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Записи с темой: 20 (список заголовков)

Ezra Pound
After Ch’u Yuan

I will get me to the wood
Where the gods walk garlanded in wisteria,
By the silver-blue flood move others with ivory cars.
There come forth many maidens
to gather grapes for the leopards, my friend.
For there are leopards drawing the cars.

I will walk in the glade,
I will come out of the new thicket
and accost the procession of maidens.

@темы: p, english-american, 20


Н. В. Крандиевская- Толстая
Фаусту прикидывался пуделем,
Женщиной к пустыннику входил,
Простирал над сумасшедшим Врубилем
Острый угол демоновых крыл.
Мне ж грозишь иными поворотами,
Душу испытуешь красотой,
Сторожишь в углах перед киотами
В завитке иконы золотой.
Закипаешь всеми злыми ядами
В музыке, в преданиях, в стихах.
Уязвляешь голосами, взглядами,
Лунным шаром бродишь в облаках.
А, когда наскучит сердцу пениться,
Косу расплету ночной порой, —
Ты глядишь из зеркала смиренницей —
Мною, нечестивое, самой.

@темы: т, к (rus), russian, 20


Sylvia Plath
The Disquieting Muses

Mother, mother, what illbred aunt
Or what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you so unwisely keep
Unasked to my christening, that she
Sent these ladies in her stead
With heads like darning-eggs to nod
And nod and nod at foot and head
And at the left side of my crib?

Mother, who made to order stories
Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear,
Mother, whose witches always, always
Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder
Whether you saw them, whether you said
Words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed,
Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head.

In the hurricane, when father’s twelve
Study windows bellied in
Like bubbles about to break, you fed
My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine
And helped the two of us to choir:
“Thor is angry: boom boom boom!
Thor is angry: we don’t care!”
But those ladies broke the panes.

When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But, heavy-footed, stood aside
In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
Godmothers, and you cried and cried:
And the shadow stretched, the lights went out.

Mother, you sent me to piano lessons
And praised my arabesques and trills
Although each teacher found my touch
Oddly wooden in spite of scales
And the hours of practicing, my ear
Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable.
I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere,
From muses unhired by you, dear mother,

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@темы: plath, sylvia, p, english-american, 20


Sylvia Plath
The Ghost’s Leavetaking

Enter the chilly no-man’s land of about
Five o’clock in the morning, the no-color void
Where the waking head rubbishes out the draggled lot
Of sulfurous dreamscapes and obscure lunar conundrums
Which seemed, when dreamed, to mean so profoundly much,

Gets ready to face the ready-made creation
Of chairs and bureaus and sleep-twisted sheets.
This is the kingdom of the fading apparition,
The oracular ghost who dwindles on pin-legs
To a knot of laundry, with a classic bunch of sheets

Upraised, as a hand, emblematic of farewell.
At this joint between two worlds and two entirely
Incompatible modes of time, the raw material
Of our meat-and-potato thoughts assumes the nimbus
Of ambrosial revelation. And so departs.

Chair and bureau are the hieroglyphs
Of some godly utterance wakened heads ignore:
So these posed sheets, before they thin to nothing,
Speak in sign language of a lost otherworld,
A world we lose by merely waking up.

Trailing its telltale tatters only at the outermost
Fringe of mundane vision, this ghost goes
Hand aloft, goodbye, goodbye, not down
Into the rocky gizzard of the earth,
But toward a region where our thick atmosphere

Diminishes, and God knows what is there.
A point of exclamation marks that sky
In ringing orange like a stellar carrot.
Its round period, displaced and green,
Suspends beside it the first point, the starting

Point of Eden, next the new moon’s curve.
Go, ghost of our mother and father, ghost of us,
And ghost of our dreams’ children, in those sheets
Which signify our origin and end,
To the cloud-cuckoo land of color wheels

And pristine alphabets and cows that moo
And moo as they jump over moons as new
As that crisp cusp toward which you voyage now.
Hail and farewell. Hello, goodbye. O keeper
Of the profane grail, the dreaming skull.

(from "The Colossus and Other Poems", 1960)

@темы: 20, english-american, p, plath, sylvia


Генри Парланд
Далеко в Tölö
Афиша автомобильных шин,
лучших в этом году.
Каждое утро,
когда я дожидаюсь трамвая,
я стою благоговейно, тихо
перед ее
гордым, приказывающим:

пер. Ольга Николаевна Мяэотс

@темы: 20, suomalainen, svenska, п


Sylvia Plath

It is no night to drown in:
A full moon, river lapsing
Black beneath bland mirror-sheen,

The blue water-mists dropping
Scrim after scrim like fishnets
Though fishermen are sleeping,

The massive castle turrets
Doubling themselves in a glass
All stillness. Yet these shapes float

Up toward me, troubling the face
Of quiet. From the nadir
They rise, their limbs ponderous

With richness, hair heavier
Than sculpted marble. They sing
Of a world more full and clear

Than can be. Sisters, your song
Bears a burden too weighty
For the whorled ear’s listening

Here, in a well-steered country,
Under a balanced ruler.
Deranging by harmony

Beyond the mundane order,
Your voices lay siege. You lodge
On the pitched reefs of nightmare,

Promising sure harborage;
By day, descant from borders
Of hebetude, from the ledge

Also of high windows. Worse
Even than your maddening
Song, your silence. At the source

Of your ice-hearted calling—
Drunkenness of the great depths.
O river, I see drifting

Deep in your flux of silver
Those great goddesses of peace.
Stone, stone, ferry me down there.

(from "The Colossus and Other Poems", 1960)

@темы: 20, p, plath, sylvia


Генри Парланд
Крутит тьма,
полосы света, тени
в наши окна:
хотите с нами?
Разве вы не видите:
дома присели
для прыжка,
дороги готовы вскочить,
бросить об землю постовые фонари.
Телефонные провода
мечутся туда и сюда,
ловя звезды!
Хотите с нами?

пер. Ольга Николаевна Мяэотс

@темы: svenska, 20, п


Sylvia Plath

The figs on the fig tree in the yard are green;
Green, also, the grapes on the green vine
Shading the brickred porch tiles.
The money’s run out.

How nature, sensing this, compounds her bitters.
Ungifted, ungrieved, our leavetaking.
The sun shines on unripe corn.
Cats play in the stalks.

Retrospect shall not soften such penury—
Sun’s brass, the moon’s steely patinas,
The leaden slag of the world—
But always expose

The scraggy rock spit shielding the town’s blue bay
Against which the brunt of outer sea
Beats, is brutal endlessly.
Gull-fouled, a stone hut

Bares its low lintel to corroding weathers:
Across that jut of ochreous rock
Goats shamble, morose, rank-haired,
To lick the sea-salt.

(from "The Colossus and Other Poems", 1960)

@темы: 20, english-american, p, plath, sylvia


Генри Парланд
Словно пара
белых женских рук,
обняла мою душу
и медленно
вырвала меня
из мира.
Было больно,
но совсем
Потом все стало как прежде
или, пожалуй, немного легче.

пер. Ольга Николаевна Мяэотс

@темы: 20, suomalainen, svenska, п


Sylvia Plath

Haunched like a faun, he hooed
From grove of moon-glint and fen-frost
Until all owls in the twigged forest
Flapped black to look and brood
On the call this man made.

No sound but a drunken coot
Lurching home along river bank.
Stars hung water-sunk, so a rank
Of double star-eyes lit
Boughs where those owls sat.

An arena of yellow eyes
Watched the changing shape he cut,
Saw hoof harden from foot, saw sprout
Goat-horns. Marked how god rose
And galloped woodward in that guise.

(from "The Colossus and Other Poems", 1960)

@темы: 20, english-american, p, plath, sylvia


Генри Парланд
Мне показалось,
что она замерзла,
и захотелось
укутать ее открытую шею
теплыми мягкими словами.
Но порыв ветра
сорвал их.
И вот она
по-прежнему идет рядом,
а ее обнаженная шея сияет,
как снежинка в сумерках.

пер. Ольга Николаевна Мяэотс

@темы: 20, suomalainen, svenska, п


Sylvia Plath
Hardcastle Crags

Flintlike, her feet struck
Such a racket of echoes from the steely street,
Tacking in moon-blued crooks from the black
Stone-built town, that she heard the quick air ignite
Its tinder and shake

A firework of echoes from wall
To wall of the dark, dwarfed cottages.
But the echoes died at her back as the walls
Gave way to fields and the incessant seethe of grasses
Riding in the full

Of the moon, manes to the wind,
Tireless, tied, as a moon-bound sea
Moves on its root. Though a mist-wraith wound
Up from the fissured valley and hung shoulder-high
Ahead, it fattened

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@темы: 20, english-american, p, plath, sylvia


Генри Парланд
Мы все носим очки,
если у нас хорошее зрение.
Мы надеваем их,
чтобы не видеть правду,
а видеть то, что
или безобразнее.
Обычно — безобразнее.

пер. Ольга Николаевна Мяэотс

@темы: 20, suomalainen, svenska, п


Sylvia Plath
Two Views of a Cadaver Room

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In Brueghel’s panorama of smoke and slaughter
Two people only are blind to the carrion army:
He, afloat in the sea of her blue satin
Skirts, sings in the direction
Of her bare shoulder, while she bends,
Fingering a leaflet of music, over him,
Both of them deaf to the fiddle in the hands
Of the death’s-head shadowing their song.
These Flemish lovers flourish; not for long.

Yet desolation, stalled in paint, spares the little country
Foolish, delicate, in the lower right-hand corner.

(from "The Colossus and Other Poems", 1960)

@темы: 20, english-american, p, plath, sylvia


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


Joyce Sutphen

The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion, and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.

The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers shifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.

The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.

@темы: s, english-american, 20


W.S. Merwin
Rain Light

All day the stars watch from long ago
my mother said I am going now
when you are alone you will be all right
whether or not you know you will know
look at the old house in the dawn rain
all the flowers are forms of water
the sun reminds them through a white cloud
touches the patchwork spread on the hill
the washed colors of the afterlife
that lived there long before you were born
see how they wake without a question
even though the whole world is burning.

@темы: 20, english-american, m


Константин Бальмонт

Есть в русской природе усталая нежность,
Безмолвная боль затаенной печали,
Безвыходность горя, безгласность, безбрежность,
Холодная высь, уходящие дали.
Приди на рассвете на склон косогора,-
Над зябкой рекою дымится прохлада,
Чернеет громада застывшего бора,
И сердцу так больно, и сердце не радо.
Недвижный камыш. Не трепещет осока.
Глубокая тишь. Безглагольность покоя.
Луга убегают далёко-далёко.
Во всем утомленье - глухое, немое.
Войди на закате, как в свежие волны,
В прохладную глушь деревенского сада,-
Деревья так сумрачно-странно-безмолвны,
И сердцу так грустно, и сердце не радо.
Как будто душа о желанном просила,
И сделали ей незаслуженно больно.
И сердце простило, но сердце застыло,
И плачет, и плачет, и плачет невольно.

@темы: 20, russian, б


Gerard Manley Hopkins
The Candle Indoors

Some candle clear burns somewhere I come by.
I muse at how its being puts blissful back
With yellowy moisture mild night’s blear-all black,
Or to-fro tender trambeams truckle at the eye.
By that window what task what fingers ply,
I plod wondering, a-wanting, just for lack
Of answer the eagerer a-wanting Jessy or Jack
There God to aggrándise, God to glorify.—

Come you indoors, come home; your fading fire
Mend first and vital candle in close heart’s vault:
You there are master, do your own desire;
What hinders? Are you beam-blind, yet to a fault
In a neighbor deft-handed? Are you that liar
And, cast by conscience out, spendsavour salt?

@темы: 20, english-british, h


Xavier Villaurrutia González
Nocturno Rosa

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Хавьер Вильяуррутия
Ночная роза

И я говорю о розе.
Но моя роза — не роза мороза,
и не роза с кожей младенца,
и не та, чьё вращенье
столь медлительное, что это движенье —
тайная форма покоя.

Это не роза жаждущая,
не кровоточащая рана,
и не роза, коронованная шипами,
и не роза воскрешенья.

Это не роза с лепестками нагими,
не восковая роза,
не шелковистое пламя
и не огненная вспышка.

Это не роза флюгера, ветрами обрываемая,
и не язва вскрываемая,
и не пунктуальная роза циферблата,
и не компас — морская роза.

Это не роза, как таковая,
а несотворённая роза,
потонувшая роза,
полая роза.

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@темы: g, latinoamericano, г (rus), 20

Pure Poetry