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Six Years Later

A More "poetic" title
Six Years Later

Six Years Later

Joseph Brodsky (1940 - 1996) was one of the greatest Russian poets of the late decades of the 20th century and winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature is also well known for his translation of English metaphysical poetry and his essays written in the English language.

Brodsky was born and started his literary career in Leningrad (the former name of St. Petersburg, Russia). His early verses received appreciation from the queen of Russian poetry Anna Akhmatova, but he was out of favor with the Soviet officials for his 'decadence', a publication in "samizdat" (self-published dissident magazine), and his connections with foreign journalists and publishers.

In 1972, Joseph Brodsky became an involuntary exile from his native country. After brief stays in Vienna and London, he immigrated to the United States. He became poet-in-residence and a visiting professor at the University of Michigan, Queens College, Smith College, Columbia University, and Cambridge University in England.;

In 1987, Brodsky won the Nobel Prize for Literature for his "all-embracing authorship, imbued with clarity of thought and poetic intensity". The prize coincided with the first legal publication in Russia of Brodsky's poetry as an exile.

This page features Brodsky's poem Six Years Later along with a literal and a professional poetic translation into English. Listen to the rendition of the poem in Russian here. Click this link to hear American poet Richard Wilbur talking about translating Brodsky’s Six Years Later.

Так до́лго вме́сте про́жили, что вно́вь
второ́е января́ пришло́сь на вто́рник,
что удивлённо по́днятая бро́вь,
как со стекла́ автомоби́ля - дво́рник,
с лица́ сгоня́ла сму́тную печа́ль,
незамутнённой оставля́я даль.

Так до́лго вме́сте про́жили, что снег
коль выпада́л, то ду́малось - наве́ки,
что, да́бы не зажму́ривать ей век,
я прикрыва́л ладо́нью их, и ве́ки,
не ве́ря, что их про́буют спасти́,
мета́лись там, как ба́бочки в горсти́.

Так чу́жды бы́ли вся́кой новизне́,
что те́сные объя́тия во сне́
бесче́стили любо́й психоана́лиз;
что гу́бы, припада́вшие к плечу́, 
с мои́ми, задува́вшими свечу́,
не ви́дя дел ины́х, соединя́лись.

Так до́лго вме́сте про́жили, что ро́з
семе́йство на обша́рпанных обо́ях
смени́лось це́лой ро́щею берёз,
и де́ньги появи́лись у обо́их,
и три́дцать дней над мо́рем, языка́т,
грози́л пожа́ром Ту́рции зака́т.

Так до́лго вме́сте про́жили без книг,
без ме́бели, без у́твари на ста́ром
дива́нчике, что - пре́жде, чем возни́к,-
был треуго́льник перпендикуля́ром,
восста́вленным знако́мыми стоймя́
над сли́вшимися то́чками двумя́.

Так до́лго вме́сте про́жили мы с ней,
что сде́лали из со́бственных тене́й
мы дверь себе́ - рабо́таешь ли, спи́шь ли,
но ство́рки не распа́хивались вро́зь,
и мы прошли́ их, ви́димо, наскво́зь
и чёрным хо́дом в бу́дущее вы́шли.

So long together (we) had lived that again
the second of January came on a Tuesday,
that a surprisedly raised eyebrow
like from the glass of a car - the windshield blade,
from the face whisked away misty sadness,
unobscured leaving the distance.

So long together (we) had lived that snow
if it fell, it was thought it’s forever,
that in order that she wouldn’t have to close her eyes,
I would cover them with my hand, and the eyelids,
not believing that (someone) is trying to protect them,
would flutter there like butterflies in a palm.

So alien (we) were to any novelty,
that the tight embracement in (our) sleep
discredited any psychoanalysis;
that the lips pressed to (my) shoulder,
with mine, blowing off the candle,
not seeing other business, joined.

So long together (we) had lived that the rose
family on the worn wallpaper
was replaced by a whole grove of birches,
and we both came into some money,
and for thirty days, above the sea, the long-tongued
sunset threatened Turkey with fire.

 

So long together (we) had lived without books,
without furniture, without utensils, on an old
sofa, that before it appeared,
the triangle was a perpendicular,
placed upright  by some acquaintance
above two joint dots.

So long I and her had lived together
that (we) made from our shadows
a door for ourselves. Whether you were working or sleeping, (its) halves never opened,
and we apparently walked through them
and through the back door walked out to the future.

So long had life together been that now
the second of January fell again
on Tuesday, making her astonished brow
lift like a windshield wiper in the rain,
so that her misty sadness cleared, and showed
a cloudless distance waiting up the road.

So long had life together been that once
the snow began to fall, it seemed unending;
that, lest the flakes should make her eyelids wince,
I'd shield them with my hand, and they, pretending
not to believe that cherishing of eyes,
would beat against my palm like butterflies.

So alien had all novelty become;
that sleep's entanglements would put to shame
whatever depths the analysts might plumb;
that when my lips blew out the candle flame,
her lips, fluttering from my shoulder, sought
to join my own, without another thought.

So long had life together been that all
that tattered brood of papered roses went,
and a whole birch grove grew upon the wall,
and we had money, by some accident,
and tonguelike on the sea, for thirty days,
the sunset threatened Turkey with its blaze.

So long had life together been without
books, chairs, utensils — only that ancient bed—
that the triangle, before it came about,
had been a perpendicular, the head
of some acquaintance hovering above
two points which had been coalesced by love.

So long had life together been that she
and I, with our joint shadows, had composed
a double door, a door which, even if we
were lost in work or sleep, was always closed:
somehow its halves were split and we went right
through them into the future, into night.

Listen to this poem here.

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