I got "Poetry for Dummies" book in the local library, and fortunately I also got Brodsky’s book, so I could forget about "Poetry for Dummies". :) Here is a poem I liked and it isn’t rhymed, so I wasn’t too intimidated to attempt translaton.

My darling, the pub is the same,
the same rubbish flaunts from the walls,
the same prices. Is wine better?
I don’t think so, no better, no worse.
There is no progress, and it’s good.

A pilot of a postal plane, alone,
like a failed angel swills vodka. Violins
still by force of habit stirs
my imagination. In the window
there are white, like virginity, roofs,
and a bell drones. It’s dark already.

Why did you lie? And why my ear
Already can’t tell a lie from truth,
but demands some new words,
unknown for you -- muffled, foreign,
yet those that can be said,
like before, only in your voice.

The poem was written in 1968, when I was born.