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Записи с темой: durrell, lawrence (список заголовков)
16:12 

Poesia
Gieb ihr ein Schweigen (c)
Лоренс Даррелл
О Юлиане Аркадийском

Аркадия первозданна. Там нет понятия "следовательно". Исток, причина понятия, непригодные для осмысления прошлого. Потому первозданна Аркадия, первозданны и все хорошие стихи.
(из сборника "Критик Конон о шести греческих пейзажистах"*)

пер. К. Медведева

*От автора: Конон — вымышленный греческий философ, дважды посещавший меня во сне, — с ним я себя порой отождествляю. Это одна из моих личин, а другая — это Мелисса. Я хочу, чтоб вся моя поэтическая деятельность явила подобие гобелена, на котором вытканы люди — иногда реальные, иногда вымышленные. Конон реален.

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

16:16 

Poesia
Gieb ihr ein Schweigen (c)
Лоренс Даррелл
О Спиридоне Эпирском

Пять лет вы смотрите на этот пейзаж. Вы почти ничего не видите — но что-то внимательно следит за вами. Еще пять лет — и вы замечаете очертания, которые есть лишь очертания и ничего более — тень, похожая на полусвет луны. Если будете смотреть всю жизнь, то увидите, что горы лежат как покрывало на ложе, и различите контуры таящейся под ним фигуры.
(из сборника "Критик Конон о шести греческих пейзажистах"*)
пер. К. Медведева

*От автора: Конон — вымышленный греческий философ, дважды посещавший меня во сне, — с ним я себя порой отождествляю. Это одна из моих личин, а другая — это Мелисса. Я хочу, чтоб вся моя поэтическая деятельность явила подобие гобелена, на котором вытканы люди — иногда реальные, иногда вымышленные. Конон реален.

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

16:19 

Poesia
Gieb ihr ein Schweigen (c)
Лоренс Даррелл
Цикада
Прозрачное надкрылье мертвой цикады,
Глаза открыты, как у мертвого японца,
Нет пористых частей, подвластных тлень, —
Лишь сколок чешуйчатой слюдяной оболочки.
Из этого тельца можно было бы сделать крошечную скрипку,
Фонарь для эльфа, камень для броши
И носить этот прозрачный взор полуночи

при искусственном свете —
Оправленный золотом или другим аллегоричным металлом,
Постигающий тайнопись мертвого вина,
что вот-вот прольется.
пер. К. Медведева

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

11:39 

20/21.07.356 BCE

Poesia
Gieb ihr ein Schweigen (c)
Kαβάφης
Ένας Θεός των

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Cavafy
One of Their Gods

Transl. by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard

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Transl. by Daniel Mendelsohn

One of Their Gods


translated by Lawrence Durrell

One of their Gods
Transl. by George Valassopoulo


Кавафис
Один из их богов

Сгущались сумерки над центром Селевкии,
когда на площади возник один из Них.
Он шел – неотразимый, юный, статный,
в глазах – сиянье знанья, что бессмертен,
копна надушенных волос черна как смоль.
Прохожие таращились, стараясь
понять, откуда он – сирийский грек?
заезжий чужестранец? Те, однако,
кто повнимательнее, догадавшись,
невольно пятились. И, глядя вслед
фигуре, поглощаемой аркадой,
ведущей сквозь сумятицу огней
в квартал, что оживает только ночью
с его распутством, оргиями, буйным
разгулом сладострастия, они
пытались распознать: который это
из Них, и в поисках каких земных
запретных радостей он пожелал сойти
на мостовую Селевкии с горних
высот – обители Благословенных.
1917
Пер. с греческого Г.Шмакова (под редакцией И.Бродского)

Боги
Пер. Р. Дубровкина

*оказалось, не только у меня это стихотворение ассоциируется с Александром Македонским

@темы: к (rus), links, history, helenike, durrell, lawrence, cavafy, c, brodsy, joseph, antiquity, 20

19:37 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Strip-tease

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

11:48 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
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

11:49 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Acropolis

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

11:49 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Delos

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

00:50 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
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

09:13 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
A Persian Lady
Some diplomatic mission - no such thing as "fate" -
Brought her to the city that ripening spring.
She was much pointed out - a Lady-in Waiting -
To some Persian noble; well, and here she was
Merry and indolent amidst fashionable abundance.
By day under a saffron parasol on royal beaches,
By night in queer crocketed tent with tassels.

He noted the perfected darkness of her beauty,
The mind recoiling as from a branding-iron:
The sea advancing and retiring at her laquered toes;
How would one say "to enflame" in her tongue,
He wondered, knowing it applied to female beauty?
When their eyes met he felt dis-figured
It would have been simple - three paces apart!

Disloyal time! The let the seminal instant go,
The code unbroken, the collision of ripening wishes
Bandoned to hiss on the great syllabaries of memory.
Next day he deliberately left the musical city
To join a boring water-party on the lake.
Telling himself "Say what you like about it,
I have been spared very much in this business."

He meant, I think, that never should he now
Know the slow disgracing of her mind, the slow
Spiral of her beauty's deterioration, flagging desires,
The stagnant fury of the temporal yoke,
Grey temple, long slide into fat.

On the other hand neither would she build him sons
Or be a subject for verses - the famished in-bred poetry
Which was the fashion of his time and ours.
She would exist, pure, symmetrical and intact
Like the sterile hyphen which divides and joins
In a biography the year of birth and death.

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

00:02 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Seferis

Time quietly compiling us like sheaves
Turns round one day, beckons the special few,
With one bird singing somewhere in the leaves,
Someone like K. or somebody like you,
Free-falling target for the envious thrust,
So tilting into darkness go we must.

Thus the fading writer signing off
Sees in the vast perspectives of dispersal
His words float off like tiny seeds,
Wind-borne or bird-disturbed notes,
To the very end of loves without rehearsal,
The stinging image riper than his deeds.

Yours must have set out like ancient
Colonists, from Delos or from Rhodes,
To dare the sun-gods, found great entrepôts,
Naples or Rio, far from man's known abodes,
To confer the quaint Grecian sсript on other man;
A new Greek fire ignited by your pen.

How marvellous to have done it and then left
It in the lost property office of the loving mind,
The secret whisper those who listen find.
You show us all the way the great ones went,
In silences becalmed, so well they knew
That even to die is somehow to invent.

@темы: 20, d, durrell, lawrence, english-british, helenike, s, seferis, giorgos

08:29 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Olives

The grave one is patron of a special sea,
Their symbol, food and common tool in one,
Yet chtonic as ever the ancients realized,
Noting your tips in trimmings kindled quick,
Your mauled roots roared with confused ardours,
Holding in heat, like great sorrows contained
by silence; dead branch or alive grew pelt
Refused the rain and harboured the ample oil
For lamps to light the human eye.

So the poets confused your attributes,
Said you were The Other but also the domestic useful,
And as the afflatus thrives on special discontents,
Little remedial trespasses of the heart, day,
Which grows it u: poor heart, starved pet of the mind:
They supposed your serenity compassed the human span,
Momentous, deathless, a freedom from the chain,
And every one wished they were like you,
Who live or dead brought solace,
The gold spunk of your berries making children fat.
Nothing in you being lame or fraudulent
You discountenanced all who saw you.

No need to add how turning downwind
You pierce again today the glands of memory,
Or how in summer calms you still stand still
In etchings of a tree-defining place.

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

10:41 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
On First Looking into Loeb's Horace

I found your Horace with the writing in it;
Out of time and context came upon
This lover of vines and slave to quietness,
Walking like a figure of smoke here, musing
Among his high and lovely Tuscan pines.

All the small-holder's ambitions, the yield
Of wine-bearing grape, pruning and drainage
Laid out by laws, almost like the austere
Shell of his verses — a pattern of Latin thrift;
Waiting so patiently in a library for
Autumn and drying of the apples;
The betraying hour-glass and its deathward drift.

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His great achievement in this vein is "On First Looking into Loeb's Horace". This is a poem of a highly original order. The title immediately suggests a postmodern reordering of Keats's famous sonnet, but Durrell is more conscientious than most poets who play with the retreading of past masterpieces. It is a love poem into which is folded an indirect narrative and an excellent example of literary criticism. Critical assessment is always more attractive written in the form's own medium - this is, verse itself. The poet finds a copy of the Loeb Edition crib of Horace's poetry annotated by a former lover's hand. Reading along with her comments he analyses the Roman poet's life and work. Not only has the love affair perished, but its loss is matched by the vanished Mediterranean civilization which nurtured Horace and still inspires today's readers of Latin literature.
(c) Peter Porter

@темы: english-british, durrell, lawrence, d, citatus, antiquity, 20, ...logy

13:27 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
On Ithaca Standing

Tread softly, for here you stand
On miracle ground, boy.
A breath would cloud this water of glass,
Honey, bush, berry and swallow.
This rock, then, is more pastoral, than
Arcadia is, Illyria was.

Here the cold spring lilts on sand.
The temperature of the toad
Swallowing under a stone whispers: "Diamonds,
Boy, diamonds, and juice of minerals!"
Be a saint here, dig for foxes and water,
Mere water springs in the bones of the hands.

Turn from the hearth of the hero. Think:
Other men have their emblems, I this:
The heart's dark anvil and the crucifix
Are one, have hammered and shall hammer
A nail of flesh, me to an island cross,
Where the kestrel's arrow falls only,
The green sea licks.

(1937)

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

11:45 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Nemea

A song in the valley of Nemea:
Sing quiet, quiet, quiet here.

Song for the brides of Argos
Combing the swarms of golden hair:
Quiet quiet, quiet, there.

Under the rolling comb of grass,
The sword outrusts the golden helm.

Agamemnon under tumulus serene
Outsmiles the jury of skeletons:
Cool under cumulus the lion queen:

Only the drum can celebrate,
Only the adjective outlive them.

A song in the the valley of Nemea:
Sing quiet, quiet, quiet here.

Tone of the frog in the empty well,
Drone of the bald bee on the cold skull,

Quiet, Quiet, Quiet.

(1940)

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

00:48 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Father Nicholas His Death: Corfu

Hush the old bones their vegetable sleep,
For the islands will never grow old.
Nor like Atlantis on a Monday tumble,
Struck like soft gongs in the amazing blue.

Dip the skull's chinks in lichens and sleep,
Old man, beside the water-gentry.
The hero standing knee-deep in his dreams
Will find and bind the name upon his atlas,
And put beside it only an X marked spot.

Leave memory to the two tall sons and lie
Calmed in smiles by the elegiac blue.
A man's address to God is the skeleton's humour,
A music sipped by the flowers.

Consider please the continuous nature of Love:
How one man dying and another smiling
Conserve for the maggot only a seed of pity,
As in winter's taciturn womb we see already
A small and woollen lamb on a hilltop hopping.

The dying and the becoming are one thing,
So wherever you go the musical always is;
Now what are your pains to the Great Danube's pains,
Your pyramids of despair against Ithaca
Or the underground rivers of Dis?

Your innocence shall be as the clear cistern
Where the lone animal in these odourless waters
Quaffs at his own reflection a shining ink.
Here at your green pasture the old psalms
Shall kneel like humble brutes and drink.

Hush then the finger bones their mineral doze
For the islands will never be old or cold
Nor ever the less blue: for the egg of beauty
Blossoms in new migrations, the whale's grey acres,
For men of the labyrinth of the dream of death.
So sleep.
All these warm when the flesh is cold.
And the blue will keep.

(1939)

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

00:06 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Portfolio

Late seventeenth, a timepiece rusted by dew,
Candles, a folio of sketches where rotting
I almost found you a precarious likeness —
The expert relish of the charcoal stare!
The copies, the deposits, why the very
Undermeaning and intermeaning of your mind,
Everything was there.

Your age too, its preoccupations like ours...
"The cause of death is love though death is all"
Or else: "Freedom resides in choice yet choice
Is only a fatal imprisonment among opposites."
Who told you you were free? What can it mean?
Come, drink! The simple kodak of the hangman's brain
Outstares us as it once outstared your world.
After all. we were not forced to write,
Who bade us heed the inward monitor?

And poetry, you once said, can be a deliverance
And true in many sorts of different sense,
Explicit or else like that awkward stare,
The perfect form of public reticence.

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

00:11 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Alexandria

To the lucky now who have lovers or friends,
Who move to their sweet undiscovered ends,
Or whom the great conspiracy deceives,
I wish these whirling autumn leaves:
Promontories splashed by the salty sea,
Groaned on in darkness by the tram
To horizons of love or good luck or more love —
As for me I now move
Through many negatives to what I am.

Here at the last cold Pharos between Greece
And all I love, the lights confide
A deeper darkness to the rubbing tide;
Doors shut, and we the living are locked inside
Between the shadows and the thoughts of peace:
And so in furnished rooms revise
Index of our lovers and our friends
From gestures possibly forgotten, but the ends
Of longings like unconnected nerves,
And in this quiet rehearsal of their acts
We dream of them and cherish them as Facts.

Now when the sea grows restless as a conscript,
Excited by fresh wind, climbs the sea-wall,
I walk by it and think about you all:
B. with his respect for the Object, and D.
Searching in sex like a great pantry for jars
Marked "plum and apple"; and the small, fell
Figure of Dorian ringing like a muffin-bell —
All indeed whom war or time threw up
On this littoral and tides could not move
Were objects for my study and my love.

And then turning where the last pale
Lighthouse, like a Samson blinded, stands
And turns its huge charred orbit on the sands
I think of you — indeed mostly of you,
In whom a writer would only name and lose
The dented boy's lip and the close
Archer's shoulders; but here to rediscover
By tides and faults of weather, by the rain
Which wishes everything, the critic and the lover.

At the doors of Africa so many towns founded
Upon a parting could become Alexandria, like
The wife of Lot — a metaphor for tears;
And the queer student in his poky hot
Tenth floor room above the harbour hears
The sirens shaking the tree of his heart,
And shuts his books, while the most
Inexpressible longings like wounds unstitched
Stir in him some girl's unquiet ghost.

So we, learning to suffer and not condemn
Can only wish you this great pure wind
Condemned by Greece, and turning like a helm
Inland where it smokes the fires of men,
Spins weathercock son farms or catches
The lovers at their quarrel in the sheets;
Or like a walker in the darkness might,
Knocks and disturbs the artist at his papers
Up there alone, upon the alps of night.

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

07:48 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Vaumort

For "Buttons"
Seemingly upended in the sky,
Cloudless as minds asleep
One careless cemetery buzzes on and on
As if her tombstones were all hives
Overturned by the impatient dead —
We imagined they had stored up
The honey of their immortality
In the soft commotion the black bees make.

Below us, far away, the road to Paris.
You pour some wine upon a tomb.
The bees drink with us, the dead approve.

It is weeks ago now and we are back
In our burnt and dusty Languedoc,
Yet often in the noon-silences
I hear the Vaumort bees, taste the young wine,
Catch a smile hidden in sighs.

In the long grass you found a ring, remember?
A child's toy ring. Yes, I know that whenever
I want to be perfectly alone
With the memory of you, of that whole day
It's the Vaumort that I'll be turning.

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

10:09 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Stone Honey

Reading him is to refresh all nature,
Where, newly elaborated, reality attends.
The primal innocence in things confronting
His eye as thoughtful, innocence as unstudied...
One could almost say holy in the scientific sense.
So while renewing nature he relives for us
The simple things our inattention staled,
Noting sagely how water can curl like hair,
Its undisciplined recoil moving mountains
Or drumming out geysers in the earth's crust,
Or the reflex stroke which buries ancient cities.

But water was only one of the things Leonardo
Was keen on, liked to sit down and draw.
It would not stay still; and sitting there beside
The plate of olives, the comb of stone honey,
Which seemed so eternal in the scale of values,
So philosophically immortal, he was touched
By the sense of time's fragility, the semen of fate.
The adventitious seconds, days or seasons,
Though time stood still some drowsy afternoon,
Became for him dense, gravid with futurity.
Life was pitiless after all, advancing and recoiling
Like the seas of the mind. The only purchase was
This, deliberately to make the time to note:
"The earth is budged from its position by the
Meres weight of a little bird alighting on it."

Leonardo, Old Man with Water Studies, c. 1513


“In rivers, the water that you touch is the last of what has passed and the first of that which comes; so with present time.”
(c) Leonardo da Vinci


Honeystone (mellite)

@темы: rinascimento, l, english-british, durrell, lawrence, d, citatus, art, 20

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