poet

he wasn't good at life, drank claret cup and juice
while spirits once a year, never more often
he wasn't apt at life, and summoned laughs
with his aplomb and gaze forever burning

but every night he did his timeless work
when his light pen was touching sheet of paper
he wasn't good at life. essentially, he soared
over this life, and thus caused yet more laughter

he didn't have official accolades
nor other ones--and really, what their good is?
he wasn't apt at life, at love though he was apt
as so few others. sadly, it was useless


Михаил Бриф, "Поэт"

Жить не умел. Пил соки да крюшон,
а водку иль коньяк раз в год, не чаще.
Жить не умел, и многим был смешон
его апломб и взор его горящий.
 
Но по ночам нетленное творил,
когда пером к бумаге прикасался.
Жить не умел. Он, собственно, парил
над жизнью – и ещё смешней казался.
 
Правительственных званий не имел.
Да и других. Зачем, скажи на милость?
Жить не умел. Зато любить умел,
как мало кто. Увы, не пригодилось.