A NATIVITY POEM BY JOSEPH BRODSKY ("NO MATTER . . . ")

NATIVITY (“NO MATTER . . . “ )

by Joseph Brodsky

Translated by Larissa Shmailo

No matter what surrounded them and

what the blizzard wailed at the sand,

that their shepherd’s den was close, nor

that they had no place else anywhere:

First, they were together. Second (mainly),

they were a threesome now, and, plainly,

all created, anticipated, or gifted for them

was now shared by three, at a minimum.

Above, in the icy sky over their camp,

with the habit of big towering over slight,

glittered a star, which, from then on, had

nowhere to hide from the baby’s sight.

The bonfire blazed till the log’s last ember,

and everyone slept. The star, unlike others,

greater than its glow, at its absolute nadir

could know an alien as a beloved neighbor.

Не важно, что было вокруг, и не важно,

о чем там пурга завывала протяжно,

что тесно им было в пастушьей квартире,

что места другого им не было в мире.

Во-первых, они были вместе. Второе,

и главное, было, что их было трое,

и всё, что творилось, варилось, дарилось

отныне, как минимум, на три делилось.

Морозное небо над ихним привалом

с привычкой большого склоняться над малым

сверкало звездою -- и некуда деться

ей было отныне от взгляда младенца.

Костер полыхал, но полено кончалось;

все спали. Звезда от других отличалась

сильней, чем свеченьем, казавшимся лишним,

способностью дальнего смешивать с ближним.

A NATIVITY POEM BY JOSEPH BRODSKY

NATIVITY (“NO MATTER . . . “ )
by Joseph Brodsky

Translated by Larissa Shmailo

No matter what surrounded them and
what the blizzard wailed at the sand,
that their shepherd’s den was close, nor
that they had no place else anywhere:

First, they were together. Second (mainly),
they were a threesome now, and, plainly,
all created, anticipated, or gifted for them
was now shared by three, at a minimum.

Above, in the icy sky over their camp,
with the habit of big towering over slight,
glittered a star, which, from then on, had
nowhere to hide from the baby’s sight.

The bonfire blazed till the log’s last ember,
and everyone slept. The star, unlike others,
greater than its glow, at its absolute nadir
could know an alien as a beloved neighbor.

                        ***
Не важно, что было вокруг, и не важно,
о чем там пурга завывала протяжно,
что тесно им было в пастушьей квартире,
что места другого им не было в мире.

Во-первых, они были вместе. Второе,
и главное, было, что их было трое,
и всё, что творилось, варилось, дарилось
отныне, как минимум, на три делилось.

Морозное небо над ихним привалом
с привычкой большого склоняться над малым
сверкало звездою -- и некуда деться
ей было отныне от взгляда младенца.

Костер полыхал, но полено кончалось;
все спали. Звезда от других отличалась
сильней, чем свеченьем, казавшимся лишним,
способностью дальнего смешивать с ближним.

Joseph Brodsky, 1990

A Brodsky Nativity Poem: Christmas Star

Christmas Star

by Joseph Brodsky
Tr. L. Shmailo
In a cold time, in a place accustomed more
To scorching heat, than cold, to the flatness of plain,
than hills: A child was born in a cave to save the world.
And it stormed, as only winter desert storms can.

Everything seemed huge to him: his mother’s breast,
The yellow steam of the camels’ breath. And from afar,
Their gifts carried here, the Magi, Balthazar, Melchior, Caspar.
He was all of him just a dot. And that dot was a star.
Attentively and fixedly through the sparse clouds,
Upon the recumbent child in the manger, through the night’s haze,
From the depths of the universe, from its end and bound,
A star watched over the cave. And that was the Father’s gaze.

Recording of New Life, a mistranslation of Joseph Brodsky

A recording of my mistranslation of Joseph Brodsky's poem "New Life" from the poet's last collection, Landscape with Flood (Paysage s navodneniem). Music is by the late Brant Lyon; produced by Jackie Sheeler. 

Listen to New Life.

Christmas Star by Joseph Brodsky

Christmas Star

by Joseph Brodsky

Tr. L. Shmailo

 

In a cold time, in a place accustomed more

To scorching heat, than cold, to the flatness of plain,

than to hills: A child was born in a cave to save the world.

And it stormed, as only the winter’s desert storms rain.

 

Everything seemed huge to him: his mother’s breast,

The yellow steam of the camels’ breath. And from afar,

Their gifts carried here, the Magi, Balthazar, Melchior, Caspar.

He was all of him just a dot. And that dot was a star.

 

Attentively and fixedly, through the sparse clouds

Upon the recumbent child in the manger, through the night’s haze

From the depths of the universe, from its end and bound,

A star watched over the cave. And that was the Father’s gaze.

Christmas Star by Joseph Brodsky translated by Larissa Shmailo

In a cold time, in a place accustomed more
To scorching heat, than cold, to the flatness of plain,
than to hills: A child was born in a cave to save the world.
And it stormed, as only the winter’s desert storms rain.

Everything seemed huge to him: his mother’s breast,
the yellow steam of the camels’ breath. And from afar,
Their gifts carried here, the Magi, Balthazar, Melchior, Caspar.
He was all of him just a dot. And that dot was a star.

Attentively and fixedly, through the sparse clouds
Upon the recumbent child in the manger, through the night’s haze
From the depths of the universe, from its end and bound,
A star watched over the cave. And that was the Father’s gaze.

New Life 5 (Mistranslation of Joseph Brodsky)

Imagine twilight in the new life: Clouds formed here
are better than sunlight in the old. Cicadas sing a
sonorous “ch,” and now that the tanks are gone,
a classical perspective reigns, although things remain
vulnerable. And the thoughts of things, how easily one
can forget them! And the thoughts as well that beget them.

Imagine people coming out of rooms, faint, important
only to themselves, where chairs stand, like the letters
“b”and “d,” and save them from falling. They have that
attachment to place, characteristic of Penelope, despite
the white walls with their tidy trim of maize, despite
the old divan, the bare parquet, the yellow Chinese vase.

You’ve been saved: Local Pomonas and Venuses don’t
seduce you, and now, having looked Cyclops in the eye,
you don’t suffer much from indifference. You don’t hide
your trumps, or play your cards close to your vest. The crow
sings “kr”at dawn. And you, like him, sing a pastoral song
with no especial fear or love or need to belong.

Imagine the radio is playing an old hymn, weaving
music from the alphabet, now “Betsy.”now “Abraham,”
now “Sam.” The airs hold influences: statues, rules of
multiplication, stamps. In the end, our curiosity about the
boundaries of these places, these once blank spaces, is
a kind of art. Twilight, crepuscule, the last sun’s ray:
In the new life, they don’t tell the moment: Stay.

New Life: Variations on a Theme by Joseph Brodsky et al.

Imagine that the war is over, that peace has reigned,
That you can look at your face in the mirror again.
That magpies, not bombs, whistle down upon your head
That outside the city, homes are not destroyed—instead
A baroque burst of laurels, palms, magnolia, pine;
In scented shadows a white hot Venus shines
That war’s cast-iron swamp is gone and then
The boredom is over: Life has to start again.

Imagine that all of this is true. Imagine, that you speak
Of yourself, speaking of others, that now you can seek
The irrelevant, the unneeded, the luxuries, the toys.
Life begins anew exactly thus: with noise
With erupting volcanoes. and such catastrophes
A sloop lost below, friends lost beneath the seas.
Look straight at these tragedies, with the feeling they engender,
That you alone can see them; with the tender
Feeling that, any minute now, you will turn away
To home, to the safe moment, to ask it to stay.

Imagine that the epoch ends in an idyll. The words that came
In monologues are rain dialogues now. And the flame,
That consumed others better than you, greedily, like logs,
In you it saw little use or warmth, and, like the dogs,
That’s why you were spared, why shrapnel cut only your fear.
Imagine that the more honest the voice, the less it has tears.
And when any Polyphemus asks you who it is that speaks.
Say, "Who, me? No one,” like Odysseus the Greek.