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Записи с темой: english-british (список заголовков)
08:00 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Lesbos

The Pleiades are sinking calm as paint,
And earth's huge camber follows out,
Turning in sleep, the oceanic curve

Defined in concave like a human eye
Or cheek pressed warm in the dark's cheek,
Like dancers to a music they deserve.

This balcony, a moon-annointed shelf
Above a silent garden holds my bed,
I slept. But the dispiriting autumn moon,

In her slow expurgation of the sky
Needs company: is brooding on the dead,
And so am I now, so am I.

@темы: 20, d, durrell, lawrence, english-british

09:12 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Byron

The trees have been rapping
At these empty casements for a year,
Have been rapping and tapping and
Repeating to us here
Omens of the defeating wind,
Omens of the defeating mind.

Headquarters of a war
House in a fever-swamp
Headquarters of a mind at odds.

Before me now lies Byron and behind,
Belonging to the Gods,
Another Byron of the feeling
Shown in this barbered hairless man,
Splashed by the candle-stems
In his expensive cloak and wig
And boots upon the dirty ceiling.

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@темы: 20, d, durrell, lawrence, english-british

06:58 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
"Je est un autre"

-Rimbaud
He is the man who makes notes,
The observer in the tall black hat
Face hidden in the brim:
He has watched me watching him.

The street-corner in Buda and after
By the post-office a glimpse
Of the disappearing tails of his coat,
Gave the same illumination, spied upon,
The tightness in the throat.

Once too meeting by the Seine
The waters a moving floor of stars,
He had vanished when I reached the door,
But there on the pavement burning
Lay one of his familiar black cigars.

The meeting on the stairway
Where the tide ran clean as a loom:
The betrayal of her, her kisses
He has witnessed them all: often
I hear him laughing in the other room.

He watched me now, working late,
Bringing a poem to life, his eyes
Reflect the malady of De Nerval:
O useless in this old house to question
The mirrors, his impenetrable disguise.

@темы: english-british, durrell, lawrence, d, 20

00:21 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
To Ping-Kû*, Asleep

You sleeping child asleep, away
Between the confusing world of forms,
The lamplight and the day; you lie
And the pause flows through you like glass,
Asleep in the body of the nautilus.

Between comparison and sleep,
Lips that move in quotation;
The turning of a small blind mind
Like a plant everywhere ascending.
Now out love has become a beanstalk.

Invent a language where the terms
Are smiles, someone in the house now
Only understands warmth and cherish,
Still twig-bound, learning to fly.

This hand exploring the world makes
The diver's deep-sea fingers on the sills
Of underwater windows; all the wrecks
Of our world where the sad blood leads back
Through memory and sense like divers working.

Sleep, my dear, we won't disturb
You, lying in the zones of sleep.
The four walls symbolise love put abut
To hold in silence which so soon brims
Over into sadness: it's still dark.

Sleep and rise a lady with a flower
Between your teeth and a cypress
Between your thighs:surely you won't ever
Be puzzled by a poem or disturbed by a poem
Made like fire by the rubbing of two sticks?

*Ping-Kû - daughter of Lawrence and Nancy - Penelope, lovingly called Ping-Kû

@темы: 20, d, durrell, lawrence, english-british

06:48 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Elegy on the Closing of the French Brothels

(For Henry Miller and George Katsimbalis)
I
Last of the great autumnal capitals
Disengaging daily like a sword
The civil codes, behaviour, friendship, love,
In houses of shining glass,
On tablecloths stained with pools of light,
By the rambling river's evening scents
Carried our freight of pain so lightly:
And towards evening when the inkwells overturn
And at last the figure which has sat
Motionless for hours, pours himself out
One glass of moonlight, drinks it, and retires.

By the railway arches a stone plinth.
Under the shadows of the lamps the figures.
So many ways of dividing up the self:
Correspondences moving outwards along a line
Of nerves, the memory of letters
Smelling like apples in an empty cupboard,
And at midnight the pall of clocks,
At odds among themselves, the shuffling
Of innumerable packs of cards where each shall see
One day his face instead of fortune's be.

II
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@темы: d, 20, english-british, durrell, lawrence

06:32 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Pressmarked Urgent

'Mens sana in corpore sano' — Motto for Press Corps
DESPATCH ADGENERAL PUBLICS EXTHE WEST
PERPETUAL MOTION QUITE UNFINDING REST
ADVANCES ETRETREATS UPON ILLUSION
PREPARES NEW METAPHYSICS PERCONFUSION

PARA PERDISPOSITION ADNEW EVIL
ETREFUSAL ADCONCEDE OUR ACTS ADDEVIL
NEITHER PROFIT SHOWS NOR LOSS
SEDSOME MORE PROPHETS NAILED ADCROSS

ATTACK IN FORCE SURMEANS NONENDS
BY MULTIPLYING CONFUSION TENDS
ADCLOUD THE ISSUES WHICH ARE PLAIN
COLON DISTINGUISH PROFIT EXGAIN

ETBY SMALL CONCEPTS LONG NEGLECTED
FIND VIRTUE SUBACTION CLEAR REFLECTED
ETWEIGHING THE QUANTUM OF THE SIN
BEGIN TO BE REPEAT BEGIN.

@темы: english-british, durrell, lawrence, d, 20

09:04 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
The Daily Mirror

Writing this stuff should not have been like
Suicide over some ordinary misapprehension:

A man going into his own house, say,
Turning out all the lights before undressing,

At the bedside of some lovely ignoramus
Whispering: 'Tomorrow I swear is the last time.'

Or: 'Believe, and I swear you will never die.'
This nib dragged out like the late train

Racing on iron bars for the north.

Target: another world, not necessarily better,

Of course, but different, completely different.
The hour-glass shifting its trash of seconds.

If it does not end this way perhaps some other.
Gossip lying in a furnished room, blinds drawn.

A poem with its throat cut from ear to ear.

@темы: 20, d, durrell, lawrence, english-british

03:41 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
'A Soliloquy of Hamlet'

(to Anne Ridler)
I
Here on the curve of the embalming winter,
Son of the three-legged stool and the Bible,

By the trimmed lamp I cobble this sonnet
For father, son, and the marble woman.

Sire, we have found no pardonable city
Though women harder than the kneeling nuns,

Softer than clouds upon the stones of pain,
Have breathed their blessings on a candle-end.

Some who converted the English oak-trees:
The harmless druids singing in green places.

Some who broke their claws upon islands:
The singing fathers in the boats of glory.

Some who made an atlas of their hunger:
The enchanted skulls lie under the lion's paw.

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@темы: r, links, english-british, durrell, lawrence, d, 20, s, shakespeare

08:59 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Cities, Plains and People

I
Once in idleness was my beginning,

Night was to the mortal boy
Innocent of surface like a new mind
Upon whose edges once he walked
In idleness, in perfect idleness.

O world of little mirrors in the light.
The sun's rough wick for everybody's day:
Saw the Himalayas like lambs there
Stir their huge joints and lay
Against his innocent thigh a stony thigh.

Combs of wind drew through this grass
To bushes and pure lakes
On this tasteless wind
Went leopards, feathers fell or flew:
Yet all went north with the prayer-wheel,
By the road, the quotation of nightingales.

Quick of sympathy with springs
Where the stone gushed water
Women made their water like thieves.

Caravans paused here to drink Tibet.
On draughty corridors to Lhasa
Was my first school
In faces lifted from saddles to the snows:
Words caught by the soft klaxons crying
Down to the plains and settled cities.

So once in idleness was my beginning.
Little known of better then or worse
But in the lens of this great patience
Sex was small,
Death was small,
Were qualities held in a deathless essence,
Yet subjects of the wheel, burned clear
And immortal to my seventh year.

To all who turn and start descending
The long sad river of their growth:
The tidebound, tepid, causeless
Continuum of terrors in the spirit,
I give you here unending
In idleness an innocent beginning

Until your pain become a literature.

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@темы: 20, d, durrell, lawrence, english-british

08:26 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
A Noctuary in Athens

I
I have tasted my quantum of misfortune,
Have prayed before the left-handed woman;

Now as the rain of heaven downfalling tastes of space,
So the swimmer in the ocean of self, alone,

Utters his journey like a manual welcome,
Sculptures his element in search of grace.

II
I have sipped from the flask of resurrection,
Have eaten the oaten cake of redemption,

And love, sweet love, who weeps by the water-clock
Can bring if she will the sexton and the box,

For I wear my age as wood wears voluble leaves,
The temporal hunger and the carnal locks.

Ill
I have buried my wife under a dolmen,
Where others sleep as naked as the clouds,

Where others lie and weigh their dreams by ounces,
Where tamarisk, lentisk lean to utter sweets,

And angels in their shining moods retire:
Where from the wells the voice of truth pronounces.

IV
I have tasted my quantum of misfortune.
In the desert, the cities of ash and feathers,

In front of others I have spoken the vowel,
Knelt to the curly wool, the uncut horns;

Have carried my tribulation in a basket of wattle,
Solitary in my penitence as the owl.

V
I have set my wife's lip under the bandage,
pound the roses, bind the eye of the soul,

Recite the charm of the deep and heal soon,
For the mountains accuse, and the sky's walls.

Let the book of sickness be put in the embers.
1 have tasted my quantum of misfortune.

@темы: 20, d, durrell, lawrence, english-british

00:02 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Letter to Seferis the Greek

'Ego dormio sed cor meum vigilat'
No milestones marked the invaders,
But ragged harps like mountains here:
A text for Proserpine in tears: worlds
With no doors for heroes and no walls with ears:
Yet snow, the anniversary of death.

How did they get here? How enact
This clear severe repentance on a rock,
Where only death converts and the hills
Into a pastoral silence by a lake,
By the blue Fact of the sky forever?

'Enter the dark crystal if you dare
And gaze on Greece.' They came
Smiling, like long reflections of themselves
Upon a sky of fancy. The red shoes
Waited among the thickets and the springs,
In fields of unexploded asphodels,
Neither patient nor impatient, merely
Waited, the born hunter on his ground,
The magnificent and funny Greek.

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@темы: s, helenike, english-british, durrell, lawrence, d, 20

06:30 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Conon the Critic on the six Landscape Painters of Greece

On Peter of Thebes
'This landscape is not original in its own mode. First smells
were born — of resin and pine. Then someone got drunk on
arbutus berries. Finally as an explanatory text someone added
this red staunch clay and roots. You cannot smell one without
tasting the other — as with fish and red sauce.'

On Manoli of Crete
'After a lifetime of writing acrostics he took up a brush and
everything became twice as attentive. Trees had been trees be-
fore. Distinctions had been in ideas. Now the old man went
mad, for everything undressed and ran laughing into his arms.'

On Julian of Arcadia
'Arcadia is original in a particular sense. There is no feeling
of "Therefore" in it. Origin, reason, meaning it has none in the
sense of recognizable past. In this, both Arcadia and all good
poems are original.'

On Spiridon of Epirus
'You look at this landscape for five years. You see little but
something attentive watching you. Another five and you remark
a shape that is barely a shape; a shadow like the moon's penumbra.
Look a lifetime and you will see that the mountains lie like the
covers of a bed; and you discern the form lying under them.'

On Hero of Corinth
'Style is the cut of the mind. Hero was not much interested
in his landscape, but by a perpetual self-confession in art removed
both himself and his subject out of the reach of the people. Thus
one day there remained only a picture-frame, an empty studio,
and an idea of Hero the painter.'

On Alexander of Athens
'Alexander was in love with Athens. He was a glutton and
exhausted both himself and his subject in his art. Thus when
he had smelt a flower it was quite used up, and when he painted
a mountain it felt that living on could only be a useless competi-
tion against Alexander's painting of it. Thus with him Athens
ceased to exist, and we have been walking about inside his
canvases ever since looking for a way back from art into life.'

@темы: durrell, lawrence, d, english-british, 20

06:42 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Cavafy

I like to see so much the old man's loves
Egregious if you like and often shabby
Protruding from the ass's skin of verse,
For better or for worse,
The bones of poems cultured by a thirst —
Dilapidated taverns, dark eyes washed
Now in the wry and loving brilliance
Of such barbaric memories
As held them when the dyes of passion ran.
No cant about the sottishness of man!

The forest of dark eyes he mused upon,
Out of ikons, waking beside his own
In stuffy brothels on stained mattresses,
Watched by the melting vision of the flesh,
Eros the tutor of our callowness
Deployed like ants across his ageing flesh
The crises of great art, the riders
Of love, their bloody lariats whistling,
The cries locked in the quickened breath,
The love-feast of a sort of love-in-death.

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@темы: english-british, durrell, lawrence, d, cavafy, c, 20, helenike

09:42 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
A Water-Colour of Venice

Zarian was saying: Florence is youth,
And after it Ravenna, age,
Then Venice, second-childhood.
The pools of burning stone where time
And water, the old siege-masters,
Have run their saps beneath
A thousand saddle-bridges,
Puffed up by marble griffins drinking,
And all set free to float on loops
Of her canals like great intestines
Now snapped off like a berg to float,
Where now, like others, you have come alone,
To trap your sunset in a yellow glass,
And watch the silversmith at work
Chasing the famous salver of the bay . . .
Here sense dissolves, combines to print only
These bitten choirs of stone on water,
To the rumble of old cloth bells,
The cadging of confetti pigeons,
A boatman singing from his long black coffin . .

To all that has been said before
You can add nothing, only that here,
Thick as a brushstroke sleep has laid
Its fleecy unconcern on every visage,
At the bottom of every soul a spoonful of sleep.

@темы: 20, d, durrell, lawrence, english-british

08:53 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Visitations

Left like an unknown's breath on mirrors,
The enchanters, the persuaders
Whom the seasons swallow up,
Only leave us ash in saucers,
Or to mice the last invaders
Open cupboard-doors or else
Lipstick-marks upon a cup.

Fingerprint the crook of time,
Ask him what he means by it,
Eyes and thoughts and lovely bodies,
David's singing, Daphne's wit
Like Eve's apple undigested
Rot within us bit by bit.

Experience in a humour ends,
Wrapped in its own dark metaphor,
And divining winter breaks:
Now one by one the Hungers creep
Up from the orchards of the mind
Here to trouble and confuse
Old men's after-dinner sleep.

@темы: english-british, 20, durrell, lawrence, d

08:39 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
In Patmos

Quiet room, four candles, red wine in pottery:
Our conversation burning like a fuse,
In this cone of light like some emulsion:
Aristarchus of Samos was only half a man
Believing he could make it all coherent
Without the muddled limits of a woman's arm,
Darning a ladder, warming the begging-bowl.

Quiet force of candles burning in pools of oak,
Conducted by the annals of the word
Towards poor Aristarchus. If he was only half
A man, Melissa, then I am the other half,
Not in believing with him but by failing to.

@темы: 20, d, durrell, lawrence, english-british

06:47 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
At Rhodes

Anonymous hand, record one afternoon,
In May, some time before the fig-leaf:
Boats lying idle in the sky, a town
Thrown as on a screen of watered silk,
Lying on its side, reddish and soluble,
A sheet of glass leading down into the sea . . .

Down here an idle boy catches a cicada:
Imprisons it, laughing, in his sister's cloak
In whose warm folds the silly creature sings.

Shape of boats, body of a young girl, cicada,
Conspire and join each other here,
In twelve sad lines against the dark.

@темы: 20, d, durrell, lawrence, english-british

09:41 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Matapan

Unrevisited perhaps forever
Southward from the capes of smoke
Where past and present to the waters are one
And the peninsula's end points out
Three fingers down the night:
On a corridor of darkness a beam
To where the islands, at last, the islands . . .

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Leaving you, hills, we were unaware
Or only as sleepwalkers are aware
Of a key turned in the heart, a letter
Posted under the door of an empty house;
Now Matapan and her forebodings
Became an identity, a trial of conduct,
Rolled and unrolled by the surges
Like a chart, mapped by a star,
With thistle and trefoil blowing,
An end of everything known
A beginning of water.

Here sorrow and beauty shared
Like time and place an eternal relation,


Matapan . . .
Here we learned that the lover
Is contained by love, not containing,
Matapan, Matapan:


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@темы: 20, d, durrell, lawrence, english-british

07:17 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Asphodels: Chalcidice

'No one will ever pick them, I think,
The ugly off-white clusters: all the grace
Lies in the name of death named.
Are they a true certificate for death?'
'I wonder'

'You might say that once the sages,
Death being identified, forgave it language:
Called it "asphodel", as who should say
The synonym for scentless, colourless,
Solitary,

Rock-loving . . .' 'Memory is all of these.'
'Yes, they asserted the discipline of memory,
Which admits of no relapse in its
Consignment, does not keep forever.'
'Nor does death.'

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@темы: 20, d, durrell, lawrence, english-british

06:48 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Thasos

Indifferent history! In such a place
Can we choose what really matters most?
Three hundred oars munched up the gulf.
A tyrant fell. The wise men turned their beds
To face the East — this was war. Or else
Eating and excreting raised to the rank of arts:
Sporting the broad purple — this was peace,
For demagogues exhausted by sensations.
From covens of delight they brought
The silver lampreys served on deathless chargers
By cooks of polity and matchless tact.
Only their poets differed in being free
From the historic consciousness and its
Defeats: wise servants of the magnet and
The sieve, against this human backdrop told
The truth in oracles and never asked themselves
In what or why they never could believe.

@темы: english-british, durrell, lawrence, d, antiquity, 20, history

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