[Lika_k]

Rudyard Kipling
Gethsemane
The Garden called Gethsemane
In Picardy it was,
And there the people came to see
The English soldiers pass.
We used to pass—we used to pass
Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas
Beyond Gethsemane.

The Garden called Gethsemane,
It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
I prayed my cup might pass.
The officer sat on the chair,
The men lay on the grass,
And all the time we halted there
I prayed my cup might pass.

It didn’t pass—it didn’t pass-
It didn’t pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas
Beyond Gethsemane!

Редьярд Киплинг
Гефсиманский сад
Была как Гефсиманский сад
Пикардия для нас.
И провожал нас каждый взгляд
На гибель каждый час.
На гибель нас, на гибель нас -
Хоть каждый выжить рад.
И заползал под маски газ
Там, где кончался сад.

Светился Гефсиманский сад
Сияньем женских глаз.
Но чаша близилась для нас -
И меркнул женский взгляд.
Да минет нас, да минет нас
Она на этот раз.
Помилуй, Боже, упаси -
И мимо пронеси.

Он не пронес, он не упас,
Не спас любимых чад!
Был в чаще смертоносный газ
Там, где кончался сад.

Пер. В. Топоров

@темы: 20, k, english-british, к (rus)

---

[Lika_k]

Robert Browning
One Word More
To E.B.B.
I
There they are, my fifty men and women
Naming me the fifty poems finished!
Take them, Love, the book and me together;
Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.

II
Rafael made a century of sonnets,
Made and wrote them in a certain volume
Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil
Else he only used to draw Madonnas;
These, the world might view--but one, the volume.
Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you.
Did she live and love it all her lifetime?
Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets,
Die, and let it drop beside her pillow
Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory,
Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving--
Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's,
Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's?

III
You and I would rather read that volume
(Taken to his beating bosom by it),
Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael,
Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas--
Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno,
Her, that visits Florence in a vision,
Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre--
Seen by us and all the world in circle.

IV
You and I will never read that volume.
Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple,
Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it.
Guido Reni dying, all Bologna
Cried, and the world cried too, 'Ours, the treasure!'
Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

V
Dante once prepared to paint an angel:
Whom to please? You whisper 'Beatrice.'
While he mused and traced it and retraced it
(Peradventure with a pen corroded
Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for,
When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked,
Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma,
Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment,
Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle,
Let the wretch go festering through Florence)--
Dante, who loved well because he hated,
Hated wickedness that hinders loving,
Dante, standing, studying his angel,--
In there broke the folk of his Inferno.
Says he--'Certain people of importance'
(Such he gave his daily dreadful line to)
'Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet.'
Says the poet--'Then I stopped my painting.'

VI
You and I would rather see that angel,
Painted by the tenderness of Dante,
Would we not?--than read a fresh Inferno.

VII
You and I will never see that picture.
While he mused on love and Beatrice,
While he softened o'er his outlined angel,
In they broke, those 'people of importance':
We and Bice bear the loss forever.

VIII
What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture?
This: no artist lives and loves, that longs not
Once, and only once, and for one only,
(Ah, the prize!) to find his love a language
Fit and fair and simple and sufficient--
Using nature that's an art to others,
Not, this one time, art that's turned his nature.
Ay, of all the artists living, loving,
None but would forego his proper dowry,--
Does he paint? he fain would write a poem,
Does he write? he fain would paint a picture,--
Put to proof art alien to the artist's,
Once, and only once, and for one only,
So to be the man and leave the artist,
Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow.

IX
Wherefore? Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement!
He who smites the rock and spreads the water,
Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him,
Even he, the minute makes immortal,
Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute,
Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing.
While he smites, how can he but remember,
So he smote before, in such a peril,
When they stood and mocked--'Shall smiting help us?'
When they drank and sneered--'A stroke is easy!'
When they wiped their mouths and went their journey,
Throwing him for thanks--'But drought was pleasant.'
Thus old memories mar the actual triumph;
Thus the doing savors of disrelish;
Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat;
O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate,
Carelessness or consciousness--the gesture.
For he bears an ancient wrong about him,
Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces,
Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude--
'How shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us?'
Guesses what is like to prove the sequel--
'Egypt's flesh-pots --nay, the drought was better.'

X
Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant!
Theirs, the Sinai-forhead's cloven brilliance,
Right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat.
Never dares the man put off the prophet.

XI
Did he love one face from out the thousands,
(Were she Jethro's daughter, white and wifely,
Were she but the AEthiopian bondslave),
He would envy yon dumb, patient camel,
Keeping a reserve of scanty water
Meant to save his own life in the desert;
Ready in the desert to deliver
(Kneeling down to let his breast be opened)
Hoard and life together for his mistress.

XII
I shall never, in the years remaining,
Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues.
Make you music that should all-express me;
So it seems; I stand on my attainment.
This of verse alone, one life allows me;
Verse and nothing else have I to give you;
Other heights in other lives, God willing;
All the gifts from all the heights, your own, Love.

XIII
Yet a semblance of resource avails us--
Shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it.
Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly,
Lines I write the first time and the last time.
He who works in fresco steals a hair-brush,
Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly,
Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little,
Makes a strange art of an art familiar,
Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets,
He who blows through bronze may breathe through silver,
Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess.
He who writes, may write for once as I do.

XIV
Love, you saw me gather men and women,
Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy,
Enter each and all, and use their service,
Speak from every mouth,--the speech, a poem.
Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows,
Hopes and fears, belief and disbelieving:
I am mine and yours--the rest be all men's,
Karshish, Cleon, Norbert, and the fifty.
Let me speak this once in my true person,
Not as Lippo, Roland, or Andrea,
Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence:
Pray you, look on these my men and women,
Take and keep my fifty poems finished;
Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also!
Poor the speech; be how I speak, for all things.

XV
Not but that you know me! Lo, the moon's self!
Here in London, yonder late in Florence,
Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured.
Curving on a sky imbrued with color,
Drifted over Fiesole by twilight,
Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth.
Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato,
Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder,
Perfect till the nightingales applauded.
Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished,
Hard to greet, she traverses the house-roofs,
Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver,
Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish.

XVI
What, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy?
Nay: for if that moon could love a mortal,
Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy),
All her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos),
She would turn a new side to her mortal,
Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman,--
Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace,
Blind to Galileo on his turret.
Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats --him, even!
Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal--
When she turns round, comes again in heaven,
Opens out anew for worse or better!
Proves she like some portent of an iceberg
Swimming full upon the ship it founders,
Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals?
Proves she as the paved work of a sapphire,
Seen by Moses when he climbed the mountain?
Moses, Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu
Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest,
Stand upon the paved work of a sapphire.
Like the bodied heaven in his clearness
Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved work,
When they ate and drank and saw God also!

XVII
What were seen? None knows, none ever will know.
Only this is sure--the sight were other,
Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence,
Dying now impoverished here in London.
God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures
Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with,
One to show a woman when he loves her.

XVIII
This I say of me, but think of you, Love!
This to you--yourself my moon of poets!
Ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder,
Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you!
There, in turn I stand with them and praise you--
Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it.
But the best is when I glide from out them,
Cross a step or two of dubious twilight,
Come out on the other side, the novel
Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of,
Where I hush and bless myself with silence.

XIX
Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas,
Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno,
Wrote one song--and in my brain I sing it,
Drew one angel--borne, see, on my bosom!

[Originally appended to the collection of Poems called "Men and
Women," the greater portion of which has now been, more correctly,
distributed under the other titles of this edition.-R. B.]

@темы: victorian, 19, english-british

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[Lika_k]

Federico García Lorca
Sevilla
Sevilla es una torre
llena de arqueros finos.

Sevilla para herir.
Córdoba para morir.

Una ciudad que acecha
largos ritmos,
y los enrosca
como laberintos.
Como tallos de parra
encendidos.

¡Sevilla para herir!

Bajo el arco del cielo,
sobre su llano limpio,
dispara la constante
saeta de su río.

¡Córdoba para morir!

Y loca de horizonte,
mezcla en su vino
lo amargo de Don Juan
y lo perfecto de Dioniso.

Sevilla para herir.
¡Siempre Sevilla para herir!


Федерико Гарсиа Лорка
Севилья
Севилья - башенка
в зазубренной короне.

Севилья ранит.
Кордова хоронит.

Севилья ловит медленные ритмы,
и, раздробясь о каменные грани,
свиваются они, как лабиринты,
как лозы на костре.

Севилья ранит.

Ее равнина, звонкая от зноя,
как тетива натянутая, стонет
под вечно улетающей стрелою
Гвадалквивира.

Кордова хоронит.

Она сметала, пьяная от далей,
в узорной чаше каждого фонтана
мед Диониса,
горечь Дон-Хуана.

Севилья ранит.
Вечна эта рана.

Пер. А. Гелескул

@темы: espanol, л, 20, lorca, l

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[Lika_k]

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: d, 17, english-british, metaphysical poets

---

[Lika_k]

Rainer Maria Rilke
Abend
Der Abend wechselt langsam die Gewänder,
die ihm ein Rand von alten Bäumen hält;
du schaust: und von dir scheiden sich die Länder,
ein himmelfahrendes und eins, das fällt;

und lassen dich, zu keinem ganz gehörend,
nicht ganz so dunkel wie das Haus, das schweigt,
nicht ganz so sicher Ewiges beschwörend
wie das, was Stern wird jede Nacht und steigt -

und lassen dir (unsäglich zu entwirrn)
dein Leben bang und riesenhaft und reifend,
so dass es, bald begrenzt und bald begreifend,
abwechselnd Stein in dir wird und Gestirn.

Herbst 1904?, Schweden?

Райнер Мария Рильке
Вечер
Одежды вечер медленно сменяет,
ложась на ветви сада бахромой;
ты смотришь, как миры на небе тают —
один вознесся, падает другой;

и ты покинут на земле знакомой,
навек не присягнувший никому:
ни сумраку умолкнувшего дома,
ни свету звезд, поднявшихся во тьму, —

и нет дороги для тебя иной,
чем, осознав и очертив границы,
в большой и тесной жизни становиться
попеременно камнем и звездой.

Пер. Евг. Витковский

Райнер Мария Рильке
Вечер
Одежды вечера прозрачны и нежны.
Ты видишь в тишине его преображенье.
И пред тобою две расходятся страны:
одна парит, в другой — все тяжесть и паденье.

Ты не принадлежишь ни той, ни этой: ты
не темен, как твой дом, молчащий за спиною,
впитавший ночь уже, — но первой свет звезды
собрав в ладонях, ты не станешь сам звездою.

И твоя жизнь, как тень вечерняя длинна
и боязлива, вдруг тебе предстанет вестью
еще не понятой, когда в тебе она
уподобляется то камню, то созвездью.

Пер. Евг. Борисов

@темы: 20, rilke, deutsche-oesterreichisch, r

---

[Lika_k]

Alfred Tennyson
Ulysses
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

www.sparknotes.com/poetry/tennyson/section4.rht...

@темы: antiquity, t, links, 19, romanticism, english-british

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[Lika_k]

Charles Baudelaire
L'invitation au voyage
Mon enfant, ma soeur,
Songe à la douceur
D'aller là-bas vivre ensemble!
Aimer à loisir,
Aimer et mourir
Au pays qui te ressemble!
Les soleils mouillés
De ces ciels brouillés
Pour mon esprit ont les charmes
Si mystérieux
De tes traîtres yeux,
Brillant à travers leurs larmes.

Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Des meubles luisants,
Polis par les ans,
Décoreraient notre chambre;
Les plus rares fleurs
Mêlant leurs odeurs
Aux vagues senteurs de l'ambre,
Les riches plafonds,
Les miroirs profonds,
La splendeur orientale,
Tout y parlerait
À l'âme en secret
Sa douce langue natale.

Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Vois sur ces canaux
Dormir ces vaisseaux
Dont l'humeur est vagabonde;
C'est pour assouvir
Ton moindre désir
Qu'ils viennent du bout du monde.
— Les soleils couchants
Revêtent les champs,
Les canaux, la ville entière,
D'hyacinthe et d'or;
Le monde s'endort
Dans une chaude lumière.

Là, tout n'est qu'ordre et beauté,
Luxe, calme et volupté.

Шарль Бодлер
Приглашение в путешествие
Милый друг, сестра,
Помечтать пора:
Уехать вдвоем мы сможем,
Привольно любить
И всю жизнь прожить
В краю, на тебя похожем.
Там неверный луч
Из намокших туч
Нежданной тайной трепещет —
Так твои глаза
Помрачит слеза
И вдруг лукавством заблещет.
Там все красота и строй,
Блаженство, роскошь, покой.
Полировки лет
На мебели след
Хранили б наши покои,
Фимиам бы там
К редчайшим цветам
Дыханье лил голубое.
С плафонами зал,
Глубина зеркал,

Великолепье Востока Вели бы в тиши Рассказ для души Родной им речью далекой.
Там все красота и строй, Блаженство, роскошь, покой.
В каналах вода
Лелеет суда
С их вечным духом скитанья;
Пришли корабли
С окраин земли
Твои выполнять желанья.
Облачил закат
И кирпич палат,
И лес, и каналов сети
В гиацинт и лал,
Весь мир задремал
В горячем вечернем свете.
Там все красота и строй, Блаженство, роскошь, покой.

пер. С. Шервинский

Шарль Бодлер
Приглашение к путешествию
Голубка моя,
Умчимся в края,
Где все, как и ты, совершенство,
И будем мы там
Делить пополам
И жизнь, и любовь, и блаженство.
Из влажных завес
Туманных небес
Там солнце задумчиво блещет,
Как эти глаза,
Где жемчуг-слеза,
Слеза упоенья трепещет.
Это мир таинственной мечты,
Неги, ласк, любви и красоты.
Вся мебель кругом
В покое твоем
От времени ярко лоснится.
Дыханье цветов
Заморских садов
И веянье амбры струится.
Богат и высок
Лепной потолок,
И там зеркала так глубоки;
И сказочный вид
Душе говорит
О дальнем, о чудном Востоке.
Это мир таинственной мечты,
Неги, ласк, любви и красоты.
Взгляни на канал,
Где флот задремал:
Туда, как залетная стая,
Свой груз корабли
От края земли
Несут для тебя, дорогая.
Дома и залив
Вечерний отлив
Одел гиацинтами пышно.
И теплой волной,
Как дождь золотой,
Лучи он роняет неслышно.
Это мир таинственной мечты,
Неги, ласк, любви и красоты.

Пер. Д. Мережковский

Шарль Бодлер
Приглашение к путешествию
Дитя, сестра моя!
Уедем в те края,
Где мы с тобой не разлучаться сможем,
Где для любви века,
Где даже смерть легка,
В краю желанном, на тебя похожем.

И Солнца нежный луч
Среди ненастных туч
Усталого ума легко коснется
Твоих прекрасных глаз
Таинственный приказ
В соленой пелене два черных солнца

И мы войдем в большой и светлый дом,
Где временем уют отполирован,
Где аромат цветов изыскан и медов
Где сладкой амброй воздух околдован,
За тонким льдом стекла прозрачны зеркала,
Воздушный блеск играет каждой гранью
Все говорит в тиши на языке души,
Единственном, достойном пониманья.

В каналах корабли
В дремотный дрейф легли
Бродячий флаг их голубого цвета
Сюда прислал их бриз
Исполнить твой каприз
Они пришли с другого края света

А солнечный закат
Соткал полям наряд,
Одел каналы, улицы и зданья,
И блеском золотым весь город одержим
В неистовом предсумрачном сиянии.

Дитя, сестра моя!
Уедем в те края,
Где мы с тобой не разлучаться сможем,
Где для любви века,
Где даже смерть легка,
В краю желанном, на тебя похожем.
пер. И.Озерова

Шарль Бодлер
Приглашение к путешествию
О, сестра, давай
Умчимся в тот край,
Где бесконечно блаженство,
Край волшебных грез,
Где не будет слез,
Где все, как ты, совершенство!
Солнца влажный блеск
И каналов плеск,
И черный плен глаз коварных
Оплели мой ум
Обаяньем дум,
Таинственных и лучезарных!

Край, где царит чистота,
Мир, свет и красота!

Там пышный покров
Из пестрых ковров
Наши украсит покои,
Там всюду цветы
Неземной красоты
Расставлены нежной рукою,
Там роскошный зал,
Глубина зеркал,
Прелесть, лоск и сиянье,
Там в светлой тиши
Все тайны души
В едином пребудут слиянье!

Там, где царит чистота,
Мир, свет и красота!

Хочешь – корабли,
Что в гавань зашли
Из дальних стран, - без промедленья
Выполнят сейчас
Любой твой приказ
И ждут твоего повеленья!

А вокруг закат,
Золотой каскад,
Весь в гиацинтовых отсветах,
Город затопил,
Который застыл
В глазах твоих, счастьем согретых,

Там, где царит чистота,
Мир, свет и красота!

Пер. Вад. Алексеев


Charles Baudelaire
Invitation to the Voyage
Think, would it not be
Sweet to live with me
All alone, my child, my love? —
Sleep together, share
All things, in that fair
Country you remind me of?
Charming in the dawn
There, the half-withdrawn
Drenched, mysterious sun appears
In the curdled skies,
Treacherous as your eyes
Shining from behind their tears.

There, restraint and order bless
Luxury and voluptuousness.

We should have a room
Never out of bloom:
Tables polished by the palm
Of the vanished hours
Should reflect rare flowers
In that amber-scented calm;
Ceilings richly wrought,
Mirrors deep as thought,
Walls with eastern splendor hung,
All should speak apart
To the homesick heart
In its own dear native tongue.

There, restraint and order bless
Luxury and voluptuousness.

See, their voyage past,
To their moorings fast,
On the still canals asleep,
These big ships; to bring
You some trifling thing
They have braved the furious deep.
— Now the sun goes down,
Tinting dyke and town,
Field, canal, all things in sight,
Hyacinth and gold;
All that we behold
Slumbers in its ruddy light.

There, restraint and order bless
Luxury and voluptuousness.

Transl. Edna St. Vincent Millay, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)

Charles Baudelaire
Invitation to the Voyage
My child, my sister,
Think of the rapture
Of living together there!
Of loving at will,
Of loving till death,
In the land that is like you!
The misty sunlight
Of those cloudy skies
Has for my spirit the charms,
So mysterious,
Of your treacherous eyes,
Shining brightly through their tears.

There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.

Gleaming furniture,
Polished by the years,
Will ornament our bedroom;
The rarest flowers
Mingling their fragrance
With the faint scent of amber,
The ornate ceilings,
The limpid mirrors,
The oriental splendor,
All would whisper there
Secretly to the soul
In its soft, native language.

There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.

See on the canals
Those vessels sleeping.
Their mood is adventurous;
It's to satisfy
Your slightest desire
That they come from the ends of the earth.
— The setting suns
Adorn the fields,
The canals, the whole city,
With hyacinth and gold;
The world falls asleep
In a warm glow of light.

There all is order and beauty,
Luxury, peace, and pleasure.

transl. William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)


Charles Baudelaire
Invitation to the Voyage
My daughter, my sister,
Consider the vista
Of living out there, you and I,
To love at our leisure,
Then, ending our pleasure,
In climes you resemble to die.
There the suns, rainy-wet,
Through clouds rise and set
With the selfsame enchantment to charm me
That my senses receive
From your eyes, that deceive,
When they shine through your tears to disarm me.

There'll be nothing but beauty, wealth, pleasure,
With all things in order and measure.

With old treasures furnished,
By centuries burnished,
To gleam in the shade of our chamber,
While the rarest of flowers
Vaguely mix through the hours
Their own with the perfume of amber:
Each sumptuous ceiling,
Each mirror revealing
The wealth of the East, will be hung
So the part and the whole
May speak to the soul
In its native, indigenous tongue.

There'll be nothing but beauty, wealth, pleasure,
With all things in order and measure.

On the channels and streams
See each vessel that dreams
In its whimsical vagabond way,
Since its for your least whim
The oceans they swim
From the ends of the night and the day.
The sun, going down, With its glory will crown
Canals, fields, and cities entire,
While the whole earth is rolled
In the jacinth and gold
Of its warming and radiant fire.

There'll be nothing but beauty, wealth, pleasure
With all things in order and measure.

transl. Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)


Charles Baudelaire
Invitation to the Voyage
My child mistress/mother sister/dream
How acceptable all things would be
Were we to live in that land where
The slow and the long, short and the strong

Die in the dance of being less than one another
In a perpetual summer of imageless desire.
Flagellated and forgotten suns
Drink in the step of my azure lost skies
And move to mysterylessness our chemical miseries
Within which the treadling eyes of indefiniteness
Are no more than the tears of the damned.
Take from my heart, a platinum measure
Free of solitude's false grace
And awkward adolescent pleasures.
Here is the furniture
That caresses the dust of the years
And counts the wrinkled set into the brain
On fingers that have made their own doom.
Evil the eyes that look back at us in dreams,
Evil the touch of the deaths that have not loved us
Evil the sorrow which shelters itself from release
And the evils accumulate
Leaving us idle and alone
Though an Eastern splendor,
An Eastern hatred of the idea of loss
Eddies in the river of slime
That has not won us.
Hidden from the waves in still canals
We sit in a small boat that refuses
To set forth.
To satisfy need,
To accommodate our need of forever,
We sit in the boat
And wait for a clearer sky,
A more propitious moment to launch
While thinking of Cortez'
Miraculous slaughter of and victory over
The children of the sun.

transl. Will Schmitz

Charles Baudelaire
Invitation to a Journey
My sister, my dear
Consider how fair,
Together to live it would be!
Down yonder to fly
To love, till we die,
In the land which resembles thee.
Those suns that rise
'Neath erratic skies,
— No charm could be like unto theirs —
So strange and divine,
Like those eyes of thine
Which glow in the midst of their tears.

There, all is order and loveliness,
Luxury, calm and voluptuousness.

The tables and chairs,
Polished bright by the years,
Would decorate sweetly our rooms,
And the rarest of flowers
Would twine round our bowers
And mingle their amber perfumes:
The ceilings arrayed,
And the mirrors inlaid,
This Eastern splendour among,
Would furtively steal
O'er our skuls, and appeal
With its tranquillous native tongue.

There, all is order and loveliness,
Luxury, calm and voluptuousness.

In the harbours, peep,
At the vessels asleep
(Their humour is always to roam),
Yet it is but to grant
Thy smallest want
From the ends of the earth that they come,
The sunsets beam
Upon meadow and stream,
And upon the city entire
'Neath a violet crest,
The world sinks to rest,
Illumed by a golden fire.

There, all is order and loveliness,
Luxury, calm and voluptuousness.

transl. Cyril Scott, Baudelaire: The Flowers of Evil (London: Elkin Mathews, 1909)


Charles Baudelaire
The Invitation to the Voyage
How sweet, my own,
Could we live alone
Over beyond the sea!
To love and to die
Indolently
In the land that's akin to thee!
Where the suns which rise
In the watery skies
Weave soft spells over my sight,
As thy false eyes do
When they flicker through
Their tears with a dim, strange light.

There all is beauty and symmetry,
Pleasure and calm and luxury.

Years that have gone
Have polished and shone
The things that would fill our room;
The flowers most rare
Which scent the air
In the richly-ceiling'd gloom,
And the mirrors profound,
And the walls around
With Orient splendour hung,
To the soul would speak
Of things she doth seek
In her gentle native tongue.

There all is beauty and symmetry,
Pleasure and calm and luxury.

The canals are deep
Where the strange ships sleep
Far from the land of their birth;
To quench the fire
Of thy least desire
They have come from the ends of the earth.
The sunsets drown
Peaceful town
And meadow, and stagnant stream
In bistre and gold,
And the world enfold
In a warm and luminous dream.

There all is beauty and symmetry,
Pleasure and calm and luxury.

transl. Jack Collings Squire, Poems and Baudelaire Flowers (London: The New Age Press, Ltd, 1909)

@темы: б, francaise, b, m, 19, symbolism, romanticism, millay, edna st. vincent, english-american

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[Lika_k]

@темы: t, 20, english-british, thomas, dylan

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[Lika_k]

Марина Бородицкая
У старинных норвежских кроватей
имелись створки:
их задвинешь или захлопнешь —
и ты в каморке,
в деревянном ларе, да попросту в сундуке,
репетируешь смерть на тощем своем тюфяке.

Можно пялиться в темноту
и молиться Одину или Христу, —
даже ноги не вытянешь, если постель коротка,
в деревянном ганзейском городе — ни огонька.

А еще в каждой спальне была веревка с крюком:
сигануть из окна в рубашке и босиком,
если вдруг пожар. Ох, какие пожары бывали!

Чуешь, вяленой рыбой пованивает в подвале?
Слышишь, бал крысиный? Вот так они зимовали.

Что возьмешь, капитан, чтоб на час, на минуту сгонять
в тот вечерний, игрушечный Берген —
подслушать, понять:
отчего не брала их эта вселенская тьма?
Что за песни им не давали спятить с ума?

@темы: б, 20, 21, russian

---

[Lika_k]

Fernando Pessoa
26 May 1917
A cool breeze,
Summer in the fields,
And the soul’s courtyard
Vacant and sunlit…

Or, in winter, the snowy
Summits in the distance,
The fireside where we sit
Singing tales handed down,
And a poem to tell all this…

The gods grant
Few pleasures beyond
These, which are nothing.
But they also grant
That we want no others

Transl. by Richard Zenith

@темы: portuguese, p, 20, pessoa, fernando

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[Lika_k]

Wallace Stevens
The Worms at Heaven's Gate
Out of the tomb, we bring Badroulbadour
Within our bellies, we her chariot.
Here is an eye. And here are, one by one,
The lashes of that eye and its white lid.
Here is the cheek on which that lid declined,
And, finger after finger, here, the hand,
The genius of that cheek. Here are the lips,
The bundle of the body and the feet.
* * * * * *
Out of the tomb we bring Badroulbadour.

Уоллес Стивенс
Черви у небесных врат
Мы из могилы принцессу несем,
В чреве своем к горним вратам.
Мы — колесница Бадрульбадур.

Вот ее око. Вот, чередой,
Ресницы ока и веко ее,
Вот её подпора — щека.
Вот, палец за пальцем, рука —
Гений слетавший к этой щеке.
Губы, и все остальное — до ног.
.....................................................
Мы — колесница Бадрульбадур.

Пер. Гр. Кружков

@темы: s, 20, english-american, stevens, wallace, kruzhkov, grigory, к (rus), с (rus)

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[Lika_k]

T. S. Elliot
The Naming of Cats
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey—
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter—
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover—
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

@темы: e, 20, eliot, t. s., english: anglo-american

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[Lika_k]

William Butler Yeats
The Cloak, The Boat And The Shoes
'What do you make so fair and bright?'

'I make the cloak of Sorrow:
O lovely to see in all men's sight
Shall be the cloak of Sorrow,
In all men's sight.'

'What do you build with sails for flight?'

'I build a boat for Sorrow:
O swift on the seas all day and night
Saileth the rover Sorrow,
All day and night.'

What do you weave with wool so white?'

'I weave the shoes of Sorrow:
Soundless shall be the footfall light
In all men's ears of Sorrow,
Sudden and light.'

Уильям Батлер Йейтс
Плащ, корабль и башмачки
"Кому такой красивый плащ?"

"Я сшил его Печали.
Чтоб был он виден издали
И восхищаться все могли
Одеждами Печали".

"А парус ладишь для чего?"

"Для корабля Печали.
Чтоб, крыльев чаячьих белей,
Скитался он среди морей
Под парусом Печали".

"А войлочные башмачки?"

"Они для ног Печали.
Чтоб были тихи и легки
Неуловимые шаги
Подкравшейся Печали".

Пер. Гp. Кружков

@темы: y, 20, yeats, w. b., english-british, и/й, kruzhkov, grigory, к (rus), english-british-irish

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[Lika_k]

W. B. Yeats
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.”

@темы: y, 20, yeats, w. b., english-british, english-british-irish

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[Lika_k]

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 - 1950)
Afternoon on a Hill
I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
And then start down!

Эдна Сент- Винсент Миллей
После полудня на холме
Счастливой нет другой такой-
Лицом в траву!
Я ста цветов коснусь рукой
И не сорву.
Обрыв и облака- гляжу,
И тих мой взгляд.
Там бриз баюкает траву
Вперед, назад.
Когда ж покажутся огни
Из городка,
Свой свет я отыщу средь них -
И вниз с холма!

пер. Гал. Ицкович

@темы: м, m, 20, millay, edna st. vincent, english-american

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[Lika_k]

Dylan Thomas
When Mr Watts-Ewers
(Licensed to sell
Beer wine & spirits
And tobacco as well)
Advertised in the papers
He would open that night
His brand new hotel
The town had a fright -

Mr Alf Measure
Who kept the Bull’s Head
Wept like a baby
And took to his bed -

Mrs Lil Jenkins
Of the old Pig & Swill
Sacked all the barmaids
And was sick in the till -

In every saloon
And public too
There was such a commotion
As nobody knew -

For Mr Watts-Ewers
(Licensed for all
Drinking and Smoking
By men small & tall)
Had decided to call
His hotel the Liberty
Flipperty gibbetty
Liberty Hall-Hotel!

Oh, all drinks were free
(And cigarettes as well)
In Mr Watts-Ewers’
Brand-new hotel -

There were no set hours
There were no decrees
And nobody shouted
Time gentlemen Please,

For in Mr Watts-Ewers’
Splendiferous place
No gentlemen ever
Disgraced our fair race -

There was nothing to pay
And nothing to lose
In Mr Watts-Ewers’
Buckingham Palace of booze.

Dylan Thomas's drinking ditty to be published for first time

@темы: t, links, 20, english-british, thomas, dylan

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140

[Lika_k]

Rainer Maria Rilke
Ich bin auf der Welt zu allein und doch nicht allein genug,
um jede Stunde zu weihn.
Ich bin auf der Welt zu gering und doch nicht klein genug,
um vor dir zu sein wie ein Ding,
dunkel und klug.
Ich will meinen Willen und will meinen Willen begleiten
die Wege zur Tat;
und will in stillen, irgendwie zögernden Zeiten,
wenn etwas naht,
unter den Wissenden sein
oder allein.
Ich will dich immer spiegeln in ganzer Gestalt
und will niemals blind sein oder zu alt,
um dein schweres schwankendes Bild zu halten.
Ich will mich entfalten.
Nirgends will ich gebogen bleiben,
denn dort bin ich gelogen, wo ich gebogen bin.
Und ich will meinen Sinn
wahr vor dir. Ich will mich beschreiben
wie ein Bild, das ich sah
lange und nah,
wie ein Wort, das ich begriff,
wie meinen täglichen Krug,
wie meiner Mutter Gesicht,
wie ein Schiff,
das mich trug
durch den tödlichsten Sturm.

Das Stundenbuch


Райнер Мария Рильке
Я в мире совсем одинок, но все ж не совсем,
не весьма,
чтобы каждый мне час был, как Бог.
Я в мире и мал, и ничтожен, но все ж не совсем,
не весьма,
чтобы лечь Твоим промыслом, Боже,
во мглу ума.
Вольно мне быть вольным, я Воле позволю
деяньем
стать без помех:
когда же и время замрет, беременное ожиданьем,
быть хочу среди тех,
кто тайн Твоих господин,
или - один.
Хочу быть подобьем Твоим, во весь рост тебя
несть,
о, дай не ослепнуть - от вечности глаз
не отвесть,
образ Твой удержать, не сгибаясь, не падая.
Весна среди сада я.
И мне не склониться вовеки.
Ибо там я не с Богом, где я согбен.
Я хочу, чтобы тлен
не коснулся ума. Я ведь образ, я - некий
лик, я пишу на стене,
крупно, медленно, как во сне,
слово, что я постиг
в ежедневной земной
жажде, мать улыбается мне,
это парусник, бриг,
он пронесся со мной
через вихрь, через смерть, через крик.

"Часослов", Книга первая. Об иноческой жизни.
Пер. А. Прокопьев

Райнер Мария Рильке
Я один на свете, но жить в одиночестве мало мне,
дабы каждый час освятить.
Я ничтожно мал, но ничтожества не достало мне,
что Тебе я, как вещь, предстал
в мудрой тьме.
Волю воли моей, рядом с нею пойду, протопчу я
к деянью пути;
и в медлительном времени, близость чего-то почуя,
быть мне среди Твою прозирающих тьму
иль одному.
В полный рост Тебе зеркалом стать хочу,
не ослепну и образ Твой не упущу,
и грузный, и зыбкий. Тебе я по пояс.
Тебе я откроюсь.
Не стану ни гнуться, ни виться,
ибо кривда я там, где я крив и кос.
А мой помысел бос
и чист пред Тобой. И я волю явиться
с Тобою глаза в глаза,
как образа
и как слово, что понял я,
как насущная кружка воды,
как лицо моей матери,
как ладья,
от беды
грозовой меня спасшая.
Пер. С. Петров

Rainer Maria Rilke
I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone. I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother’s face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.
Transl. by Annemarie S. Kidder, 2001

@темы: compleanno, 20, rilke, deutsche-oesterreichisch, р (rus), r

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[Lika_k]

Robert Frost
The Demiurge's Laugh
It was far in the sameness of the wood;
I was running with joy on the Demon’s trail,
Though I knew what I hunted was no true god.
It was just as the light was beginning to fail
That I suddenly heard—all I needed to hear:
It has lasted me many and many a year.

The sound was behind me instead of before,
A sleepy sound, but mocking half,
As of one who utterly couldn’t care.
The Demon arose from his wallow to laugh,
Brushing the dirt from his eye as he went;
And well I knew what the Demon meant.

I shall not forget how his laugh rang out.
I felt as a fool to have been so caught,
And checked my steps to make pretence
It was something among the leaves I sought
(Though doubtful whether he stayed to see).
Thereafter I sat me against a tree.

Роберт Фрост
Смех демиурга
То было в густой первозданности леса.
Я знал, что не богом она создана.
Я шел по следам окаянного беса,
Выслеживал беса в лесу дотемна.
И вдруг я услышал - услышал такое,
Что долгие годы не знаю покоя.

Не спереди звук доносился, а сзади -
Утробное бульканье из-под древес.
Забывчив и заспан, в похабном наряде,
Со смехом из лужи своей вылез бес,
С век грязь он соскреб - и мгновенно
я понял,
Что он меня вспомнил, заметил и пронял.

Вовек не забуду я этого смеха:
Ловец стал добычей - вот бесу потеха.
Я прянул - ему показать поскорей,
Мол, что-то ищу (не его!) меж ветвей,
А он меня принял за тень или эхо -
И пал я, пристыженный, возле корней.

Пер. В. Топоров

@темы: ф, 20, frost, robert, english-american, f

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[Lika_k]

Seamus Heaney,
The First Words
The first words got polluted
Like river water in the morning
Flowing with the dirt
Of blurbs and the front pages.
My only drink is meaning from the deep brain.
What the birds and the grass and the stones drink.
Let everything flow
Up to the four elements,
Up to water and earth and fire and air.

(from the Romanian of Marin Sorescu.
From The Spirit Level)

@темы: romanian, s, 20, h, heaney, seamus, english-british-irish

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[Lika_k]

Ян Лехонь (1899—1956)
Илиада
Привередливый книжник, любитель Гомера,
Ко всему примеряя былые деянья,
Приглядись, как слепой у варшавского сквера
"Варшавянку" поет ради крох подаянья.

Что Гекуба тебе? Илион с его славой?
Подойди к старику с головой непокрытой,
Обними и шепни: "Мой Приам седоглавый,
Мне всё помнится сын твой, в ту осень убитый".

И на дне его глаз ты увидишь не рану,
А надежда блеснёт и вперится незряче:
"Я не раз говорил и твердить не устану,
Что ошиблась Кассандра! Всё будет иначе".

Пер. Анат. Гелескул

@темы: polish, л, 20