Joseph Brodsky is a poet whose lyric poetry became the voice of an entire generation forced to live in a time of change and reflect on eternal questions. His poems are a complex blend of intellectual rigor, philosophical depth, and personal drama. Brodsky masterfully wielded words, creating unique rhythmic patterns and imbuing his works with polysemantic images. This page is dedicated to a selection of his most significant and beloved poems, reflecting the diverse facets of his talent and worldview.
Don't leave the room.
Don't leave the room, don't make gestures of despair. Having drawn the curtains, don't take in sadness, as if in a glass. Don't say that your life is a movie. Leave yourself, as is, an unwashed plate, and don't strive for the last, clean line. In the end, does it really matter what's petty in your fate, like a fly in a jar? Don't leave the room, don't write letters, don't wait for calls. Forget the name of the one who could have brought happiness, and who is now only a ghost of smoke. And let the clocks be silent, and let the wall absorb the silence and the cold. In the end, you are your own country, and you are your own prisoner, your own master, and your own young man.
Newspaper strip
A newspaper page. Yesterday. It contains deaths, weddings, explosions, campaigns. And you, reader, like a captive animal, find your years in its net. It contains names that no longer call, and faces erased by the stamp of time. And you, reader, feel how everything here is doomed to eternal oblivion. But in this page, in its lines, there is something important that needs to be known. About how the world flows in its rivers, and how easy it is to lose yourself in it, and become.
Roman Christmas
In Rome, in December, under a leaden sky, Christmas is celebrated as if for the first time. In churches, candles are lit and choirs sing, And in bars, drunks, and everyone is their own prince. Here, time flows differently, unhurriedly, And the past breathes in every stone and wall. Here you can forget all your sins, And simply be here, in this eternal silence. But even in Rome, in its beauty, There is room for sadness, for pain, and for evil. And you, traveler, always remember this, And never lose yourself in this world.
Twenty Sonnets to Mary Stuart
I How strange, Maria, that you are not alive, And your shadow dwells only in books. But in these lines written about you, Your soul, as before, flourishes. II You are a queen, but captive to fate, And each day - as if it were the last. But you do not give up, you believe in yourself, And in this faith lies your famous feat. III Your eyes are like two deep lakes, They reflect all the pain and all the melancholy. But in this pain there is beauty, And in this melancholy - hope and dream.
Letters to a Roman Friend
Here in Rome, everything seems different, The people, the houses, even the sun. Here, time flows by its own laws, And each day feels like the end. I think of you, my friend, And I think how lucky we are. That we live, that we can love, And that we care about what happened. But even here, in this eternal beauty, There is room for sadness, for pain, and for evil. And you, my friend, always remember this, And never lose yourself in this world.
Elegy
How little we know about life, about death, about what awaits us ahead, around the corner. We make our plans, our dreams, but they all collapse like a house of cards. We love, we believe, we hope, but often only disappointment awaits us. We seek answers to eternal questions, but find only silence and stillness. And yet, we continue to live, and believe in the best, and love. And in this faith lies our strength, our power, and our hope that all will still be.
Procession
The march of time, like a river, carries us into the unknown, into the abyss of oblivion. And every moment is like the last chord, and every word is an echo of constraint. We move forward, not knowing where, and seek answers to eternal questions. We believe in miracles, in love, in kindness, but often only cold and frost await us. And yet, we continue on, and believe in the best, and love. And in this march lies our life, our destiny, and our hope that all will yet be.
On the death of Tyutchev
The poet has passed, and with him an era has passed, an era of thought, beauty, and dreams. He saw the world in its deepest sorrow, and in this sorrow his strength is visible. He spoke of the eternal, the sublime, of that which we are not given to comprehend. He was a prophet, a sage, and a friend, and his voice we will never forget. And may his poems live for centuries, and may his words resound in our hearts. He was great, he was unique, and his memory will live on forever.
June
June. White nights. A light breeze. And the city sleeps, cloaked in silence. And it seems as if time has stood still, And that everything around is just a dream, just an unearthly mirage. But even in this dream, in this silence, There is room for love, for joy and for sadness. And you, traveler, always remember this, And do not lose yourself in this world, in this bustle. And may the June nights be long, And may they fill your soul with light. And may you find answers to your questions in them, And may you be happy, and be a poet.
Return
I'm returning to the city where I was born, to the city I once left. And everything here seems so familiar, and at the same time so alien and awkward. Here are the streets, the houses, and the faces of passersby, everything reminds me of the past, of my youth. And I walk along them as if in a dream, and remember everything that was and all that is gone. But even in this return, in this memory, there is room for sadness, for pain and for hope. And I move forward, not knowing where, and I believe that everything will still be alright.