In the cold season, in a locality accustomed to heat more than to cold, to horizontality more than to a mountain, a child was born in a cave in order to save the world; it blew as only in deserts in winter it blows, athwart.
To Him, all things seemed enormous: His mother’s breast, the steam out of the ox’s nostrils, Caspar, Balthazar, Melchior – the team of Magi, their presents heaped by the door, ajar. He was but a dot, and a dot was the star.
Keenly, without blinking, through pallid, stray clouds, upon the child in the manger, from far away – from the depth of the universe, from its opposite end – the star was looking into the cave. And that was the Father’s stare.
By Иосиф Александрович Бродский (Joseph Iosif Aleksandrovich Brodsky a.k.a. Iosif Aleksandrovich Brodsky) (December 1987) translated by the author, Brodsky, himself
Brodsky reciting his poem
Рождественская звезда
В холодную пору, в местности, привычной скорей к жаре, чем к холоду, к плоской поверхности более, чем к горе, младенец родился в пещере, чтоб мир спасти: мело, как только в пустыне может зимой мести.
Ему все казалось огромным: грудь матери, желтый пар из воловьих ноздрей, волхвы — Балтазар, Гаспар, Мельхиор; их подарки, втащенные сюда. Он был всего лишь точкой. И точкой была звезда.
Внимательно, не мигая, сквозь редкие облака, на лежащего в яслях ребенка издалека, из глубины Вселенной, с другого ее конца, звезда смотрела в пещеру. И это был взгляд Отца.
Cordelia, you are a fool! Would it have been that hard to yield to the old man? To say to him, ‘I, too, O darling Daddy, love you more than my life.’ Piece of cake! You wanted him to work it out on his own – who was the best of his daughters. Proud fool! And now he’s dead, you too, everyone’s dead. And Gloucester! Oh the bloody horror – his eye-sockets – the scene of the blinding – fingers leafing quickly through the pages as if through plates of red-hot iron… Here, read it now. I’ll turn away. You weren’t there in that Act, were you? Go on, read it, look what you’ve done, you stupid little fool! OK, OK, don’t cry. Of course, the author is quite a character, but next time make sure to be more stubborn, and resist: Viola, Rosalinda, Catherine, they managed – why wouldn’t you? Like a puppy, pull him by the leg of his pants with your teeth into the game, into comedy! The laws of the genre will lead us out into light… Here, wipe your nose and give me back the hanky. I still have to wash and iron and return it to a certain careless blonde Venetian in the next volume. Sorry I told you off. Best regards to your father. Remember: like a puppy!
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by Мари́на Я́ковлевна Бороди́цкая (Marina Yakovlevna Boroditskaya) (c. 2003) translated by Ruth Fainlight Published in the Journal of Foreign Literature, Number 8, 2014
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Below is the original Russian version of the poem in Cyrillic.
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Корделия
Корделия, ты дура! Неужели Так трудно было старику поддаться? Сказать ему: “Я тоже, милый папа, Люблю вас больше жизни”. Всех-то дел! Хотела, чтобы сам он догадался, Кто лучшая из дочерей? Гордячка! Теперь он мертв, ты тоже, все мертвы. А Глостер? О, кровавый ужас детства — Его глазницы — сцена ослепленья — Как будто раскаленное железо Пролистывали пальцы, торопясь: На вот, прочти. Я отвернусь. Тебя же В том акте не было? Читай, читай, Смотри, что ты наделала, дуреха! Ну ладно, не реви. Конечно, автор — Тот фрукт еще, но в следующий раз Ты своевольничай, сопротивляйся: Виола, Розалинда, Катарина Смогли, а ты чем хуже? Как щенок, Тяни его зубами за штанину — В игру, в комедию! Законы жанра Нас выведут на свет. На, вытри нос. Давай сюда платок. Его должна я Перестирать, прогладить и вернуть Одной венецианской растеряхе В соседний том. Прости, что накричала. Отцу привет. И помни: как щенок!
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Extra information: Marina Boroditskaya was born on June 28, 1954 in Moscow. In 1976 she graduated from the Moscow Institute of Foreign Languages named after Maurice Torez. She worked as a guide-translator and taught in a school. In 1978 she made her debut as a translator in Russia’s Иностранная литература (Foreign Literature) magazine.
Since 1990 she has been a member of the Writers’ Union, and since 2005 she has become a member of the Мастера литературного перевода (Masters of Literary Translation) guild.
Marina Boroditskaya works as a presenter on the radio show Литературная аптека (translated as Literary Pharmacy’, ‘Literary First Aid Box’or ‘Literary Drugstore’ depending on your source) on Радио России (Radio Russia). She is convinced that the book is the best medicine.
And again they’ll order a translation, and a foreign poet, like an alien spaceman, space-suit on fire, will enter the atmosphere and land, as literals, on your writing table.
Get to work then, palms pumping chest, trying to find life in this strange being, to start the heart’s rhythm, the lung’s action, so he can breathe the harsh local air.
This one will probably live, but some die, and who can you tell later or explain how the sacred honey congeals in your breast, refusing to be poured into strange vessels.
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by Мари́на Я́ковлевна Бороди́цкая (Marina Yakovlevna Boroditskaya) (c. 2003) translated by Ruth Fainlight
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Extra information: Marina Boroditskaya was born on June 28, 1954 in Moscow. In 1976 she graduated from the Moscow Institute of Foreign Languages named after Maurice Torez. She worked as a guide-translator and taught in a school. In 1978 she made her debut as a translator in Russia’s Иностранная литература (Foreign Literature) magazine.
Since 1990 she has been a member of the Writers’ Union, and since 2005 she has become a member of the Мастера литературного перевода (Masters of Literary Translation) guild.
Marina Boroditskaya works as a presenter on the radio show Литературная аптека (translated as Literary Pharmacy’, ‘Literary First Aid Box’or ‘Literary Drugstore’ depending on your source) on Радио России (Radio Russia). She is convinced that the book is the best medicine.
Don’t leave the room, don’t blunder, do not go on. If you’re smoking Shipka, what good is the Sun? Outside, all is meaningless, especially – the cry of joy. To the lavatory and back straightaway, old boy.
O, don’t leave the room, don’t call for a cab, my friend. Because Space is a corridor that will end with a meter. And, if your dear, delight expressing, walks inside, kick her out without undressing.
Don’t leave the room; pretend that you have a cold. Four walls and a chair entice like nothing else in the world. Why leave the place that you’ll surely return to late in the night, as you were, only more – mutilated?
O, don’t leave the room. Enchanted, dance bossa nova in shoes worn on bare feet, in a coat draped over your naked body. The hall reeks of ski wax and cabbage. You’ve written a lot; more would be extra baggage.
Don’t leave the room. Let only the room imagine a little what you might look like. And besides, incognito ergo sum, as form itself learned from substance once. Don’t leave the room! Outside, you will not find France.
Don’t be a fool! Be what others weren’t. Remain. Don’t leave the room! Let the furniture have free reign, blend in with wallpaper. Bolt the door, barricade in place with a dresser from chronos, cosmos, eros, virus, race.
translated by ??? (I’ve lost track of who did this translation so any aid in attributing the appropriate credit would be greatly appreciated)
Brodsky reciting his poem in Russian
Beneath is the original Russian version of the poem in Cyrillic.
Не выходи из комнаты
Не выходи из комнаты, не совершай ошибку. Зачем тебе Солнце, если ты куришь Шипку? За дверью бессмысленно все, особенно — возглас счастья. Только в уборную — и сразу же возвращайся.
О, не выходи из комнаты, не вызывай мотора. Потому что пространство сделано из коридора и кончается счетчиком. А если войдет живая милка, пасть разевая, выгони не раздевая.
Не выходи из комнаты; считай, что тебя продуло. Что интересней на свете стены и стула? Зачем выходить оттуда, куда вернешься вечером таким же, каким ты был, тем более — изувеченным?
О, не выходи из комнаты. Танцуй, поймав, боссанову в пальто на голое тело, в туфлях на босу ногу. В прихожей пахнет капустой и мазью лыжной. Ты написал много букв; еще одна будет лишней.
Не выходи из комнаты. О, пускай только комната догадывается, как ты выглядишь. И вообще инкогнито эрго сум, как заметила форме в сердцах субстанция. Не выходи из комнаты! На улице, чай, не Франция.
Не будь дураком! Будь тем, чем другие не были. Не выходи из комнаты! То есть дай волю мебели, слейся лицом с обоями. Запрись и забаррикадируйся шкафом от хроноса, космоса, эроса, расы, вируса.
Another recital of the poem by the Russian actor and activist Алексей Девотченко (Alexei Devotchenko)
In particular this translation note, from the article, where she discusses the choices faced in expressing wordplay successfully to an audience unlikely to be familiar with the original cultural context:
…the original second line says ‘Why should you need the sun (solntse) if you smoke Shipka?’ Both Solntse and Shipka were brands of Bulgarian cigarettes. I decided against attempts along the lines of ‘You read The Guardian, why should you need the sun?’, Brodsky being a Russian chain smoker rather than a British liberal.
Rambling At The Bridge Head 