Brodsky - Russian Poetry

You're coming home again.  What does that mean?
Can there be anyone here who still needs you,
who would still want to count you as his friend?
You're home, you've bought sweet wine to drink with supper,

and, staring out the window, bit by bit
you come to see that you're the one who's guilty:
the only one.  That's fine.  Thank God for that.
Or maybe one should say, 'Thanks for small favors.'

It's fine that there is no one else to blame,
it's fine that you are free of all connections,
it's fine that in this world there is no one
who feels obliged to love you to distraction.

It's fine that no one ever took your arm
and saw you to the door on a dark evening,
it's fine to walk, alone, in this vast world
toward home from the tumultuous railroad station.

It's fine to catch yourself, while rushing home,
mouthing a phrase that's something less than candid;
you're suddenly aware that your own soul
is very slow to take in what has happened.

trns. by George Kline

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