Записи с темой: english-british (список заголовков)

D. H. Lawrence
Amores: Poems (1916)
35. Listening

I listen to the stillness of you,
My dear, among it all;
I feel your silence touch my words as I talk,
And take them in thrall.

My words fly off a forge
The length of a spark;
I see the night-sky easily sip them
Up in the dark.

The lark sings loud and glad,
Yet I am not loth
That silence should take the song and the bird
And lose them both.

A train goes roaring south,
The steam-flag flying;
I see the stealthy shadow of silence
Alongside going.

And off the forge of the world,
Whirling in the draught of life,
Go sparks of myriad people, filling
The night with strife.

Yet they never change the darkness
Or blench it with noise;
Alone on the perfect silence
The stars are buoys.

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


D. H. Lawrence
Amores: Poems (1916)
32. Dolor of Autumn

The acrid scents of autumn,
Reminiscent of slinking beasts, make me fear
Everything, tear-trembling stars of autumn
And the snore of the night in my ear.

For suddenly, flush-fallen,
All my life, in a rush
Of shedding away, has left me
Naked, exposed on the bush.

I, on the bush of the globe,
Like a newly-naked berry, shrink
Disclosed: but I also am prowling
As well in the scents that slink

Abroad: I in this naked berry
Of flesh that stands dismayed on the bush;
And I in the stealthy, brindled odours
Prowling about the lush

And acrid night of autumn;
My soul, along with the rout,
Rank and treacherous, prowling,
Disseminated out.

For the night, with a great breath intaken,
Has taken my spirit outside
Me, till I reel with disseminated consciousness,
Like a man who has died.

At the same time I stand exposed
Here on the bush of the globe,
A newly-naked berry of flesh
For the stars to probe.

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


D. H. Lawrence
Amores: Poems (1916)
30. Drunk

Too far away, oh love, I know,
To save me from this haunted road,
Whose lofty roses break and blow
On a night-sky bent with a load

Of lights: each solitary rose,
Each arc-lamp golden does expose
Ghost beyond ghost of a blossom, shows
Night blenched with a thousand snows.

Of hawthorn and of lilac trees,
White lilac; shows discoloured night
Dripping with all the golden lees
Laburnum gives back to light.

And shows the red of hawthorn set
On high to the purple heaven of night,
Like flags in blenched blood newly wet,
Blood shed in the noiseless fight.

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


William Butler Yeats
The Spirit Medium

Poetry, music, I have loved, and yet
Because of those new dead
That come into my soul and escape
Confusion of the bed,
Or those begotten or unbegotten
Perning in a band,

I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with a dirty hand.

Or those begotten or unbegotten,
For I would not recall
Some that being unbegotten
Are not individual,
But copy some one action,
Moulding it of dust or sand,

I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with a dirty hand.

An old ghost's thoughts are lightning,
To follow is to die;
Poetry and music I have banished,
But the stupidity
Of root, shoot, blossom or clay
Makes no demand.

I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with a dirty hand.

@темы: 19, english-british, y, yeats, w. b., e'ireann, 20


Francis Brett Young (1884-1954)
Hic Jacet Arthurus Rex Quondam Rexque Futurus
Arthur is gone…Tristram in Careol
Sleeps, with a broken sword - and Yseult sleeps
Beside him, where the Westering waters roll
Over drowned Lyonesse to the outer deeps.

Lancelot is fallen . . . The ardent helms that shone
So knightly and the splintered lances rust
In the anonymous mould of Avalon:
Gawain and Gareth and Galahad - all are dust.

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Френсис Бретт Янг (1884-1954)
Hic Jacet Arthurus Rex Quondam Rexque Futurus
Здесь сам Артур лежит и часа ждёт:
Он правил в прошлом и ещё придёт

Артура больше нет... И спит Тристан,
Обняв разбитый меч – Изольда спит
С ним рядом, где стремится в океан
Поток, которым Лионесс укрыт.

Мёртв Ланселот... Осела пыль времён,
И шлемов ярких медь – труха в гробах.
Героев упокоил Авалон:
Гавейн, Гарет и Галахад – все прах.

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@темы: celtic themes, middle centuries, english-british, я, 20


D. H. Lawrence
Amores: Poems (1916)
18. Last Words to Miriam

Yours is the shame and sorrow
But the disgrace is mine;
Your love was dark and thorough,
Mine was the love of the sun for a flower
He creates with his shine.

I was diligent to explore you,
Blossom you stalk by stalk,
Till my fire of creation bore you
Shrivelling down in the final dour
Anguish—then I suffered a balk.

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Fans of DH Lawrence will realise that the Miriam referred to here is Miriam Lever from his Sons & Lovers novel. Her real name is Jessie Chambers. She was his first love and source of sexual passion, she gave herself in sacrifice to his love despite her strong Christian feeling that it was sinful. In the end, her brooding, suffering faith clashed with lawrence's freer and experimental desire for intimacy with the feminine. Still he felt guily and utterly regretful that she had given her prized virginity to the lost cause of their love. (с)

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


Alfred Lord Tennyson
Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

@темы: 19, english-british, romanticism, t


Шеймас Хини
В последние минуты он сказал
Ей больше, чем за все их годы рядом.
«Ты скоро будешь дома. Нам нельзя
Надолго разлучаться – и не надо.
Мы будем вместе… Правда, хорошо?»
И к голове, подпертою подушкой,
Не слышащей уже, склонялся он
И звал ее «голубушкой», «девчушкой»…

Врач посмотрел и пульса не нашел.
А мы, молчавшие вокруг, стояли
Как будто бы на вырубке лесной,
В открывшемся между дерев прогале –
И, понимая все, не постигали,
Как жить отныне с этой пустотой.
(Из цикла "На вырубке")

пер. Гр. Кружков

@темы: х (rus), к (rus), kruzhkov, grigory, heaney, seamus, english-british, e'ireann, 20


D. H. Lawrence
Amores: Poems (1916)
15. Discipline

IT is stormy, and raindrops cling like silver bees to the pane,
The thin sycamores in the playground are swinging with flattened leaves;
The heads of the boys move dimly through a yellow gloom that stains
The class; over them all the dark net of my discipline weaves.

It is no good, dear, gentleness and forbearance, I endured too long:
I have pushed my hands in the dark soil, under the flower of my soul
And the gentle leaves, and have felt where the roots are strong
Fixed in the darkness, grappling for the deep soil’s little control.

And there is the dark, my darling, where the roots are entangled and fight
Each one for its hold on the oblivious darkness, I know that there
In the night where we first have being, before we rise on the light,
We are not brothers, my darling, we fight and we do not spare.

And in the original dark the roots cannot keep, cannot know
Any communion whatever, but they bind themselves on to the dark,
And drawing the darkness together, crush from it a twilight, a slow
Burning that breaks at last into leaves and a flower’s bright spark.

I came to the boys with love, my dear, but they turned on me;
I came with gentleness, with my heart ’twixt my hands like a bowl,
Like a loving-cup, like a grail, but they spilt it triumphantly
And tried to break the vessel, and to violate my soul.

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


Шеймас Хини
У старого сплетника Джона Обри
В «Жизнеописаниях» говорится,
Шекспир был смолоду сын мясницкий,
И когда его звали забить теленка,
Он рубил лишь воздух руками, звонко
Декламируя монолог перед казнью…
И Господь проникся к нему приязнью:
«Наконец-то слышу дивные речи!
Подарю-ка поэту на память – вечность».
("Строки для Валентины")

пер. Гр. Кружков

@темы: 20, e'ireann, english-british, heaney, seamus, kruzhkov, grigory, shakespeare, к (rus), х (rus)


Thomas Hood

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep deep sea,
Or in the wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

Два вида тишины: естественная и изначальная тишина, обуславлемая внешними физическими факторами, и тишина, пришедшая на место былых звуков - ее-то Гуд считает истинной Тишиной. Она напрямую связана со временем, жизнью и смерью, преходящестью всего. И поскольку к первому виду принадлежит тишина могилы, относящаяся в то же время и ко второму виду тишины, то связь становится более интересной и говорящей.

Johann Heinrich Füssli - Silence
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Еще мысли о стихотворении.

@темы: ...logy, 18, 19, art, english-british, h, links, pittura, swiss


John Donne
A Fever

O ! Dо not die, for I shall hate
All women so, when thou art gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,
When I remember thou wast one.
But yet thou canst not die, I know ;
To leave this world behind, is death ;
But when thou from this world wilt go,
The whole world vapours with thy breath.

Or if, when thou, the world's soul, go'st,
It stay, 'tis but thy carcase then ;
The fairest woman, but thy ghost,
But corrupt worms, the worthiest men.

O wrangling schools, that search what fire
Shall burn this world, had none the wit
Unto this knowledge to aspire,
That this her feaver might be it?

And yet she cannot waste by this,
Nor long bear this torturing wrong,
For more corruption needful is,
To fuel such a fever long.

These burning fits but meteors be,
Whose matter in thee is soon spent ;
Thy beauty, and all parts, which are thee,
Are unchangeable firmament.

Yet 'twas of my mind, seizing thee,
Though it in thee cannot perséver ;
For I had rather owner be
Of thee one hour, than all else ever.

@темы: metaphysical poets, english-british, d, 17


John Donne
The Funeral

Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm
Nor question much
That subtle wreath of hair, which crowns my arm;
The mystery, the sign, you must not touch,
For 'tis my outward soul,
Viceroy to that, which then to heaven being gone,
Will leave this to control
And keep these limbs, her provinces, from dissolution.

For if the sinewy thread my brain lets fall
Through every part
Can tie those parts, and make me one of all,
Those hairs which upward grew, and strength and art
Have from a better brain,
Can better do'it; except she meant that I
By this should know my pain,
As prisoners then are manacled, when they'are condemn'd to die.

Whate'er she meant by'it, bury it with me,
For since I am
Love's martyr, it might breed idolatry,
If into other hands these relics came;
As 'twas humility
To afford to it all that a soul can do,
So, 'tis some bravery,
That since you would have none of me, I bury some of you.

@темы: metaphysical poets, english-british, d, 17


Seamus Heaney
The Haw Lantern

The wintry haw is burning out of season,
crab of the thorn, a small light for small people,
wanting no more from them but that they keep
the wick of self-respect from dying out,
not having to blind them with illumination.

But sometimes when your breath plumes in the frost
it takes the roaming shape of Diogenes
with his lantern, seeking one just man;
so you end up scrutinized from behind the haw
he holds up at eye-level on its twig,
and you flinch before its bonded pith and stone,
its blood-prick that you wish would test and clear you,
its pecked-at ripeness that scans you, then moves on.

Шеймас Хини
Боярышниковый фонарь

Боярышника запоздалый свет
Горит зимою в зарослях колючих:
Не ослепляя яркостью гирлянд,
Но призывая каждого – хранить
Свой скромный фитилек самостоянья.

А иногда в мороз, когда из уст
Клубится пар, он принимает образ
Бродяги Диогена, днем с огнем
Искавшего повсюду человека,
И пристально разглядывает вас,
Подняв на зыбком прутике фонарик,
И вы дрожите перед этим взглядом.
Пред той колючкой, что у вас из пальца
Возьмет анализ крови, пред экраном,
Что вас насквозь просветит – и пропустит.

пер. Гр. Кружков

@темы: х (rus), к (rus), kruzhkov, grigory, heaney, seamus, english-british, e'ireann, 20


Seamus Heaney
St Kevin and the Blackbird

And then there was St Kevin and the blackbird.
The saint is kneeling, arms stretched out, inside
His cell, but the cell is narrow, so

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Шеймас Хини
Святой Кевин и дрозды

Есть притча про святого и дроздов.
Святой молился, стоя на коленях,
Крестом расставив руки и застыв

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@темы: х (rus), к (rus), kruzhkov, grigory, heaney, seamus, h, english-british, e'ireann, 20



William Butler Yeats
The Nineteenth Century And After

Though the great song return no more
There's keen delight in what we have:
The rattle of pebbles on the shore
Under the receding wave.

@темы: yeats, w. b., y, english-other, english-british, e'ireann, compleanno, 20, 19


Oscar Wilde
To Milton

Milton! I think thy spirit hath passed away
From these white cliffs, and high-embattled towers;
This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours
Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey,
And the age changed unto a mimic play
Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours:
For all our pomp and pageantry and powers
We are but fit to delve the common clay,
Seeing this little isle on which we stand,
This England, this sea-lion of the sea,
By ignorant demagogues is held in fee,
Who love her not: Dear God! is this the land
Which bare a triple empire in her hand
When Cromwell spake the word Democracy!

Оскар Уайльд

Я думаю, Мильтон, твой дух устал
Бродить у белых скал, высоких башен:
Наш пышный мир, так огненно раскрашен,
Стал пепельным, он скучен стал и мал.

А век комедией притворной стал,
Нам без неё наш день казался б страшен,
И, несмотря на блеск, на роскошь брашен,
Мы годны лишь, чтоб рыть песчаный вал.

Коль этот островок, любимый Богом,
Коль Англия, лев моря, демагогам
Тупым во власть досталась навсегда.

Ах, эта ли страна на самом деле
Держала три империи, когда
О Демократии пронёсся клич Кромвеля.

пер. Н. Гумилев

@темы: 19, english-british, gumilev, nokolai, w, г (rus), у (rus)


20.04.2013 в 01:57
Пишет Нэт Старбек:

Mary O’Malley - The Shape of Saying
They call it Received English
as if it was a gift you got
by dint of primogeniture.
Maybe it was. Old gold words
toned like concert violins,
tuned to talk to God.
After the French and Latin wars
I relished the poppies of Donne
though I thought this graceful foreign tongue
was only meant for men -
all right for the likes of Coleridge
but it gave me unpleasant dreams.

They say we cannot speak it
and they are right.

It was hard and slippery as pebbles,
full of cornered consonants
and pinched vowels, all said
from the front of the mouth -
no softness, no sorrow,
no sweet lullabies -
until we shook it by the neck and shook it.
We sheared it, carded it, fleeced it
and finally wove it
into something of our own,
fit for curses and blessings
for sweet talk and spite,
and the sound of hearts rending,
the sound of hearts tearing.

URL записи

@темы: e'ireann, 20, english-british, o, repost


William Shakespeare

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearnèd in the world’s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
Oh, love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told.

Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

@темы: 16, compleanno, english-british, renaissance english, s, shakespeare, sonnet


D. H. Lawrence
Amores: Poems (1916)
11. Dreams Old and Nascent

MY world is a painted fresco, where coloured shapes
Of old, ineffectual lives linger blurred and warm;
An endless tapestry the past has women drapes
The halls of my life, compelling my soul to conform.

The surface of dreams is broken,
The picture of the past is shaken and scattered.
Fluent, active figures of men pass along the railway, and I am woken
From the dreams that the distance flattered.

Along the railway, active figures of men.
They have a secret that stirs in their limbs as they move
Out of the distance, nearer, commanding my dreamy world.

Here in the subtle, rounded flesh
Beats the active ecstasy.
In the sudden lifting my eyes, it is clearer,
The fascination of the quick, restless Creator moving through the mesh
Of men, vibrating in ecstasy through the rounded flesh.

Oh my boys, bending over your books,
In you is trembling and fusing
The creation of a new-patterned dream, dream of a generation:
And I watch to see the Creator, the power that patterns the dream.

The old dreams are beautiful, beloved, soft-toned, and sure,
But the dream-stuff is molten and moving mysteriously,
Alluring my eyes; for I, am I not also dream-stuff,
Am I not quickening, diffusing myself in the pattern, shaping and shapen?

Here in my class is the answer for the great yearning:
Eyes where I can watch the swim of old dreams reflected on the molten metal of dreams,
Watch the stir which is rhythmic and moves them all as a heart-beat moves the blood,
Here in the swelling flesh the great activity working,
Visible there in the change of eyes and the mobile features.

Oh the great mystery and fascination of the unseen Shaper,
The power of the melting, fusing Force—heat, light, all in one,
Everything great and mysterious in one, swelling and shaping the dream in the flesh,
As it swells and shapes a bud into blossom.

Oh the terrible ecstasy of the consciousness that I am life!
Oh the miracle of the whole, the widespread, labouring concentration
Swelling mankind like one bud to bring forth the fruit of a dream,
Oh the terror of lifting the innermost I out of the sweep of the impulse of life,
And watching the great Thing labouring through the whole round flesh of the world;
And striving to catch a glimpse of the shape of the coming dream,
As it quickens within the labouring, white-hot metal,
Catch the scent and the colour of the coming dream,
Then to fall back exhausted into the unconscious, molten life!

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

Pure Poetry