Speaking In Tongues
Scribbling In Voices

Joseph Brodsky

Translated by Maya Jouravel

Translation, Maya Jouravel, 1994-2001



Two Hours in Reservoir
Letters to the Roman Friend
To the Negotiations in Kabul

Two Hours in Reservoir

Im bored, my fiend
A. Pushkin

1


I am an anti-fascist... anti-Faust
Ich liebe life and I admire chaos
Ich bin to wish, Genosse Offizieren,
Dem Zeit zum Faust for a while spazieren.

2


Without embracing Polish propaganda,
In Krakow he had missed his Vaterland, and
He dreamt of the philosophers true diamond
And sometimes doubted his own talent.
He gently picked, off ground, ladies' tissues,
He got excited with the gender issues,
Along, in school he played the polo's virtues.

He studied deeply gambling catechismus,
And learned to taste the sweetness of Cartesian.
Then crawled deep down into the Artesian
well of ego-centrism. The military slyness
For which was famous Mr. Clausewitz,
For him remained apparently unknown,
Whereas to Vater was a wood artisan.

Zum beispiel, in outbreak of glaucoma,
The plague, cholera und Tuberculosen,
He saved himself by schwarze Papierossen.
Attracted by the Gypsies and the Moors.
He then became a bachelor alumnus.
Was granted then a licentiate laurus
And sang to students, Cambrian... dinosaurs...

A German man a German cerebrum.
Without mentioning, Cogito ergo sum.
Undoubtedly Deutschland uber alles.
(One's ears can catch a famous Vienna's waltz).
He parted with Krakow with some heart cheer,
And took a carriage in a rush to sheer
To chair the school with honest glass of beer.

3


A splendid C-moon shines out of the clouds.
Tremendous foliant. A man above it.
A wrinkle darkens right twixt the eyebrows,
His eyes the lacework devilry of Arabs.
With a Cordovan black chalk in his right hand
And from the corner, hes watched at profile length
By Meph-ibn-Stopheles: an Arab agent.

The candles burning. Screeches under clothes-bin.
Herr Doktor, midnight. Jawohl, schlafen, schlafen...
Two dark black muzzles open utter meow,
From kitchen quietly comes a Yiddish Frau.
She holds a sizzling omelet with fried bacon.
Herr doctor jots the address on the letter:
Gott Strafe. England. London. Francis Bacon.

Concerns and demons come and go further,
The years and guests do come and go further...
One can't recall then dresses, words, or weather.
That's how all the years have passed and gone swift.
He knew the Arabic, but didnt know Sanskrit.
And yet quite late, hey, Faust had discovered
Before him, eine kleine Fraulein Margaret.

And then to Cairo he had sent epistle
By which he voted back his soul from devil.
Meph had arrived while he had changed his clothes.
He gazed into the mirrow and saw close
That he forever is metamorphosed.
To maidens boudoir, with flowers, kitschy
He then set off. Und veni, vidi, vici.

4


Ich liebe clearness. Ja. Ich liebe promptness.
Ich bin to ask to see here no vileness.
Youre hinting that he loved the flower lasses.
Ich understanden, das ist ganze swiftness.
But this transaction macht der grosse Minus.
Die righte Sprache, macht der grosse Sinus:
The heart and spirit nein gehabt in surplus.

In vain you alles would expect from creatures:
Behold said to the moment you're so gorgeous
The devil all the time among us wanders
And by the minute he awaits this phrase.
Nevertheless, a man, mein liebe Herren,
Is so uncertain in his greatest darings,
That each time lies as if he sells the air
And yet like Goethe could not goof by chance.

Und grosser Dichter Goethe made a blooper
With which subjected to a ganze risk that matter.
And Thomas Mann had ruined his best seller
And cher Gounod confused his lady actor.
The fine art is the fine art is the fine art...
I'd rather sing in skies than fib in concert.
Die Kunst gehabt the need in truthful kind heart.

By all fair means, of death, he could be scared.
From where the demons come, he was aware.
He fed der dog on all Galens, Ibn-Sinas.
He could das Wasser drain in knees and fingers.
He could define the tree age by the log rings,
He knew where to the stars' ways lead us rightly.
But Doctor Faust nichts knew of Almighty.

5


There's mystique. There's faith. And there is God.
There's difference between them. And there's oneness.
Some men are itched by flesh, while some are saved.
Unfaith is sightlessness, or rather swine-ness.

The Lord looks down. Up above look men.
Yet everybody seeks his own profit..
God's infinite. Indeed. And what is man?
And man, most probably, is very finite.

A man has got his ceiling, which in fact
Could always be up there, a little mobile.
A flatterer will find his way to heart.
And life no more is seen beyond the devil.

That's how Doctor Faust was. Likewise
Marlowe, and Goethe, Thomas Mann and masses
of singers, intellectuals und, alas,
The readers in milieu of other classes.

Same flow sweeps away their foot steps too,
Their retorts, Donnerwetter!, vibes and musings...
So grant them, God, the time to scream Where to?
And listen to the answers of their Muses.

An honest German for der Weg zuruck
Won't wait until he's summoned by the others.
He takes his Walter out of his warm slacks
And then forever leaves to a Walter-Closet.

6


Fraulein, please tell me was ist das incubus?
Incubus das ist eine kleine globus.
Noch grosser Dichter Goethe gave us rebus
And Ibycus's evil bearing cranes,
When having fled off Weimar's foggy cloud,
They, of the pocket, snatched a key right out,
By Eckermanns insight, not being rescued.
And now we got, Matrosen, in a fix.

There are spiritually thuthful queries.
Mystique is indication of a failure
In an attempt to handle them. However,
Ich bin unworthy topic to debate.
Zum beispiel: Ceiling starts the roofing layers;
One poem lavisher... one human nietzsche-r.
I can recall Godmother in a niche there.
Abundant Fruhstuck served right into bed.

Again September, Boredom. Full moon's blown.
Gray witch does meow at my feet below.
I put a hatchet right beneath my pillow...
Some schnapps will do! Well this is apgemacht!
Jawohl, September. Character gets rotten
And spinning, in a field a roaring tractor.

Ich liebe life and Volkisch Beobachter.
Gut Nacht, mein liebe Herren. Ja, gut Nacht.


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LETTERS TO THE ROMAN FRIEND

From Martial
Now is windy and the waves are cresting over
Fall is soon to come to change the place entirely.
Change of colors moves me, Postum, even stronger
Than a girlfriend while shes changing her attire.
Maidens comfort you but to a certain limit
Cant go further than an elbow or a kneeline.
While apart from body, beauty is more splendid
An embrace is as impossible as treason.
* * *
Im sending to you, Postum-friend, some reading.
Hows the capital? Soft bed and rude awakening?
Hows Caesar? Whats he doing? Still intriguing?
Still intriguing, I imagine, and engorging.
In my garden, I am sitting with a night-light
No maid nor mate, not even a companion
But instead of weak and mighty of this planet,
Buzzing pests in their unanimous dominion.
* * *
Here, was laid away an Asian merchant. Clever
Merchant was he very diligent yet decent.
He died suddenly malaria. To barter
Business did he come, and surely not for this one.
Next to him a legionnaire under a quartz grave.
In the battles, he brought fame to the Empire.
Many times could have been killed! Yet died an old brave.
Even here, there is no ordinance, my dear.
* * *
Maybe, chicken really arent birds, my Postum,
Yet a chicken brain should rather take precautions.
An empire, if you happened to be born to,
better live in distant province, by the ocean.
Far away from Caesar, and away from tempests
No need to cringe, to rush or to be fearful,
You are saying procurators are all looters,
But Id rather choose a looter than a slayer.
* * *
Under thunderstorm, to stay with you, hetaera,
I agree but let us deal without haggling:
To demand sesterces from a flesh that covers
is the same as stripping roofs of their own shingle.
Are you saying that I leak? Well, wheres a puddle?
Leaving puddles hasnt been among my habits.
Once you find yourself some-body for a husband,
Then youll see him take a leak under your blankets.
* * *
Here, weve covered more than half of our life span
As an old slave, by the tavern, has just said it,
Turning back, we look but only see old ruins.
Surely, his view is barbaric, but yet candid.
ve been to hills and now busy with some flowers.
Have to find a pitcher, so to pour them water.
Hows in Libya, my Postum, or wherever?
Is it possible that we are still at war there?
* * *
You remember, friend, the procurators sister?
On the skinny side, however with those plump legs.
You have slept with her then... she became a priestess.
Priestess, Postum, and confers with the creators.
Do come here, well have a drink with bread and olives
Or with plums. Youll tell me news about the nation.
In the garden you will sleep under clear heavens,
And Ill tell you how they name the constellations.
* * *
Postum, friend of yours once tendered to addition,
Soon shall reimburse deduction, his old duty
Take the savings, which youll find under my cushion.
Havent got much but for funeral its plenty.
On your skewbald, take a ride to the hetaeras,
Their house is right by the town limit,
Bid the price we used to pay for them to love us
They should now get the same for their lament.
* * *
Laurels leaves so green it makes your body shudder.
Wide ajar the door a tiny windows dusty
Long deserted bed an armchair is abandoned
Noontime sun has been absorbed by the upholstery.
With the wind, by sea point cape, a boat, is wrestling.
Roars the gulf behind the black fence of the pine trees.
On the old and wind-cracked bench Pliny the Elder.
And a thrush is chirping in the mane of cypress.
March 1972

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1972


To the Negotiations in Kabul

You, the brutal-hearted sky-scraping mountain tribes!
Lamb and horseflesh - is all your menu describes;
Long beards and handcrafted rugs, your loud guttural names;
Never before have seen a sea, not to mention a piano - in your eyes.
Legendary for your profiles, fingers attired in gold,
Joint bridge of the nose, riffle shots to deliver a word:
Never mind the envelopes, in the absence of the addresses!
Protected by their very backs from the rains and tempests;
Living shrouded up in the mountains in kishlaks,
Shrouded in the clouds, just like in turban, Allah.
Looks like the time has come for you, abreks and hasbullahs,
Part with your snugy robe; prepare yourself for a surprise,
Get out of your saklya, be ready to dilute,
Your currency free life out there - so close to the absolute ---
With a fair quantity of fare-complexion species
From multi-storied too, full of dazzling lights cities,
Where one can hop in the Mercedes and -- there quickly
Forget the bloody feud completely;
And where transparent clothes that can sail
From the hip down - is your only veil.
All in all, Ibrahims, the mountain chain from Ararat
To Everest is the food for photo apparatus;
As for those snow peaks not excluding blue air --
They would greatly pass for travel agencies exterior.
Details should not fall into dependency of a landscape!
Everything goes down the drain including that landscape,
If bras and justice - everywhere you turn.
There -- is better than there, where the lord is cone;
And where the neck of the riffle, at the daybreaks,
Is the one for your hand to fondle, sheikhs.
An eagle soaring high in the skies, looks down with discontent
At the serpent signature on the agreement
Concluded by you, the bigots, bred and fostered by Islam,
And ambassadors, dressed to the hilt in gabardine,
Grinning for the camera from the first seat.
And then, there is nothing at all; there is none to see,
None to see there none to see there except for
The fact that there is none else, thanks to trachoma or
That eye that was ripped off by avowed foe
And none to see but gloomy woe.
Translated in September, 2001

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1992