That no one can know. Another time, other songs. Another composition of the atmosphere - the sound is distributed in it otherwise. And what is poetry if not the sound: voice, accompanied or not accompanied by singing lyric strings? At the moment there are indications that this sound is "survive" the dust Brodsky, buried in San Michele in Venice, "and run away decay; have indicators and the fact that this sound oust symphony unheard before the general oratory, noise, and finally bezyazychiya. Already over a dozen years since his death, the living image replaced the new editions of his books, books and movies about him, and I, for example, requires little effort to wipe the steamy window and see the person whom I knew. In any case, if you will be celebrating its 100 anniversary, it like all such anniversary, stratify on vylepku new image of the poet and to talk about his poetry. Think that Pushkin would have been stunned to discover how perceptions in the public sample 1899 second, not to mention 1999.

But until then for another 30 years, and what we celebrate today is a cause just to recall it until there is someone to remember. The simplest way to describe the funny side of a man, was most amusing to draw attention to his weaknesses. This deals with the vast number of reminiscing. As a result, recall turns out to be like them. Since the only difference: he, for no reason at something else composes. The horse and cart are reversed. It was not because he recalled choose exactly about him that sometimes he could get laughs with a joke or a distraction, and in addition was a poet. It's that he's a poet, and you're with him so I syak I knew chooses you in memoirists. We want to know what you add to what we find in his poetry, and you tell us the average jokes about him and Mays about his relatives.

What Brodsky talented, could be seen a mile away, and close - that it brilliantly talented. As a man lived there two frenzied passion. By independence - from anyone, from any circumstances, nor on the state of health. And the greatness of the main idea - as a lifetime, and any of its rotation. To greatness - which he saw to it that at each stage and step in line with the height of performance. He held a lot of your time and attention. And the place: he had with him closely, his speech filled the space for many. He was not ashamed of his intonations high pressure, zahleba, vzryda - as well as gestures, demanding more and more of the premises, streets and cities. Even when silent, there was a feeling that it sounds: muted, frankly, when seeing it for themselves, and when and uncontrollably.

He was young. Not only in his early years, when simply hard to be young. The code of chivalry virtues of medieval Europe, along with the nobility, virtue, generosity, faithfulness was YouTube. Here are a youth he was young and in 30, and 50. This does not contradict the sober, sophisticated and knowledge-view, which he looked at life and people. From him you could hear unpleasant things. This creates a reputation as an unpleasant man - absolutely wrong: annoying things, but not the one who calls them. In turn, his intellectual clarity intertwined with its inherent purity of innocence, reminding children.

This one attracted, repelled others. The first was many, many fewer than the latter. One of the former mutual friends when he became a Nobel laureate, has spent considerably the strength to get him a visit while in Leningrad, inviting me to the birthday, said: "Just try not to bring a Osya. In the human community would therefore create distrust. From him, you never know what to expect. His installations, considerations and evaluation gave no reason to deduce from them any of the accepted systems in the world. From an early age I noticed that most people look at him with suspicion and not particularly veiled discontent. As a stranger. What is he, to be honest, and is.

Perhaps because Jews historically lived among strangers and feeling - it does not matter, rightly or wrongly - of the danger posed by such attitudes to the poet, who comes from a Jewish environment, attracts attention. Russian Jews are unhappy Fet - who did not want to know (and to annoy him, that still know) about his Jewish blood. Pasternak - because he felt himself fully aware and Russian poet, and Jewish origin was on the extreme periphery of his thoughts (if any exist). Not very happy with Mandelstam - because his fame was ambiguous: if it is true, as they say of him, a genius, he had to gain recognition at least of the same rank, that of Heine, not disreputable disturber of the peace. And Brodsky unhappy - because he wrote Christmas poems and refused to come to Israel in spite of the invitation.

Such a state of mind can only sympathize. Poet - an incredible rarity. Bumping unexpectedly rare stone, we are delighted, but not the requirements of the claim, if it is not the form or color that we have more to your taste. Our taste is our personal passion. We have been given to educate, to change - when faced with the personality, talent, intelligence, self-made man, whom we first knew.

When Brodsky asked, with whom he identifies himself, he replied: "Russian poet, English essayist, an American citizen. Do not see a better combination.

http://www.e-slovo.ru/483/nayman.htm

At the heart of the picture - off-screen interviews, drawn from numerous interviews with journalists Brodsky. During the conversation Joseph Brodsky tells about the most important corners of his life, responding to sensitive questions, jokes, remembers ... The film is kept on feelings of how people live their own, no one has imposed life, thinking that each acquisition has its price, and, as a rule - a loss. In the film, first used photos of Joseph Alexandrovich and his father, Alexander Ivanovich, letters and postcards sent to parents, amateur photography friend of the poet.
Read more http://www.tvkultura.ru/news.html?id=450574&cid=54

At the heart of the picture - off-screen interviews, drawn from numerous interviews with journalists Brodsky. During the conversation Joseph Brodsky tells about the most important corners of their lives, respond to sensitive questions, jokes, remembers ... The film is kept on feelings of how people live their own, no one has imposed life, thinking that each acquisition has its price, and, as a rule - a loss. In the film, first used photos of Joseph Alexandrovich and his father, Alexander Ivanovich, letters and postcards sent to parents, amateur photography friend of the poet.
Read more http://www.tvkultura.ru/news.html?id=450574&cid=54

Let's really, Postum, a chicken not a bird,
but harebrained; I'd glare grief.
If you fell in the Empire to be born,
better to live in a remote province near the sea.

And far from Caesar, and from the blizzard.
Fawn does not need to feel nervous, hurry.
You say that all the governors - thief?
But the thief dearer to me than a spider.

*

This downpour to wait with you, Hetero,
I agree but let's not trade:
take sesterces from covering the body
anyway, that demand from the roof shingles.

Leak, you say? But where's the pool?
To leave a puddle I did not before.
Here you will find yourself some of her husband,
he will proceed on the bedspread.

*

So we spent more than half.
In the words of my old office in front of a tavern:
"We, looking back, we see only the ruins.
Look, of course, a very barbaric, but true.

Was in the mountains. Now busy with a large bouquet.
I'll find a large pitcher, pour water to them ...
As there in Libya, my Postum - or where is it?
Is is still fighting?

*

Remember, Postum, the governor sister?
A skinny, but with full legs.
You slept with her yet ... Recently became a priestess.
Priestess, Postum, and communicates with the gods. "

Come, drink wine, eat a bite bread.
Or drain. You'll tell me the news.
The bed you in the garden under the clear sky
and tell you what are called constellations.

*

Soon, Postum, a friend of yours, a loving addition,
duty to his long-time subtraction pay.
Take away from under the pillow savings
there are a few, but enough for the funeral.

Go to my black mare
the house under the city hetaerae our wall.
Give them a price that loved
so for the same price and mourned.

*

Green laurel, reaching to tremble.
Door too wide, dusty window.
Chair abandoned, left behind a couch.
The fabric has absorbed the midday sun.

Pont noise behind the black fence of pines.
Someone's boat with the wind fighting off Cape.
On the cracked bench - Pliny the Elder.
Drozd twitters in the shock of hair cypress.

Mart 1972

-----------------------------------------
Ahmatova

     Shouting and zahlopochut cocks
     zagrohochut the avenue boots
     sparkle horse emerald
     overnight contemporaries die.

     Sing over the lane flageolet,
     break into the canal pistol
     thunder on the window sill glass
     will be in the room is particularly bright.

     And pomchatsya, brushing against the bushes,
     Invisible Soldiers stuffiness
     trimmed along a new walkway,
     like a shadow ovoid vessels.

     So begins twenty-first, gold,
     on the trail, red sun-drenched,
     questions and curses in response
     steam enveloping the light.

     But the Champ de Mars dusk
     You come all alone, alone,
     in a blue dress, as has happened too many times,
     but forever without fans, without us.

     Only a paper tube in his hand,
     a taxi for you goes the distance,
     next brilliant splashes water
     The asphalt sag wires.

     You raise a great person -
     loud laughter, as memorial word,
     sound vague at the side a hot bridge -
     for a moment enflame void.

     I have not seen, I see your tears,
     I do not hear rustling wheels
     taking you to the Gulf, to the tree,
     on the homeland without a monument to you.

     In a warm room, as I recall, no books,
     without fans, but also not for them,
     Relying on the palm of his temple,
     You write about us obliquely.

     You say a while: "Oh, my God!
     this air desolate - only flesh
     Dumas, who left his confession,
     not a new creation is yours! "

             June 1962

http://a88.narod.ru/1062035p.htm

-----------------------------------------
Ahmatova

     Shouting and zahlopochut cocks
     zagrohochut on Prospect boots
     sparkle horse emerald
     overnight contemporaries die.

     Sing over the lane flageolet,
     break into the canal pistol
     thunder on the window sill glass
     will be in the room is particularly bright.

     And pomchatsya, brushing against the bushes,
     Invisible Soldiers stuffiness
     trimmed along a new walkway,
     like shadows ovoid vessels.

     So begins the twenty-first, gold,
     on the path, a red sun-drenched,
     questions and curses in response
     steam enveloping the light.

     But the Champ de Mars dusk
     You come all alone, alone,
     in a blue dress, as has happened too many times,
     but forever without fans, without us.

     Only a paper tube in his hand,
     a taxi for you goes the distance,
     next brilliant splashes water
     The asphalt sag wires.

     You raise a great person -
     loud laughter, as memorial word,
     sound vague at the side a hot bridge -
     for a moment enflame void.

     I have not seen, I see your tears,
     I do not hear rustling wheels
     taking you to the Gulf, to the tree,
     on the homeland without a monument to you.

     In a warm room, as I recall, no books,
     without fans, but also not for them,
     Relying on the palm of her temple
     You write about us obliquely.

     You say a while: "Oh, my God!
     this air is desolate - only flesh
     Dumas, who left his confession,
     not a new creation is yours! "

             June 1962

http://a88.narod.ru/1062035p.htm

One day my happy stay here on the sidelines of the Biennial, I saw a man trying to pass, but his servant not let him. The usher spoke in Italian, and a visitor - only in English. By the time I lived for four months in Italy and quite a lot about myself imagined. Therefore considered a sufficient knowledge of the language to help people. And, characteristically, has helped, something we are there to minister agreed. In any case, people have missed. We met. His name was Joseph Brodsky. His poetry is of course, I knew, but how could he could know what he looks like! Talked. Brodsky said then that the Russian people to live better, if not in Russia, then in America. Then I remembered the many times these his words. He probably had in mind and cosmopolitan, and the scale of the territory that was similar to the USSR ...

And about every other day Brodsky read his poetry in some of the auditoriums Biennale. I first listened to his inimitable singing liturgical poetry ...

He lived in "Landry" - hotel on the main promenade of Venice, and his friend, the American esseistka Susan Sontag - the Hotel Gritti. " There, near the famous Harry's Bar, where was a lot of celebrities, including Hemingway, but now and Brodsky. Anyway, in his testimony, it was in this bar he met a Christmas 77-year, along with Susan Sontag. What they drank cocktails "Bellini" - branded invention "Harris-bar": skillful blend of champagne and white peach juice. Although Brodsky loved and something stronger - grappa, for example. It is possible that they ate another invention "Harris-bar", or rather its owner, Signor Cipriani, owner of the luxury hotel in Venice. They stop at Hollywood stars who come to Venice film festivals. So, once familiar Cipriani, famous actress complained to him that the doctor has forbidden her to eat any cooked meat. And generous Cipriani invented especially for her dish, then became very popular. This is the finest sliced raw beef under the sheets with olive oil and lemon and parmesan. The dish was the name of the great Venetian painter Carpaccio. It is possible that at Christmas 1977 Brodsky, very fond of meat in all forms, and Susan Sontag ate carpaccio here in Harris-bar.

That's what we know for sure: in one of these days, she called him and invited to visit the widow of the famous poet of Ezra Pound. Pound was a fascist entity, collaborated with Mussolini. Brodsky, treated him with hostility, but a meeting with the widow, the famous Italian violinist, Olga Rudge, and went. I'm talking about this visit just because thanks to him emerged this legendary name of the famous essay of Joseph - Fondamenta degli Incurabili - Quay incurable. That's how it is written. "From the Fascists - young or old - I, in my opinion, has never experienced, but with the old communists had to do several times, and at the home of Olga Rudge, with the bust of Ezra on the floor, smelled the same spirit. From the house we went to the left and two minutes later found themselves on the Fondamenta degli Incurabili ".

With this waterfront linked one puzzle. Many believe that it does not exist. Indeed, you never find the name. Nevertheless, it is wrong. Look over here. You see half obliterated inscription on the peeling wall? The second word on clear - Inkurabili. It is the first almost erased. Remaining fragments, something like "aTape. What does it mean? Let's ask the locals. Do you see the old man out of the house just on the quay ...

Aha! He says that "aTape" - is part of the word "tar" in the Venetian dialect "dzattere" - "nab". But you hear how he calls this place! It is "fondamenta degli inkurabili. Consequently, Brodsky everything right.

You know, in New York, he gave me to read this essay in manuscript - in English. Title it was in Italian: Fondamenta degli Incurabili. In a conversation Brodsky said: in Russian is "incurable Quay. (This is because in this place once existed hospital compound where incurable syphilitics.) I said then that "incurable" sounds better "incurable". He immediately agreed: yes, it is better. American publishers have asked him to change the name of the Italian and the English version of an essay came to be called Watermark (mark depth). I have kept a copy of this book with the inscription: "From Joseph's incurable."

And here is another attraction. You see, just a hundred meters from the embankment incurable house at number 923. Here, and still lives, Robert Morgan, a friend of Joseph Brodsky, who is devoted to this essay, the American artist, one day arriving in Venice, and stayed here. He now writes his work, and successfully sell them. They agreed with Brodsky, oddly enough, on a common interest in the history of world wars and the work of intelligence agencies. For some reason, Joseph is interested. In short, with Morgan, they were to talk about. Gradually, they became friends and often met here in the Cafe "Nico", next to the entrance of the house of Robert. By the way, he also brought Joseph and a restaurant "Locanda Montin, where his picture hangs. It is five minutes from home 923. Soon "Monteen" became one of the favorite schools Brodsky.

When I once again went to Venice, he asked me where I usually have lunch. And with his meticulous attention and gave three favorite addresses, among whom was this. Another - Trattoria Alla Rivett - not far from San Marco, serving chiketti - small sandwich, which Joseph adored. And the last addressed personally to me more like the other - pub "Mascaron, near the church of Santa Maria Formosa. There, on the simple wooden tables, paper tablecloths, hanging from the ceiling lights on the fence wires, and the menu only three or four dishes. You do not want - do not eat. But if you like - do not be sorry. Joseph loved the simplicity and lack of pomp, me too.

Well, it's all about the Quay incurable. Take a look at last through the strait on the neighboring island of Giudecca. This is perhaps the only place in Venice, which reminds the Neva. Maybe that's why it was dear to him. I do not know, he never said anything about it.

Hostel "Academy", San Pietro

The first time Joseph came to Venice 35 years ago, the winter of 1973. Met him and took him to his first Venetian harbor - board "Academy". On this he has a certificate in "Quai incurable:" We landed on the wharf Accademia, after being captured solid topography and the corresponding code of ethics. After a short walk along the narrow lanes of I was taken to the lobby to surrender the monastery guesthouse, kiss on the cheek - rather like the Minotaur I thought, than as a valiant hero, - and wished good-night ... A few minutes later I looked at the furniture, then fell asleep. "

35 years ago, this boarding house was very lucky: there lived a man who wrote in the same 73-m his famous "Laguna:" Three old women with knitting in deep armchairs /talk in the lobby of the pain of the Cross; /board "Academy" with /the whole universe swims for Christmas the roar /TV ...". In the 93-m I stayed here and sent Brodsky postcard from this board, so it was pleasant.

Just lucky hotel "Londra" on the waterfront Schiavoni: here in the 77-m Joseph wrote a poem "San Pietro" on the Venetian island of the same name in the Castello, which pleased him very much. There are rarely tourists, these are working fishing districts of Venice, something reminiscent of his favorite Minor Ohta in Petersburg. Here the old dilapidated house with high chimneys "fumayoli", the ancient cathedral of San Pietro with the crooked tower. With half of the fifteenth to the early nineteenth century, he, rather than San Marco, a cathedral city. Brodsky's poem about the famous Venetian fog - Nebb: "... Electricity /continues in the afternoon to burn in a tavern. /Limestone pavement pours yellow /fried fish ... /cigarettes released for the guest /returns after ten minutes to myself /by proburavlennomu in the fog /his own body the tunnel "...

He loved to wander through these streets, in a remote part of Venice, past the north wall of the Arsenal, which is visible from the island of San Michele, past the long wall of the hospital to the Piazza San Giovanni e Paolo: "... clinging to the walls of the hospital, almost touching her left shoulder and squinting in the sun, I suddenly realized: I am a cat. The cat who ate the fish. Turn to me someone at this point, I would miaow. I was absolutely, the animal happy. "

Venice - a city cat, a symbol of her - a lion, the cat family. Joseph himself adored cats, and his wife Maria called their house cat Mississippi and Joseph - cats. Hey, cats, come here! What is characteristic, and both responded immediately. He loved to repeat after Akhmatova, as you can define people: "M. - cat - coffee" or "Pasternak - dog - tea. He himself, of course, was "M. - cat - coffee." Yes, and I, frankly, there is closer to him. Like many other things.

No, I can not say that we were friends with Joseph. After all, friendship - a ratio equal. Here's a Dovlatov we were friends. And in our relationship with Joseph, I have always looked upwards. It was impossible to lose the feeling that next to you a man of genius. One girl from our company, with which Brodsky was hardly knew, asked him for his birthday. That was before the NOBEL PRIZE. And he unexpectedly arrived. 20 people crowded into one dvadtsatimetrovoy room. And 19 people in one half and one - Joseph - in the other. There, on his part, was a circle of light from the lamp on the floor, and he drew thoughtfully on his foot. You see, no one dared to approach him and talk. Then I plucked up courage and went and we started talking about classical poetry. In any company, where he appeared, it became instantly clear: there was something significant. Such was the scale of the individual.

I once asked him: to whom do you think about how the elder? It is to reflect and say that perhaps only two people: to Czeslaw Milosz and Loewe Losev. Although Lev Losev was older than his total for 3 years.

I think that Mary was fully aware that her husband - a brilliant poet. She saw and heard it the first time in his public speech in Paris. Then she wrote him a letter. They corresponded for a long time. Not by e-mail (then it was not common), and on paper, with envelope, address, written by hand, and the mailbox. (By the way, Joseph has not mastered the computer, used a typewriter before the end of life.) And so, when, after this lengthy correspondence they met, and Joseph fell in love immediately. He took her to Sweden and two months later they were married in Stockholm. It is stunningly beautiful, such a Bellini Madonna with beautiful heavy hair. At home, they spoke with Joseph English, even though Mary knew Russian (her mother was from a sort Trubetskoys-Baryatinsky, and his father - an Italian, Vincenzo Sotstsani was a senior manager at Pirelli's). When Brodsky had guests from Russia, they spoke in Russian. Only when the conversation touched so complicated, Maria apologized and switched to English, so it was easier. It is well established, graduated from the Venice Conservatory, knows music. Once we started talking about Alban Berg, and I have mentioned, among other things, the date of his birth and death. Joseph asked: Do you want to say that you know the dates of the life of Alban Berg? This simply can not be! Mary, do you hear, he claims that he remembers the date of birth and death of Alban Berg. Check, please!

This was typical for him. He would not accept the fact that someone might know something he does not know. Sam Joseph was a phenomenally educated and informed person, not like me. But the case with him this: he did not like, if someone of something he knew more. One day, we argued about Charlie Parker. Brodsky argued that Parker played tenor saxophone, but I knew exactly what to alto. In short, they argued for a bottle of good wine. After some time I brought him proof, but got a bottle of horseradish. Naturally, he does not lose regretted: in general was very generous and generous man, loved to make gifts, and not just, namely expensive gifts. But the story he once shook: he did not like to lose.

Palazzo Marcello

This palace in Rio de Verona belonged to Count Girolamo Marcello, a representative one of the most distinguished patrician families of Venice. His ancestors in the Doge and the two composers, the name of one of them - Benedetto Marcello - called the Venice Conservatory. Here Brodsky stopped in recent years, his visits to Venice. With Marcello introduced him to Maria, they became friends. It appears that Joseph was well here. On his recommendation, and my wife and I once met with the count and had been invited as guests. This was very impressed because we were inside this Venetian palazzo. On the ground floor - it is empty - was a booth for the gondola, "feltse. In the Venetian tradition, the boat owned gondolier, and noble man belongs here, this cabin, which shows the heraldic symbols of family and genus.

Marcello pointed to the portrait of her distant ancestor on the wall: this is supposedly a copy and the original - in the Uffizi Gallery, as the author - Titian. One room on the upper floors painted with frescoes. He waved his hand: nonsense, just the 18th century. In the library shelves of the archives are divided into two parts: those that "before Napoleon," and those that "after". I was holding a "Divine Comedy" in 1484 edition and the "Decameron" in 1527. There were marks marchellovskogo ancestor, the reader of the eighteenth century.

One of the last poems of Joseph Brodsky - "from nature" - is written here and is dedicated to the owner of the house Girolamo Marcello: "... Here, where so much /spilled semen, tears, joy /and wine in the alley of heaven on earth /in the evening I was standing there, absorbing /strongly skukozhivsheysya rubber /easy to clean autumn-winter, /pink on the tiled roofs /Local air that enough /not nadyshishsya, especially at last! "/release smelling cells /time.

It is not just a premonition of death, this knowledge of her.

San Michele

Everyone says that he does not spare himself: two heart surgeries, and had quit smoking and of strong coffee did not refuse. I have on this subject has its own consideration. I mean, the man who once found the strength to stand up from his desk in the eighth grade and for all leave the school, a man who allowed himself to be dependent solely on his talent and no one, and of anything more, a man with a rare feeling indeed freedom - such a man would not and could not afford to depend even from his own body, from his ailments and infirmities. He chose not to obey and there.

The place chosen for the burial of Joseph Maria. I mean not only the cemetery on the island of San Michele, but the very geographical point - Venice. This is exactly halfway between Russia, the Motherland (Brodsky always said "Fatherland"), and America, which gave him shelter when the Homeland chased. Well then, he really loved this city. Most of all cities on earth.

He had not been truly buried in New York, where he died January 28, 1996. At the cemetery in Upper Manhattan was a niche in the wall where moved into the coffin and closed the oven. Eighteen months later the coffin was lowered into the ground, here, at San Michele. У Иосифа тут замечательное соседство, через ограду - Дягилев, Стравинский. На табличке с указателями направления к их могилам я тогда от руки написал фломастером и имя Бродского. Эту надпись все время подновляют приходящие к его могиле.

К церемонии перезахоронения Иосифа на Сан-Микеле съехалось много народу, его друзей, близких. Президент Ельцин прислал роскошный венок. Правда, какой-то идиот из совсем уж перегретых антисоветчиков переложил этот венок на могилу Эзры Паунда.

В тот вечер в июне 97-го мы все собрались в палаццо Мочениго на Большом канале, которое тогда арендовали американские друзья Марии. И это был замечательный вечер, поскольку боль потери уже успела приглушиться, и все просто общались, выпивали, вели себя так, словно он вышел в соседнюю комнату. Кстати, о комнатах. Этот вечер проходил как раз в тех апартаментах, где жил когда-то Байрон.

Через два дня мы с Лосевым, Алешковским и Барышниковым приехали на Сан-Микеле к его могиле. Еще раз помянули его, выпили... Миша взял метлу и аккуратно все подмел вокруг. Такая картинка: Барышников с метлой у могилы Бродского...

А надгробие сделал хороший знакомый Иосифа еще по Нью-Йорку, художник Володя Радунский, они жили по соседству, их дети играли вместе (сейчас Володя живет в Риме). Получилось скромное, изящное, в античном стиле надгробие с короткой надписью на лицевой стороне на русском и английском: "Иосиф Бродский Joseph Brodsky 24 мая 1940 г. - 28 января 1996 г.". Правда, на обратной стороне есть еще одна надпись по латыни - цитата из его любимого Проперция: Letum non omnia finit - со смертью все не кончается.

...А если так, то что же остается?

Остается чистый розовый от здешних черепичных крыш воздух, несущий запах мерзлых водорослей, чешуйчатая рябь водички в лагуне перед палаццо Дукале, бирюзовый отсвет каналов в тихом Канареджо, теплый мрамор стен, помнящий тысячи прикосновений, колокольный звон, который будит вас по утрам...

Вы хотели бы встретиться с Бродским? Извольте. Он здесь. Сделайте только шаг.
-------------------------------------------------- -------
Иосиф Бродский

* * *
Что касается звёзд, то они всегда.
То есть, если одна, то за ней другая.
Только так оттуда и можно смотреть сюда;
вечером, после восьми, мигая.
Небо выглядит лучше без них. Although
освоение космоса лучше, если
с ними. Но именно не сходя
с места, на голой веранде, в кресле.
Как сказал, половину лица в тени
пряча, пилот одного снаряда,
жизни, видимо, нету нигде, и ни
на одной из них не задержишь взгляда.

But with whom? Kameneya, aching all over when turning life into bronze and marble, burned in the first attempt to fall in love with all my being, with all his heart, he, knowing life and people, cool intellect rejected floated on a flood predators miserable, nasty bitches and void "the ladies - I will not give, give, but not you ", trying to catch a darling different quality content and humanity, reliability, and wisdom ...
And - did it! "In January 1990, at a lecture at the Sorbonne Brodsky saw among her students Maria Sotstsani.
The young Italian beauty-Russian origin, she seemed lost her paintings of the great masters of the Renaissance.
Went to enter into it, Joseph Brodsky, a lonely life ...
Unthinkable happiness realized - September 1, Joseph Brodsky, and Mary Sotstsani married.
Two years later gave birth to a daughter (daughter was born three years later in 1993. - Approx. Polukhina VP) - the creation of an angelic Anna Maria Alexandra, at home scent just ...
Close friends of Brodsky argued that five years with Mary were for him happier than the previous 50.
So, true love, a real union, the unity of two souls, faithful, beloved daughter ...
And we can only rejoice at this union, this double happiness,
gave birth to the young Anne Brodsky, the last two and a half years darivshey father so much pure joy.
Ah, how good the picture hand how wonderful they ordered the photographer?
http://br00.narod.ru/10660109.htm

. . . . .
I love the native fields, ravines
Rivers, lakes, hills, wrinkles,
all is well: but shit man
in the body, and spirit of the weak
That's me right law naknokal:
everything depends Bright Falcon
Lord, break even a couple of glasses!
Once tolerate women?
. . . . .
Green summer, eh, greens of summer!
What I whispered bush euonymus
Good to walk without a vest!
Green summer return.
He walks a little girl, oh, a kerchief,
He walks around the field, tearing flowers
Get to a daughter, uh, get to a daughter.
In the sky swallow winds.
. . . .
I sit by the window, clasping his knees,
in the society's own dirty shadow.

IV

This position, with all affection,
gemma is the best for our lives.
And she - is not inert. This -
apotheosis in ourselves subject:
replacement of simple humility peace.
That is a new kind of Christianity, to whom
duty to cherish and uphold the
those who must be able, even
When Gabriel comes to the trumpet,
dead object to continue to him!

V

The prophets is not accepted to be healthy.
Oracles in the mass of injured people. Short,
I have not sighted more than Nazonov Calchas.
Therefore prophesy - is like a cactus
or snapdragons hold to the visor.
Anyway, that teach the alphabet Braille.
Hopeless. Objects, at least,
just like you to touch the world
that is, damn little.
What is your victim, this is the oracle.

VI

You surely will forgive me this
gaersky tone. This is the best method
strong feelings of the mass rescue
weak. Greek principle mask
again in the course. For in our time
strong perish. While the tribe
weak - fruits and apart and wholesale.
Take the same today as my postscript
Darwin's theory, so withered,
this new truth jungle.

VII

Twenty years later, for easier recall
what is missing, than to fill
this is something different from the outside;
For lack of the right worse
What is your absence - the new Gogol
I can see a lot, no doubt, plenty of
without looking back, without that strong fear, -
a magic lantern Easter
revives the sounds of water from the tap
the chair empty as canvas screen.

VIII

In our past - greatness. In days to come - prose.
For with empty seats is not more demand
than you, it sat La Garde quieter
hands folded, as I wrote above.
However, the amount of his, nowadays embrace
much less than the outstretched hands of the crucifixion.
So this discovery singer lame
now, on the Passion and sixty-seven,
before me, the likeness of a veto looms
to jump in the nineties century.

IX

If I could save that bird
that is, if it is not swept away the eggs,
and in this and the maze without Ariadne
(For a death there are options
foresee that - too valor)
I stay alone, and, alas, spodoblyus
cholera, denunciation, sent to the camp,
then - unless you lie, that Lazarus
been raised, I'll rise again.
But soon, you know, approaching the chair.

X

However, haste is stupid and sinful. Vale!
That is nowhere so hurry. Hardly
may sturdy chair to threaten destruction.
For us, in the East, furniture
serves three generations in succession.
And I rule the fire and theft.
It's frightening that it can be mixed with a bunch
other at harvest. In that case,
I was even willing to make notches,
depicting doves doves.

XI

Suppose now circling like bees hives
general orbits of tables and chairs
chair yours for the night dining.
Tattoo - no disgrace, but the foundation of a new
astronomy that - go to a whisper -
confirms the military-prison experiences:
branded items - the source of solid
views of the world from living and dead.
So I do not look like a similar person
Similar to the chair with anguish Ulysses.

XII

I - not a collector of relics. Just think, if
This speech is longish, that we are on the chair
only a pretext to penetrate into other areas.
For out of every great faith
remain, as a rule, only power.
That same judge about the power of love, if things
those to whom you touched today,
turn - when your life - in the sanctuary.
Show: proof such manners
not the grandeur of the singer, but his powers.

XIII

Russian eagle, having lost the crown,
now resembles a crow.
Him, proud recently, scream
now a guttural rumble.
It is - or old eagles - the voice of passion,
turned into a consequence, echo power.
And the love song - a little quieter.
Love - imperial feeling. You
is that Russia to its success,
can not speak to you differently.

XIV

The chair is warm and absorbs
air hallway. In the riser after drop
falls drop from the tap. Modestly
chatters clock under the lamp. Exactly
light falls on the empty walls
and the flowers in the window, whose shade
seek the frame to extend the apartment.
And at all creates a picture
that at this moment - and far and near -
as it was before us. And as will be later.

XV

Good night to you, and me - not watching.
Good night to my country, for the information
personal accounts with me Wish there,
where, through the miles or just a miracle,
you turn into a postal address.
The trees rustling outside the window and outline
Roof is the border days ...
In a stationary body sometimes insane
opens in hand, as in a furnace, the damper.
And the pen behind you running after him.

XVI

No catch! .. Forasmuch as you - as a cloud.
That is, look virgins, of course, look
soul for men. Do not you, Muse?
This causes death and Union.
For the soul - of disembodiment. Well, the farther
from me. Do not overtake! .. Give
goodbye hand. Thanks for that.
Stately our separation, because
parting. Falls silent zither.
Forever - not a word, and really figure
whose zeros, when we were overgrown with grass,
block the era and century with a vengeance.
1967
Works Joseph Brodsky.
Pushkin Fund.
St. Petersburg, 1992.