By Anna Polibina-Polansky
The Engish Poetic Translation out of Brodsky
The Swedish Music
To K.Kh.
When the snow flips over the sea and the squeaking pine
Leaves a trace in the air like a shade of a sleigh,
What bluish height can reach the eyes, despite
The dark calmness there? Can the voice, be delayed?
The world disappears, and the face tarnishes, though late.
The conch, so, disperses light, so the silence is of the speed of the sound.
A match will suffice, to burn up a oven. ...
By Joseph Brodsky
The English Poetic Rendition, by Anna Polibina-Polansky
December in Florence (Version 2)
1
Doors inhale and exhale the vapor.
You won't be back here, sometime in April.
The Arnoe's shoals meet pairs of neighbors.
They remind the beasts whose paws are four.
The population is clapping with many a-door.
The atmosphere keeps the air of woods, at its core.
It is a lovely, elated city where
At a definite age, you take eyes unawared,
From folks, and yo...
By Joseph A. Brodsky
The English Poetic Renditions, by Anna A. Polibina-Polansky
*** A Part of Speech
("Ya ne to chto s'hozhu s uma, no ustal za leto...")
I do not get mad, but rather, for the summer, defatigated.
So you flip through the wardrobe, and the day is done.
So let the wintry season coming, neagate them,
Cities, mankind, but especially, the leaves' rattling tongue.
I will go to sleep in all garments or read someon's book from behind.
So the remnant...
Five of my freshest poetic translations from Russian, out of Joseph Brodsky.
Three aged ladies in deep arm-chairs... ("Три старухи с вязаньем в глубоких креслах...")
So not the Muse tries to stay that calm... ("То не Муза воды набирает в рот...")
To M.Basmanova (Oh my dear one, I got out of my home, late to-night... ("Дорогая, я вышел из дому поздно вечером...")
I do succe...
By Gregory Margovsky
The English Poetic Translation by Anna Polibina-Polansky
The Lark * * *
It doesn't matter so to whom
the recognition will be granted.
I will accept the chalice, doomed.
Half-deities spread to me, their hands bleak.
The prophet is condemned to crowds
that venerate their ghosts and statues.
Two ivy-trees, so, weave about.
The landscape is all that still matters.
So larks will fly about, beyond
the purple meadows unending.
Oh hues of dawns, the brisky ponds,
t...