Иосиф Бродский Пьяцца Маттеи (1981) I Я пил...

Joseph Brodsky
Piazza Mattei (1981)

I

I drank from this fountain
in the gorge of Rome.
Now, without soaking the caftan,
ditch by.
My girlfriend Mikelina
fine
I preferred to feed the peacock
in the name of the count.

II

The Count, in essence, is not at all disgusting:
he is gray and slender.
I was impudent in Russian with him,
he was upset.
But what a tragedy, treason
for the Slav,
then bullshit for a gentleman
and a nobleman.

III

The count won, to the strawberries with varnish,
in a game without rules.
He puts Micheline in cancer
as before set.
I, too, however, is not in the loser:
and in Rome too
there’s now a place to shout “Fuck!”
sigh "Oh god."

IV

Does not mix plowman with arable land
deplorable fruits.
Losses, like livestock
observes a nomad.
What would Rome be otherwise? a guide
the crowd of the museum
by bus, hotel, view
Term, Colosseum.

V

And so he is a place of sadness
inclined at the bar
and doors locked on via
degli Funari.
Sitting pondering a line
and with a fuss
you look at an invisible point:
almost youth.

VI

How exalts this business!
Like in a moment of sadness
you forget everything: a skirt, a body,
where, how to finish.
May you be the last flaw
dust under the fence
on a gentleman, a nobleman
you put it with the appliance.

VII

No, I’ll report to you, loss,
blockage, not bad
of you create an aristocrat
at least the spirit.
Forget about the cheap graph!
Make eyebrows!
We have the right to succumb in a moment of sadness
even with the prince of blood!

VIII

Winter. The crystal of the fountain rings.
The color of the sky is blue.
Counts Tramontana
pines needles.
What cut off the year of February,
he gave a shiver
and wrapped in toga caesar
(or rather, the apostle).

IX

In the frosty air, extremely
transparent, eye,
unwittingly focusing on sharpness,
looking far -
to the North, where in a child and in smoke
forges gold pieces
Europe is gloomy. I'm in Rome
where the sun shines!

X

I, stepson of the wild power
with a broken face
another no less great
proud reception, -
I'm happy in this cradle
Muses, Rights, Grace,
where Nazo and Virgil sang,
broadcast Horace.

Xi

Let’s try to pull away
take the century in quotes.
Maybe in my pages
as in their tablets,
not disdaining the Cyrillic alphabet
and without prejudice
for sight, the main of Frisky
take a look - Euterpe.

XII

Not a brawl, I believe, happiness
in the royal palace,
but wrap your wrist
with a Swiss boiler,
the rest of the flesh of terracotta
expose, blue
punctured buonarotti
and Borromini.

XIII

Thanks, Parks, Providence,
you publisher friend
for the money transferred.
This bearer
centuries to come
drinking chocolatte
con panna in the center of the universe
and the dial!

XIV

From the hill where he spoke in an octave
sometimes different
Tass, behold the majestic
view. Before me -
not domes, not shingles
with the Holy Fathers:
that is the world nourishing the she-wolf
sleeping upstairs!

XV

And in her den I am at home!
My mouth is bared
from joy: he knows
the fate of the ruins.
A stub of Caesar, an athlete,
singer all the more
There is a self-portrait option.
I will say differently:

XVI

a tired slave from that breed
that we see more and more often -
he drank freedom under the curtain.
She is sweeter
love, affection, faith
(cross, oval),
since BC
existed.

Xvii

She tends to be stubborn.
As long as time
not stupid like Space
(which is unlikely) seed
freedom in the evil thistle
in any landscape
will give from a suffocating era
the escape. And even

XVIII

pluck all the stars from the sky
disappear the area
all freedom is not left
whose daughter is literature.
She, while there is moisture in the throat,
not without a shelter.
Squeak, feather. Black paper.
Fly a minute.