Реферат: Об одном стихотворении Бродского и его переводе, выполненном автором

я бы всплыл пред тобой, как не смог "Варяг".

Но, видать, не судьба, и года не те.

И уже седина стыдно молвить - где.

Больше длинных жил, чем для них кровей,

да и мысли мертвых кустов кривей.

Навсегда расстаемся с тобой, дружок.

Нарисуй на бумаге простой кружок.

Это буду я: ничего внутри.

Посмотри на него - и потом сотри.

FOLK TUNE

It's not that the Muse feels like clamming up,

It's more like high time for the lad's last nap.

And the scarf-waving lass who wished him the best

Drives a steamroller across his chest.

And the words won't rise either like that rod

Or like logs to rejoin their old grove's sweet rot,

And, like eggs in the frying pan, the face

Spills its eyes all over the pillowcase.

Are you warm tonight under those six veils

In that basin of yours whose strung bottom wails;

Where like fish that gasp at the foreign blue

My raw lip was catching what then meant you?

I would have hare's ears sewn to my bald head,

In thick woods for your sake I'd gulp drops of lead,

And from black gnarled snags in the oil-smooth pond

I'd bob up to your face as some Tirpitz won't.

But it's not on the cards or the waiter's tray,

And it pains to say where one's hair turns gray.

There are more blue veins than the blood to swell