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Записи с темой: d (список заголовков)
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

00:00 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Lawrence Durrell
The Dying Fall

The islands rebuffed by water.
Esturies of putty and gold.
A smokeless arc of Latin sky.
One star, less than a week old.

Memory now, I lead her haltered.
Stab of the opiate in the arm
When the sea wears bronze scales and
Hushes in the ambush of a calm.

The old dialogue always rebegins
Between us: but now the spring
Ripens, neither will be attending,
For rosy as feet of pigeons pressed

In clay, the kisses we possessed,
Or thought we did: so borrowing, lending,
Stacked fortunes in our love's society —
Each in perfect circle of a sigh was ending.

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

11:39 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Georgia Douglas Johnson
Dead Leaves

The breaking dead leaves ’neath my feet
A plaintive melody repeat,
Recalling shattered hopes that lie
As relics of a bygone sky.

Again I thread the mazy past,
Back where the mounds are scattered fast—
Oh! foolish tears, why do you start,
To break of dead leaves in the heart?

1918

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

08:31 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Alice Dunbar-Nelson
The Idler

An idle lingerer on the wayside’s road,
He gathers up his work and yawns away;
A little longer, ere the tiresome load
Shall be reduced to ashes or to clay.

No matter if the world has marched along,
And scorned his slowness as it quickly passed;
No matter, if amid the busy throng,
He greets some face, infantile at the last.

His mission? Well, there is but one,
And if it is a mission he knows it, nay,
To be a happy idler, to lounge and sun,
And dreaming, pass his long-drawn days away.

So dreams he on, his happy life to pass
Content, without ambitions painful sighs,
Until the sands run down into the glass;
He smiles—content—unmoved and dies

And yet, with all the pity that you feel
For this poor mothling of that flame, the world;
Are you the better for your desperate deal,
When you, like him, into infinitude are hurled?

@темы: 19, d, english-american

10:46 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
H. D.
Hermes of the Ways

I
The hard sand breaks,
And the grains of it
Are clear as wine.

Far off over the leagues of it,
The wind,
Playing on the wide shore,
Piles little ridges,
And the great waves
Break over it.

But more than the many-foamed ways
Of the sea,
I know him
Of the triple path-ways,
Hermes,
Who awaiteth.

Dubious,
Facing three ways,
Welcoming wayfarers,
He whom the sea-orchard
Shelters from the west,
From the east
Weathers sea-wind;
Fronts the great dunes.

Wind rushes
Over the dunes,
And the coarse, salt-crusted grass
Answers.

Heu,
It whips round my ankles!

II

Small is
This white stream,
Flowing below ground
From the poplar-shaded hill,
But the water is sweet.

Apples on the small trees
Are hard,
Too small,
Too late ripened
By a desperate sun
That struggles through sea-mist.

The boughs of the trees
Are twisted
By many bafflings;
Twisted are
The small-leafed boughs.
But the shadow of them
Is not the shadow of the mast head
Nor of the torn sails.

Hermes, Hermes,
The great sea foamed,
Gnashed its teeth about me;
But you have waited,
Where sea-grass tangles with
Shore-grass.

1914

@темы: h, english-american, d, 20, modernism, imagism

08:32 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Emily Dickinson
I never told the buried gold
Upon the hill — that lies —
I saw the sun — his plunder done
Crouch low to guard his prize.
He stood as near
As stood you here —
A pace had been between —
Did but a snake bisect the brake
My life had forfeit been.
That was a wondrous booty —
I hope ’twas honest gained.
Those were the fairest ingots
That ever kissed the spade!
Whether to keep the secret —
Whether to reveal —
Whether as I ponder
Kidd will sudden sail —
Could a shrewd advise me
We might e’en divide —
Should a shrewd betray me —
Atropos decide!

Эмили Дикинсон
Я знаю, на каком холме
Зарыт пиратский клад -
Я видела, как там его
Закапывал - Закат.
А я стояла в двух шагах -
Стараясь не дышать -
Пока сгружало Солнце
Сверкающую кладь.
Вот славная добыча -
Любого бросит в дрожь -
Там было столько золота -
Лопатой не сгребёшь.
Что делать мне - таить секрет -
Да разве утаишь -
Разбойников слетится тьма -
Когда такой барыш -
Найти бы верного дружка -
И слитки - пополам -
А если друг меня предаст -
Тогда и слитки - хлам!

пере. Г. Кружков

@темы: д, english-american, d, kruzhkov, grigory, к (rus), 19

06:24 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Dante
читать дальше

Данте
Амор и сердце доблестное суть
Одно, по слову мудрого поэта *,
Как мысль с душою мыслящей: не будь
Той, не могла б существовать и эта.

Амор - владыка, сердце - дом; то путь
Натуры, коль любовь - ее примета.
Там спит он в глубине - порой чуть-чуть,
Недолго, а порою - многи лета.

Но прелесть умной донны породит
Страсть, будучи усладою для взора,
К причине той услады - не спешит

Она пройти порой, и пробудит
В глубинах сердца спящий дух Амора.
И с донной то ж достойный муж вершит.

(из ХХ главы Новой Жизни)

пер. Шломо Крол (sentjao)

@темы: 13, d, italian, middle centuries, rinascimento, д

07:10 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Ду Фу
преподношу Ли Бо

Снова осень пришла. Нас по жизни несет,
словно ветром степную
траву.

Не сумели целебный добыть эликсир, -
да простит нас мудрейший святой!

Разудалые песни поем на пирах, -
так впустую и кончатся дни.

Мы горды и свободны, но чем знаменит
одинокий и
гордый герой?

пер. Ал. Гитович

@темы: d, chinese, 8, д, l, eastern, л

06:29 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
H. D. (Hilda Doolittle)
"Sea garden" (1916)
Cities

Cab we believe—by an effort
comfort our hearts:
it is not waste all this,
not placed here in disgust,
street after street,
each patterned alike,
no grace to lighten
a single house of the hundred
crowded into one garden-space.

Crowded—can we believe,
not in utter disgust,
in ironical play—
but the maker of cities grew faint
with the beauty of temple
and space before temple,
arch upon perfect arch,
of pillars and corridors that led out
to strange court-yards and porches
where sun-light stamped
hyacinth-shadows
black on the pavement.

читать дальше

@темы: modernism, imagism, h, english-american, d, 20

06:22 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
H. D. (Hilda Doolittle)
"Sea garden" (1916)
Sea Gods

I
They say there is no hope—
sand—drift—rocks—rubble of the sea—
the broken hulk of a ship,
hung with shreds of rope,
pallid under the cracked pitch.
they say there is no hope
to conjure you—
no whip of the tongue to anger you—
no hate of words
you must rise to refute.
They say you are twisted by the sea,
you are cut apart
by wave-break upon wave-break,
that you are misshapen by the sharp rocks,
broken by the rasp and after-rasp.
That you are cut, torn, mangled,
torn by the stress and beat,
no stronger than the strips of sand
along your ragged beach.

II
читать дальше

@темы: 20, d, english-american, h, imagism, modernism

07:54 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Hilda Doolittle
Loss

The sea called—
you faced the estuary,
you were drowned as the tide passed.—
I am glad of this—
at least you have escaped.

The heavy sea-mist stifles me.
I choke with each breath—
a curious peril, this—
the gods have invented
curious torture for us.

One of us, pierced in the flank,
dragged himself across the marsh,
he tore at the bay-roots,
lost hold on the crumbling bank—

Another crawled—too late—
for shelter under the cliffs.

I am glad the tide swept you out,
O beloved,
you of all this ghastly host
alone untouched,
your white flesh covered with salt
as with myrrh and burnt iris.

We were hemmed in this place,
so few of us, so few of us to fight

their sure lances,
the straight thrust—effortless
with slight life of muscle and shoulder.

So straight—only we were left,
the four of us—somehow shut off.

And the marsh dragged one back,
and another perished under the cliff,
and the tide swept you out.

читать дальше

@темы: 20, d, english-american, imagism, modernism

06:25 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
H. D. (Hilda Doolittle)
"Sea garden" (1916)
The Shrine ("She Watches over the Sea")

I
Are your rocks shelter for ships—
have you sent galleys from your beach,
are you graded—a safe crescent—
where the tide lifts them back to port—
are you full and sweet,
tempting the quiet
to depart in their trading ships?

Nay, you are great, fierce, evil—
you are the land-blight—
you have tempted men
but they perished on your cliffs.

Your lights are but dank shoals,
slate and pebble and wet shells
and seaweed fastened to the rocks.

It was evil—evil
when they found you,
when the quiet men looked at you—
they sought a headland
shaded with ledge of cliff
from the wind-blast.

читать дальше

@темы: modernism, imagism, h, english-american, d, 20

13:13 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Emily Dickinson
251

Over the fence—
Strawberries—grow—
Over the fence—
I could climb—if I tried, I know—
Berries are nice!

But—if I stained my Apron—
God would certainly scold!
Oh, dear,—I guess if He were a Boy—
He'd—climb—if He could!

@темы: english-american, d, 19

09:22 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Emily Dickinson
As if some little Arctic flower,
Upon the polar hem,
Went wandering down the latitudes,
Until it puzzled came
To continents of summer,
To firmaments of sun,
To strange, bright crowds of flowers,
And birds of foreign tongue!
I say, as if this little flower
To Eden wandered in—
What then? Why, nothing, only
Your inference therefrom!

@темы: english-american, d, 19

11:37 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
John Donne
Elegy IX: The Autumnal

No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face.
Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape,
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.
If 'twere a shame to love, here 'twere no shame;
Affection here takes reverence's name.
Were her first years the golden age? That's true,
But now she's gold oft tried and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
This is her tolerable tropic clime.
Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,
They were Love's graves, for else he is no where.
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit
Vow'd to this trench, like an anachorit;
And here till hers, which must be his death, come,
He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.
Here dwells he; though he sojourn ev'rywhere
In progress, yet his standing house is here:
Here where still evening is, not noon nor night,
Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight.
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at revels, you at council, sit.
This is Love's timber, youth his underwood;
There he, as wine in June, enrages blood,
Which then comes seasonabliest when our taste
And appetite to other things is past.
Xerxes' strange Lydian love, the platan tree,
Was lov'd for age, none being so large as she,
Or else because, being young, nature did bless
Her youth with age's glory, barrenness.
If we love things long sought, age is a thing
Which we are fifty years in compassing;
If transitory things, which soon decay,
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.
But name not winter faces, whose skin's slack,
Lank as an unthrift's purse, but a soul's sack;
Whose eyes seek light within, for all here's shade;
Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;
Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,
To vex their souls at resurrection:
Name not these living death's-heads unto me,
For these, not ancient, but antique be.
I hate extremes, yet I had rather stay
With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.
Since such love's natural lation is, may still
My love descend, and journey down the hill,
Not panting after growing beauties. So,
I shall ebb on with them who homeward go.

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

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