *
The notorious needle in an equally noble stack
in the urban twilight, half-light,
in city din, splash and groan
thin song of death.
Overhead Streets, Overhead Streets
everything draws to us this city and this water,
and a short whistle at the narrow facades,
flying up, flying free.
A memory girl wanders around the city, strumming coins in the palm of her hand,
dead leaves swirl in fallen rubles
over billboards, narrow planes fly up into the sky,
like city birds over iron ships.
Huge rain, rain of wide streets pouring over March,
like those return days that we have not forgotten about.
Now you walk alone, walk alone on the asphalt,
and brilliant cars fly towards you.
So life passes, the light fades over the bay,
rustling a dress, rattling with heels, multi-name,
and you stay with this people, with this city and this century,
yes, one on one, no matter how you are a child.
A memory girl wanders around the city, evening comes,
it rains, and at least squeeze her handkerchief,
memory girl stands at the windows and looks at the linen of the century
and this eternal motive is madly whistling in the middle of life.
* * *
We continue to live.
We read or write poetry.
We look at beautiful women
smiling to the world from the cover
illustrated magazines.
We mull over our friends
returning through the whole city
in a frozen and trembling tram:
we continue to live.
Sometimes we see trees
which are
black arms
support the endless burden of heaven
or break under the weight of the sky,
reminiscent of the earth at night.
We see the trees
lying on the ground.
We continue to live.
We you talked to for a long time
about modern painting,
or with whom I drank on the corner
Nevsky Prospect
beer, -
rarely remember you.
And when we remember
then we begin to feel sorry for ourselves
their stooped backs
my disgusting heart
beginner uncomfortable fidgeting
in the chest
after the third floor.
And it comes to mind
that one day
with him - with this heart -
some absurdity will happen
and then one of us
stretches for eight thousand kilometers
west of you
on a dirty asphalt pavement,
dropping their books
and the last thing he sees
there will be random alarmed faces,
random stone wall of a house
and a scrap of sky hanging on wires,
the sky
leaning on the very trees
which we sometimes notice ....
* * *
Put a monument
at the end of a long city street
or in the center of a wide city square,
monument,
which will fit into any ensemble,
because he will
A bit constructive and very realistic.
Put a monument
which will not hurt anyone.
At the foot of the pedestal
we will break the flowerbed
and if the fathers of the city allow, -
a small square
and our children
will squint at the thick
Orange sun,
taking a figure on a pedestal
for a recognized thinker,
composer
or general.
At the foot of the pedestal - I guarantee -
every morning will appear
flowers.
Put a monument
which will not hurt anyone.
Even the drivers
will admire its magnificent silhouette.
In the square
dates will be arranged.
Put a monument
past which we will rush to work,
near which
foreigners will be photographed.
At night, we illuminate it from below with spotlights.
* * *
... And Pushkin falls in the blue
cottony spiky snow
E. Bagritsky.
…And silence.
And not a word more.
And the echo.
Yes, and fatigue.
... Your poems
ending in blood
they drowned muffled to the ground.
Then they looked slowly
and gently.
They were wild, cold
and strange.
Hopelessly leaned over them
gray-haired doctors and seconds.
Stars above them, shuddering,
sang
stopped over them
the winds ...
Empty boulevard.
And the singing of a blizzard.
Empty boulevard.
And a monument to the poet.
Empty boulevard.
And the singing of a blizzard.
And the head
omitted tiredly.
... on such a night
toss and turn in bed
more pleasant
than stand
on the pedestals.
* * *
"A shed tear
I’ll bring it from the future,
put it in the ring.
You will look alone
put it on
nameless, of course. ”
“Ah, others have husbands,
red rings,
pearl earrings.
And I have a tear
liquid turquoise
dries in the morning. "
"Wear the ring while
visible from afar;
then another one will pick up.
And you’ll get tired of storing,
there will be something to drop
at night to the bottom of the well. "
* * *
Manchurian yellow wind,
speaking high
about Jews and Russians,
buried in a hill.
Oh, two-story houses
dull roofs!
Oh, the earth is still the same.
Only the sky is closer.
Only a minimum of light.
Only fragile birds
like a cloud of death
above ground expeditions.
And looks to the East
hiding from the wind
black and white flower
twentieth century.
* * *
To leave love on a bright sunny day, irrevocably;
Hear the rustle of grass along the lawns leading back,
In the dark cloud of day, in the dark evening, evil, half asleep
Barking of evening dogs - through the square nests of the lawn.
This is a difficult time. We must survive, surpass these years,
With every new suffering, forgetting past adversities,
And meeting, like the news, these wounds and pain every minute,
Restlessly entering a foggy new morning.
How swift is the fall this year, this year of travel.
Along the whitish sky, black and red silent processions,
Leaves pass by bare trees hourly,
Hitting a glass, hitting a stone - the dreams of an urbanist.
I want to wait, surpass, survive this time,
A new look through the window, lowering a palm to his knees,
And the whitish sky, and the leaves, and the sunset strip through,
Like a daughter and a father, someone leaves earlier, I know.
Fly, fly, hit ’the earth, fall sideways,
Fly by, leaves sweep along locked windows
Everything that is visible now in a faded, faded light
This life is like a daughter and father, like a daughter and father, but I don’t want to
of death.
Revive on the earth, no, you can’t, lie, it’s right,
Oh live on the earth, live as you please, even fall,
But another time will come - parting with grief and pain,
And the years will come without me with daily love.
And ending in major, in fire, in major of flight,
slipping down the glass like a dress from a shoulder, like a turn sign,
Remaining, as before, for a long time, as before, in place,
Not autumn melancholy - the expectation of winter, an incessant song.
Brodsky love poems beautiful
Passing by the Akimov Theater,
hungry gaze over the windows,
secreting fresh saliva,
I'm planning to write a play
to the glory of our socialist virtue,
winning against the backdrop of modern furniture.
Left play with right hand
I'll sprinkle pretty soon
and Comrade Akimov will deliver it,
accordingly, having first issued it.
And I, my God, will receive the money.
And then everything will go differently.
And shaving my beard, I'll walk down the stairs
to the theater ... to the third hall of the deli.
* * *
Fish live in winter.
Fish chew oxygen.
Fish swim in winter
touching eyes
ice.
There.
Where deeper.
Where is the sea.
Fish.
Fish.
Fish.
Fish swim in the winter.
Fish want to swim.
Fish swim without light.
Under the sun
winter and unsteady.
Fish swim from death
the eternal way
fish.
Fish don't shed tears:
resting head
into blocks
in cold water
freeze
cold eyes
fish.
Fish
always silent
for they are
silent.
Poems about fish
like fish
stand across
throat.
* * *
Over the fragile haze of so short generations
who came to the world as if they visited the world,
there is nothing regrettable
than the light of untimely measures.
In cities divided by greed
it rolls like pink transit
oh very rough pity
in his eyes deliberately glides.
But snowy Russia raises
its smoky smoke over the roofs of names
as if he still doesn’t understand
but he soon realizes
her semi-oval portraits,
her eyes, as well as voices,
to the aesthetics of the past century
correlating my anapesta.
In other houses, above the smells of stairs,
over honesty, and also about crooks,
we live to see the flattering analogies,
to sexual truths live.
In other houses we will agree on glory
and in pity a sweating hand
as in these meager rooms, let’s leave
agnosticism is a northern tribute.
Forgive me, oh Lord, my ornate
ignorance of universal justice
among circles, fraught with ovals,
and so rational simplicity.
Forgive me - a poet, a man -
oh meek God of the misery of everything
as a sinner or as the son of a century
all true - like his stepson.
* * *
Survive everyone.
Relive again
like they are snow
dancing snow of dreams.
Relive the corners.
Survive the corner.
Tie the knots
between good and evil.
But survive the moment.
And survive the age.
Relive the scream.
Relive the laughter.
Relive the verse.
Survive everyone.
* * *
We are not drunk. We seem sober.
And probably we are poets,
When, sprinkling strange sonnets,
We speak over time with "you."
And here are the fruits - rockets, films.
And here are the fruits: a great verse ...
Draw, draw, crazy century,
Your soldiers, your lovers
Savor their timely glory!
Why is it true, after all, is not true,
Why is she testing us ...
And your low genius will break your legs
To realize for the sixtieth time
The results of wanderings, strange results.
* * *
Without condemning late repentance,
without distorting the truth of the conditional,
you reflect Abel and Cain
as if reflecting clown masks.
As if all of us are only late guests,
as if hastily adjusting ties
as if the same - graveyards -
we will end, variously hungry.
But, aware of his own fragility,
You will look at smiles again
and discern the value behind tinsel,
behind a shield of self-deception - tenderness ...
Oh, feel wholeness behind vanity
and on an ordinary dial - forever!
* * *
The blind wander
at night.
Much easier at night
cross the square.
The blind live
to the touch,
touching the world with his hands
not knowing the light and shadow
and feeling the stones:
made of stone
walls.
Men live behind them.
Women.
Children.
Money.
therefore
indestructible
better to get around
walls.
And the music is in them
rests.
The stones will swallow the music.
And music
will die in them
captured by hands.
It’s bad to die at night.
Bad to die
to the touch.
So, it’s easier for the blind ...
Blind goes
across the square.
Interesting Brodsky's poems about life
Twists autumn in the leaves of these nests.
Here in the leaves
autumn, the sound of heat
splashing branches, trembling through the day,
through the air
wrapped leaves of the body
the birds are hot.
It's raining here. Dawn does not spoil
another's death, her words, that long face,
the sand of the great rivers, you say yes autumn. Night
comes
turning them obliquely
to the trees of autumn, their nests, wet bosoms,
the grass. It's raining, it's night. Dawn
comes from unpaved airfields
past years in Yakutia. Those years
face turned
yes trembling twice to death
your friends, your friends, from the nests
quietly fallen, their trembling. Here at dawn
it’s also raining here, you’ll touch the trunk,
here oppresses.
Oh, nests, nests, nests. Knock of the dead
O warm grass, you are no longer here.
They are not.
In a folded sheet dry, on rotting moss
now in the taiga there is one trace.
Oh, nests, black nests of the dead!
Nests without birds, nests for the last time
the color is so terrible, every day you are less and less.
Here ahead, look, less than us.
Autumn light twists these nests.
The last time you step on a trembling bridge.
Look around the trunks
go before it's too late
hear the cry from the nests, hear the cry from the nests.
* * *
Now I am leaving Moscow.
Well, God be with you, indiscreet torment.
So they look like, alas,
favorite centuries of target.
Well, shoot the change of seats,
and salute the realities of non-turbulent
at least it's just a move
from the dusk of Moscow to St. Petersburg.
Shoot for life, equal fate
oh, don't even aim around.
My whole life is awkward shooting
in the image of politics and sex.
Everything seems to be refunded again
the futility of these free shots,
like a prize to you, Moscow, oh, shooting gallery -
all mills, dancers, diplomats.
Now I'm leaving Moscow,
I pay generously with an empty cafe.
So here it is, you think
dishonor in clothes of separation.
But do not think so, no.
Why did you circle my random look?
But lonely wandering light
the easier the logic is sadder.
Live, live and do different
and building weak houses,
live moving from time to time
and sparingly cherish the inexpensive.
* * *
He believed in his skull.
I believed.
They shouted to him:
“Absurd!”
But the walls fell.
Skull,
It turns out he was strong.
He thought:
Beyond the walls is clean.
He thought,
What's next is simple.
... he escaped suicide
Bad cigarettes.
And he began to roam the villages
By the hats
Yellow and long;
He wrote for churches
Judah and Magdalene.
And that was art.
And then, in road dust
Him
Sivous Chumaki
How to be buried.
Prayers over him were not read,
So,
They threw clay ...
But left on earth
Judah and the Magdalene!
* * *
Goodbye,
forget it
and do not blame me.
And burn the letters
like a bridge.
May it be courageous
your path,
let it be straight
and simple.
Let it be in the darkness
for you to burn
star tinsel
may there be hope
palms warm
at your fire.
Let there be snowstorms
snow, rain
and the frantic roar of fire
let there be luck ahead of you
more than mine.
May it be mighty and beautiful
the battle,
thundering in your chest.
I'm happy for those
with you
may be,
along the way.
* * *
All this was, was.
All this burned us.
It all poured, beat
jerked and shook
and took power
and dragged to the grave
and dragged on pedestals,
and then overthrew
and then - forgot
and then caused
in search of different truths
to get lost completely
in the liquid bushes of ambition
in the wild mud of prostration
associations, concepts
and - just among the emotions.
But we learned to fight
and learned to bask
by the hidden sun
and get to the earth
without pilots, without pilots,
but - most importantly - do not repeat.
We like constancy.
We like the creases of fat.
on our mother’s neck
as well as our apartment,
which is small
for the inhabitants of the temple.
We like to blossom.
We like to swab.
We like the rustling of chintz.
and the rumble of a prominence,
and, in general, our planet,
like a rookie
sweating on the march.
* * *
Jewish cemetery near Leningrad.
Curved fence made of rotten plywood.
Behind a crooked fence
lawyers, traders, musicians, revolutionaries.
They sang for themselves.
Saved for yourself.
For others, they were dying.
But first they paid taxes
respected the bailiff
and in this world, hopelessly material,
interpreted the Talmud,
remaining idealists.
Maybe they saw more.
And, perhaps, they believed blindly.
But they taught children to be tolerant
and became stubborn.
And they did not sow bread.
Never sowed bread.
They just went to bed
into cold earth like grains.
And they fell asleep forever.
And then - they covered them with earth,
lit candles
and on the day of remembrance
hungry old people in high voices
gasping for hunger, shouting for comfort.
And they got it.
In the form of the decay of matter.
Remembering nothing.
Forgetting nothing.
Behind the curved rotten plywood fence
four kilometers from the tram ring.
* * *
The stars have not faded yet.
The stars were in place
when they woke up
in the chicken coop
perched
and yelled larynx.
... Silence was dying
like the silence of the temple
with the first chorus sound.
The silence was dying.
Oratai got up
and cattle yelling
harnessed yawning
displeased and sleepy.
That was the beginning.
The approach of the sun
it all meant
and it rose
over the fields
over the mountains.
... Roosters were sent
for pearl grains.
They did not like millet.
They wanted better.
Roosters buried
in manure heaps.
But the grain was found.
But the grain was recovered
and about it from the perch
at dawn they shouted:
- We found it ourselves.
And cleaned themselves.
We inform about luck
own voices.
In this diploma of wheezing
over the years
over the centuries
I see the matter of time
open roosters.
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