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Записи с темой: s (список заголовков)

Gertrude Stein
Tender Buttons [A Red Stamp]

If lilies are lily white if they exhaust noise and distance and even dust, if they dusty will dirt a surface that has no extreme grace, if they do this and it is not necessary it is not at all necessary if they do this they need a catalogue.

@темы: 20, english-american, s


Gertrude Stein
Tender Buttons [Eggs]

Kind height, kind in the right stomach with a little sudden mill.
Cunning shawl, cunning shawl to be steady.
In white in white handkerchiefs with little dots in a white belt all shadows are singular they are singular and procured and relieved.
No that is not the cows shame and a precocious sound, it is a bite.
Cut up alone the paved way which is harm. Harm is old boat and a likely dash.

@темы: 20, english-american, s


Lawrence Durrell
'A Soliloquy of Hamlet'

(to Anne Ridler)
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


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


Else Lasker-Schüler
Mein blaues Klavier

Ich habe zu Hause ein blaues Klavier
Und kenne doch keine Note.

Es steht im Dunkel der Kellertuer,
seitdem die Welt verrohte.

Es spielen Sternenhaende vier
– Die Mondfrau sang im Boote –
Nun tanzen die Ratten im Geklirr.
Zerbrochen ist die Klaviatuer…..
Ich beweine die blaue Tote.

Ach liebe Engel oeffnet mir
– Ich ass vom bitteren Brote –
Mir lebend schon die Himmelstuer –
Auch wider dem Verbote.

Эльза Ласкер-Шюлер
Мой синий рояль

В доме моем рояль стоял
небесно-синего цвета.
Его убрали в темный подвал,
когда озверела планета.
Бывало, месяц на нем играл,
пела звезда до рассвета...
Сломаны клавиши.
Он замолчал.
Для крыс ненасытных прибежищем стал...
синяя песенка спета.
Горек мой хлеб. Если б ангел знал,
ах, если б ведал он это –
при жизни мне б на небо путь указал,
вне правила и запрета.

пер. И. Грицкова

@темы: 20, ш/щ, л, s, l, deutsche


Marion Strobel
The Room Is as We Left It

The room is as we left it
But mellowed to a heightened
The chairs
Have summer coverings
Of cobwebs,
The teakwood lamps are there,
And still the bed sags
To the center,
And the table throws
Its weight of shadow
On the spread . . . .
. . . Folly to have left the room unused:
You did not merit such a nicety . . . .

A ragged ache of light
Sifts through the dust:
A grotesque of the present
Upon the patterns of the past . . .
My hands are bruised by surfaces
I do not see,
My fingers falter up and down
A tracery of years,
I sense the echo of a voice
I do not hear,
I am not sure the breath I hold
Is mine.

@темы: 20, english-american, s


Edith Sitwell
At the Fair
I. Springing Jack

Green wooden leaves clap light away,
Severely practical, as they

Shelter the children candy-pale,
The chestnut-candles flicker, fail . . .

The showman’s face is cubed clear as
The shapes reflected in a glass

Of water—(glog, glut, a ghost’s speech
Fumbling for space from each to each).

The fusty showman fumbles, must
Fit in a particle of dust

The universe, for fear it gain
Its freedom from my cube of brain.

Yet dust bears seeds that grow to grace
Behind my crude-striped wooden face

As I, a puppet tinsel-pink
Leap on my springs, learn how to think—

Till like the trembling golden stalk
Of some long-petalled star, I walk

Through the dark heavens, and the dew
Falls on my eyes and sense thrills through.

@темы: 20, english-british, s


Joyce Sutphen

The second half of my life will be black
to the white rind of the old and fading moon.
The second half of my life will be water
over the cracked floor of these desert years.
I will land on my feet this time,
knowing at least two languages and who
my friends are. I will dress for the
occasion, and my hair shall be
whatever color I please.
Everyone will go on celebrating the old
birthday, counting the years as usual,
but I will count myself new from this
inception, this imprint of my own desire.

The second half of my life will be swift,
past leaning fenceposts, a gravel shoulder,
asphalt tickets, the beckon of open road.
The second half of my life will be wide-eyed,
fingers shifting through fine sands,
arms loose at my sides, wandering feet.
There will be new dreams every night,
and the drapes will never be closed.
I will toss my string of keys into a deep
well and old letters into the grate.

The second half of my life will be ice
breaking up on the river, rain
soaking the fields, a hand
held out, a fire,
and smoke going
upward, always up.

@темы: s, english-american, 20


Mark Strand
Lines for Winter

for Ros Krauss
Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.

@темы: strand, mark, s, english-american, 20


Theodore Stephanides
Ghostly Ballad

When the evening sun has set,
Ocean-borne, the silhouette
Of an island reaches high,
Stabbing lance-like at the sky.
And the clouds' candescent blood
Stains the wave top in a flood
Of reflected crimson light.
Onward sweeps relentless night
Till day's lingering colours, banished,
Slowly, one by one, have vanished;
And a gloom succeeds their mirth
Over sea and sky and earth...

Then upon a darkened cape
Softly glides a vaporous shape,
And a maiden fair to see
Stands in lonely misery.
Pale she is as autumn mist
By the rising sun unkissed,
And her limbs transparent gleam
As the flow of mountain stream.
To the sea's encroaching tide
Turns she with her arms flung wide,
And her distant voice is heard
Like the cry of ocean bird:

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(from "Autumn Gleanings: Corfu Memoirs and Poems")

@темы: theodore stephanides, s, helenike, english-other, english, 20


Theodore Stephanides
The Haunted Tarn

Sighing reeds and moaning rushes
Sway. The wind that wails and hushes
Stirs the lakelet darkly gleaning
Where a pale mist, upward streaming,
Dims the moonbeams' light.

And a pale ghost skyward gazes,
To each star her arms she raises;
But the heavens, never caring,
Unrelenting roll, unsparing,
Till she sinks from sight.

Then, from out the water peering,
Looms a visage dark and sneering;
And a screech of cruel laughter,
With the echoes jeering after,
Screams across the night!

(from "Autumn Gleanings: Corfu Memoirs and Poems")

@темы: 20, english, english-other, helenike, s, theodore stephanides


Theodore Stephanides
The Universe

I shall be dead one day and all I know:
The knowledge that I gathered down the years,
The memories of loves and joys and tears,
Will all these vanish like a flake of snow
Touched by the springtime sun? It may be so;
Perhaps this universe is meaningless,
A mocking jest, an empty sham, a mess...
The may I close my eyes and bid it go.

(from "Autumn Gleanings: Corfu Memoirs and Poems")

@темы: 20, english, english-other, helenike, s, theodore stephanides


Theodore Stephanides

With old age I have come to hate the night,
For owing to the glow of London's skies,
I cannot see the stars, once my delight,
That soothed me until slumber closed my eyes.
In that past time the hours knew shorter flight
Before sleep sought the couch on which I lay;
Light were my dreams, and soon the morning light
Aroused me gently to a newer day.
But now the dark seems endless... When I look
For comfort to the stars, the are not there —
The skies show only that accursed red glare!

Then I take from the shelf another book
On which I can no longer concentrate...
Till once more I turn off the lamp... and wait...

(from "Autumn Gleanings: Corfu Memoirs and Poems")

@темы: 20, english, english-other, helenike, s, theodore stephanides


Theodore Stephanides

I often feel that I would like to wake
All Life to love — not only beings we clothe
In graceful forms, but also those that take
The hideous semblances we shun and loathe.
We shudder at the writhing parasite,
Yet it did not demand or choose its shape;
Why was it the cast out the night
And shackled to a fate of no escape?

(from "Autumn Gleanings: Corfu Memoirs and Poems")

@темы: 20, english, english-other, helenike, s, theodore stephanides


Carl Sandburg

Desolate and lone
All night long on the lake
Where fog trails and mist creeps,
The whistle of a boat
Calls and cries unendingly,
Like some lost child
In tears and trouble
Hunting the harbor’s breast
And the harbor’s eyes.

@темы: 20, english-american, s


Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)
The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

-- from Harmonium , 1923

@темы: 20, english-american, links, s, stevens, wallace


Trumbull Stickney
Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream
That over Persians roses flew to kiss
The Curled lashes of the Semiramis.
Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream.
Provence and Troubadour are merest lies.
The glorious hair of Venice was a beam
Made within Titian’s eye. The sunsets seem,
The world is very old and nothing is.
Be still. Thou foolish thing, thou canst not wake,
Nor thy tears wedge thy soldered lids apart,
But patter in the darkness of thy heart.
Thy brain is plagued. Thou art a frightened owl
Blind with the light of life thou’ldst not forsake,
And Error loves and nourishes thy soul.

(from “Dramatic Verses” 1902)

@темы: s, english-american, 20


Langdon Smith

When you were a tadpole and I was a fish
In the Paleozoic time,
And side by side on the ebbing tide
We sprawled through the ooze and slime,
Or skittered with many a caudal flip
Through the depths of the Cambrian fen,
My heart was rife with the joy of life,
For I loved you even then.

Mindless we lived and mindless we loved
And mindless at last we died;
And deep in the rift of the Caradoc drift
We slumbered side by side.
The world turned on in the lathe of time,
The hot lands heaved amain,
Till we caught our breath from the womb of death
And crept into life again.

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@темы: s, english-american, 20


Federico García Lorca
In a Corner of the Sky

The old
shuts her bleary eyes.
The new
wants to paint the night
(In the firtrees on the mountain:

transl. Jerome Rothenberg

@темы: s, lorca, l, espanol, 20


Mark Strand
The Remains

I empty myself of the names of others.
I empty my pockets.

I empty my shoes and leave them beside the road.

At night I turn back the clocks;
I open the family album and look at myself as a boy.

What good does it do? The hours have done their job.

I say my own name.
I say goodbye.

The words follow each other downwind.

I love my wife but send her away.

My parents rise out of their thrones
into the milky rooms of clouds.
How can I sing?
Time tells me what I am.
I change and I am the same.

I empty myself of my life and my life remains.

Марк Стрэнд
Жизнь на моих плечах

Освобождаюсь от чужих имен. Опорожняю карманы.
Освобождаю туфли от себя, оставляю их у дороги.
Вечером я обращаю вспять стрелки часов,
открываю семейный альбом, гляжу на себя в детстве.

Но какой от этого прок? Время сделало свое дело.
Произношу свое имя. Произношу: "Прощай!"
Слова торопливо ускользают по ветру.
Я люблю жену, но отсылаю ее от себя.

Родители поднимаются с тронов,
ступают в молочные палаты облаков. Смогу ли я петь?
Время говорит мне обо мне. Я меняюсь, но остаюсь прежним.
Я стряхиваю с себя жизнь, но она висит на моих плечах.

Пер. А.Кудрявицкий

@темы: strand, mark, s, english-american, 20

Pure Poetry