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Записи с темой: e'ireann (список заголовков)
07:08 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
W. B. Yeats
The Falling of the Leaves

Autumn is over the long leaves that love us,
And over the mice in the barley sheaves;
Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us,
And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves.

The hour of the waning of love has beset us,
And weary and worn are our sad souls now;
Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us,
With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.

@темы: yeats, w. b., y, english-british, e'ireann, 19

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

00:39 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lola Ridge
Débris

I love those spirits
That men stand off and point at,
Or shudder and hood up their souls—
Those ruined ones,
Where Liberty has lodged an hour
And passed like flame,
Bursting asunder the too small house.

@темы: r, 20, english-american, e'ireann

08:09 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
W. B. Yeats
The Stolen Child

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

читать дальше

@темы: yeats, w. b., y, english-british, e'ireann, celtic themes, 20

10:35 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Spike Milligan
Me

Born screaming small into this world-
Living I am.
Occupational therapy twixt birth and death-
What was I before?
What will I be next?
What am I now?
Cruel answer carried in the jesting mind
of a careless God
I will not bend and grovel
When I die. If He says my sins are myriad
I will ask why He made me so imperfect
And he will say 'My chisels were blunt'
I will say 'Then why did you make so
many of me'.

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

11:37 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
James Joyce
She Weeps over Rahoon*

Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling
Where my dark lover lies.
Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling
At grey moonrise.

Love, hear thou
How desolate the heart is, ever calling,
Ever unanswered—and the dark rain falling
Then as now.

Dark too our hearts, O love, shall lie, and cold
As his sad heart has lain
Under the moon-grey nettles, the black mould
And muttering rain.

1912

* "[C]omposed in Trieste shortly after his 1912 visit to the grave of Michael Bodkin at Rahoon, Ireland. Bodkin was the Galway sweetheart of Nora Barnacle and the man whom Joyce used as the model for Michael Furey, whose memory Gretta Conroy evokes in the closing pages of "The Dead." (Fargnoli and Gillespie)
(c)

@темы: links, j, english-british, e'ireann, 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

06:54 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967)
Epic

I have lived in important places, times
When great events were decided, who owned
That half a rood of rock, a no-man's land
Surrounded by our pitchfork-armed claims.
I heard the Duffeys shouting "Damn your soul"
And old McCabe stripped to the waist, seen
Step the plot defying blue cast-steel --
"Here is the march along these iron stones".
That was the year of the Munich bother. Which
Was more important? I inclined
To lose my faith in Ballyrush and Gortin
Till Homer's ghost came whispering to my mind.
He said: I made the Iliad from such
A local row. Gods make their own importance.

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

09:11 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
James Joyce
Strings in the earth and air
Make music sweet;
Strings by the river where
The willows meet.

There's music along the river
For Love wanders there,
Pale flowers on his mantle,
Dark leaves on his hair.

All softly playing,
With head to the music bent,
And fingers straying
Upon an instrument.

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

11:37 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Seamus Heaney
Stern

In memory of Ted Hughes

"And what was it like," I asked him,
"Meeting Elliot?"
"When he looked at you",
He said, "it was like standing on a quay
Watching the prow of the Queen Mary
Come towards you, very slowly."

Now it seems
I'm standing on a pierhead watching him
All the while watching me as he rows out
And a wooden end-stopped stern
Labours and shimmers and dips,
Making no real headway.



Seamus Heaney - Stern by poetictouch

@темы: english-british, e'ireann, 20, youtube, heaney, seamus, h, 21

19:28 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Ciaran Carson

(с)

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

09:48 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
William Butler Yeats
The Cloak, The Boat And The Shoes

'What do you make so fair and bright?'

'I make the cloak of Sorrow:
O lovely to see in all men's sight
Shall be the cloak of Sorrow,
In all men's sight.'

'What do you build with sails for flight?'

'I build a boat for Sorrow:
O swift on the seas all day and night
Saileth the rover Sorrow,
All day and night.'

What do you weave with wool so white?'

'I weave the shoes of Sorrow:
Soundless shall be the footfall light
In all men's ears of Sorrow,
Sudden and light.'

Уильям Батлер Йейтс
Плащ, корабль и башмачки

"Кому такой красивый плащ?"

"Я сшил его Печали.
Чтоб был он виден издали
И восхищаться все могли
Одеждами Печали".

"А парус ладишь для чего?"

"Для корабля Печали.
Чтоб, крыльев чаячьих белей,
Скитался он среди морей
Под парусом Печали".

"А войлочные башмачки?"

"Они для ног Печали.
Чтоб были тихи и легки
Неуловимые шаги
Подкравшейся Печали".

Пер. Гp. Кружков

@темы: 20, e'ireann, english-british, kruzhkov, grigory, y, yeats, w. b., и/й, к (rus)

09:36 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
W. B. Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.”

@темы: 20, e'ireann, english-british, y, yeats, w. b.

09:21 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Seamus Heaney,
The First Words

The first words got polluted
Like river water in the morning
Flowing with the dirt
Of blurbs and the front pages.
My only drink is meaning from the deep brain.
What the birds and the grass and the stones drink.
Let everything flow
Up to the four elements,
Up to water and earth and fire and air.
(from the Romanian of Marin Sorescu.
From The Spirit Level)

@темы: h, english-british, 20, e'ireann, s, heaney, seamus

07:46 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
W.B. Yeats
An Irish Airman Forsees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

@темы: yeats, w. b., y, english-british, e'ireann, 20

12:41 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
William Butler Yeats
Tom O'Roughley

'Though logic-choppers rule the town,
And every man and maid and boy
Has marked a distant object down,
An aimless joy is a pure joy,'
Or so did Tom O'Roughley say
That saw the surges running by.
'And wisdom is a butterfly
And not a gloomy bird of prey.
'If little planned is little sinned
But little need the grave distress.
What's dying but a second wind?
How but in zig-zag wantonness
Could trumpeter Michael be so brave?'
Or something of that sort he said,
'And if my dearest friend were dead
I'd dance a measure on his grave.'

@темы: yeats, w. b., english-british, e'ireann, 20, y

10:15 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
W. B. Yeats
The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

@темы: yeats, w. b., y, english-british, e'ireann, 20

09:11 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Seamus Heaney
Blackberry Picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.

@темы: e'ireann, 20, heaney, seamus, h, english-british

09:45 

Lika_k
Искусствоед

Pure Poetry

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