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Записи с темой: english-british (список заголовков)
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

00:16 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
To Argos

The roads lead southward, blue
Along a circumference of snow,
Identified now by the scholars
As a home for the cyclops, a habitation
For nymphs and ancient appearances.
Only the shepherd in his cowl
Who walks upon them really knows
The natural history in a sacred place;
Takes like a text of stone
A familiar cloud-shape or fortress,
Pointing at what is mutually seen,
His dark eyes wearing the crowsfoot.

Our idols have been betrayed
Not by the measurement of the dead ones
Who are lying under these mountains,
As under England our own fastidious
Heroes lie awake but do not judge.
Winter rubs at the ice like a hair,
Dividing time; and a single tree
Reflects here a mythical river.
Water limps on ice, or scribbles
On doors of sand its syllables,
All alone, in an empty land, alone.
This is what breaks the heart.

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

09:22 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Greek Church: Alexandria

The evil and the good seem undistinguished,
Indeed all half asleep; their coming was
No eloquent proposition of natures
Too dense for material ends, quartered in pain.
But a propitiation by dreams of belief
A relief from the chafing ropes of thought.
Piled high in Byzane like a treasure-ship
The church heels over, sinking in sound
And yellow lamplight while the arks and trolleys
And blazing crockery of the orthodox God
Make it a fearful pomp for peasants,
A sorcery to the black-coated rational,
To the town-girl an adventure, an adventure.

Now however all hums and softly spins
Like a great top, the many-headed black
Majority merged in a single sea-shell.

Idle thoughts press in, amazing one —
How the theologians with beards of fire
Divided us upon the boiling grid of thought,
Or with dividers spun for us a fine
Conniving cobweb — traps for the soul.

Three sailors stand like brooms.
The altar has opened like a honeycomb;
An erect and flashing deacon like a despot howls.
Surely we might ourselves exhale
Our faults like rainbows on this incense?

If souls did fire the old Greek barber
Who cut my hair this morning would go flying,
Not stand, a hopeless, window-bound and awkward
Child at this sill of pomp,
Moved by a hunger money could not sate,
Smelling the miracle and softly sighing.

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

06:55 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
At Epidaurus

The islands which whisper to the ambitious,
Washed all winter by the surviving stars
Are here hardly recalled: or only as
Stone choirs for the sea-bird,
Stone chairs for the statues of fishermen.
This civilized valley was dedicated to
The cult of the circle, the contemplation
And correction of famous maladies
Which the repeating flesh has bred in us also
By a continuous babyhood, like the worm in meat.

The only disorder is in what we bring here:
Cars drifting like leaves over the glades,
The penetration of clocks striking in London,
The composure of dolls and fanatics,
Financed migrations to the oldest sources:
A theatre where redemption was enacted,
Repentance won, the stones heavy with dew.
The olive signs the hill, signifying revival,
And the swallow's cot in the ruin seems how
Small yet defiant an exaggeration of love!

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

09:24 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Exile in Athens

To be a king of islands,
Share a boundary with eagles,
Be a subject of sails.

Here, on these white rocks,
In cold palaces all winter,
Under the salt blanket,

Forget not yet the tried intent,
Pale hands before the face: face
Before the sea's blue negative,

Washing against the night,
Pushing against the doors,
Earth's dark metaphors.

Here alone in a stone city
I sing the rock, the sea-squill,
Over Greece the one punctual star.

To be king of the clock —
I know, I know — to share
Boundaries with the bird,

With the ant her lodge:
But they betray, betray.
To be the owner of stones,

To be a king of islands,
Share a bed with a star,
Be a subject of sails.

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

00:08 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
A Small Scripture

Now when the angler by Bethlehem's water
Like a sad tree threw down his trance
What good was the needle of resurrection,
A bat-like soul for the father Adam,
But to bury in haystacks of common argument
The Fish's living ordinance?

A bleeding egg was the pain of testament,
Murder of self within murder to reach the Self:
The grapnel of fury like a husband's razor
Turned on his daughter in a weird enchantment
To cut out the iron mask from the iron man,
His double, the troubled elf.

Now one eye was the cyclop's monstrous ration,
But this face looked forward to Heliopolis,
Rehearsed its charm in other exilic lovers
God-bound near Eden on the crutches of guilt;
Aimed like a pistol through the yellow eyes —
Your heart and mine know the truth of this.

This we make to the double Jesus, the nonpareil,
Whose thought snapped Jordan like a dam.
Darling and bully with the bloody taws,
Both walked in this tall queen by the green lake.
Both married when the aching nail sank home.
Weep for the lion, kneel to the lamb.

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

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

09:01 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Egyptian Poem

And to-day death comes to the house.
To-day upon the waters, the sunset sail,
Death enters and the swallow's eye
Under the roof is no larger and darker
Than this scent of death.

A disciple crossed over by water.
The acorn was planted.
In the Ionian villa among the marble
The fountain plays the sea's piano,
And by the clock the geometric philosopher
Walks in white linen while death
Squats in the swallow's eye.
The dogs are muzzled. Lord,
See to the outer gate, our protection.
I rest between the born and the unborn.
The father, the mother, the baby unicorn
Intercede for me, attended the christening.
Exempt me.
I have friends in the underworld.

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

09:45 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Blind Homer

A winter night again, and the moon
Loosely inks in the marbles and retires.

The six pines whistle and stretch and there,
Eastward the loaded brush of morning pauses

Where the few Grecian stars sink and revive
Each night in glittering baths of sound.

Now to the winter each has given up
Deciduous stuff, the snakeskin and the antler,

Cast skin of poetry and the grape.

Blind Homer, the lizards still sup the heat
From the rocks, and still the spring,

Noiseless as coins on hair repeats
Her diphthong after diphthong endlessly.

Exchange a glance with one whose art
Conspires with introspection against loneliness

This February 1946, pulse normal, nerves at rest:
Heir to a like disorder, only lately grown

Much more uncertain of his gift with words,
By this plate of olives, this dry inkwell.

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

06:57 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
Bitter Lemons

In an island of bitter lemons
Where the moon's cool fevers burn
From the dark globes of the fruit,

And the dry grass underfoot
Tortures memory and revises
Habits half a lifetime dead

Better leave the rest unsaid,
Beauty, darkness, vehemence
Let the old sea nurses keep

Their memorials of sleep
And the Greek sea's curly head
Keep its calms like tears unshed

Keep its calms like. tears unshed.

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

09:27 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
A Bowl of Roses

'Spring' says your Alexandrian poet
'Means time of the remission of the rose.'

Now here at this tattered old cafe',
By the sea-wall, where so many like us
Have felt the revengeful power of life,
Are roses trapped in blue tin bowls.
I think of you somewhere among them -
Other roses - outworn by our literature,
Made tenants of calf-love or else
The poet's portion, a black black rose
Coughed into the helpless lap of love,
Or fallen from a lapel - a night-club rose.

It would take more than this loving imagination
To claim them for you out of time,
To make them dense and fecund so that
Snow would never pocket them, nor would
They travel under glass to great sanatoria
And like a sibling of the sickness thrust
Flushed faces up beside a dead man's plate.

No, you should have picked one from a poem
Being written softly with a brush -
The deathless ideogram for love we writers hunt.
Now alas the writing and the roses, Melissa,
Are nearly over: who will next remember
Their spring remission in kept promises,

Or even the true ground of their invention
In some dry heart or earthen inkwell.

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

06:51 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
The Cottager

Here is a man who says:Let there be light.
Let who is dresses in hair walk upright,
The house give black smoke, the children
Be silenced by fire and apples.
Let A sedative evening bring steaming cattle
The domestic kettle, contagion of sleep,
Deeper purer surer even than Eden.
Twin tides speak making of three
By fission by fusion, a logarithmic sea.

What was bitter in the apple is eaten deep,
Rust sleeps in the steel, canker will keep.
Let one plus one quicken and be two,
Keep silence that silence keep you.

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

07:10 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
The Pilot

To Dudley Honor
Sure a lovely day and all weather
Leading westward to Ireland and our childhood.
On the quarters of heaven, held by stars,
The Hunter and Arcturus getting ready —
The elect of heaven all burning on the wheel.

This lovely morning must the pilot leaning
In the eye of heaven feel the island
Turning beneath him, burning soft and blue —
And all this mortal globe like a great lamp
With spines of rivers,
families of cities
Seeming to the solitary boy so
Local and queer yet so much part of him.

The enemies of silence have come nearer.
Turn, turn to the morning on the wild elbows:
Look down through the five senses like stars
To where our lives lie small and equal like two grains
Before Chance — the hawk's eye or the pilot's
Round and shining on the open sky,
Reflecting back the innocent world in it.

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

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