• ↓
  • ↑
  • ⇑
 
Записи с темой: b (список заголовков)
06:32 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Eavan Boland
In His Own Image

I was not myself, myself.
The celery feathers,
the bacon flitch,
the cups deep on the shelf
and my cheek
coppered and shone
in the kettle's paunch,
my mouth
blubbed in the tin of the pan­
they were all I had to go on.

How could I go on
With such meager proofs of myself?
I woke day after day.
Day after day I was gone.
From the self I was last night.

And then he came home tight.

Such a simple definition!
How did I miss it?
Now I see
that all I needed
was a hand
to mold my mouth
to scald my cheek,
was this concussion
by whose lights I find
my self-possession,
where I grow complete.

He splits my lip with his fist,
shadows my eye with a blow,
knuckles my neck to its proper angle.
What a perfectionist!

His are a sculptor's hands:
they summon
form from the void,
they bring
me to myself again.
I am a new woman.

@темы: 20, b, e'ireann, english-british

06:47 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Eavan Boland
In Her Own Image

It is her eyes:
the irises are gold
and round 'they go
like the ring on my wedding finger,
round and round

and I can't touch
their histories or tears.
To think they were once my satellites!
They shut me out now.
Such light-years!

She is not myself
anymore she is not
even in my sky
anymore and I
am not myself.

I will not disfigure
her pretty face.
Let her wear amethyst thumbprints,
a family heirloom,
a sort of burial necklace

and I know just the place:
Where the wall glooms,
where the lettuce seeds,
where the jasmine springs
no surprises

I will bed her.
She will bloom there,
second nature to me,
the one perfection
among compromises.

@темы: 20, b, e'ireann, english-british

00:10 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Djuna Barnes
Serenade

Three paces down the shore, low sounds the lute,
The better that my longing you may know;
I’m not asking you to come,
But—can’t you go?

Three words, “I love you,” and the whole is said—
The greatness of it throbs from sun to sun;
I’m not asking you to walk,
But—can’t you run?

Three paces in the moonlight’s glow I stand,
And here within the twilight beats my heart.
I’m not asking you to finish,
But—to start.

@темы: english-american, b, 20

06:51 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Anne Bradstreet
Verses upon the Burning of our House, July 10th, 1666

Here Follows Some Verses Upon the Burning
of Our house, July 10th. 1666. Copied Out of
a Loose Paper.


In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow near I did not look,
I wakened was with thund’ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.
That fearful sound of “fire” and “fire,”
Let no man know is my Desire.
I, starting up, the light did spy,
And to my God my heart did cry
To straighten me in my Distress
And not to leave me succourless.
Then, coming out, behold a space
The flame consume my dwelling place.
And when I could no longer look,
I blest His name that gave and took,
That laid my goods now in the dust.
Yea, so it was, and so ‘twas just.
It was his own, it was not mine,
Far be it that I should repine;
He might of all justly bereft
But yet sufficient for us left.
читать дальше

@темы: 17, b, english-british, english: anglo-american

09:08 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sonnet VI

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore—
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

@темы: victorian, english-british, b, 19

06:40 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Matsuo Bashō
Old pond
a frog jumps into
the sound of water.

Jane Reichhold, ed. and trans.

Matsuo Bashō
The quiet pond
A frog jumps in,
The sound of the water.

tran. Edward G. Seidensticker

Мацуо Басё
Старый пруд

Старый пруд!
Прыгнула лягушка.
Всплеск воды.

пер. Т. И. Бреславец

Мацуо Басё
Старый пруд.
Прыгнула в воду лягушка.
Всплеск в тишине.

пер. В. Маркова

Мацуо Басё
Старый пруд заглох.
Прыгнула лягушка.
Слышен тихий всплеск.
пер. Н. И. Конрад

@темы: japanese, b, 17

01:01 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Rupert Brooke
Love

Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart’s citadel to Fate.
They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then,
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
And agony’s forgot, and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven—such are but taking
Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
Some share that night. But they know love grows colder,
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.
Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.
All this is love; and all love is but this.

1913

@темы: 20, b, english-british

01:17 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Elizabeth Bishop
Songs For A Colored Singer

I
A washing hangs upon the line,
but it's not mine.
None of the things that I can see
belong to me.
The neighbors got a radio with an aerial;
we got a little portable.
They got a lot of closet space;
we got a suitcase.

читать дальше

IV
What's that shining in the leaves,
the shadowy leaves,
like tears when somebody grieves,
shining, shining in the leaves?

Is it dew or is it tears,
dew or tears,
hanging there for years and years
like a heavy dew of tears?

Then that dew begins to fall,
roll down and fall,
Maybe it's not tears at all.
See it, see it roll and fall.

Hear it falling on the ground,
hear, all around.
That is not a tearful sound,
beating, beating on the ground.

See it lying there like seeds,
like black seeds.
see it taking root like weeds,
faster, faster than the weeds,

all the shining seeds take root,
conspiring root,
and what curious flower or fruit
will grow from that conspiring root?

fruit or flower? It is a face.
Yes, a face.
In that dark and dreary place
each seed grows into a face.

Like an army in a dream
the faces seem,
darker, darker, like a dream.
They're too real to be a dream.

@темы: english-american, b, 20

00:02 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Maxwell Bodenheim
Thoughts While Walking

A steel hush freezes the trees.
It is my mind stretched to stiff lace,
And draped on high wide thoughts.

My soul is a large sallow park
And people walk on it, as they do on the park before me.
They numb my levelness with dumb feet,
Yet I cannot even hate them.

@темы: b, english-american, 20

00:37 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
William Blake
To Winter

O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:
The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark
Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs
Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.

He hears me not, but o’er the yawning deep
Rides heavy; his storms are unchain’d, sheathed
In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes;
For he hath rear’d his scepter o’er the world.

Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings
To his strong bones, strides o’er the groaning rocks:
He withers all in silence, and in his hand
Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.

He takes his seat upon the cliffs, the mariner
Cries in vain. Poor little wretch! that deal’st
With storms; till heaven smiles, and the monster
Is driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.

@темы: 18, b, blake, William, english-british

07:31 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Jeanne Marie Beaumont
Letter from Limbo

You ask what glories we have access to, being
"excluded from the beatific vision" as defined.

Best is the firmament—barred from heaven
but not the heavens, which open for us

like a colossal jewelry box. I wish I could
show you the odd-pitched graduated ladders

that lift us to great heights of star-gazery.
Up and down we traverse, birdlike in big-

sleeved scholar's gowns, tailored to trap
breezes and bear us up (we can climb

only half as far without them). To see
our billowing citizenry hung high amid

the heavens, some with telescopes, some with
maps and charts, others with sets of paint,

is to witness a form of rapture, one
in which no body need be left behind.

If not all astronomers, or amateurs at best,
we're all admirers who take our profoundest

pleasure in planets and comets, in moons
and meteor showers, in galactic treasures so

phenomenal I'm not permitted to describe them,
except to say, they're far beyond what satellites

or spaceships could offer, which is to say,
we're so much more than clothed and fed.

from "Letters from Limbo", 2016

@темы: english-american, b, 21

11:18 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Jorge Luis Borges
Compass

Every single thing becomes a word
in a language that Someone or Something, night and day,
writes down in a never-ending scribble,
which is the history of the world, embracing

Rome, Carthage, you, me, everyone,
my life, which I do not understand, this anguish
of being enigma, accident, and puzzle,
and all the discordant languages of Babel.

Behind each name lies that which has no name.
Today I felt its nameless shadow tremble
in the blue clarity of the compass needle,

whose rule extends as far as the far seas,
something like a clock glimpsed in a dream

or a bird that stirs suddenly in its sleep.

transl. by Alastair Reed

@темы: 20, b, borges, jorge luis, latinoamericano

07:32 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Rupert Brooks
The Dead

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.

@темы: english-british, b, 20

07:34 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Elizabeth Bishop
One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

@темы: english-american, b, 20

07:25 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Eavan Boland
Suburban Woman: a Detail

Suddenly I am not certain
of the way I came
or the way I will return,
only that something
which may be nothing
more than darkness has begun
softening the definitions
of my body, leaving

the fears and all the terrors
of the flesh shifting the airs
and forms of the autumn quiet
crying remember us.

@темы: e'ireann, b, 20

07:30 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Marianne Boruch
The First Layer of City

Concerning the lost and so
much of it, the Professor of Antiquities
is on TV again—

Think about that.

I love the word oxymoron like I love the word
hope loving him back such a long way.

The ancients then, via digital pulse. But never
to know except with shovel, brush,
magnifying glass. He dreams out the rest.

The rest is resting in dust. The rest too will

come out of deep down
petrified wood or gold or bronze
fierce, the spear end of it.

Not far, so many winged creatures
sculpted out of flight to peer from a ledge,
their grim human heads turned sideways, desert
a distance, a horizon. Column after column
holding up ago

what made it cool in there, made us all
the first days of the world: lie down,
close your eyes a moment,
listen to the fountain.

The Professor of Antiquities
looks into the camera as into what the Oracle saw
and says you don’t destroy,
you restore. All this time to recover
words for beer, for how-much-you-owe-me, for gods
and king, the body living or in death, what to do,
what’s elegy and next
marked on clay tablets with a stick.

First lost layer of city. Shock-seizure
of flames larger than night
after night some year B.C. burning back
temple or palace until

safe all words, safe,
slow-fired to stone in the lower chamber
when everything, everything else—

(с)

@темы: links, english-american, b, antiquity, 21

09:51 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Djuna Barnes
In Particular

What loin-cloth, what rag of wrong
Unpriced?
What turn of body, what of lust
Undiced?
So we’ve worshipped you a little
More than Christ.

@темы: 20, b, english-american

07:48 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Gwendolyn Brooks
My Dreams, My Works, Must Wait Till After Hell

I hold my honey and I store my bread
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly, and each latch and lid
I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.
I am very hungry. I am incomplete.
And none can give me any word but Wait,
The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in;
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume
On such legs as are left me, in such heart
As I can manage, remember to go home,
My taste will not have turned insensitive
To honey and bread old purity could love.

@темы: 20, b, english-american

07:19 

Lika_k
Искусствоед


(Songs of Experience, 1794)

Уильям Блейк
Древо яда

В ярость друг меня привел -
Гнев излил я, гнев прошел.
Враг обиду мне нанес -
Я молчал, но гнев мой рос.

читать дальше

@темы: м, б, pittura, illustrations, english-british, blake, William, b, art, 18

06:32 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Jorge Luis Borges
Rain

Evening, a sudden clearing of the mist,
For now a fine, soft rain is freshening.
It falls and it did fall. Rain is a thing
That no doubt always happens in the past.

Hearing it fall, the senses will be led
Back to a blessèd time that first disclosed
To the child a flower that was called the rose
And an extraordinary color, red.

These drops that blind our panes to the world outside
Will brighten the black grapes on a certain trellis
Out in the far, lost suburbs of the town

Where a courtyard was. The rain coming down
Brings back the voice, the longed-for voice,
Of my father, who has come home, who has not died.

transl. by D. Barnes and R. Mezey

@темы: latinoamericano, borges, jorge luis, b, 20

Pure Poetry

главная