In the end, hopelessness is no more than a failure of imagination. Below, a short poem by Joseph Brodsky, who knew about such things:
The following poem was written by Joseph Brodsky while in internal exile in Norenskaia, in the Archangelsk region of northern Russia. In the Soviet Union, New Year celebrations came to be seen as a substitute for Christmas. This translation was found among his papers:
January 1, 1965
The kings will lose your old address. No star will flare up to impress. The ear may yield, under duress, to blizzards' nagging roar. The shadows falling off your back, you'd snuff the candle, hit the sack, for calendars more nights can pack than there are candles for.
What is this? Sadness? Yes, perhaps. A little tune that never stops. One knows by heart its downs and ups. May it be played on par with things to come, with one's eclipse, as gratefulness of eyes and lips for what occasionally keeps them trained on something far.
And staring up where no cloud drifts because your sock's devoid of gifts you'll understand this thrift: it fits your age; it's not a slight. It is too late for some breakthrough, For miracles, for Santa's crew. And suddenly you'll realize that you yourself are a gift outright.
- Joseph Brodsky translated from the Russian by the author
In the end, hopelessness is no more than a failure of imagination. Below, a short poem by Joseph Brodsky, who knew about such things:
ReplyDeleteThe following poem was written by Joseph Brodsky while in internal exile in Norenskaia, in the Archangelsk region of northern Russia. In the Soviet Union, New Year celebrations came to be seen as a substitute for Christmas. This translation was found among his papers:
January 1, 1965
The kings will lose your old address.
No star will flare up to impress.
The ear may yield, under duress,
to blizzards' nagging roar.
The shadows falling off your back,
you'd snuff the candle, hit the sack,
for calendars more nights can pack
than there are candles for.
What is this? Sadness? Yes, perhaps.
A little tune that never stops.
One knows by heart its downs and ups.
May it be played on par
with things to come, with one's eclipse,
as gratefulness of eyes and lips
for what occasionally keeps
them trained on something far.
And staring up where no cloud drifts
because your sock's devoid of gifts
you'll understand this thrift: it fits
your age; it's not a slight.
It is too late for some breakthrough,
For miracles, for Santa's crew.
And suddenly you'll realize that you
yourself are a gift outright.
- Joseph Brodsky
translated from the Russian by the author
Peace and goodwill to all...
the penis shoots seeds to make new life; to poison the earth with a plague of men.
ReplyDeletethe gun is good, the penis is evil.
your god gave you the gift of the gun.
go forth and kill.
Ugo, you dont get it. We need more guns to solve mass shootings just as we need more debt to solve debt crisis... :-)
ReplyDeleteAnd yes, we need more oil to solve climate change...
Alex