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CHAPTER ONE
Collected Poems in English
By JOSEPH BRODSKY. Edited by ANN KJELLBERG.
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Read the Review
Six Years Later
So long had life together been that now the second of January fell again on Tuesday, making her astonished brow lift like a windshield wiper in the rain, so that her misty sadness cleared,
and showed a cloudless distance waiting up the road.
So long had life together been that once the snow began to fall, it seemed unending; that, lest the flakes should make her eyelids wince, I'd shield them with my hand, and they, pretending
not to believe that cherishing of eyes, would beat against my palm like butterflies.
So alien had all novelty become that sleep's entanglements would put to shame whatever depths the analysts might plumb; that when my lips blew out the candle flame, her lips, fluttering
from my shoulder, sought to join my own, without another thought.
So long had life together been that all that tattered brood of papered roses went, and a whole birch grove grew upon the wall, and we had money, by some accident, and tonguelike on the
sea, for thirty days, the sunset threatened Turkey with its blaze.
So long had life together been without books, chairs, utensils—only that ancient bed— that the triangle, before it came about, had been a perpendicular, the head of some acquaintance
hovering above two points which had been coalesced by love.
So long had life together been that she and I, with our joint shadows, had composed a double door, a door which, even if we were lost in work or sleep, was always closed: somehow its halves
were split and we went right through them into the future, into night.
[1968]
Anno Domini
The provinces are celebrating Christmas. The Governor-general's mansion is bedecked with mistletoe, torches smoke by the entrance. In the lanes the people press and lark around. A merry, idle, dirty,
boisterous throng crowds in the rear of the mansion.
The Governor-general is ill. He lies on a couch, wrapped in a shawl from Alcazar, where he once served, and his thoughts turn on his wife and on his secretary receiving guests downstairs in the hall. He is not really jealous. At this moment
it's more important to him to retire into his shell of illness, dreams, the deferment of his transfer to the capital. And since he knows that freedom is not needed by the crowd at all to make a public
holiday— for this same reason he allows
even his wife to be unfaithful. What would he think of if ennui attacks did not plague him? If he loved? A chilly tremor runs through his shoulders, he chases these alarming thoughts away. In the hall
the merrymaking subsides
but does not end. Muddled with drink, the leaders of the tribes stare glassily into a distance now devoid of enemies. Their teeth, expressive of their rage, set in a smile that's like a wheel held
fast by brakes—and a servant
is loading them with food. In his sleep a merchant cries out. Snatches of song are heard. The Governor-general's wife and secretary slip out into the garden. And on the wall the imperial eagle, like
a bat, stares down, having gorged on the Governor-general's liver.
And I, a writer who has seen the world, who has crossed the equator on an ass, look out of the window at the hills asleep and think about the identity of our woes: the Emperor won't see him, I won't
be seen by my son and Cynthia ... And we,
we here shall perish. Arrogance will not raise our bitter fate to the level of proof that we are made in the Creator's image. The grave will render all alike. So, if only in our lifetime, let us be
various! For what reason should we rush from the mansion,
we cannot judge our homeland. The sword of justice will stick fast in our personal disgrace: the heirs, the power, are in stronger hands ... How good that vessels are not sailing! How good that the sea is
freezing! How good that the birds in the clouds
are too frail for such cumbrous frames! For that, nobody is to blame. But perhaps our weights will be proportionate exactly to their voices. Therefore, let them fly to our homeland. Therefore, let them
yell out to us.
My country ... foreign gentlemen, visiting Cynthia, are leaning over the crib like latter-day magi. The infant slumbers. A star glimmers like a coal under a cold font. And the visitors, not touching
his head,
replace the halo by an aureole of lies, and the Virgin Birth by gossip, by the passing over of the father in silence ... The mansion empties. The lights on each floor die. First one, then another. Finally,
the last. And only two windows in the whole palace
are alight: mine, where, with my back to the torchlight, I watch the moon's disk glide over the sparsely growing trees, and see Cynthia, the snow; the Governor-general's, where he struggles silently
all night with his illness and keeps the fire lit, to see his enemy.
The enemy withdraws. The faint light of day barely breaking in the world's East, creeps through the window, straining to see what is happening within, and, coming across the remnants of the feast, falters. But continues on its way.
[January] 1968
Palanga
Autumn in Norenskaia
We return from the field. The wind clangs buckets upturned, unbraids the willow fringe, whistles through boulder piles. The horses, inflated casks of ribs trapped between shafts, snap at the rusted
harrows with gnashing profiles.
A gust combs frostbitten sorrel, bloats kerchiefs and shawls, searches up the skirts of old hags, scrolls them tight up as cabbageheads. Eyes lowered, hacking out phlegm, the women scissor their way
home, like cutting along a dull hem, lurch toward their wooden beds.
Between folds flash the thighs of scissors, wet eyes blur with the vision of crabbed little imps that dance on the farm women's pupils as a shower flings the semblance of faces against a bare pane.
The furrows fan out in braids under the harrow. The wind breaks a chain of crows into shrieking links.
These visions are the final sign of an inner life that seizes on any specter to which it feels kin till the specter scares off for good at the church bell of a creaking axle, at the metal rattle of the
world as it lies reversed in a rut of water, at a starling soaring into cloud.
The sky lowers. The shouldered rake sees the damp roofs first, staked out against the ridge of a dark hill that's just a mound far off. Three versts still to cover. Rain lords it over this beaten
plain, and to the crusted boots cling brown stubborn clods of the native earth.
1965
FOR E.R.
A second Christmas by the shore of Pontus, which remains unfrozen. The Star of Kings above the sharp horizon of harbor walls. And I can't say for sure that I can't live without you. As this
paper proves, I do exist: I'm living enough to gulp my beer, to soil the leaves, and trample the grass.
Retreating south before winter's assault, I sit in that café from which we two were exploded soundlessly into the future according to the unrelenting law that happiness can't last. My finger
tries your face on poor man's marble. In the distance, brocaded nymphs leap through their jerky dances, flaunting their thighs.
Just what, you gods—if this dilating blot, glimpsed through a murky window, symbolizes your selves now—were you trying to advise us? The future has arrived and it is not unbearable. Things
fall, the fiddler goes, the music ebbs, and deepening creases spread over the sea's surface and men's faces. But no wind blows.
Someday the slowly rising breakers but, alas, not we, will sweep across this railing, crest overhead, crush helpless screams, and roll in to find the spot where you drank wine, took catnaps, spreading to
the sun your wet thin blouse—to batter benches, splinter boardwalks, and build for future molluscs a silted bed.
1971
Yalta
Homage to Yalta
The story to be told below is truthful. Unfortunately, nowadays it's not just lies alone but simple truth as well that needs compelling argument and sound corroboration. Isn't that a sign of
our arrival in a wholly new but doleful world? In fact, a proven truth, to be precise, is not a truth at all— it's just the sum of proofs. But now what's said is "I agree," not
"I believe."
What troubles people in the atom age is— much less than things themselves—the way they are constructed. Like a child who clobbers dolly, then wails on finding the debris inside, we tend to
take what lies in back of this or that event as nothing less than that event itself. To which there is a kind of fascination, inasmuch as things like motives, attitudes, environment, et cetera—all
this is life. And life we have been trained to treat as if it were the object of our logical deductions.
And sometimes all it seems we have to do is interweave them—motives, attitudes, environment, and problems—and events will then take place; a crime, let's say. But no. It's just an
ordinary day out there. It's drizzling, cars go rushing by. Inside, a standard-model telephone (a clump of cathodes, junctions, terminals, resistors) is resolutely speechless. No event, alas, takes
place. On second thought, thank God.
The matter here described occurred in Yalta. Of course, I'll make an effort to comply with the view of truth I mentioned earlier— that is to say, I plan to disembowel that dolly. But I hope you
will forgive me, gentle reader, if I here and there append to truth an element of Art, which, in the last analysis, lies at the heart of all events (though, to be sure, a writer's art is not the
Art of life, it only forms a likeness). Testimony
of witnesses will follow in the order in which it was obtained. Herein lies an example of how truth depends on art, and not of art's dependence on the truth.
I
"He telephoned that evening and he said he wasn't coming. He and I beforehand, on Tuesday, had agreed that he'd drop by my place on Saturday. Yes, yes, on Tuesday. I'd called him and
invited him to come. `On Saturday' is when he said he'd see me. The purpose? Simply that for quite a while we'd hoped to sit and analyze together a problem of Chigorin's. That was all. Our meeting was to have no other `purpose,' to use your word. Unless, of course, you choose to say that wishing to take pleasure in a congenial person's company amounts to a purpose. Still, you
probably know better ... As luck would have it, though, he phoned that evening and said he'd not be coming. What a shame it was! I really would have liked to see him. Distraught? Was that the word you
used? Oh, no. He sounded just the same as usual. But of course, a telephone's a telephone; although, you know, when you can't see a person you focus on his voice a bit more sharply. He didn't
sound distraught ... But then, the way he phrased his words was always somewhat odd. His speech consisted, on the whole, of pauses that always made you feel uneasy, since we ordinarily interpret silence to mean a person's mind is busy working. And his, in fact, was nothing but pure silence. You'd soon begin to get a feeling of your own dependence on this quietness, and that would irritate a lot
of people. Oh, no, I knew it had resulted from his shell shock. Yes, of that I'm very certain. How else would you explain the fact ... What's that? That's right, he didn't sound at all
distraught. But of course, that's only judging by his voice. There is one thing I'll say in any case: that Saturday and earlier, on Tuesday, he sounded just the same as usual. So if something
really happened to him then, it wasn't Saturday, because he called! That simply doesn't fit distraught behavior! Take me: when I'm distraught, for instance ... What? The tenor of our conversation?
Gladly. The moment that I heard the telephone I was there to pick it up. `Good evening, it is I; I owe you an apology. For, as things turn out, I simply won't be able to come today.' Oh, really?
That's a shame. On Wednesday, maybe? Should I call you up? Offended? Why, for heaven's sake, of course not! Until next Wednesday, then? `Good night,' he answered. That's right, it was
at eight or thereabout. When I hung up I cleared away the dishes and took the board out. Last time, his advice had been to try the Queen E-8 maneuver. An odd and somewhat muddled move it was. Nonsensical,
almost. And not at all in the spirit of Chigorin. Odd it was, and senseless. Didn't change a thing, and therefore it nullified the meaning of the problem. In any game what matters are results: a
win, a loss, or even if a draw— but nonetheless an outcome. His move, though— it seemed as if it put the pieces in some doubt about their very own existence. I sat up with the board till late
at night. Perhaps the game may someday actually be played like that. As far as I'm concerned, however ... Sorry, what was that you asked: does the name mean anything to me? It does. Five years ago
the two of us broke up. Yes, that's correct: we weren't ever married. Was he aware of it? Most likely not. It surely wasn't something she'd have told him. What's that? This photograph?
I'd make a point of putting it away before he came here. Oh, no! You needn't be apologetic. The question is quite natural, and I ... How was it that I knew about the murder? I got a call from
her that very night. Now there's a voice that really was distraught!"
(Continues...)
(C) 2000 Estate of Joseph Brodsky All rights reserved. ISBN: 0-374-12545-7
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