發文作者：c.w. | 四月 23, 2005
- Selected Poems (Penguin Twentieth Century Classics S.)
- Joseph Millman Brodsky, Edwin Arlington Robinson, Robert Faggen
- Not rated
April, Eliot’s cruelest month, and many other’s as well. Time for poetry. Here’s something from Joseph Brodsky.
Verses in April
Once again this past winter
I did not go mad. As for winter itself-
one glances;its gone. But I can divide
the din of ice cracking from the green
shroud of earth. So I’m sane.
I wish myself well
at the coming of spring;
blinded by the Fontanka,
I break myself up into dozens of parts.
I run my flat hand
up and over my face. The snow-crust is settling
in my brain, as it does in the woods.
Having lived to the time of gray hairs,
I observe how a tug threads its way,
among ice floes, toward open sea
to give you in writing would be
just as harsh and unfair
as to charge you with wrong.
Please excuse me
for this lofty style;
though there’s no end to our discontent,
there’s an end to our winters.
For the essesnce of change lies in this-
in the wrangling of Muses who swarm
at Mnumosyne’s banquet.