«Человек, первым открывший Бродского Западу». Беседы с Джорджем Клайном

Odysseus to Telemachus

My dear Telemachus,                        The Trojan Waris over now; I don’t recall who won it.The Greeks, no doubt, for only they would leaveso many dead so far from their own homeland.But still, my homeward way has proved too long.While we were wasting time there, old Poseidon,it almost seems, stretched and extended space.I don’t know where I am or what this place can be.It would appear some filthy island,with bushes, buildings, and great grunting pigs.A garden choked with weeds; some queen or other.Grass and huge stones… Telemachus, my son!To a wanderer the faces of all islandsresemble one another. And the mind

trips, numbering waves; eyes, sore from sea horizons,run; and the flesh of water stuffs the ears.I can’t remember how the war came out;even how old you are – I can’t remember.Grow up, then, my Telemachus, grow strong.Only the gods know if we’ll see each otheragain. You’ve long since ceased to be that babebefore whom I reined in the plowing bullocks.Had it not been for Palamedes’ trickwe two would still be living in one household.But maybe he was right; away from meyou are quite safe from all Oedipal passions,and your dreams, my Telemachus, are blameless.[Март] 1972

The Butterfly

I

Should I say that you’re dead?

You touched so brief a fragmentof time. There’s much that’s sad inthe joke God played.I scarcely comprehendthe words «you’ve lived»; the dateof your birth and when you fadedin my cupped handare one, and not two dates.Thus calculated,your term is, simply stated,less than a day.

II

It’s clear that days for usare nothings, zeros.They can’t be pinned down near usto feed our eyes.

Whenever days stand starkagainst white borders,since they possess no bodiesthey leave no mark.They are like you. That is,each butterfly’s small plumageis one day’s shrunken image —a tenth its size.

III

Should I say that, somehow,you lack all being?What then, are my hands feelingthat’s so like you?Such colors can’t be drawnfrom nonexistence.Tell me, at whose insistencewere yours laid on?

Since I’m a mumbling heapof words, not pigments,how could your hues be figmentsof my conceit?

IV

There are, on your small wings,black spots and splashes —like eyes, birds, girls, eyelashes.But of what thingsare you the airy norm?What bits of faces,what broken times and placesshine through your form?As for your nature mortes:do they show dishesof fruits and flowers, or fishesdisplayed on boards?

V