The end of the beautiful era Brodsky meaning. We read the newspaper and look for "Easter eggs"

19.06.2019

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Because the art of poetry requires words
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
second-rate power, associated with this, -
not wanting to rape your own brain,
serving clothes to myself, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening newspaper.

The wind blows the foliage. Old light bulbs dim glow
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
with the assistance of puddles, it gives rise to the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal an orange, scraping amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself -
I forgot this feeling.

In these sad lands everything is designed for the winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats; brides toilets - whites
New Year's, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
puritanical customs. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heating pads.

This land is immovable. Presenting the gross volume
cast iron and lead, you shake your head stunned,
remember the old power on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles sit like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even the wicker chairs are kept here
on bolts and nuts.

Only the fish in the seas know the value of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out with a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
it looks for the properties of both in raw vegetables.
Cochet hears the chimes.

Live in an era of accomplishments, having an exalted disposition,
unfortunately difficult. Lifting her dress up to the beauty,
you see what you were looking for, not new wondrous divas.
And it's not that Lobachevsky is firmly watched here,
but the widened world must be narrowing somewhere, and here -
here is the end of perspective.

Either the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities,
either five-sixths of the remaining parts in the world
too far away. Or some kind fairy
it bewitches me, but I can't run away from here.
I pour myself Cahors - do not shout to the servant -
Yes, I’m scratching the cat ...

Or a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of error with a finger,
or to pull from here on the sea with the new Christ.
And how not to mix with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a steam locomotive with a ship - you still won't burn out with shame:
like a boat on the water, it will not leave a trace on the rails
steam locomotive wheel.

What do the newspapers write in the section "From the courtroom"?
The verdict was carried out. Looking here,
the man in the street will see through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a person lies face down against a brick wall;
but does not sleep. For to disdain kumpol dreams
perforated has the right.

The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times incapable in their general blindness
to distinguish dropped out of the cradles from the dropped out cradles.
The white-eyed eccentric does not want to look beyond death.
It's a pity, the saucer is full, only there is no one to turn the table with,
to ask you, Rurik.

The vigilance of these times is vigilance to the things of the impasse.
Not according to the tree, the mind should spread so far,
but spitting on the wall. And not to wake the prince - a dinosaur.
For the last line, eh, do not pluck the feather from the bird.
The innocent head of all and affairs is what to expect an ax
yes green laurel.

In these sad lands everything is designed for the winter: dreams,
walls of prisons, coats, brides' toilets - white
New Year's, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
puritanical customs. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heating pads.

Live in an era of accomplishments, having an exalted disposition,
unfortunately difficult. Lifting her dress up to the beauty,
you see what you were looking for, and not new wondrous divas.
And it's not that Lobachevsky is firmly watched here,
but the widened world must be narrowing somewhere, and here -
here is the end of perspective.

What do the newspapers write in the section "From the courtroom"?
The verdict was carried out. Looking here,
the man in the street will see through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a person lies facedown against a brick wall;
but does not sleep. For to disdain kumpol dreams
perforated has the right.

In these sad lands everything is designed for the winter: dreams,
walls of prisons, coats, brides' toilets - white
New Year's, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
puritanical customs. Lingerie. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heating pads.

Live in an era of accomplishments, having an exalted disposition,
unfortunately difficult. Lifting her dress up to the beauty,
you see what you were looking for, and not new wondrous divas.
And it's not that Lobachevsky is firmly observed here,
but the widened world must be narrowing somewhere, and here -
here is the end of perspective.

Either the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities,
or five-sixths of the remaining parts in the world
too far away. Or some kind fairy
it bewitches me, but I can't run away from here.
I pour myself Cahors - do not shout to the servant -
Yes, I’m scratching the cat ...

Or a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of error with a finger,
or to pull from here on the sea with the new Christ.
And how not to mix with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a steam locomotive with a ship - you still won't burn out with shame:
like a canoe on the water, it will not leave a trace on the rails
steam locomotive wheel.

What do the newspapers write in the section "From the courtroom"?
The verdict was carried out. Looking here,
the man in the street will see through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a person lies facedown against a brick wall;
but does not sleep. For to disdain kumpol dreams
perforated has the right.

Lyrics Splin - The end of a beautiful era (I. Brodsky)

Because the art of poetry requires words
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
Of a second-rate power, associated with this, -
Not wanting to rape your own brain
Serving myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk

For the evening newspaper.

The wind blows the foliage. Old light bulbs dim glow
In these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
With the assistance of puddles, it gives rise to the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal an orange, scraping amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself -
I forgot this feeling.

In these sad lands everything is designed for the winter: dreams,
Prison walls, coats, brides' toilets - whiteness
New Year's, drinks, seconds hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
Puritan manners. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
Wooden heating pads.

This land is immovable. Presenting the gross volume
Cast iron and lead, you shake your head stunned,
Remember the old power on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles sit like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even the wicker chairs are kept here
On bolts and nuts.

Live in an era of accomplishments, having an exalted disposition,
Unfortunately, it is difficult. Lifting her dress up to the beauty,
You see what you were looking for, not new wondrous divas.
And it's not that Lobachevsky is firmly watched here,
But the widened world must be narrowing somewhere, and here -
This is the end of perspective.

Either the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities,
Either five sixths of the remaining parts in the world
Too far. Or some kind fairy
It bewitches me, but I can't escape from here.
I pour myself Cahors - do not shout to the servant -
Yes, I’m scratching the cat ...

Or a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of error with a finger,
Or to pull from here on the sea with the new Christ.
And how not to mix with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
A locomotive with a ship - you still won't burn out of shame:
Like a boat on the water, it will not leave a trace on the rails
Steam locomotive wheel.

What do the newspapers write in the section "From the courtroom"?
The verdict was carried out. Looking here,
The man in the street will see through tin-rimmed glasses,
How a man lies face down against a brick wall;
But he is not sleeping. For to disdain kumpol dreams
Perforated has the right.

The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
Times incapable in their total blindness
Distinguish dropped from cradles from dropped cradles.
The white-eyed eccentric does not want to look beyond death.
It's a pity, the saucer is full, only there is no one to turn the table with,
To ask you, Rurik.

The vigilance of these times is vigilance to the things of the impasse.
Not according to the tree, the mind should spread so far,
But spitting on the wall. And not to wake the prince - a dinosaur.
For the last line, eh, do not pluck the feather from the bird.
The innocent head of all and affairs is what to expect an ax
Yes, green laurel.

Translation of the song Splin - the end of a beautiful era (I. Brodsky)

Because the art of poetry requires words, I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors of the Second-rate power that contacted this one - Not wanting to force my own brain, Giving myself clothes, I go down to the kiosk For the evening newspaper. The wind blows the foliage. Dim glow of old light bulbs In these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors, With the assistance of puddles, gives rise to the effect of abundance. Even thieves steal an orange, scraping amalgam. However, the feeling with which you look at yourself - I have forgotten this feeling. In these sad lands, everything is designed for the winter: dreams, Prison walls, coats, brides' toilets - the whiteness of New Year's, drinks, seconds. Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis; Puritan manners. Linen. And in the hands of violinists - Wooden heating pads. This land is immovable. Imagining the volume of gross Pig iron and lead, you shake your head stunned, You will remember the old power on bayonets and Cossack whips. But the eagles sit like a magnet on the iron mixture. Even the wicker chairs are held here On bolts and nuts. Unfortunately, it is difficult to live in the era of accomplishments, having an exalted disposition. Having lifted up the dress to the beauty, You see what you were looking for, and not new wondrous divas. And it's not that Lobachevsky is firmly watched here, But the extended world must be narrowed somewhere, and here - Here is the end of perspective. Either the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities, Or the five-sixths of the remaining parts of the world Are too far away. Or some kind of fairy godmother Above me, but I can't run away from here. I pour myself Cahors - do not scream the servant - Yes, I scratch the cat ... Either a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of a mistake with a finger, Or pull from here on the sea with a new Christ. And how not to mix with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost, A steam locomotive with a ship - you still won't burn out of shame: Like a boat on the water, the steam locomotive wheel will not leave a trace on the rails. What do the newspapers write in the section "From the courtroom"? The verdict was carried out. Looking here, the average man will see through glasses in a pewter rim, How a man lies face down against a brick wall; But he is not sleeping. For the perforated one has the right to disdain kumpol dreams. The vigilance of this era is rooted in those Times, unable, in their general blindness, to distinguish those that fell out of the cradles from those that fell out of the cradles. The white-eyed eccentric does not want to look beyond death. It's a pity, the saucers are full, but there is no one to turn the table with, To ask you, Rurik. The vigilance of these times is vigilance to the things of the impasse. Not on the tree with the mind stuck so far, But spitting on the wall. And not to wake the prince - a dinosaur. For the last line, eh, do not pluck the feather from the bird. The innocent head of all and deeds is something to wait for an ax Yes, a green laurel.

Splin - The end of a beautiful era (I.Brodsky) - Lyrics, listen online Splin - The end of a beautiful era (I.Brodsky) - Lyrics, listen online

"The end of a beautiful era" Joseph Brodsky

Because the art of poetry requires words
I am one of the deaf, bald, sullen ambassadors
second-rate power, associated with this, -
not wanting to rape your own brain,
serving clothes to myself, I go down to the kiosk
for the evening newspaper.

The wind blows the foliage. Old light bulbs dim glow
in these sad lands, whose epigraph is the victory of mirrors,
with the assistance of puddles, it gives rise to the effect of abundance.
Even thieves steal an orange, scraping amalgam.
However, the feeling with which you look at yourself -
I forgot this feeling.

In these sad lands everything is designed for the winter: dreams,
prison walls, coats; brides toilets - whites
New Year's, drinks, second hands.
Sparrow jackets and dirt according to the number of alkalis;
puritanical customs. Linen. And in the hands of violinists -
wooden heating pads.

This land is immovable. Presenting the gross volume
cast iron and lead, you shake your head stunned,
remember the old power on bayonets and Cossack whips.
But the eagles sit like a magnet on the iron mixture.
Even the wicker chairs are kept here
on bolts and nuts.

Only the fish in the seas know the value of freedom; but their
dumbness forces us, as it were, to create our own
labels and cash registers. And the space sticks out with a price list.
Time is created by death. Needing bodies and things
it looks for the properties of both in raw vegetables.
Cochet hears the chimes.

Live in an era of accomplishments, having an exalted disposition,
unfortunately difficult. Lifting her dress up to the beauty,
you see what you were looking for, and not new wondrous divas.
And it's not that Lobachevsky is firmly watched here,
but the widened world must be narrowing somewhere, and here -
here is the end of perspective.

Either the map of Europe was stolen by agents of the authorities,
either five-sixths of the remaining parts in the world
too far away. Or some kind fairy
it bewitches me, but I can't run away from here.
I pour myself Cahors - do not shout to the servant -
Yes, I’m scratching the cat ...

Or a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of error with a finger,
or to pull from here on the sea with the new Christ.
And how not to mix with drunken eyes, stunned by the frost,
a steam locomotive with a ship - you still won't burn out with shame:
like a boat on the water, it will not leave a trace on the rails
steam locomotive wheel.

What do the newspapers write in the section "From the courtroom"?
The verdict was carried out. Looking here,
the man in the street will see through tin-rimmed glasses,
how a person lies facedown against a brick wall;
but does not sleep. For to disdain kumpol dreams
perforated has the right.

The vigilance of this era is rooted in those
times incapable in their general blindness
to distinguish dropped out of the cradles from the dropped out cradles.
The white-eyed eccentric does not want to look beyond death.
It's a pity, the saucer is full, only there is no one to turn the table with,
to ask you, Rurik.

The vigilance of these times is vigilance to the things of the impasse.
Not according to the tree, the mind should spread so far,
but spitting on the wall. And not to wake the prince - a dinosaur.
For the last line, eh, do not pluck the feather from the bird.
The innocent head of all and affairs is what to expect an ax
yes green laurel.

Analysis of Brodsky's poem "The end of a beautiful era"

If there is no other way to speak out and be heard, then one poem can become a real confession, and the most trivial plot can become an encrypted message that will tell people what is going on in the soul of the poet. Such an outlet was "The End of a Beautiful Epoch" for Joseph Alexandrovich Brodsky (1940–1996). In it, the poet hid so many hints that it is not always possible to recognize all of them in one reading. But we will still make such an attempt.

The plot of the work, as mentioned above, is very simple - the lyrical hero, on whose behalf Joseph Alexandrovich himself speaks, leaves the house to buy a newspaper. On the way to the kiosk, he glances out at the street, then returns to the apartment and reads the news. However, this short walk is filled with such deep observations, reflections and conclusions that the reader will never tire of being surprised.

For example, here's the first phrase:
Because the art of poetry requires words
I am one of the deaf ... ambassadors
second-rate power ...

It contains the bitterness of the fact that since 1963 Brodsky has been persecuted, tried, not published, and not allowed to speak out. The poet could not even find out how he was received, which is very important for a creative person, because he calls himself deaf. "Ambassador of a second-rate power" - ironic illogism, containing a hint of the Jewish origin of Joseph Alexandrovich.

One careful glance is enough for a poet to characterize the country in which he lives. To depict this sad place, he uses gloomy epithets: "sparrow sweaters", "puritanical customs", "wooden heating pads". The author points out that here people live in severity, are accustomed to silence, and human happiness is determined by the volume of the gross product and the production of metal:
Or a bullet in the temple, as if in the place of error with a finger,
or to pull from here on the sea with the new Christ ...

The reader may notice here a sharp anaphora, which equates the idea of emigration and contemplation of suicide. And all these heavy thoughts are encoded in clever metaphors: in the "five-sixth ... parts" we hear the echo of the proud slogan about the greatness of the Soviet Union as one-sixth of the entire land. In the expression “to distinguish those that have fallen out of the cradles from those that have fallen out,” one can guess the saying about a child splashed out with dirty water. This is an allusion to Soviet ideology, which ignores the essence and focuses on the little things.

There are still many such metaphors and allusions in the text of the work. It is important to note that in addition to the colossal content of meaning, "The End of a Belle Epoque" is distinguished by the elegance of its composition. Each stanza has a verified aabccb structure and is written in confident amphibrachia. Thanks to its correct rhythm and piercing images, it reaches the hidden depths of the soul and makes the reader think about the ideas presented in the lines.