Letters to the Roman Friend

and the year's farewells

Hello,

This is the last post of the year. This implies some sort of summing-up of the departing, but, frankly, there is neither will nor nerves for that. 2023 was a shitty one. The most important factor for me personally—the number of bloody wars that affect me and mine—has doubled, and that overshadows pretty much everything else, good or bad.

Last time I had a go at keeping a semi-regular blog, I always made an effort to end the year with an improvised postcard. This time, we’ll try something more text-centric. I will attempt to start a Tap Water Sommelier tradition, where each year is sent off with a translation of a Russian poem.

And we will start big, because otherwise, why start at all?

One of the books about Brodsky is called “Brodsky Abroad: Empire, Tourism, Nostalgia”. It’s by a Finnish scholar, Sanna Turoma. I like this name; it does sum up, in three simple words, much of what you should know about Joseph Brodsky. If I were to change them to reflect only this particular poem, it would be “Empire, Exile, Nostalgia”. He wrote it in the same year he started his involuntary emigration. In the last several years, I am sure, many people have shared the sentiment. “Letters to the Roman Friend” is one of Brodsky's best-known poems, and it is famous for the several lines that became adages. I tried to preserve them as sharp and succinct as they are in Russian while keeping the overall rhythm and rhyming structure of the original.

I did not use any AI-based tools for the translation, but I did ask DALL-E to create an illustration for the piece. This is what it came up with after a few attempts:

With that in mind, let’s start.

Letters to the Roman Friend
(from Martial)

Day is windy, waves are rampant, dear Postum,
fall is coming, shifting scenery entirely.
Lately, I enjoy the Nature changing costume,
more than maidens slipping into new attires. 

Maids bring pleasure only up to certain margins –
knees or elbows – going further lost all reasons.
Outside the flesh all beautiful is larger: 
neither fondles are permissible, nor treasons.
___

Here are books that I have found fascinating. 
How's the polis treating you? Do you have heating?
How is Caesar? What's he up to? Machinating?
Machinating, I assume, and overeating.

No ladyfriend, no slaves or even equals,
I sit down in my yard and light an incense. 
Neither powerful are here, nor the meek ones –
just the acquiescent buzz of evening insects.
___

Here lies an Asian merchant in the isthmus. 
He came here to negotiate, to argue,
in short, Postum, he came here just for business,
he was good at it, but perished from an ague.

Next to him, a Roman soldier found shelter
under quartz. He brought some glory to us, Romans.
Many times he risked his life! but died an elder. 
Here, Postum, can be neither rules nor romance. 
___

As they say, my friend, a chicken’s no high-flier,
chicken-brains will bring you sorrows galore.
If befell you to be born in the Empire,
best to stay in the deep province, by the shore.

You’re away then both from blizzards and from Caesar.
You don’t need to hurry, fawn, and mind your future.
What, you claim, all governors are robbers either?
Frankly, I prefer a robber to a butcher.
___

I can cover you, hetaera, from the deluge
with my body, but the payment really scathes:
taking coins from a man who gives such refuge 
is akin to asking roofs to pay in lathes.

What? You’re saying that I leak? Where’s the puddle?
I have never leaked before on top of lovers.
When you find a husband, love, give him a cuddle,
then you’ll see how much he leaks between the covers.
___

We are more than halfway through now, me and you, and
as an older slave said, finishing his ballad,
“We look back, and all behind us is ruined.”
A barbaric view, but ultimately, valid.

Climbed a mountain, in my age – a fine endeavor. 
Put some flowers in a jug, so they don’t worsen. 
How is Libya, my Postum, or wherever.
Is it possible that we are still at war then?
___

Did you already forget the regent’s sister?
Rather slender, fit, but with a certain limpness.
She became a priestess recently… you kissed her,
now she, Postum, speaks directly with Olympus. 

Come and visit, we’ll have wine and eat some pastry.
You can bring me news of our blessed nation.
I will make you a plain bed under a chaste tree,
and will tell you names of local constellations.
___

Soon your friend, who liked addition, and who still owes
to subtraction a large dept, will pay it amply.
Take my savings, they are hid under my pillows,
it’s not much, but it will be enough to plant me.

After funeral, ride on your raven mare
to the brothel where we found relaxation. 
Pay them money for commemorative prayer,
but no more than they would take for fornication.
___

Green of laurel trembling on the winds of Pontus.
Dusty window and a wooden door left open,
a deserted chair, a modest bed, not pompous,
with a cover soaking in both sun and ocean.

By the shore a boat is lost in windy welter.
Hedge of pinetrees, and above them only air.
On a bench there is a book – Pliny the Elder. 
And a thrush is chirping in a cypress’ hair.

Joseph Brodsky, 1972

The cool thing is, after spending a few weeks on this translation, I now can say almost anything I want in this meter. For example:

Please support this young newsletter by subscribing,
leave a comment, share, and it will grow older.
If you’re not getting the letters I am scribing,
don’t forget to check again in your spam folder. 

By the way, if you do subscribe, you’ll get another Brodsky translation in the welcome email. This is one of the several easter eggs hidden within the complex machinery of this here newsletter.

Next year, we’ll have a lot of fun. We’ll talk about modern art and homeopathy, about detectives and musketeers, about scientists and charlatans. We’ll talk a lot about literature as well, and there will be more translations. Moreover, early next year I will finally launch the second, fiction-oriented part of this blog (still deciding on the format of this one).

Here’s another one of DALL-E’s works. I asked it to add a Christmas motive.

Have a good one, folks.

Best,

K.