From deaf, bald, gloomy ambassadors. How and when does literary fame come to a poet? Listening to a poem performed by Joseph Brodsky

Yunna Moritz

“Beautiful things are never in vain...”

IN THE PARKING PARK

“Wonderful what a beast I am...”

“When the blood drains and the mouth straightens...”

“Sleep it off, sleep it off artist...”

AFTER THE WAR

"In the silver pillar..."

"In my youth, in the mouth of fire..."

SNOWFALL

MONKEY

“I didn’t drink vodka with geniuses...”

ANTIQUE PICTURE

"I'm worse than you say..."

“From some terrible moment...”

“There is a merciless condition...”

THE BIRTH OF A WING

THOSE TIMES

ON THE DEATH OF JULIET

“But the pain wasn’t even pain...”

"When we were young..."

IT'S GOOD TO BE YOUNG!

EVENING LIGHT

“And the bell in the hollow of the chapel is empty...”

FATHERLAND OF SNOW

“Grey trees. Gray grass..."

IN MEMORY OF ANDREY PLATONOV

SATYR WITH A MERMAID

PROMETHEUS

“Bird cherry, let me breathe…”

IT'S TIME TO RAIN AND WITHER

“Snow is flowing like fountains on the corner...”

TRAIL IN THE SEA

“The mint in your eye turns green…”

“My constellation is Gemini...”

“And I, walking with stones more often than many…”

DOVLATOV IN NEW YORK

“Centuries will pass, but the heart remembers everything...”

A NIGHT BLIZZARD, AN ICY GROUND

“I know iambs of prophetic predictions...”

“We meet extremely rarely, but more often than I would like...”

NIGHT OF GUITAR

PORTRAIT OF SOUND

FIVE POEMS ABOUT MY MOTHER'S ILLNESS

BED IN A SCOTTISH CASTLE

STAR OF SERBOSIS

INVASION OF JAVIER

HUMAN RIGHTS BOMB TRUCK

Yunna Moritz

Face

“Beautiful things are never in vain...”

Beautiful things are never in vain.

They don't grow even in a black year

The maple is in vain, and the willow is in vain,

And a wasted flower on the pond.

Despite something terrible,

They don’t flow even in the black shadow -

Waves, singing, vain radiance

And in vain tears and days.

We got the most different things,

But never even in the dark centuries -

Rye is in vain, eternity is in vain

And in vain milk in the nipples.

The matter is clear, clear, clear -

Here and nowhere else, never

Beautiful things are never in vain!

Isn’t that why I’m so drawn here?

Secret power, powerful magic,

Star call from the shores, clouds, -

Beautiful things are never in vain! -

Now, forever, forever...

IN THE PARKING PARK

A boat sailed along the canal,

There were flasks for dinner, -

The music played quietly

On Ordynka, on Polyanka.

That's what the ice floes are called

Near the Christmas tree hall, -

On Polyanka, on Ordynka

The music played quietly.

So seething in the clearing

That stream where I played -

On Ordynka, on Polyanka

The music played quietly.

I'm right in the middle

It stood for its own life, -

On Polyanka, on Ordynka

The music played quietly.

I'm outside and inside out

The fabric of fate was sorted out, -

On Ordynka, on Polyanka

The music played quietly.

The music played quietly

On Polyanka, on Ordynka.

Mom wiped the glass

Where are we hugging in the picture,

I wiped it with paper,

I illuminated the image in the frame.

The music played quietly

On Ordynka, on Polyanka.

It was in the parking lot

The wind blew through my soul, -

On Ordynka, on Polyanka

The music played quietly.

“Wonderful what a beast I am...”

What a wonderful beast I am -

covered in golden fleece.

My skin is valuable -

tomorrow, yesterday, now!..

Descendants walk by

in hats made from me.

Their beauties are slender and thin in fur coats,

made from me.

...Snow at the end of the day

becomes heavenly.

Someone rushed by with a song,

Made from me.

“When the blood drains and the mouth straightens...”

When the blood drains and the mouth straightens

And I will strengthen the piercing similarity with the bird,

Then my soul, my little people,

Forgotten cattle breeding for the sake of songs,

Trade, agriculture, casting

And beekeeping, smelling of wax,

He will go to his place, take care of his own -

Sing like a goldfinch through winter crossroads!

And sing as you wish. Choose a motive.

Fate - it will remain fate.

Poets, lowering their eyes,

They can see freely into the distance in front of them -

With your whole being, as a blind man does.

Don't look around! Don't seek publicity!

Pass us by and the lordly anger and caresses,

Don’t ask anyone: - When? -

Nobody knows how long the road is

From the first couplet to the second,

Moreover, until the Last Judgment.

Don't ask anyone: - Where? -

Where to fly to be on time and to the place?

Nature will cut off its wings in revenge

For signs of lack of shame.

Everything is fine. So be yourself!

Everything is fine. And we are not decreasing.

Fate will remain fate.

Everything is fine. And it couldn't be better.

“Sleep it off, sleep it off artist...”

Amant alterna Samenae

Stones love alternation

Sleep, sleep, artist,

Loot and trophy!

Otherwise, my Orpheus,

You will be a luminary.

Sleep it off, sleep it off

bay leaf,

And rabid cattle

And first places.

Sleep through the crackling delirium

Brilliant victories,

Sleep through your grave

And there is a dinner in her honor.

Sleep, sleep, artist,

Sleep well, humpty-dumpty,

Sleep through everything you can,

And be late everywhere!

And it rolls in a ball

For a tasty morsel

Let the one who is famous for those

That I knew you.

Sleep it off, sleep it off, the acquaintance

So nice!.. Sleep it off.

Let the cat not sleep scientist

On that golden chain.

AFTER THE WAR

A light flickers in the ruins,

There is someone alive there, holding the fire between his teeth,

And the world is beautiful, and my path is so far!..

And it smells from me three miles away

A living piece of laundry soap,

And pure power soars above us -

The flannel is clean and the hair is clean!

And I'm dressed in a clean robe,

And I step next to a pure mother,

And I almost fall asleep while walking,

And the ringing of the tram silvers my sleep.

And the bath knot is silver

With rags. And the universe turns silver,

And there is no war, and we are leaving the bathhouse,

I am eight years old, and my journey is so far!..

And we won’t get on the tram for anything -

After all, after the bath we are not lousy again!

And the world is beautiful, and everyone in the world is alive,

And now they will live for a hundred years!

And the world is beautiful, and my path is so far,

And being poor is not dangerous for life,

And, Lord, how scary and beautiful

A light flickers in the ruins.

"In the silver pillar..."

In a silver pillar

Christmas snow

Let's go to our place

Looking for a place to stay for the night,

Toe one foot

Let's push the other one in the heel

And let's take off our boots,

Without damaging the patch.

There's a rustling sound in the coffee pot,

Fortune telling drink

Reminds me that the soul is

Not a measure, but an excess,

And that talent is not a mixture

Everything that people love

And the worst thing is

And the best that will happen.

"In my youth, in the mouth of fire..."

In my youth, in the mouth of fire,

Roses made me rude

Grobili - bloomed magnificently

Everywhere we could:

Shame on the cheeks,

Labor - in your hands,

Kissing mouth - in the clouds!

He was so unbearably red

Rdyyanets - may he die!

Because of him alone

No one felt sorry for me:

Neither the bilious sage,

Neither the greedy youth

I won't show you with my eyes,

Through what boundary

I moved to order

Fire roses turn white:

Shame on the cheeks,

Labor - in your hands,

Kissing mouth - in the clouds!

It's so unbearable to turn white

Solid light - without fire,

So that during your lifetime - and in the future! -

They didn't spare me:

Neither the bilious sage,

Neither the greedy youth

Neither conscience is a gnawing twin!

It's so unbearable to turn white

So that they don’t dare to regret

Those who didn't feel sorry for me

When my roses turned red:

Shame on the cheeks,

Labor - in your hands,

Kissing mouth - in the clouds!

SNOWFALL

Snow falls day and night,

They rush to the ground, skirting houses.

They wander around the city day and night

There is noise over Riga, snowfalls rustle,

The roads are drowned, the trams are motionless.

Sitting on the railing of a cast iron fence

I, the black bird, and you, the blue one.

In the fog, like in a bathhouse from Fellini's scream,

The vapors of hell and heaven float,

Erasing the realities of faces and lines,

I am a black bird, and you are a blue one.

According to the latest forecast...

For the West, Russia is a fierce enemy: Yunna Moritz about fascism, the position of the Bykov-Makarevichs, the war in Ukraine, the rise of patriotism in Russia, about conscience...

Yunna Petrovna, in the “networks” they declared war on you for the publication of your poems, your position, which does not coincide with the position of the Bykov-Makarevichs. What gives you the strength to so clearly and convincingly resist the onslaught of haters?

Have a conscience - this is a luxury item,
Have a conscience - this is a wonderful property!
They turned off my water, gas and electricity,
And conscience - never, not for a moment...

Have a conscience - this is big capital,
Don't let your conscience be cut with a hacksaw.
Crystal and metal will become cheap, -
Conscience will never become cheap.

The war in Ukraine, the rise of patriotism in Russia, the betrayal of the fifth column - where is the poet’s place in such a situation. Poet and freedom of speech, how are these concepts connected for you today?

Yunna MORITZ. Freedom of speech has always been in my poetry, under all regimes, for which I was constantly on the “black list”. I have great experience of freedom of speech and opposition to bullying and slander. I always walked “across the stream” and did everything possible so as not to fit into any frame, stream, rut, much less ride any wave that would bring profit and benefit. Kunyaev wrote that I hate everything Russian, just as Heine hated everything German, but this is not the worst thing that has been written about me. However, I have always had, have and will have a wonderful Reader, and there are many, many of them for a poet these days. The place of the poet now and always is where it is clear that Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey, Dante’s Inferno, Shakespeare’s tragedies, Pushkin’s The Bronze Horseman and Poltava are the Eternal Now, which is pure poetry of the Resistance, journalism and topic of the day, poetry forever. I already wrote that “I fell into this bad company early.”

The war in Donbass is Resistance. Fascism was decriminalized, Banderaism was integrated into the national liberation movement against the “Russian occupiers”, the junta came with executioners who burned alive protesting citizens in Odessa and, with complete indifference of the police, finished off those who were fleeing by jumping out of windows. In response to the rampant fascism, which was applauded by the West, Donbass rebelled, defending its Right to Life. This is a historical uprising against the “new world order”, which calls itself Western civilization and uses the methods of fascism to decide who has the Right to Life and who does not! Hitler dreamed of destroying Russia, the “new world order” was his dream.

Was the temptation from the West? And if so, when did you become disillusioned with it? Why, from your point of view, is the West so seductive to the “dear Russian” even today?

Yunna MORITZ. I was always restricted from traveling abroad; I was constantly invited to the West - to symposiums, poetry festivals, to give lectures. Lydia Pasternak, Boris Pasternak’s sister, translated my poems there. Then, when everyone began to graduate, I was in Italy, England, France, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, America. My poems were translated beautifully, and author’s evenings were held in front of full houses.

I never had the temptation to stay. I was not “disillusioned with the West,” I experienced anger and contempt for that “collective West” that bombed Serbia, destroying International Law, and then, in the name of American hegemony, invaded Iraq, Libya, and then everywhere.

The Russian oligarchy did everything possible to ensure that NATO moved towards our borders, although NATO did not really want this at the beginning of the “catastrophe”.
But the oligarchy believed that NATO was the best defender of its predatory capital from the “bestial” people. The West seduces the “dear Russian” with comfort, the opportunity to pour capital there, snatched up in Russia, while at the same time calling Russia a garbage dump, a historical dead end and garbage.
NOT FOR PRINT. Devilry

1. Democracy of pogrom
Victory must be bloody

Without this it will not be convincing

II. Well thought out
For the West, Russia is a fierce enemy:

You can't invade Russia like you invade Iraq.

III. How young Gogol is!

Without dark forces, any truth is lies!

I. Democracy of pogrom
Fifteen years ago the Serbs asked
They should not be bombed during Orthodox Easter,
They cannot be bombed when Christ is Risen.
But the lady with the devilish smile of superiority
Answered on behalf of the State Department,
In the name of global domination,
That the Serbian request is historically absurd,
And, if you think about global interest,
About democracy, about moral progress,
The Serbs must be bombed on Easter,
Without this it will not be convincing
Victory without bombing at Easter

For the reason that Christ is Risen.
Fifteen years later, on Easter night
In Ukraine, in Ukraine (whatever you want!)
The Slavs are killing the Slavs - where? - in Slavyansk.
Laughing at the Easter truce,
The authorities arrange for bloodshed
The face of the State Department is very busy!
Victory must be bloody
Without this it will not be convincing
Victory of pogrom democracy,
And the democracy of pogrom is a celebration of bestiality!
But if you think about global interest,
Blazing with a devilish smile of superiority,
Bloodshed is a tool of domination,

Without this it will not be convincing

Especially on the night when Christ is Risen.
Russia is not invading Iraq
Doesn't plunge Libya into darkness
Doesn't hang Saddam in pieces

Gaddafi doesn’t tear up, laughing with happiness!
Russia is a harmful country
History must be rewritten:
She didn't defeat Hitler!
America and Europe won

But the Russians only harmed them!
Russia threatens everyone:
They pour and sprinkle hatred on her,
And they poison, they poison, but she is not poisoned,
The beauty is accustomed to this poison, -

The West doesn’t like this country!
For the West, Russia is a bone in the throat
And just an extra guest on the planet.
But no matter how much Russia is desecrated,
And in terms of historical morality,

II. Well thought out
Both Crimea and Sevastopol fled to her.
You can't invade Russia like you invade Iraq,
You can’t be surrounded by a fifth column,
A column of foul-smelling Russophobia,

Where is the flag of pogrom - a sign of great blessings!
Russia must be driven away from the planet,
No gallows, no one alive in pieces
Gaddafi doesn’t vomit, laughing with happiness, -
But the West is ready to help us with this!

We are ready to help you at any time
Pogroms, snipers, Egyptian night!

You can't invade Russia like you invade Iraq.

And in Ukraine - a written bag,
Where is the pig in a poke and the sky,
And the damn classic, out of this world,
Who wrote for Gogol
Such pearls are such a joke,
The reality is that Kolya,
Gogol had film darkness!
He has a cinematic eye - in this film school

And mermaids swim in the rivers like herrings,
And they take revenge on the offenders, and call vodka vodka,
This name has a devilish streak in it,

Nothing has changed, everything is in place,
Nobody disappears, everything is now,
And at this moment I receive news
From Gogol, whose truth is first-class
Passes through censorship and prohibitions,
Through the written bag of devilry,
Through morgues, through delights, hospitals,
Through the black smoke, where men burn tires.
How young Gogol is in this film darkness
Realities where boars fly,
Aunties fly into the sky on boars,
And mermaids swim in rivers like herrings.
Without dark forces, any truth is lies!

Yunna MORITZ.

*The poems of Yunna Petrovna Moritz have been translated into all major European languages, as well as Japanese, Turkish, and Chinese. Many songs have been written and performed based on her poems, for example “When We Were Young” by Sergei Nikitin. She writes a lot for children, ever since she published several poems in the magazine “Youth” (at that time Moritz was banned from publishing for independence and inflexibility in his work and was even expelled from the Gorky Literary Institute). Children's poems - kind, humorous and paradoxical - are immortalized in cartoons ("Rubber Hedgehog", "Big Secret for a Small Company", "Favorite Pony"). Yunna Moritz puts her thoughts not only in letters and lines, but also in graphics and paintings, “which are not illustrations, they are such poems, in such a language.”
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Brodsky Joseph

* * *
The end of a wonderful era

Because the art of poetry requires words,
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
second-rate power associated with this -
not wanting to rape my own brain,
handing myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening newspaper.

The wind blows the leaves. Old light bulbs dim glow
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
with the assistance of puddles, it generates the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal the orange by scraping the amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself is
I forgot this feeling.

In these sad lands everything is designed for winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats, brides' toilets - white
New Year's, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan morals. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heating pads.

This region is motionless. Presenting the volume of gross
cast iron and lead, you shake your head in shock,
remember the former government on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even wicker chairs stay here
on bolts and nuts.

Only fish in the seas know the value of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out with a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
It looks for the properties of both in raw vegetables.
Kochet listens to the chimes.

To live in an era of achievements, having an exalted character,
unfortunately, it's difficult. I lifted up the beauty's dress,
you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas.
And it’s not that Lobachevsky is strictly watched here,
but the widened world must narrow somewhere, and here -
this is the end of perspective.

Either the map of Europe was stolen by government agents,
maybe five-sixths of the parts remaining in the world
too far away. Is it some kind of good fairy?
He casts a spell on me, but I can’t escape from here.
I pour myself some Cahors - don’t shout to the servant -
Yes, I’m scratching my cat...

Or a bullet to the temple, as if in the place of a mistake with a finger,
or be pulled from here across the sea by the new Christ.
And how not to mix it up with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
like a boat on water, it will not leave a mark on the rails
locomotive wheel.

What do they write in the newspapers in the “From the Courtroom” section?
The sentence was carried out. Looking here,
the average person sees through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a man lies face down against a brick wall;
but doesn't sleep. For to disdain dreams
perforated right.

The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times, incapable in their general blindness
distinguish those that have fallen out of cradles from those that have fallen out.
The white-eyed monster does not want to look further than death.
It’s a pity, there are plenty of saucers, but there’s no one to turn the table with,
to ask you, Rurik.

The vigilance of these times is vigilance for the things of a dead end.
It’s not appropriate for the mind to run wild yet,
but spitting on the wall. And it’s not the prince who wakes up the dinosaur.
For the last line, oh, you can’t snatch the bird’s feather.
To the innocent head of all things, why wait for the ax
yes green laurel.

In these sad lands everything is designed for winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats; bridesmaid toilets - white
New Year's, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan morals. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heating pads.

Or a bullet to the temple, as if in the place of a mistake with a finger,
or be pulled from here across the sea by the new Christ.
And how not to mix it up with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a steam locomotive with a ship - you still won’t burn with shame:
like a boat on water, it will not leave a mark on the rails
locomotive wheel.

The vigilance of these times is vigilance for things that are dead-end.
It’s not appropriate for the mind to run wild yet,
but spitting on the wall. And it’s not the prince who wakes up the dinosaur.
For the last line, oh, you can’t snatch the bird’s feather.
To the innocent head of all things, why wait for the ax
yes green laurel.

Analysis of the poem “The End of a Beautiful Era” by Brodsky

The poem “The End of a Beautiful Era” was written by I. Brodsky in 1969 and was later included in the collection of the same name. It reflects the poet’s negative view of the Soviet reality around him, which he compares with “the end of a beautiful era.”

The work begins with the lyrical hero leaving the house to get a newspaper. He compares himself to “an ambassador from a second-rate power,” hinting at his Jewish identity. Brodsky constantly emphasized his foreignness. The surrounding reality for him is “sad lands.” He believes that a “victory of mirrors” has occurred in Russia. This led to the emergence of the realm of illusion. The wealth of a country and people is just an apparent phenomenon, reinforced by multiple reflections. Moreover, all the mirrors in the kingdom are crooked, so you cannot vouch for the verisimilitude of all reflections. The author sadly admits that he has completely forgotten “the feeling with which you look at yourself.”

For the lyrical hero, Soviet Russia is a country in which “everything is designed for winter,” that is, for the cold and harsh season. This attitude has become an integral part of the national mentality and has even penetrated into people's dreams. The author is depressed by the soullessness of communism, in which the country's successes are determined not by spiritual development, but are reduced to the volume of gross output. Autocracy, the horrors of which Soviet historians loved to scare, cannot be compared with the scale of modern power. Even the eagles (the symbol of Tsarist Russia) have lost all their pride and “sit down... on the iron mixture.”

The lyrical hero believes that in the USSR only fish can consider themselves free. The fear of openly expressing their views brings people closer to the mute inhabitants of the seas. Life according to orders and a firmly established routine leads to a paradoxical situation when “one listens to the chimes” and not to the sunrise.

The author hates the “era of achievements” proclaimed by the authorities, which makes the “beautiful era” laughable. Sublime ideas and morals have been replaced by a crude materialistic awareness of reality, meaning “the end of perspective.”

The lyrical hero would like to escape from his country as quickly and far as possible, but he cannot do this, because “the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities.” It should be noted that after three years he will be “kindly” given such an opportunity.

Returning to reality, the lyrical hero opens the newspaper. The news of the death sentence being carried out only adds to his gloomy mood. The author sees the true reasons for the emergence of a totalitarian society in the times of Ancient Rus'. Calling distant ancestors a “white-eyed monster,” the author dreams of turning with reproach to Rurik himself.

The poem "The End of a Beautiful Era" vividly reflects Brodsky's tendency to see everything in a black light. The disgraced poet simply did not notice the positive aspects of Soviet reality and the entire national history or did not want to do so.

Because the art of poetry requires words, I - one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors of a second-rate power associated with this one - not wanting to rape my own brain by handing out my own clothes, I go down to the kiosk to get the evening newspaper. The wind blows the leaves. The dim glow of old light bulbs in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors, with the assistance of puddles, generates the effect of abundance. Even thieves steal the orange by scraping the amalgam. However, the feeling with which you look at yourself - I forgot this feeling. In these sad lands, everything is designed for winter: dreams, prison walls, coats, brides' clothes - New Year's white, drinks, second hands. Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis; Puritan morals. Linen. And in the hands of the violinists are wooden heating pads. This region is motionless. Imagining the volume of gross cast iron and lead, you will shake your head in amazement, remembering the former government on bayonets and Cossack whips. But the eagles land like a magnet on the iron mixture. Even wicker chairs are held here with bolts and nuts. Only fish in the seas know the value of freedom; but their dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out with a price list. Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things, it seeks the properties of both in raw vegetables. Kochet listens to the chimes. Unfortunately, it is difficult to live in an era of achievements with an exalted character. Having lifted up the beauty’s dress, you see what you were looking for, and not new marvelous divas. And it’s not that Lobachevsky is firmly watched here, but the expanded world must narrow somewhere, and here - here is the end of perspective. Either the map of Europe was stolen by government agents, or the five-sixths remaining in the world are too far away. Either some good fairy is casting a spell over me, but I can’t escape from here. I pour myself some Cahors - don’t shout to the servant - and scratch the cat... Either a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of an error with a finger, or yanked from here across the sea by the new Christ. And even if you don’t confuse your drunken eyes, stunned by the cold, with a steam locomotive and a ship, you still won’t burn with shame: just like a boat on the water, the locomotive’s wheel won’t leave a mark on the rails. What do they write in the newspapers in the “From the Courtroom” section? The sentence was carried out. Looking here, the average person will see through tin-rimmed glasses how a man lies face down against a brick wall; but doesn't sleep. For dreams with holes in them have the right to disdain the dome. The vigilance of this era is rooted in those times, unable, in their general blindness, to distinguish those who fell out of their cradles from those who fell out of their cradles. The white-eyed monster does not want to look further than death. It’s a pity, there are plenty of saucers, but there’s no one to turn the table with to ask you, Rurik. The vigilance of these times is vigilance for things that are dead-end. It’s not appropriate to spread your mind over the tree yet, but like a spit on the wall. And it’s not the prince who wakes up the dinosaur. For the last line, oh, you can’t snatch the bird’s feather. The innocent head of all affairs can only wait for an ax and a green laurel.