Записи с темой: l (список заголовков)

Federico García Lorca
Canción del naranjo seco

A Carmen Morales
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Федерико Гарсиа Лорка
Песня сухого апельсинового дерева

Отруби поскорей
тень мою, дровосек,
чтоб своей наготы
мне не видеть вовек!

Я томлюсь меж зеркал:
день мне облик удвоил,
ночь меня повторяет
в небе каждой звездою.

О, не видеть себя!
И тогда мне приснится:
муравьи и пушинки -
мои листья и птицы.

Отруби поскорей
тень мою, дровосек,
чтоб своей наготы
мне не видеть вовек!

перевод В. Парнах

@темы: 20, espanol, l, lorca, л


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest;
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,
For those that wander they know not where
Are full of trouble and full of care;
To stay at home is best.

Weary and homesick and distressed,
They wander east, they wander west,
And are baffled and beaten and blown about
By the winds of the wilderness of doubt;
To stay at home is best.

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;
The bird is safest in its nest;
O’er all that flutter their wings and fly
A hawk is hovering in the sky;
To stay at home is best.

@темы: 19, english-american, l


Dorianne Laux
Under the Stars

When my mother died
I was as far away
as I could be, on an arm of land
floating in the Atlantic
where boys walk shirtless
down the avenue
holding hands, and gulls sleep
on the battered pilings,
their bright beaks hidden
beneath one white wing.

Maricopa, Arizona. Mea Culpa.
I did not fly to see your body
and instead stepped out
on a balcony in my slip
to watch the stars turn
on their grinding wheel.
Early August, the ocean,
a salt-tinged breeze.

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@темы: 21, english-american, l


D. H. Lawrence
Going Back

The night turns slowly round,
Swift trains go by in a rush of light;
Slow trains steal past.
This train beats anxiously, outward bound.

But I am not here.
I am away, beyond the scope of this turning;
There, where the pivot is, the axis
Of all this gear.

I, who sit in tears,
I, whose heart is torn with parting;
Who cannot bear to think back to the departure platform;
My spirit hears

Voices of men
Sound of artillery, aeroplanes, presences,
And more than all, the dead-sure silence,
The pivot again.

There, at the axis
Pain, or love, or grief
Sleep on speed; in dead certainty;
Pure relief.

There, at the pivot
Time sleeps again.
No has-been, no here-after; only the perfected
Silence of men.

@темы: l, english-british, 20, lawrence, d. h.


Else Lasker-Schüler
Mein blaues Klavier

Ich habe zu Hause ein blaues Klavier
Und kenne doch keine Note.

Es steht im Dunkel der Kellertuer,
seitdem die Welt verrohte.

Es spielen Sternenhaende vier
– Die Mondfrau sang im Boote –
Nun tanzen die Ratten im Geklirr.
Zerbrochen ist die Klaviatuer…..
Ich beweine die blaue Tote.

Ach liebe Engel oeffnet mir
– Ich ass vom bitteren Brote –
Mir lebend schon die Himmelstuer –
Auch wider dem Verbote.

Эльза Ласкер-Шюлер
Мой синий рояль

В доме моем рояль стоял
небесно-синего цвета.
Его убрали в темный подвал,
когда озверела планета.
Бывало, месяц на нем играл,
пела звезда до рассвета...
Сломаны клавиши.
Он замолчал.
Для крыс ненасытных прибежищем стал...
синяя песенка спета.
Горек мой хлеб. Если б ангел знал,
ах, если б ведал он это –
при жизни мне б на небо путь указал,
вне правила и запрета.

пер. И. Грицкова

@темы: 20, ш/щ, л, s, l, deutsche


Mina Loy
Songs to Joannes, V

Midnight empties the street
Of all but us
I am undecided which way back
To the left a boy
—One wing has been washed in the rain
The other will never be clean any more—
Pulling door-bells to remind
Those that are snug
To the right a haloed ascetic
Threading houses
Probes wounds for souls
—The poor can’t wash in hot water—
And I don’t know which turning to take
Since you got home to yourself—first

@темы: l, english-british, 20


Amy Lowell

I cut myself upon the thought of you
And yet I come back to it again and again,
A kind of fury makes me want to draw you out
From the dimness of the present
And set you sharply above me in a wheel of roses.
Then, going obviously to inhale their fragrance,
I touch the blade of you and cling upon it,
And only when the blood runs out across my fingers
Am I at all satisfied.

@темы: l, english-american, 20


Dorianne Laux
What's Broken

The slate black sky. The middle step
of the back porch. And long ago

my mother’s necklace, the beads
rolling north and south. Broken

the rose stem, water into drops, glass
knobs on the bedroom door. Last summer’s

pot of parsley and mint, white roots
shooting like streamers through the cracks.

Years ago the cat’s tail, the bird bath,
the car hood’s rusted latch. Broken

little finger on my right hand at birth—
I was pulled out too fast. What hasn’t

been rent, divided, split? Broken
the days into nights, the night sky

into stars, the stars into patterns
I make up as I trace them

with a broken-off blade
of grass. Possible, unthinkable,

the cricket’s tiny back as I lie
on the lawn in the dark, my heart

a blue cup fallen from someone’s hands.

@темы: 21, english-american, l


Amy Lowell
The Captured Goddess

Over the housetops,
Above the rotating chimney-pots,
I have seen a shiver of amethyst,
And blue and cinnamon have flickered
A moment,
At the far end of a dusty street.

Through sheeted rain
Has come a lustre of crimson,
And I have watched moonbeams
Hushed by a film of palest green.

It was her wings,
Who stepped over the clouds,
And laid her rainbow feathers
Aslant on the currents of the air.

I followed her for long,
With gazing eyes and stumbling feet.
I cared not where she led me,
My eyes were full of colours:
Saffrons, rubies, the yellows of beryls,
And the indigo-blue of quartz;
Flights of rose, layers of chrysoprase,
Points of orange, spirals of vermilion,
The spotted gold of tiger-lily petals,
The loud pink of bursting hydrangeas.
I followed,
And watched for the flashing of her wings.

In the city I found her,
The narrow-streeted city.
In the market-place I came upon her,
Bound and trembling.
Her fluted wings were fastened to her sides with cords,
She was naked and cold,
For that day the wind blew
Without sunshine.

Men chaffered for her,
They bargained in silver and gold,
In copper, in wheat,
And called their bids across the market-place.

The Goddess wept.

Hiding my face I fled,
And the grey wind hissed behind me,
Along the narrow streets.


@темы: l, english-american, 20


Federico Garcia Lorca

de melocotón y azúcar,
y el sol dentro de la tarde,
como el hueso en una fruta.

La panocha guarda intacta
su risa amarilla y dura.

Los niños comen
pan moreno y rica luna.

Федерико Гарсиа Лорка

Персик зарей подсвечен,
И сквозят леденцы стрекоз.
Входит солнце в янтарный вечер,
Словно косточка в абрикос.
И смеется, налит, початок
Смехом желтым, как летний зной.
Снова август.
И детям сладок
Смуглый хлеб со спелой луной.

пер. Анатолий Гелескул

@темы: л, lorca, l, espanol, 20


Federico García Lorca
In a Corner of the Sky

The old
shuts her bleary eyes.
The new
wants to paint the night
(In the firtrees on the mountain:

transl. Jerome Rothenberg

@темы: 20, espanol, l, lorca


Philip Larkin
The Trees

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

@темы: l, english-british, 20


Federico Garcia Lorca

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Федерико Гарсиа Лорка

Мой поцелуй был гранатом,
отверстым и темным,
твой рот был бумажной
А дальше - снежное поле.
Мои руки были железом
на двух наковальнях.
Тело твое - колокольным
А дальше - снежное поле.
На черепе лунно,
дырявом и синем,
мои 'люблю' превратились
в соленые сталактиты.
А дальше - снежное поле.
Заплесневели мечты
беспечного детства,
и просверлила луну
моя крученая боль.
А дальше - снежное поле.
Теперь, дрессировщик строгий,
я укрощать научился
и мечты свои и любовь
(этих лошадок слепых).
А дальше - снежное поле.

пер. Марк Самаев

@темы: 20, espanol, l, lorca, л


Li Po
Fall Cove Songs

Fall Coves's as long as Autumn itself:
its sighing breath makes Autumn fall on every heart,
and a wanderer's heart, already burdened,
may be all the more likely to fall here.
So it's up the eastern tower for the likes of me,
for a long gaze straight back toward Ch'ang-an,
or, straight down, to find the river's water run
And i'll send these words with the river's waters:
"Does your whole heart rest here
with the same thoughts as mine?"
If I row the first clumsy strokes of the way
with my hands full of tears, Fall River will carry
all the way home.

At Fall Cove it's the gibbons make the nights so
A Yellow Mountain it was my own white hair
that I endures.
The water's clear, but it's no garden pool,
rather a rushing, roiling, gut-wrenching stream...
a place to love to leave, but hard to get around to
and what was to be a little trip's become a
tiresome trek.
In just what year, I wonder, will I find myself a
day for my return?
Tears raining into the orphaned boat.

Fall Cove's a rare brocaded bird...
no place like it in the world of men, and few in
Famous Mountain Pheasant's put to shame
By these greenest waters...
wouldn't dare let its feathered gown
be reflected here!

I was a bristle of whiskers when I came to Fall
then one morning I woke up withered.
Turns out the cry of gibbons turns hair white,
till long or short, it's gone to silky wisps.

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@темы: 8, chinese, eastern, l


Li Po
In the Old Style: Westward over Lotus Mountain

Westward over Lotus Mountain
afar, far off: Bright Star!
Hibiscus blooms in her white hand;
with airy step she climbs Great Purity.
Rainbow robes, trailing a broad sash,
floating she brushes the heavenly stairs,
and invites me to mount the Cloud Terrace,
there to salute the immortal Wei Shu-ch'ang.
Ravished, mad, I go with her,
upon a swan to reach the Purple Vault.
There I looked down, on Loyang's waters:
A vast sea of barbarian soldiers marching,
fresh blood spattered on the grasses of the wilds.
Wolves, with men's hats on their heads.

transl. by J.P. Seaton

@темы: 8, chinese, eastern, l


Li Po
The Road to Shu's a Hard Road

The road to Shu's a hard road.
Ow! Aaaii, be damned!
Talk high? Say murderous!
The Shu road's hard.
Try climbing sky!

They say the Lords Ts'an Ts'ung and Yu Fu
founded a kingdom here; but it took
forty-eight thousand years to build the way
to get here from there, from settlement to
up and over the border passes to get a thing
anything in a place like here.

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@темы: l, eastern, chinese, 8


Li Po
Climbing Hsian-Ping Tower

Thinking of leaving my own place, I climb this
and already I'm longing to come home,
wounded by the Autumn sunset.
The sky seems to have grown, the fallen sun is
far away.
The waters are pure where cold waves ride the flowing stream.,
and foreign clouds rise above mountainous trees.
Barbarian geese fly above islands of sand...
Dark, a vast darkness: how many tens of
thousand of miles?
To the limit of the eye's view, everithing orders
me to sorrow.

transl. by J.P. Seaton

@темы: eastern, chinese, l, 8


Federico García Lorca
La soleá

Tierra seca,
tierra quieta
de noches

(Viento en el olivar,
viento en la sierra.)

de candil
y la pena.
de las hondas cisternas
de la muerte sin ojos
y las flechas.

(Viento por los caminos.
Brisa en las alamedas.)



Под покрывалом* тёмным
ей кажется мир ничтожным,
а сердце - таким огромным.
Под покрывалом тёмным.
Ей кажется безответным
и вздох и крик, унесённый
неумолимым ветром.
Под покрывалом тёмным.
Балкон распахнулся в дали,
и небеса балконом
текли и в зарю впадали.
под покрывалом тёмным!

пер. Гелескул

*В оригинале вместо "покрывала" стоит "мантилья".

@темы: л, lorca, l, espanol, 20


Li Po
Clear Stream, Midnight, I Hear the Flute

It's a Ch'iang flute, the long kind, and it draws
the notes
of "Plum Petals" as far as the can be
At Wu Creek, by the built-up bank, clear water,
pure feelings.
I'm reminded that Ch'iang flutes can
converse with dragons.
At Cold Mountain, at Fall Cove, it was the
moon that hurt the most.
Here, what tears at the guts? Memories of the
palace, in this sound.

transl. by J.P. Seaton

@темы: l, eastern, chinese, 8


Federico García Lorca
Mi sombra va silenciosa
por el agua de la acecia.

Por mi sombra están las ranas
privadas de las estrellas.

La sombra manda a mi cuerpo
reflejos de cosas quietas.

Mi sombra va como inmenso
cínife color violeta.

Cien grillos quieren dorar
la luz de la cañavera.

Una luz nace en mi pecho,
reflejado, de la acequia.


Тень моя скользит в реке,
молчаливая, сырая.
Из нее лягушки звезды,
как из сети, выбирают.
Тень мне дарит отражений
неподвижные предметы.
Как комар, идет - огромный,
фиолетового цвета.
Тростниковый свет сверчки
позолотой покрывают,
и, рекою отраженный,
он в груди моей всплывает.

пер. М. Самаев

@темы: 20, espanol, l, lorca, л

Pure Poetry