Записи с темой: d (список заголовков)

John Dryden
The Secular Masque

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@темы: english-british, dramaturgy, d, 17, restoration


Emily Dickinson
The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants -
At Evening, it is not
At Morning, in a Truffled Hut
It stop opon a Spot

As if it tarried always
And yet it’s whole Career
Is shorter than a Snake’s Delay -
And fleeter than a Tare -

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@темы: d, 19, english-american


Gieb ihr ein Schweigen (c)
11.10.2013 в 12:50
Пишет Lika_k:

Когда читала "Маунтолива", при чтении описания Мемлик-Паши, когда упоминается ослепленение и шутка Мемлика про хороших певцов, сразу вспомнилось одно стихотворение Томаса Гарди. Как раз из этого стихотворения когда-то узнала о жуткой практике Vinkensport (не знаю, как это называется по-русски) и до сих пор трясет при каждой мысли об этом.

Thomas Hardy
The Blinded Bird

So zestfully canst thou sing?
And all this indignity,
With God's consent, on thee!
Blinded ere yet a-wing
By the red-hot needle thou,
I stand and wonder how
So zestfully thou canst sing!

Resenting not such wrong,
Thy grievous pain forgot,
Eternal dark thy lot,
Groping thy whole life long;
After that stab of fire;
Enjailed in pitiless wire;
Resenting not such wrong!

Who hath charity? This bird.
Who suffereth long and is kind,
Is not provoked, though blind
And alive ensepulchred?
Who hopeth, endureth all things?
Who thinketh no evil, but sings?
Who is divine? This bird.

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@темы: h, english-british, d, 20, hardy, thomas, repost


Georges Ribemont-Dessaignes

Les hirondelles du souvenir
Voyagent d’un doigt à l’autre
Et sur le bout du doigt
Le lézard vert de l’avenir
Mange les mouches du cœur.
Je donnerai cette pastille,
À la langue qui baisera l’ennui fidèle,
J’accepterai la main
Qui donnera des graines de soleil,
De lune, d’étoiles et de nuages
À mon perroquet vert.
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Жорж Рибемон-Дессень

Ласточки памяти
Перелетают с пальца на палец,
И на кончике каждого пальца
Зеленая ящерка будущего
Пожирает мушек сердца.

Я положу эту карамельку
На язык, который обласкает смертельную скуку,
Я возблагодарю руку,
Которая насыплет зерна солнца.
Луны, звезд и облаков
Моему зеленому попугаю.
Я кричу:
- И мне, и мне, и мне! -
Но хорошо знаю,
Что все это лишь попугаю с ненасытным оком,
И никого не зову - ни себя, ни вас.
Под маской размещу пустоту.
В пустоте-тысячи букв.
Вот слаженный оркестр,
Хотя никто не слышит.
И однако я жду, жду,
Жду, когда выпадет зеро, которое никогда не выпадает.
Пер. Михаила Яснова

@темы: francaise, dada, d, 20, r, surrealism, д, р (rus)


John Donne
Song: Go and catch a falling star

Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true, and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet;
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

@темы: metaphysical poets, english-british, d, 17


Lawrence Durrell

Soft toys that make to seem girls
In cool whitewash with two coral
Valves of lip printing each others' grease ...
A clockwork Cupid's bow. Increase!
Their cherry-ripe hullo brims the open purse
Of eyes washed white by the marmoreal light;
So swaying as if on pyres they go
About the buried business of the night,
Cold witches of the elementary tease
Balanced on the horn of a supposed desire...
Trees shed their leaves like some of these.

@темы: english-british, durrell, lawrence, d, 20, modernism


Lawrence Durrell
This Unimportant Morning

This unimportant morning
Something goes singing where
The capes turn over on their sides
And the warm Adriatic rides
Her blue and sun washing
At the edge of the world and its brilliant cliffs.

Day rings in the higher airs
Pure with cicadas, and slowing
Like a pulse to smoke from farms,

Extinguished in the exhausted earth,
Unclenching like a fist and going.

Trees fume, cool, pour - and overflowing
Unstretch the feathers of birds and shake
Carpets from windows, brush with dew
The up-and-doing: and young lovers now
Their little resurrections make.

And now lightly to kiss all whom sleep
Stitched up - and wake, my darling, wake.
The impatient Boatman has been waiting
Under the house, his long oars folded up
Like wings in waiting on the darkling lake.

@темы: durrell, lawrence, d, 20, english-british


Lawrence Durrell

The soft quem quam will be Scops the Owl
conjugation of nouns, a line of enquiry,
powdery stubble of the socratic prison
laurels crack like parchments in the wind.
who walks here in the violet dust at night
by the tower of the winds and water-clocks?
tapers smoke upon open coffins
surely the shattered pitchers must one day
revive in the gush of marble breathing up?
call again softly, and again.
the fresh spring empties like a vein
no children spit on their reflected faces
but from the blazing souk below the passive smells
bread urine cooking printing-ink
will tell you what the sullen races think
and among the tombs gnawing of mandolines
confounding sleep with carnage where
strangers arrive like sleepy gods
dismount at nightfall at desolate inns.

@темы: english-british, durrell, lawrence, d, 20


Lawrence Durrell

For Diana Gould
On charts they fall like lace,
Islands consuming in a sea
Born dense with its own blue:
And like repairing mirrors holding up
Small towns and trees and rivers
To the still air, the lovely air:
From the clear side of springing Time,
In clement places where the windmills ride,
Turning over grey springs in Mykonos,
In shadows with a gesture of content.

The statues of the dead here
Embark on sunlight, sealed
Each in her model with the sightless eyes:
The modest stones of Greeks,
Who gravely interrupted death by pleasure.
And in harbours softly fallen
The liver-coloured sails -
Sharp-featured brigantines with eyes -
Ride in reception so like women:
The pathetic faculty of girls
To register and utter desire
In the arms of men upon the new-mown waters,
Follow the wind, with their long shining keels
Aimed across Delos at a star.

@темы: english-british, durrell, lawrence, d, 20



Hilda Doolittle (H.D.)
Sea Poppies

Amber husk
fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,

spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:

your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells
and split conch-shells.

Beautiful, wide-spread,
fire upon leaf,
what meadow yields
so fragrant a leaf
as your bright leaf?


@темы: english-british, d, 20, imagism


John Donne
The Baite

Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines, and silver hooks.

There will the river whispering run
Warmed by thy eyes, more than the sun.
And there the'enamoured fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seen, be'st loth,
By sun, or moon, thou darkenest both,
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs, with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset,
With strangling snare, or windowy net:

Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,
Or curious traitors, sleavesilk flies
Bewitch poor fishes' wandering eyes.

For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait,
That fish, that is not catched thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than I.

@темы: english-british, d, 17, metaphysical poets


Emily Dickinson
There is a solitude of space,
A solitude of sea,
A solitude of death, but these
Society shall be,
Compared with that profounder site,
That polar privacy,
A Soul admitted to Itself:
Finite Infinity.

@темы: english-american, d, 19


Emily Dickinson
I meant to find her when I came;
Death had the same design;
But the success was his, it seems,
And the discomfit mine.
I meant to tell her how I longed
For just this single time;
But Death had told her so the first,
And she had hearkened him.

To wander now is my abode;
To rest,—to rest would be
A privilege of hurricane
To memory and me.

@темы: d, 19, english-american


John Donne
The Funeral

Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm
Nor question much
That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm;
The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,
For 'tis my outward soul,
Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone,
Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,
Those hairs which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain,
Can better do'it; except she meant that I
By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled, when they'are condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she meant by'it, bury it with me,
For since I am
Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry,
If into other hands these relics came;
As 'twas humility
To afford to it all that a soul can do,
So, 'tis some bravery,
That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

@темы: metaphysical poets, english-british, d, 17


John Donne
A Fever

O ! Dо not die, for I shall hate
All women so, when thou art gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,
When I remember thou wast one.
But yet thou canst not die, I know ;
To leave this world behind, is death ;
But when thou from this world wilt go,
The whole world vapours with thy breath.

Or if, when thou, the world's soul, go'st,
It stay, 'tis but thy carcase then ;
The fairest woman, but thy ghost,
But corrupt worms, the worthiest men.

O wrangling schools, that search what fire
Shall burn this world, had none the wit
Unto this knowledge to aspire,
That this her feaver might be it?

And yet she cannot waste by this,
Nor long bear this torturing wrong,
For more corruption needful is,
To fuel such a fever long.

These burning fits but meteors be,
Whose matter in thee is soon spent ;
Thy beauty, and all parts, which are thee,
Are unchangeable firmament.

Yet 'twas of my mind, seizing thee,
Though it in thee cannot perséver ;
For I had rather owner be
Of thee one hour, than all else ever.

@темы: metaphysical poets, english-british, d, 17


Rubén Darío (1867-1916)

Saluda al sol, araña, no seas rencorosa.
Da tus gracias a Dios, ¡oh, sapo!, pues que eres.
El peludo cangrejo tiene espinas de rosa
y los moluscos reminiscencias de mujeres.
Sabed ser lo que sois, enigmas siendo formas;
dejad la responsabilidad a las Normas,
que a su vez la enviarán al Todopoderoso...
(Toca, grillo, a la luz de la luna, y dance el oso.)

Рубен Дарио

Паук, восход приветствуй и вытри злые слезы,
за счастье жить, о жаба, восславь Творца щедроты!
Корявый краб шипами вполне достоин розы,
а в устрице осклизлой от женщины есть что-то.

Так будем тем, что есть, обиды не тая!
Непостижимое - лишь форма бытия.
Оставим труд разгадок природе и Творцу...
Трещи, цикада, под луной! пляши, медведь, в лесу!

пер. Ал. Милитарев

@темы: д, d, 20, 19, espanol


T. S. Eliot
Whispers of Immortality

Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,

He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.

. . . . .
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@темы: metaphysical poets, links, english: anglo-american, eliot, t. s., e, d, 20


01.04.2014 в 01:08
Пишет Нэт Старбек:

Chad Davidson - In Ravenna
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I stand in front of history and feel nothing.
Then, some wrecked mosaic, awkward
in the transom of a secondary church, behaves
just so, as if the artists thought of me and all
my imperfections. Sometimes, people gather
in the hearts of forgotten cities, and I hate them
for their nonchalance, the terror in their boredom.
They have been dying here for millennia, these boys,
and there is little I can do, on this casual trip
in the heat, map in hand, to guide them out.

From the Fire Hills

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@темы: 21, d, english-american, repost


Lawrence Durrell
from Eternal Contemporaries: Six Portraits
3. Basil the Hermit

Banished from the old roof-tree Patmos
Where the dynasts gathered honey,
Like dancing bears, with smoking rituals,
Or skimmed the fat of towns with levy-money,
Uncaring whether God or Paradise exist,
Laid up themselves estates in providence
While greed crouched in each hairy fist,

Basil, the troubled flower of scepticism,
Chose him a pelt, and a cairn of chilly stone,
Became the author of a famous schism:
A wick for oil, a knife, a broken stool
Were all, this side of hell, he dared to own.
For twenty years in Jesus went to school.

Often, looking up, he saw them there
As from some prism-stained pool:
Dark dots like birds along the battlements,
Old rooks swayed in a rotten tree.
They waved: he did not answer, although he
Felt kindly to them all, for they could do
What he could not: he did not dare to pray.
His inner prohibitions were a sea
On which he floated spellbound day by day.
World and its fevers howled outside: within
The Omen and the Fret that hemmed him in,
The sense of his complete unworthiness
Pressed each year slowly tighter like a tourniquet.

@темы: english-british, durrell, lawrence, d, 20

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