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Collected Poems in English
The poems of the legendary Nobel Laureate, in one volume at last
One of the greatest and grandest advocates of the literary vocation, Joseph Brodsky truly lived his life as a poet, and for it earned eighteen months in an Arctic labor camp, expulsion from his native country, and the Nobel Prize in Literature. Such were one man's wages. Here, collected for the first time, are all the poems he published in English, from his earliest collaborations with Derek Walcott, Richard Wilbur, Howard Moss, and Anthony Hecht to the moving farewell poems he wrote near the end of his life. With nearly two hundred poems, several of them never before published in book form, this will be the essential volume of Brodsky's work.
One of the greatest and grandest advocates of the literary vocation, Joseph Brodsky truly lived his life as a poet, and for it earned eighteen months in an Arctic labor camp, expulsion from his native country, and the Nobel Prize in Literature. Such were one man's wages. Here, collected for the first time, are all the poems he published in English, from his earliest collaborations with Derek Walcott, Richard Wilbur, Howard Moss, and Anthony Hecht to the moving farewell poems he wrote near the end of his life. With nearly two hundred poems, several of them never before published in book form, this will be the essential volume of Brodsky's work.
400 pages, Hardcover
First published April 1, 2000
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1960 people want to read
About the author
Joseph Brodsky
319 books736 followersJoseph Brodsky (Russian: Иосиф Бродский] was a Russian-American poet and essayist. Born in Leningrad in 1940, Brodsky ran afoul of Soviet authorities and was expelled from the Soviet Union in 1972, settling in America with the help of W. H. Auden and other supporters. He taught thereafter at several universities, including Yale, Columbia, and Mount Holyoke. Brodsky was awarded the 1987 Nobel Prize in Literature "for an all-embracing authorship, imbued with clarity of thought and poetic intensity." A journalist asked him: "You are an American citizen who is receiving the Prize for Russian-language poetry. Who are you, an American or a Russian?" Brodsky replied: "I'm Jewish; a Russian poet, an English essayist – and, of course, an American citizen." He was appointed United States Poet Laureate in 1991.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 43 reviews
January 19, 2021
To be or not to be…
This is the end, beautiful friend… This is the end, my only friend…
Joseph Brodsky was the one who had his own special questions. And he was the one who knew his own special answers to those questions.
And everyone in the world will have one’s own special Fin de Siècle sooner or later…
The century will soon be over, but sooner it will be me.
That's not the message, though , of a trembling knee.
Rather, the influence of not-to-be
on to-be. Of the hunter upon-so to speak-his fowl,
be that one's heart valve or a red brick wall.
We hear the whiplash’s foul
whistle recalling vainly the surnames of those who have loved us back,
writhing in the slippery palms of the local quack.
The world has just lost the knack…
This is the end, beautiful friend… This is the end, my only friend…
Joseph Brodsky was the one who had his own special questions. And he was the one who knew his own special answers to those questions.
And everyone in the world will have one’s own special Fin de Siècle sooner or later…
January 2, 2009
I red Brodsky in english and in russian. I even know his best friend. His language is absolutly fantastik.
бродский замечательный писатель. его язык невераятен и безумно интересен. не всем удается понять его ритм, но тем кому довелось ощутить всю его силу всегда остаются счастлевы после вдоха стихов.
бродский замечательный писатель. его язык невераятен и безумно интересен. не всем удается понять его ритм, но тем кому довелось ощутить всю его силу всегда остаются счастлевы после вдоха стихов.
December 16, 2023
I most enjoy the earlier poems in which Bodsky juxtaposes home/language/memory with exile/meaninglessness/death.
December 15, 2008
I don't know what to make of you, Brodsky. Ilike knowing that you lived in Ann Arbor.
March 13, 2016
Не си допаднахме с Бродский, но на места имаше интересни попадения.
***
Вопли чаек.
Плеск разбивающихся волн.
Маяк, чья башня привлекает взор
скорей фотографа, чем морехода.
На древнем камне я стою один,
печаль моя не оскверняет древность -
усугубляет. Видимо, земля
воистину кругла, раз ты приходишь
туда, где нету ничего, помимо
воспоминаний.
("Элегия")
***
Квадрат окна. В горшках - желтофиоль.
Снежинки, проносящиеся мимо...
Остановись, мгновенье! Ты не столь
прекрасно, сколько ты неповторимо.
("Зимним вечером в Ялте")
***
Свобода -
это когда забываешь отчество у тирана
О, свободата
идва, когато забравиш името на тирана
("Я не то что схожу с ума")
***
Я писал, что в лампочке - ужас пола.
Что любовь, как акт, лишена глагола.
Что не знал Эвклид, что, сходя на конус,
вещь обретает не ноль, но Хронос.
Я сижу у окна. Вспоминаю юность.
Улыбнусь порою, порой отплюнусь.
I wrote: The bulb looks at the flower in fear,
and love, as an act, lacks a verb; the zer-
o Euclid thought the vanishing point became
wasn't math--it was the nothingness of Time.
I sit by the window. And while I sit
my youth comes back. Sometimes I'd smile. Or spit.
("I sit by the window")
***
Гражданин второсортной эпохи, гордо
признаю я товаром второго сорта
свои лучшие мысли и дням грядущим
я дарю их как опыт борьбы с удушьем.
Я сижу в темноте. И она не хуже
в комнате, чем темнота снаружи.
A loyal subject of these second-rate years,
I proudly admit that my finest ideas
are second-rate, and may the future take them
as trophies of my struggle against suffocation.
I sit in the dark. And it would be hard to figure out
which is worse; the dark inside, or the darkness out.
("I sit by the window")
***
Watch your New Year come in a blue
Seawave across the town terrain
In such an inexplicable blue,
As if your life can start again,
As if there can be bread and light --
A lucky day -- and something's left,
As if your life can sway aright,
Once swayed aleft.
("Moscow Carol")
***
And the endless sky over the tiles
grows bluer as swelling birdsong fills.
And the clearer the song is heard,
the smaller the bird
("Stone villages")
***
And the endless sky over the tiles
grows bluer as swelling birdsong fills.
And the clearer the song is heard,
the smaller the bird
("Stone villages")
***
Everything has its limit, including sorrow.
Loneliness cubes a man at random.
a perspective cuts emptiness deep and even.
And what is space anyway if not the
body's absence at every given
point?
("To Urania")
***
Quit the country the bore and nursed me.
Those who forgot me would make a city.
("24/05/1980")
***
We are parting for good, my friend, that's that.
Draw an empty circle on your yellow pad.
This will be me: no insides in thrall.
Stare at it a while, then erase the scrawl.
("Folk tune")
***
To a wanderer the faces of all islands
resemble one another. And the mind
trips, numbering waves; eyes, sore from sea horizons,
run; and the flesh of water stuffs the ears.
("Odysseus To Telemachus")
***
Ти стоиш, водичка, във чашата пред мене
и ме гледаш с очи, избягали изпод крана,
в които, блестейки, е раздвоена
прозрачната твоя вярна охрана.
И знаеш, че аз съм ти бъдещето: фуния,
одушевен стълб, перспективна несъразмерност;
чакат те влакната и тъмотията
на вътрешности, даже на артерии.
Но ти не се плашиш. В затворите има несметни
варианти за субстанции безприютни,
сравнено със свобода под тюл нарешетен
или пък със свобода абсолютна.
Вярно, можеш без мен. Но колкото по-дълго протакам
своя край, толкова по-късно ще свариш
да се превърнеш в дъжд зад стъклата,
шлифоващ без мен тротоарите.
("Чаша вода")
***
Вопли чаек.
Плеск разбивающихся волн.
Маяк, чья башня привлекает взор
скорей фотографа, чем морехода.
На древнем камне я стою один,
печаль моя не оскверняет древность -
усугубляет. Видимо, земля
воистину кругла, раз ты приходишь
туда, где нету ничего, помимо
воспоминаний.
("Элегия")
***
Квадрат окна. В горшках - желтофиоль.
Снежинки, проносящиеся мимо...
Остановись, мгновенье! Ты не столь
прекрасно, сколько ты неповторимо.
("Зимним вечером в Ялте")
***
Свобода -
это когда забываешь отчество у тирана
О, свободата
идва, когато забравиш името на тирана
("Я не то что схожу с ума")
***
Я писал, что в лампочке - ужас пола.
Что любовь, как акт, лишена глагола.
Что не знал Эвклид, что, сходя на конус,
вещь обретает не ноль, но Хронос.
Я сижу у окна. Вспоминаю юность.
Улыбнусь порою, порой отплюнусь.
I wrote: The bulb looks at the flower in fear,
and love, as an act, lacks a verb; the zer-
o Euclid thought the vanishing point became
wasn't math--it was the nothingness of Time.
I sit by the window. And while I sit
my youth comes back. Sometimes I'd smile. Or spit.
("I sit by the window")
***
Гражданин второсортной эпохи, гордо
признаю я товаром второго сорта
свои лучшие мысли и дням грядущим
я дарю их как опыт борьбы с удушьем.
Я сижу в темноте. И она не хуже
в комнате, чем темнота снаружи.
A loyal subject of these second-rate years,
I proudly admit that my finest ideas
are second-rate, and may the future take them
as trophies of my struggle against suffocation.
I sit in the dark. And it would be hard to figure out
which is worse; the dark inside, or the darkness out.
("I sit by the window")
***
Watch your New Year come in a blue
Seawave across the town terrain
In such an inexplicable blue,
As if your life can start again,
As if there can be bread and light --
A lucky day -- and something's left,
As if your life can sway aright,
Once swayed aleft.
("Moscow Carol")
***
And the endless sky over the tiles
grows bluer as swelling birdsong fills.
And the clearer the song is heard,
the smaller the bird
("Stone villages")
***
And the endless sky over the tiles
grows bluer as swelling birdsong fills.
And the clearer the song is heard,
the smaller the bird
("Stone villages")
***
Everything has its limit, including sorrow.
Loneliness cubes a man at random.
a perspective cuts emptiness deep and even.
And what is space anyway if not the
body's absence at every given
point?
("To Urania")
***
Quit the country the bore and nursed me.
Those who forgot me would make a city.
("24/05/1980")
***
We are parting for good, my friend, that's that.
Draw an empty circle on your yellow pad.
This will be me: no insides in thrall.
Stare at it a while, then erase the scrawl.
("Folk tune")
***
To a wanderer the faces of all islands
resemble one another. And the mind
trips, numbering waves; eyes, sore from sea horizons,
run; and the flesh of water stuffs the ears.
("Odysseus To Telemachus")
***
Ти стоиш, водичка, във чашата пред мене
и ме гледаш с очи, избягали изпод крана,
в които, блестейки, е раздвоена
прозрачната твоя вярна охрана.
И знаеш, че аз съм ти бъдещето: фуния,
одушевен стълб, перспективна несъразмерност;
чакат те влакната и тъмотията
на вътрешности, даже на артерии.
Но ти не се плашиш. В затворите има несметни
варианти за субстанции безприютни,
сравнено със свобода под тюл нарешетен
или пък със свобода абсолютна.
Вярно, можеш без мен. Но колкото по-дълго протакам
своя край, толкова по-късно ще свариш
да се превърнеш в дъжд зад стъклата,
шлифоващ без мен тротоарите.
("Чаша вода")
August 8, 2019
چند شعر از جوزف برادسکی؛ ترجمه به فارسی از رُزا جمالی
سهمی از کلمات
زمانی که آینده به زبان در بیاید
موش ها دسته جمعی و به سرعت از زبان روسی فرار می کنند
تکه ای از خاطره ای نوبر را می جوند
که دوباره نو شده
شبیه تکه ای پنیر اصل
و سوراخ هایش.
بعد از این همه سال
دیگر چه اهمیتی دارد
که چه کسی در گوشه ایستاده است
و در پرده های ضخیم خود را مخفی کرده
و ذهن تو دیگر با فرشته ای که نُت ها را از نو می خواند، محشور نخواهد شد
تنها خش خش برگ هاست
زندگی
که هر کسی را جرات زیستن آن نیست
که دست بزند
شبیه نعلبند اسبی که هدیه است
که دندان هایش را در خنده ی ناجوری می نمایاند
و چه مانده است
برای آدمی
که سهم اوست
که سهم او از کلمات است.
شرح برخی از مشاهدات
شرح برخی از مشاهدات در گوشه ای گرم و دنج
نیم نگاهی که خطی از خود را بر هر چیز که بر آن خانه کرده برجا گذاشته
آب شکل عمومی شیشه است
آدمی از اسکلت و جمجمه اش ترسناکتر است
عصری زمستانی در ناکجا آبادی با شراب
تنگی سیاه که مقاومت می کند در تجاوز سوزنی شکل سرو
به آرنج اش بسته است و حجم تنه اش
شبیه آوار یخچال ها، سنگلاخ های یخی از همه جور
هزاره ایست ازین پس که بی شک بر ما آوار شده است
فسیلی از صدف که پانسمان را نگه داشته است
لباسی با نقشی از لب ها بر حاشیه اش
همان که به چفت پنجره زیر لب شب به خیر می گوید.
به اورانیا
هرچیزی سقفی دارد، حتا غم و اندوه
قاب پنجره که نگاه خیره ای را بر تو می اندازد
شبکه ی آهنی که ما را تنها نمی گذارد
برگی که می تواند کلیدها را به جق جقه وادارد
به قرقره ای در گلو قورت داده شود.
تنهایی به شکلی تصادفی آدمی را مشبک می کند
شتری که در راه آهن می بوید چیزی را
و سوراخ های بینی اش رنجیده اند
چشم اندازی که خالی و تهی را مساوی و عمیق می برد
و این موجودیت فضایی چیست
به غیر ازین که از غیابی از هیچ سو برخوردار نیست
و برای این ست که اورانیا از خواهرش کلیول پیرتر است
در روشنایی روز و یا در دود و سیاهی فانوس
جوزف برادسکی در خانواده ای یهودی در روسیه ی شوروی به دنیا آمد و از سانسور و خفقان کشور خود گریخت. درآمریکا کم کم شعرهایش را به انگلیسی برگرداند و به انگلیسی نوشت. جوزف برادسکی تحصیلات خور را در آمریکا ادامه داد و از دانشگاه ییل دکترای ادبیات و زبانشناسی گرفت، استادی او در به وجود آوردن تعابیر و تصاویر پیچیده شعر او را غنی و پرتاویل ساخته است، برادسکی یکی از برندگان نوبل در ادبیات است. شعرش به لحاظ سبک نوشتاری به شاعران متافیزیک نزدیکی فراوانی دارد و لازم به ذکر است که جان دان از شاعران مورد علاقه و الهام بخش او بوده است. جوزف برادسکی شاعری فرم گراست و در یک مقایسه ی تطبیقی کارش را می توان نظیر شاعران سبک هندی دانست. چیدمان کلمات برای او اهمیت فراوانی دارد چنان که شعرش پر از استعاره های دور از ذهن است و دایره ی کلمات اش بسیار وسیع ست وُ متنوع...
Joseph Brodsky translated into Persian By Rosa Jamali
سهمی از کلمات
زمانی که آینده به زبان در بیاید
موش ها دسته جمعی و به سرعت از زبان روسی فرار می کنند
تکه ای از خاطره ای نوبر را می جوند
که دوباره نو شده
شبیه تکه ای پنیر اصل
و سوراخ هایش.
بعد از این همه سال
دیگر چه اهمیتی دارد
که چه کسی در گوشه ایستاده است
و در پرده های ضخیم خود را مخفی کرده
و ذهن تو دیگر با فرشته ای که نُت ها را از نو می خواند، محشور نخواهد شد
تنها خش خش برگ هاست
زندگی
که هر کسی را جرات زیستن آن نیست
که دست بزند
شبیه نعلبند اسبی که هدیه است
که دندان هایش را در خنده ی ناجوری می نمایاند
و چه مانده است
برای آدمی
که سهم اوست
که سهم او از کلمات است.
شرح برخی از مشاهدات
شرح برخی از مشاهدات در گوشه ای گرم و دنج
نیم نگاهی که خطی از خود را بر هر چیز که بر آن خانه کرده برجا گذاشته
آب شکل عمومی شیشه است
آدمی از اسکلت و جمجمه اش ترسناکتر است
عصری زمستانی در ناکجا آبادی با شراب
تنگی سیاه که مقاومت می کند در تجاوز سوزنی شکل سرو
به آرنج اش بسته است و حجم تنه اش
شبیه آوار یخچال ها، سنگلاخ های یخی از همه جور
هزاره ایست ازین پس که بی شک بر ما آوار شده است
فسیلی از صدف که پانسمان را نگه داشته است
لباسی با نقشی از لب ها بر حاشیه اش
همان که به چفت پنجره زیر لب شب به خیر می گوید.
به اورانیا
هرچیزی سقفی دارد، حتا غم و اندوه
قاب پنجره که نگاه خیره ای را بر تو می اندازد
شبکه ی آهنی که ما را تنها نمی گذارد
برگی که می تواند کلیدها را به جق جقه وادارد
به قرقره ای در گلو قورت داده شود.
تنهایی به شکلی تصادفی آدمی را مشبک می کند
شتری که در راه آهن می بوید چیزی را
و سوراخ های بینی اش رنجیده اند
چشم اندازی که خالی و تهی را مساوی و عمیق می برد
و این موجودیت فضایی چیست
به غیر ازین که از غیابی از هیچ سو برخوردار نیست
و برای این ست که اورانیا از خواهرش کلیول پیرتر است
در روشنایی روز و یا در دود و سیاهی فانوس
جوزف برادسکی در خانواده ای یهودی در روسیه ی شوروی به دنیا آمد و از سانسور و خفقان کشور خود گریخت. درآمریکا کم کم شعرهایش را به انگلیسی برگرداند و به انگلیسی نوشت. جوزف برادسکی تحصیلات خور را در آمریکا ادامه داد و از دانشگاه ییل دکترای ادبیات و زبانشناسی گرفت، استادی او در به وجود آوردن تعابیر و تصاویر پیچیده شعر او را غنی و پرتاویل ساخته است، برادسکی یکی از برندگان نوبل در ادبیات است. شعرش به لحاظ سبک نوشتاری به شاعران متافیزیک نزدیکی فراوانی دارد و لازم به ذکر است که جان دان از شاعران مورد علاقه و الهام بخش او بوده است. جوزف برادسکی شاعری فرم گراست و در یک مقایسه ی تطبیقی کارش را می توان نظیر شاعران سبک هندی دانست. چیدمان کلمات برای او اهمیت فراوانی دارد چنان که شعرش پر از استعاره های دور از ذهن است و دایره ی کلمات اش بسیار وسیع ست وُ متنوع...
Joseph Brodsky translated into Persian By Rosa Jamali
June 11, 2011
"Был черный небосвод светлей тех ног,
и слиться с темнотою он не мог..."
В тот вечер возле нашего огня
Увидели мы черного коня.
Не помню я чернее ничего.
Как уголь были ноги у него.
Он черен был как ночь, как пустота.
Он черен был от гривы до хвоста.
Но черной по-другому уж была
Спина его, не знавшая седла.
Недвижно он стоял. Казалось, спит
Пугала чернота его копыт.
Он черен был, не чувствовал теней.
Так черен, что не делался темней.
Так черен, как полуночная тьма
Так черен, как внутри себя игла.
Так черен, как деревья впереди,
Как место между ребрами в груди.
Как ямка под землею, где зерно.
Я думаю: внутри у нас черно.
Но все-таки чернел он на глазах!
Была всего лишь полночь на часах.
Он к нам не приближался ни на шаг.
В паху его царил бездонный мрак.
Спина его была уж не видна.
Не оставалось светлого пятна,
Глаза его блестели как щелчок..
Еще страшнее был его зрачок.
Как будто он был чей-то негатив.
Зачем же он, свой бег остановив,
Меж нами оставался до утра?
Зачем не отходил он от костра?
Зачем он черным воздухом дышал?
Зачем во тьме он сучьями шуршал?
Зачем струил он черный свет из глаз?
Он всадника себе искал средь нас.
28 июня 1962 года
и слиться с темнотою он не мог..."
В тот вечер возле нашего огня
Увидели мы черного коня.
Не помню я чернее ничего.
Как уголь были ноги у него.
Он черен был как ночь, как пустота.
Он черен был от гривы до хвоста.
Но черной по-другому уж была
Спина его, не знавшая седла.
Недвижно он стоял. Казалось, спит
Пугала чернота его копыт.
Он черен был, не чувствовал теней.
Так черен, что не делался темней.
Так черен, как полуночная тьма
Так черен, как внутри себя игла.
Так черен, как деревья впереди,
Как место между ребрами в груди.
Как ямка под землею, где зерно.
Я думаю: внутри у нас черно.
Но все-таки чернел он на глазах!
Была всего лишь полночь на часах.
Он к нам не приближался ни на шаг.
В паху его царил бездонный мрак.
Спина его была уж не видна.
Не оставалось светлого пятна,
Глаза его блестели как щелчок..
Еще страшнее был его зрачок.
Как будто он был чей-то негатив.
Зачем же он, свой бег остановив,
Меж нами оставался до утра?
Зачем не отходил он от костра?
Зачем он черным воздухом дышал?
Зачем во тьме он сучьями шуршал?
Зачем струил он черный свет из глаз?
Он всадника себе искал средь нас.
28 июня 1962 года
December 31, 2019
Brodsky's poems are difficult to classify. Within this volume, there is a tremendous range to the poems and the subjects themselves, from free flowing verse to lyrical to dark and foreboding to light and comical, this volume never gets old despite its huge size because of Brodsky's continual reinvention of his poetry. He's at his best when he becomes a philosophical commentator on his age. I particularly enjoy lines such as these in "Homage to Yalta": "Unfortunately, nowadays, it's not / just lies alone but simple truth as well / that needs compelling argument and sound / corroboration. Isn't that a sign / of our arrival in a new / but wholly doleful world? In fact a proven truth, / to be precise, is not a truth at all-- / it's just a sum of proofs. But now / what's said is "I agree" not "I believe." There are haunting lines such as this from "Twenty Sonnets to Mary Queen of Scots": "Love is more powerful than separation, but the latter is more lasting." My favorite two poems in the collection are the "Roman Elegies" and "New Life" - truly master works of twentieth century poetry. This volume will take a while to get through, but it is worth it.
October 7, 2008
OK, to be fair, I probably would've have given any smaller collection of Brodsky at least three stars. This was a lesson learned: don't EVER try to read someone's entire collected poems all at once. UGH. This was like 500 pages, and anybody's voice after 500 pages starts to grate. OK, maybe not anybody. Maybe it was just Brodsky. Maybe, for one's emotional wellbeing, he just needs to be ingested in small doses like meds... I haven't been reading poetry (outside of what may have been assigned here and there in lit classes along the way) for very long and this was part of an effort at experiencing some different types of poetry, so another thing I learned about myself is that I much prefer unrhymed (and free verse) poetry. After about halfway through, anytime a poem started with rhymes (which didn't always work well b/c of translation issues), I would just sigh.
:(
:(
April 25, 2008
I only read selections but my oh my. Poetry that makes you think.
December 2, 2012
One of my few true poetic ideals. Astounding, inimitable, hilarious, gutting.
October 28, 2016
"Here's Venus; no one between us."
I can't get this couplet out of my head; it's one of the most beautiful things I've ever read.
What a dark genius Brodsky was.
I can't get this couplet out of my head; it's one of the most beautiful things I've ever read.
What a dark genius Brodsky was.
Read
July 3, 2025At the risk of offending all those who work so hard to earn their degrees in literature, I am going to review a book of poetry by Nobel Prize winner Joseph Brodsky. I suppose there is a certain amount of chutzpah required to attempt to look at a body of work by someone who the literary world thinks quite distinguished and opine about it. But come to think of it, no literary scholar is likely to read what I have to write. To those who do read this, I hope you find it helpful.
Well, here goes.
Brodsky’s work kept me very busy with Google, because he makes so many very specific allusions to specific people that I often found myself looking up people and things he was referring to. At times I felt like I usually do when I take a crack at a New York Times crossword puzzle and slither away in disgrace. Except occasionally I felt much worse as I did my utmost to decipher Brodsky’s meaning - failing miserably.
While I am in no position to actually critique his work as a body of work I can say that it generally did not appeal to me. I persevered and I did find a number of poems that I liked (I could remember them because I dog-eared the pages). Now I confess that I’ve found a great deal of satisfaction in the poetry of Pablo Neruda, William Stafford, Emily Dickinson, Lorna Goodison, Derek Walcott (a friend of Brodsky’s) and Billy Collins. I’ve also really fallen in love with Nikki Giovanni’s work. I would contrast the work of these poets with Brodsky by saying that I find their work much more accessible.
I’ve had to consider whether that means I am a lazy reader of poetry who is not committed to taking the time and energy to delve into the work. Perhaps I am and maybe, for that reason, I will never really “love” Brodsky. But there is good news, of a sort. I found what I would call hidden gems - lines that really resonated and made me stop to write them down. The fact that I took notes says that there are plenty of his poems that I find worthwhile. Maybe that laziness is me wishing I did not have to read all 503 pages to find them.
So as a favor to anyone who feels an affinity with the aforementioned poets I thought maybe I’d curate a list of the one’s I would recommend. So here is thelist of poems from the collection that I dog-eared:
“A Part of Speech” p 101
“May 24, 1980” p. 211
“Afterword” p. 331
“A Footnote to Weather Forecasts” p349
“Constancy” p 363
“Axiom” p 370
“Porta San Pancrazio” p 393
‘Song of Welcome” p. 420
‘Kolo” p 424
‘Anthem” p 432
“After Us” p 437
“Lines for the Winter Recess.” p488
“Fossil Unwound.” p 489
“Twenty Sonnets to Mary Queen of Scots” (p 226)
“Polonaise: A Variation” (p. 245)
“Roman Elegies XII” (p 274)
“To Urania” (p 281)
“Eclogue IV: Winter” (p 289)
“North of Delphi” (p 371)
Vertumnus Part IX (P 374)
Seaward (P 309)
In Italy (p 340)
New Life (p. 352)
Fin De Siecle (p. 387)
Transatlantic ( p 394)
View from the Hill (395)
From Ischia in October (p 430):
Find these and read them. Enjoy them and maybe you’ll be able to better love Brodsky’s work than I do. There were enough good memories to make it worthwhile. I’m glad I’m done with this book. Because he’s won a Nobel Prize in literature I am declining putting stars on this review.
Well, here goes.
Brodsky’s work kept me very busy with Google, because he makes so many very specific allusions to specific people that I often found myself looking up people and things he was referring to. At times I felt like I usually do when I take a crack at a New York Times crossword puzzle and slither away in disgrace. Except occasionally I felt much worse as I did my utmost to decipher Brodsky’s meaning - failing miserably.
While I am in no position to actually critique his work as a body of work I can say that it generally did not appeal to me. I persevered and I did find a number of poems that I liked (I could remember them because I dog-eared the pages). Now I confess that I’ve found a great deal of satisfaction in the poetry of Pablo Neruda, William Stafford, Emily Dickinson, Lorna Goodison, Derek Walcott (a friend of Brodsky’s) and Billy Collins. I’ve also really fallen in love with Nikki Giovanni’s work. I would contrast the work of these poets with Brodsky by saying that I find their work much more accessible.
I’ve had to consider whether that means I am a lazy reader of poetry who is not committed to taking the time and energy to delve into the work. Perhaps I am and maybe, for that reason, I will never really “love” Brodsky. But there is good news, of a sort. I found what I would call hidden gems - lines that really resonated and made me stop to write them down. The fact that I took notes says that there are plenty of his poems that I find worthwhile. Maybe that laziness is me wishing I did not have to read all 503 pages to find them.
So as a favor to anyone who feels an affinity with the aforementioned poets I thought maybe I’d curate a list of the one’s I would recommend. So here is thelist of poems from the collection that I dog-eared:
“A Part of Speech” p 101
“May 24, 1980” p. 211
“Afterword” p. 331
“A Footnote to Weather Forecasts” p349
“Constancy” p 363
“Axiom” p 370
“Porta San Pancrazio” p 393
‘Song of Welcome” p. 420
‘Kolo” p 424
‘Anthem” p 432
“After Us” p 437
“Lines for the Winter Recess.” p488
“Fossil Unwound.” p 489
“Twenty Sonnets to Mary Queen of Scots” (p 226)
“Polonaise: A Variation” (p. 245)
“Roman Elegies XII” (p 274)
“To Urania” (p 281)
“Eclogue IV: Winter” (p 289)
“North of Delphi” (p 371)
Vertumnus Part IX (P 374)
Seaward (P 309)
In Italy (p 340)
New Life (p. 352)
Fin De Siecle (p. 387)
Transatlantic ( p 394)
View from the Hill (395)
From Ischia in October (p 430):
Find these and read them. Enjoy them and maybe you’ll be able to better love Brodsky’s work than I do. There were enough good memories to make it worthwhile. I’m glad I’m done with this book. Because he’s won a Nobel Prize in literature I am declining putting stars on this review.
December 25, 2025
Joseph Brodsky’s poetry is forged in exile, sharpened by intellect, and powered by linguistic ferocity. Expelled from the Soviet Union, Brodsky did not abandon Russian; he turned it into a portable homeland. His poems are acts of defiance against erasure—formal, witty, metaphysical, and relentlessly serious.
Brodsky believed that poetry was not expression but discipline. His verse is dense with rhyme, meter, classical allusion, and philosophical argument. This formal rigor is political. In a system that demanded ideological conformity, Brodsky chose aesthetic absolutism.
Themes of time, mortality, solitude, and exile dominate his work. But Brodsky avoids self-pity. His voice is ironic, combative, and often amused by suffering’s absurdity.
Exile sharpens perception. Distance clarifies loyalty—not to nations, but to language.
Unlike Seifert’s tenderness or Miłosz’s moral anguish, Brodsky’s stance is almost imperial. He claims poetry as a higher authority than history.
This confidence can feel severe, but it is also bracing. For Brodsky, the sentence—not the state—is the final court of appeal.
His Nobel recognition honoured poetry as an intellectual force capable of resisting totalitarian reduction. Brodsky reminds us that freedom begins not with rights, but with syntax.
This is poetry that demands attention, stamina, and respect. It does not comfort. It commands.
Brodsky believed that poetry was not expression but discipline. His verse is dense with rhyme, meter, classical allusion, and philosophical argument. This formal rigor is political. In a system that demanded ideological conformity, Brodsky chose aesthetic absolutism.
Themes of time, mortality, solitude, and exile dominate his work. But Brodsky avoids self-pity. His voice is ironic, combative, and often amused by suffering’s absurdity.
Exile sharpens perception. Distance clarifies loyalty—not to nations, but to language.
Unlike Seifert’s tenderness or Miłosz’s moral anguish, Brodsky’s stance is almost imperial. He claims poetry as a higher authority than history.
This confidence can feel severe, but it is also bracing. For Brodsky, the sentence—not the state—is the final court of appeal.
His Nobel recognition honoured poetry as an intellectual force capable of resisting totalitarian reduction. Brodsky reminds us that freedom begins not with rights, but with syntax.
This is poetry that demands attention, stamina, and respect. It does not comfort. It commands.
May 7, 2022
It's excellent stuff. Phases of matter, places both in human construct and topology, are all thoroughly redefined. Then there are the ornate metaphors, and the wise tone of gratitude toward life, which is ultimately a tour through the relics of those dead who came before, scattered with plants and parts they had yet to understand.
It was only a little hard to understand if, or which of, these poems were written in English, or translated craftily from Russian. They feel like the outcome of much mental convolution, in any case, but a pleasure to read.
It was only a little hard to understand if, or which of, these poems were written in English, or translated craftily from Russian. They feel like the outcome of much mental convolution, in any case, but a pleasure to read.
June 11, 2020
Over the years, I've read a poem here or there by Brodsky, but this was the first time that I've made a concerted effort to read a considerable amount of his work. I see now why his reputation has been so high. Brodsky certainly deserves his reputation as a major force in western poetry during the latter half of the 20th century. Where he may fall short is in that singular poem that one finds in Yeates, Eliot, and Frost that stands out above the rest. But the full body of work
December 15, 2019
Magnificent! Brodsky was incredible.
February 3, 2020
“Love doesn’t move the stars (or the moon) enough. For it divides things in two, in half... If love were to shift the gears of the southern stars, they’d run to their virgin spheres.”
May 3, 2020
Beautiful poems and wonderfully organized. Take your time.
October 17, 2020
ხმამაღლა წაკითხვამ გაასწორა. კარგი ნათარგმნია და რითმები სასიამოვნოდ უც��აურია, ხმამაღლა კითხვისას.
February 14, 2021
An amazing collection of poems from a man with a life well-lived. It left me inspired and more appreciative of written words.
September 30, 2022
I think I am just not that deep. Shel Silverstein is more my level.
October 12, 2023
"Sound's burden, too, is grievous."
Read
June 18, 2012The seeds of National Poetry Month began to germinate when the former executive director of the Academy of American Poets, William Wadsworth, studied at Columbia University with the late Nobel laureate Joseph Brodsky, whose COLLECTED POEMS IN ENGLISH has been on many shelves since its 2000 publication; now a biography has appeared. While Brodsky defected from his native Russia and became a fan of many things American, our native suspicion—and even dislike—of poetry stunned him. Russia regularly fills soccer stadiums with fans eager to hear Yevgeny Yevtushenko, just as Irish citizens do the same to hear Seamus Heaney; in most American cities, poets are lucky to read to a dozen folks, not including relatives and bookstore staff. Yet Brodsky became convinced that the American avoidance of poetry resulted from the art’s elitist and academic associations, not the general reader’s inability to understand and enjoy verse. For in Brodsky’s totalitarian Russia, where the average citizen’s level of education fell considerably short of the American standard, poetry was customarily available in village and town shops and read by a large number of the customers, who browsed through newly published volumes at checkout counters the same way Americans do with PEOPLE and TV GUIDE.
Is this because even well-educated Americans lack a particular verbal skill possessed by Russians? Not according to Eliot, who, unlike Brodsky, wasn’t exactly known for his democratic politics. Genuine poetry, as the St. Louis native said many times, “can communicate before it is understood,” meaning that the art’s more obviously complex elements are rarely as important as its simplest—imagery, rhythm, and emotional urgency. Thus mass interest in poetry, both for the author of OLD POSSUM'S BOOK OF PRACTICAL CATS and for the Russian émigré, finally depends on availability and the reader’s willingness to participate actively in the poetic experience.
Eliot’s and Brodsky’s ideal readers are willing not to understand immediately. They are willing to engage deeply with otherness without judgment, and to submit their own egos, sometimes over the course of many years and many rereadings, to a poet’s work. A man without so much as a cynical corpuscle when it came to his art, Brodsky never doubted that if we had the same kind of access to poetry as we have to junky magazines and to the increasingly dumbed-down Bibles to which politicians give lip service, our souls would change in ways that even religion doesn’t make possible. What would happen if a lonely traveler opened a Hampton Inn’s drawer and found not pizza flyers or the Gideon’s logo but the colorful cover of the PUSHCART PRIZE ANTHOLOGY or BEST AMERICAN POETRY, both of which have reached a new apogee this year?
(originally published in the NASHVILLE SCENE)
June 21, 2020
Joseph Brodsky was born on May 24th in Leningrad in 1940. He was arrested at age twenty-three and sentenced to five years on a prison farm for “having a worldview damaging to the state, decadence and modernism, failure to finish school, and social parasitism … except for the writing of awful poems.” He then was expelled ("strongly advised" to emigrate) from the Soviet Union in 1972, settling in the United States with the help of W. H. Auden and other supporters. Brodsky was awarded the 1987 Nobel Prize in Literature "for an all-embracing authorship, imbued with clarity of thought and poetic intensity". He was appointed United States Poet Laureate in 1991.
The lines below are from “May 24, 1980,” Brodsky’s poem looking back from exile in America on his fortieth birthday:
…I have waded the steppes that saw yelling Huns in saddles,
worn the clothes nowadays back in fashion in every quarter,
planted rye, tarred the roofs of pigsties and stables,
guzzled everything save dry water.
I've admitted the sentries' third eye into my wet and foul
dreams. Munched the bread of exile; it's stale and warty.
Granted my lungs all sounds except the howl;
switched to a whisper. Now I am forty.
What should I say about my life? That it's long and abhors transparence.
Broken eggs make me grieve; the omelette, though, makes me vomit.
Yet until brown clay has been rammed down my larynx,
only gratitude will be gushing from it.
The lines below are from “May 24, 1980,” Brodsky’s poem looking back from exile in America on his fortieth birthday:
…I have waded the steppes that saw yelling Huns in saddles,
worn the clothes nowadays back in fashion in every quarter,
planted rye, tarred the roofs of pigsties and stables,
guzzled everything save dry water.
I've admitted the sentries' third eye into my wet and foul
dreams. Munched the bread of exile; it's stale and warty.
Granted my lungs all sounds except the howl;
switched to a whisper. Now I am forty.
What should I say about my life? That it's long and abhors transparence.
Broken eggs make me grieve; the omelette, though, makes me vomit.
Yet until brown clay has been rammed down my larynx,
only gratitude will be gushing from it.
Want to read
August 12, 2016I have had this book for several years now. Up till recently, I feel inadequately prepared to read Brodsky. Now I am making an attempt. The following are reading notes, full summary till finishing the first read. Even with persistence, this is going to be a long haul across nearly 600 pages. (8/12)
8/12 "Homage to Yalta", written in 1969. A sequences of one-sided conversations around a murder. The voices are several people without much demarcation from which-to-which. People have been analyzing this poem through the lens of political oppression or its linguistic feats, however, even to an amateur, one can read through the under-current of consciousness of each speaker -- what is the meaning of what we have seen, what we have done, and what is the meaning of our relationship to the event, and ourselves
8/12 "Homage to Yalta", written in 1969. A sequences of one-sided conversations around a murder. The voices are several people without much demarcation from which-to-which. People have been analyzing this poem through the lens of political oppression or its linguistic feats, however, even to an amateur, one can read through the under-current of consciousness of each speaker -- what is the meaning of what we have seen, what we have done, and what is the meaning of our relationship to the event, and ourselves
May 13, 2020
Joelle Reads Her Bookcase #19
Brodsky was an expatriate Russian who sought asylum in America. He mourned for his country, but he hated communism with a violent passion, and was an outspoken critic of the Kremlin - hence his need for asylum.
In Parts II and III, he often equates communism with winter. He blames the oppressive regimes for sucking the very life out of the people and the land, and for becoming a tangible winter of their own. Even when summer comes, it is a torrid time, because summer is not a reprieve. Summer is hot and dusty, there may or may not be crops, the people are weighed down by heat and chores, and the knowledge that winter will still come.
The next part is more hopeful, and focuses less on his thoughts about the state of the USSR. They were also written in the 90's, after the fall of communism, and are dedicated to his wife and daughter.
Brodsky was an expatriate Russian who sought asylum in America. He mourned for his country, but he hated communism with a violent passion, and was an outspoken critic of the Kremlin - hence his need for asylum.
In Parts II and III, he often equates communism with winter. He blames the oppressive regimes for sucking the very life out of the people and the land, and for becoming a tangible winter of their own. Even when summer comes, it is a torrid time, because summer is not a reprieve. Summer is hot and dusty, there may or may not be crops, the people are weighed down by heat and chores, and the knowledge that winter will still come.
The next part is more hopeful, and focuses less on his thoughts about the state of the USSR. They were also written in the 90's, after the fall of communism, and are dedicated to his wife and daughter.
August 3, 2011
Don't usually read poems as I find novels and other text types more interesting but these were really good. Felt modern although the book isn't new and the poems were beautifully simple in their form, making them quite easy to understand but not dumbfounded in any way. Will perhaps read more of him in the future, if I feel a need for poems again.
November 30, 2007
I need quite a bit of time with this collection. This was my first exposure to Brodsky. I completely enjoyed it. But I wonder what his Russian poems are like. I wonder how much better he is in Russian.
July 23, 2012
Whatever his ability in Russian,whatever his justifiable status in world letters, in English these poems just don't live up to the claims that have been made for them. Stripped of Brodsky's name a lot of these poems would struggle to find readers or publishers.
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