Brodsky we are parting with you forever. Brodsky Joseph - it’s not the muse of water that’s drawing

Sad reflections on the bitterness of separation and how time and fate change a person, his attitude to the world, to the past and to his beloved in the poem “It’s not the Muse who puts water in her mouth”: We are parting with you forever, my friend.

During his lifetime, Joseph Brodsky was rarely able to read an impartial word about his work - fate cast too bright a light on his texts. Several very interesting articles appeared in “samizdat”, in emigrant publications, and with the beginning of “perestroika” in Russia, but understanding Brodsky’s work as a whole is a matter for the future... and a very difficult matter. His ironic, completely contradictory poetry does not fit into any concepts.

In his mature years, Brodsky did not like talking about his work. And about literature in general. In his value system, life is more important than literature. At the same time, he saw nothing in life “except despair, neurasthenia and fear of death.” Except suffering and compassion.
But Brodsky’s poems argue with the author: there is, there is something other than despair and neurasthenia...
Even Brodsky's darkest and coldest texts are very comforting. He speaks about loneliness, despair and hopelessness with such fervor that none of his contemporaries achieved in poems about happy love and fraternal union with people.

“It’s not the Muse who puts water in her mouth...”

It’s not the Muse who puts water in her mouth.
That must have given the young man a good night's sleep.
And waving a blue handkerchief after
runs over his chest with a steam roller.

And don’t stand up, neither in cancer nor in other words,
like back to the aspen system for firewood.
And eyes on the pillowcase face
spreads like an egg in a frying pan.

Are you hot under the cloth of six?
blankets in that garden where - Lord forgive me -
like a fish - air, a damp lip
I grabbed what was then you?

I would sew bunny ears to my face,
I would swallow lead in the forests for you,
but also in a black pond of bad snags
I would have surfaced in front of you, just as the Varyag could not.

But, apparently, it’s not fate, and the years are not the same.
And already gray hair is ashamed to say - where.
More long veins than blood for them,
and the thoughts of dead bushes are crooked.

We are parting with you forever, my friend.
Draw a simple circle on paper.
It will be me: nothing inside.
Look at it - and then erase it.

Brodsky Joseph Alexandrovich (May 24, 1940, Leningrad - January 28, 1996, New York), Russian poet, prose writer, essayist, translator, author of plays; also wrote in English. In 1972 he emigrated to the USA. In the poems (collections “Stop in the Desert”, 1967, “The End of a Beautiful Era”, “Part of Speech”, both 1972, “Urania”, 1987) the understanding of the world as a single metaphysical and cultural whole. The distinctive features of the style are rigidity and hidden pathos, irony and breakdown (early Brodsky), meditativeness realized through an appeal to complex associative images, cultural reminiscences (sometimes leading to the tightness of the poetic space). Essays, stories, plays, translations. Nobel Prize (1987), Knight of the Legion of Honor (1987), winner of the Oxford Honori Causa.

It will be me: nothing inside.

I have always said that fate is a game.
Why do we need fish if we have caviar?
That the Gothic style will win, like a school,
like the ability to stick around without getting shot.
I'm sitting by the window. There is an aspen outside the window.
I loved few. However - strongly.

I kept repeating that the forest is only part of the log.
What is all the virgin for if there is a knee.
That, tired of the dust raised by a century,
the Russian eye will rest on the Estonian spire.
I'm sitting by the window. I washed the dishes.
I was happy here, and I won't be again.

I wrote that the light bulb contains the horror of the floor.
That love, as an act, is devoid of a verb.
What Euclid did not know, that when he descended onto the cone,
the thing acquires not zero, but Chronos.
I'm sitting by the window. I remember my youth.
Sometimes I smile, sometimes I spit.

My song had no motive
but it cannot be sung in chorus. No wonder
what is my reward for such speeches
No one puts their legs on their shoulders.
I'm sitting by the window; outside the window like an ambulance,
the sea thunders behind the wavy curtain.

Second-class citizen of the era, proudly
I recognize it as a second-class commodity
your best thoughts, and for the days to come
I give them as an experience in dealing with suffocation.
I'm sitting in the dark. And she's no worse
in the room than the darkness outside.

We are parting with you forever, my friend.
Draw a simple circle on paper.
It will be me: nothing inside.
Look at it - and then erase it.
Other lyrics of songs "I. Brodsky"

Other titles for this text

Joseph Brodsky - We part with you forever, my friend (read by Sergei Trukhanov))
S. Trukhanov (Brodsky) - We part with you forever, my friend
Sergey Trukhanov - We part with you forever... (Art. I. Brodsky)
Sergey Trukhanov - We part with you forever, my friend... (poems - I. Brodsky)
Sergei Trukhanov (I. Brodsky) - We are parting with you forever, my friend...
I. Brodsky - draw a simple circle on paper
Sergei Trukhanov - It’s not the muse who puts water in her mouth... (Brodsky)
Sergei Trukhanov (poems by I. A. Brodsky) - We are parting with you forever, my friend...
Joseph Brotsky - draw a simple circle on paper...
Sergei Trukhanov - We part with you forever, my friend... (Joseph Brodsky)
Sergei Trukhanov - I'm sitting by the window (I. Brodsky)
Sergei Trukhanov - ...I loved few. However - very......
866.Sergey Trukhanov - I'm sitting by the window
Sergey Trukhanov (I. Brodsky) - circle
Sergei Trukhanov - I have always said that fate is a game.
Brotsky - we are parting with you forever, my friend, draw a simple circle on paper, it will be me, nothing inside, look at it, and then erase it...
Sergey Trukhanov (poems by I. Brodsky) - We are parting with you forever, my friend....mp3
Joseph Brodsky - Draw a simple circle on paper
ending - I. Brodsky - Avangard - Box
- I didn’t love many people, but very much
KEWPROD - draw a simple circle on paper
Joseph Brodsky (poems) - Draw a simple circle on paper.
Sergey Trukhanov - We part with you forever, my friend
Sergei Trukhanov - We part with you forever, my friend (Joseph Brodsky)
Joseph Brodsky - I'm sitting by the window
Sergey Trukhanov - We part forever (Based on the verses of I.A. Brodsky)
Sergei Trukhanov - We are parting with you forever, my friend / to the verses of I. Brodsky /
Sergei Trukhanov - We are parting with you forever... (I. Brodsky)
Sergei Trukhanov (I. Brodsky) - We are parting with you forever, my friend
Sergei Trukhanov (poems - I. Brodsky) - We are parting with you forever, my friend...

“It’s not the Muse who puts water in her mouth...” Joseph Brodsky

It’s not the Muse who puts water in her mouth.
That must have given the young man a good night's sleep.
And waving a blue handkerchief after
runs over his chest with a steam roller.

And don’t stand up, neither in cancer nor in other words,
like back to the aspen system for firewood.
And eyes on the pillowcase face
spreads like an egg in a frying pan.

Are you hot under the cloth of six?
blankets in that garden where - Lord forgive me -
like a fish - air, a damp lip
I grabbed what was then you?

I would sew bunny ears to my face,
I would swallow lead in the forests for you,
but also in a black pond of bad snags
I would have surfaced in front of you, just as the Varyag could not.

But, apparently, it’s not fate, and the years are not the same.
And already gray hair is ashamed to say where.
More long veins than blood for them,
and the thoughts of dead bushes are crooked.

We are parting with you forever, my friend.
Draw a simple circle on paper.
It will be me: nothing inside.
Look at it - and then erase it.

Analysis of Brodsky’s poem “It’s not the Muse who puts water in her mouth...”

Every poet has his own muse, and Joseph Brodsky is no exception in this regard. For many years he loved Marianna Basmanova, a St. Petersburg artist whom he met back in 1962. Fate decreed that this couple, for whom friends predicted a brilliant future, separated. Moreover, it was the fault of Marianna, who chose someone else over Brodsky.

Finding himself in forced emigration, the poet continued to maintain relations with his beloved and dedicated a huge cycle of lyrical poems to her, marked with the initials “M.B.” However, at some point, Brodsky realized that he was unlikely to see the one with whom he dreamed of meeting old age. It was then, in 1980, that the poem “It’s not the muse who puts water in her mouth” was born, in which the author mentally says goodbye to his youthful love.

However, this separation happened much earlier, but the poet still consoled himself with illusions and hoped for the best. He did not dare admit to himself that he was, albeit a bright, but still an episode in the life of Marianna Basmanova. Even despite the fact that in 1967 the couple had a son, Andrei, whom Brodsky dreamed of taking to his place in the USA. However, until a certain time, he counted on the fact that Marianne would be with him. But when this illusion crumbled to dust, with some irony and even mockery he asked his beloved in the poem: “Do you feel hot under the cloth of six blankets in that cage?”

The poet admits that he was once ready to sacrifice everything for the sake of the one he loved. “I would sew hare ears to my face, I would swallow lead in the forests for you,” writes Brodsky, realizing that this poem will be one of the last in the cycle dedicated to this woman. Therefore, lying to her and to yourself, being thousands of kilometers away from each other, is simply pointless. It is for this reason that the poet speaks quite directly and frankly about what once connected him with Marianna Basmanova, and notes that these times are in the distant past. “But, apparently, it’s not fate, and the years are wrong. And already gray hair is ashamed to say where,” the author emphasizes. He also admits that his beloved has ceased to be a muse for him. And this is not surprising, because the pain and hope that fought for so long in the poet’s soul eventually gave way to disappointment and apathy.

Brodsky also realizes that for Marianna Basmanova he has actually ceased to exist. Therefore, he asks to perceive it as a circle, inside of which there is emptiness. “Look at it - and then erase it,” the poet advises, saying goodbye to the one he once loved.

But Brodsky’s poems argue with the author: there is, there is something other than despair and neurasthenia...
Even Brodsky's darkest and coldest texts are very comforting. He speaks about loneliness, despair and hopelessness with such fervor that none of his contemporaries achieved in poems about happy love and fraternal union with people.

« It’s not the Muse who puts water in her mouth...” Joseph Brodsky

M. B.

It’s not the Muse who puts water in her mouth.
That must have given the young man a good night's sleep.
And waving a blue handkerchief after
runs over his chest with a steam roller.

And don’t stand up, neither in cancer nor in other words,
like back to the aspen system for firewood.
And eyes on the pillowcase face
spreads like an egg in a frying pan.

Are you hot under the cloth of six?
blankets in that garden where - Lord forgive me -
like a fish - air, a damp lip
I grabbed what was then you?

I would sew bunny ears to my face,
I would swallow lead in the forests for you,
but also in a black pond of bad snags
I would have surfaced in front of you, just as the Varyag could not.

But, apparently, it’s not fate, and the years are not the same.
And already gray hair is ashamed to say where.
More long veins than blood for them,
and the thoughts of dead bushes are crooked.

We are parting with you forever, my friend.
Draw a simple circle on paper.
It will be me: nothing inside.
Look at it and then erase it.

“It’s not the Muse who puts water in her mouth...”

It’s not the Muse who puts water in her mouth.
That must have given the young man a good night's sleep.
And waving a blue handkerchief after
runs over his chest with a steam roller.

And don’t stand up, neither in cancer nor in other words,
like back to the aspen system for firewood.
And eyes on the pillowcase face
spreads like an egg in a frying pan.

Are you hot under the cloth of six?
blankets in that garden where - Lord forgive me -
like a fish - air, a damp lip
I grabbed what was then you?

I would sew bunny ears to my face,
I would swallow lead in the forests for you,
but also in a black pond of bad snags
I would have surfaced in front of you, just as the Varyag could not.

But, apparently, it’s not fate, and the years are not the same.
And already gray hair is ashamed to say - where.
More long veins than blood for them,
and the thoughts of dead bushes are crooked.

We are parting with you forever, my friend.
Draw a simple circle on paper.
It will be me: nothing inside.
Look at it - and then erase it.