Записи с темой: d (список заголовков)

Keith Douglas
Aristocrats: “I think I am becoming a God”

The noble horse with courage in his eye
clean in the bone, looks up at a shellburst:
away fly the images of the shires
but he puts the pipe back in his mouth.

Peter was unfortunately killed by an 88;
it took his leg away, he died in the ambulance.
I saw him crawling on the sand, he said
It’s most unfair, they’ve shot my foot off.

How can I live among this gentle
obsolescent breed of heroes, and not weep?
Unicorns, almost,
for they are falling into two legends
in which their stupidity and chivalry
are celebrated. Each, fool and hero, will be an immortal.

The plains were their cricket pitch
and in the mountains the tremendous drop fences
brought down some of the runners. Here then
under the stones and earth they dispose themselves,
I think with their famous unconcern.
It is not gunfire I hear, but a hunting horn.

@темы: 20, d, english-british


Ernest Dowson
Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae*
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

*Non sum qualis eram bonae
sub regno Cinarae.
Horace's Odes, Book 4, 1. ("I am not as I was in the reign of good Cinara.")

@темы: h, english-british, d, antiquity, 19


H. D.
Orion Dead

[Artemis speaks]
The cornel-trees
uplift from the furrows,
the roots at their bases
strike lower through the barley-sprays.

So arise and face me.
I am poisoned with the rage of song.

I once pierced the flesh
of the wild-deer,
now am I afraid to touch
the blue and the gold-veined hyacinths?

I will tear the full flowers
and the little heads
of the grape-hyacinths.
I will strip the life from the bulb
until the ivory layers
lie like narcissus petals
on the black earth.

lest I bend an ash-tree
into a taut bow,
and slay—and tear
all the roots from the earth.

The cornel-wood blazes
and strikes through the barley-sprays,
but I have lost heart for this.

I break a staff.
I break the tough branch.
I know no light in the woods.
I have lost pace with the winds.

@темы: 20, d, english-american, h, mythology


Paul Laurence Dunbar
By the Stream

By the stream I dream in calm delight, and watch as in a glass,
How the clouds like crowds of snowy-hued and white-robed maidens
And the water into ripples breaks and sparkles as it spreads,
Like a host of armored knights with silver helmets on their heads.
And I deem the stream an emblem fit of human life may go,
For I find a mind may sparkle much and yet but shallows show,
And a soul may glow with myriad lights and wondrous mysteries,
When it only lies a dormant thing and mirrors what it sees.

@темы: 19, d, english-american


H. D.

It was easy enough
to bend them to my wish,
it was easy enough
to alter them with a touch,
but you
adrift on the great sea,
how shall I call you back?

Cedar and white ash,
rock-cedar and sand plants
and tamarisk
red cedar and white cedar
and black cedar from the inmost forest,
fragrance upon fragrance
and all of my sea-magic is for nought.

It was easy enough—
a thought called them
from the sharp edges of the earth;
they prayed for a touch,
they cried for the sight of my face,
they entreated me
till in pity
I turned each to his own self.

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@темы: 20, d, english-american, h


Helen Dunmore
My life’s stem was cut

My life’s stem was cut,
But quickly, lovingly
I was lifted up,
I heard the rush of the tap
And I was set in water
In the blue vase, beautiful
In lip and curve,
And here I am
Opening one petal
As the tea cools.
I wait while the sun moves
And the bees finish their dancing,
I know I am dying
But why not keep flowering
As long as I can
From my cut stem?

(from "Inside the Wave" by Helen Dunmore, published by Bloodaxe Books, 2017)

@темы: 21, d, english-british


Beyond the Years
Paul Laurence Dunbar

Beyond the years the answer lies,
Beyond where brood the grieving skies
And Night drops tears.
Where Faith rod-chastened smiles to rise
And doff its fears,
And carping Sorrow pines and dies—
Beyond the years.

Beyond the years the prayer for rest
Shall beat no more within the breast;
The darkness clears,
And Morn perched on the mountain’s crest
Her form uprears—
The day that is to come is best,
Beyond the years.

Beyond the years the soul shall find
That endless peace for which it pined,
For light appears,
And to the eyes that still were blind
With blood and tears,
Their sight shall come all unconfined
Beyond the years.

@темы: 20, d, english-american


Lord Dunsany
On Fame

If I live to be very old
They will know me then for a poet.
When my blood is sombre and cold,
If I live to be very old,
They will shout, 'We know it. We know it.'
And I will be vexed by the riot,
And turn from my sloppy diet
To pray for a little quiet.

@темы: english-british, d


Paul Laurence Dunbar
Christmas in the Heart

The snow lies deep upon the ground,
And winter’s brightness all around
Decks bravely out the forest sere,
With jewels of the brave old year.
The coasting crowd upon the hill
With some new spirit seems to thrill;
And all the temple bells achime.
Ring out the glee of Christmas time.

In happy homes the brown oak-bough
Vies with the red-gemmed holly now;
And here and there, like pearls, there show
The berries of the mistletoe.
A sprig upon the chandelier
Says to the maidens, “Come not here!”
Even the pauper of the earth
Some kindly gift has cheered to mirth!

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@темы: english-american, d, 20, 19


Richard Watson Dixon
The Silent Heavens

Here I wander about, and here I mournfully ponder:
Weary to me is the sun, weary the coming of night:
Here is captivity still, there would be captivity yonder:
Like to myself are the rest, smitten is all with a blight.

Much I complain of my state to my own heart heavily beating:
Much to the stars I complain: much to the universe cold;
The stars that of old were fixed, in spheres their courses repeating;
Solidly once were they fixed, and with them their spheres were rolled.

Then through the space of the spheres to the steadfast empyrean
Echo on echo to Earth answered her manifold cries:
Earth was the centre of things, and the threne of all, or the paean,
Bearing hell in her heart, on her bosom all life that dies.

If they were fixed, as of old, in their firmament solid and vaulted,
Then might the echo of woe or of laughter reverberate thence:
Nor my voice alone, but to them all voices exalted,
Should with due answer be met, murmuring sweet to the sense.

But they roll on their way through the void, the inane unretentive:
Past them all voices stream into the echoless space.
Where is the pitying grace, that once was prayer’s incentive,
Where is the ear that heard, and the face that once answered to face?

@темы: english-british, d, 19


Georgia Douglas Johnson

The phantom happiness I sought
O’er every crag and moor;
I paused at every postern gate,
And knocked at every door;

In vain I searched the land and sea,
E’en to the inmost core,
The curtains of eternal night
Descend—my search is o’er.

@темы: j, harlem renaissance, english-american, d, 20


Carl Sandburg
Chicago Poems. 1916
140. Letters to Dead Imagists

YOU gave us the bumble bee who has a soul,
The everlasting traveler among the hollyhocks,
And how God plays around a back yard garden.

War is kind and we never knew the kindness of war till you came;
Nor the black riders and clashes of spear and shield out of the sea,
Nor the mumblings and shots that rise from dreams on call.

@темы: 20, c, d, english-american, english-british, s, sandburg, carl


Paul Laurence Dunbar
A Lazy Day

The trees bend down along the stream,
Where anchored swings my tiny boat.
The day is one to drowse and dream
And list the thrush’s throttling note.
When music from his bosom bleeds
Among the river’s rustling reeds.

No ripple stirs the placid pool,
When my adventurous line is cast,
A truce to sport, while clear and cool,
The mirrored clouds slide softly past.
The sky gives back a blue divine,
And all the world’s wide wealth is mine.

A pickerel leaps, a bow of light,
The minnows shine from side to side.
The first faint breeze comes up the tide—
I pause with half uplifted oar,
While night drifts down to claim the shore.

@темы: 20, d, english-american


Lawrence Durrell

O freedom which to every man entire
Presents imagined longings to his fire,
To swans the water, bees the honey-cell,
To bats the dark, to lovers loving well,
Only to the wise may you
Restricting and confining be,
All who half-delivered from themselves
Suffer your conspiracy,
Freedom, Freedom, prison of the free.

(from "Sappho", a play)

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


Lawrence Durrell
At Corinth

At Corinth one has forgiven
The recording travellers in the same past
Who first entered this land of doors,
Hunting a precise emotion by clues,
Haunting a river, or a place in a book.
Here the continuous evocations are washed
Harder than tears and brighter,
But less penetrating than the touch of flesh,
(Our fingers pressed upon eyelids of stone),
Yet more patient, surely, watching
To dissolve the statues and retire
Night after night with a dissolving moon.

The valley mist ennobles
Lovers disarmed by negligence or weather,
And before night the calm
Discovers them, breathing upon the nerves,
The scent of exhausted lamps.
Here stars come soft to pasture,
And all doors lead to sleep.
What lies beneath the turf forbids
A footstep on the augustan stair,
The intrusion of a style less pure,
Seen through the camera's lens,
Or the quotations of visitors.

My skill is in words only:
To tell you, writing this letter home,
That we, whose blood was sweetened once
By Byron or his elders in the magic,
Entered the circle safely, found
No messenger for us except the smiles.
Owls sip the wind here. Well,
This place also was somebody's home,
Whipped by the gulf to thorns,
A house for proverbs by a broken well.
Winter was never native here; nor is.
Men, women, and the nightingales
Are forms of Spring.

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


Lawrence Durrell
Carol on Corfu

I, per se I, I sing on.
Let flesh falter, or let bone break
Break, yet the salt of a poem holds on,
Even in empty weather
When beak and feather have done.

I am such fiddle-glib strokes,
As play on the nerves, glance the bare bone
With the madman's verve I quicken,
Leaven and liven body's prime carbon,
I, per se I, alone.

This is my medicine: trees speak and doves
Talk, woods walk: in the pith of the planet
Is undertone, overtone, status of music: God
Opens each fent, scent, memory, aftermath
In the sky and the sod.

O per se O, I sing on.
Never tongue falters or love lessens,
Lessens. The salt of the poem lives on
Like this carol of empty weather
Now feather and beak have gone.

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


Lawrence Durrell
On Seeming to Presume

On Seeming to Presume
Where earth and water plan
No place for him, no home
Outside the confining womb,
Mistake him if you can.
The rubber forceps do their job
And here at least stands man.

Refined by no technique
Beyond the great "I will",
in, Confuse the middle ear
Of his tormented dust,
Before the brute can speak
"I will" becomes "I must".

Excluded from the true
Participating love
His conscience takes its due
From this excluding sense
His condemnation brought.
From past to future tense
He mutters on 'I ought'.

He mutters on 'I ought'.

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


Lawrence Durrell
Lines to Music

Ride out at midnight,
You will meet your sun.
Into what arsenal now seem fallen
The germs of the plum and the peppercorn?
The born and the unborn will report
What poison licks the wheat,
Or in the melon's gold retort
Repeat what melody fattens the leopard
From his mother's dusky teat.

Ride out at midnight
And number the sparrows.
Who put great wings to the Ark?
Who gave the unicorn spurs?
Only the women with thighs like mackerel,
Nourish the germ of the man of sorrows,
Are true to their monsters.
Be you to yours.

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


Lawrence Durrell

Find time hanging, cut it down
All the universe you own.

Masterless and still untamed
Poet, lead the race you've shamed.

Lover, cut the rational knot
That made your thinking rule-of-thumb.

And barefoot on the plum-dark hills
Go Wander in Elysium.

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


Lawrence Durrell

Cut from the joints of this immense
Darkness upon the face of Egypt lying,
We move in the possession of our acts
Alone, the dread apostles of our weakness.

For look. The mauve streetis swallowed
And the bats have begun to stitch slowly.

At the stable door the carpenter's three sons
Bend over a bucket of burning shavings,
Warming their inwardness and quite unearthly
A the candle-marking time begins.

Three little magi under vast Capella,
Beloved of all as shy as the astronomer,
She troubles heaven with her golden tears,
Tears flowing down upon us at this window,
The children rapt, the mauve street swallowed,
The harps of flame among the shadows
In Egypt now and far from Nazareth.

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

Pure Poetry