On the death of Joseph Brodsky

Gene Ruggles called to say that Joseph Brodsky had died. The evening's libation had run dry, so he sought solace over the phone. Brodsky wasn't that old. Only 55. Heart failure, they said, but his stout heart never failed him. Sentenced to five years hard labor in Arkhangelsk for writing samizdat poetry without permission. When interrogated as to where poetry came from, Brodsky said: I thought it came from God. When I last saw Iosif at Poetry International, in Rotterdam, he seemed healthy enough, but bitter cold. His crotchety, oratory voice was like that of an impassioned preacher. Hellfire and brimstone. A dissent of the spirit, he railed against the drabness of the totalitarian state. Oleg thought the sun and moon rose over him. In NY cafes, they'd roll cigarettes, Russian style, enjoy a smoke over bitter coffee, and talk of the homeland. Exiled poets. Everything has its limit, including sorrow.

1/29/1996
added & rev. 11/17

Joseph Brodsky, Exiled Poet Who Won Nobel, Dies at 55

Judge: What is your profession?
Brodsky: Translator and poet.
Judge: Who has recognized you as a poet? Who has enrolled you in the ranks of poets?
Brodsky: No one. Who enrolled me in the ranks of the human race?