[Lika_k]

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
Renascence and Other Poems, 1917
19. “Time does not bring relief; you all have lied”
Sonnet II
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year’s bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!

There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,—so with his memory they brim!
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”
And so stand stricken, so remembering him!

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

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[Lika_k]

Осип Мандельштам
Истончается тонкий тлен —
Фиолетовый гобелен

К нам — на воды и на леса —
Опускаются небеса

Нерешительная рука
Эти вывела облака

И печальный встречает взор
Отуманенный их узор.

Недоволен стою и тих
Я, создатель миров моих, —

Где искусственны небеса
И хрустальная спит роса.

1909

@темы: м, 20, mandelstam, osip, russian

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[Lika_k]

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
Renascence and Other Poems, 1917
17. When the Year Grows Old
I cannot but remember
When the year grows old—
October—November—
How she disliked the cold!

She used to watch the swallows
Go down across the sky,
And turn from the window
With a little sharp sigh.

And often when the brown leaves
Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
Made a melancholy sound.

She had a look about her
That I wish I could forget—
The look of a scared thing
Sitting in a net!

Oh, beautiful at nightfall
The soft spitting snow!
And beautiful the bare boughs
Rubbing to and fro!

But the roaring of the fire,
And the warmth of fur,
And the boiling of the kettle
Were beautiful to her!

I cannot but remember
When the year grows old—
October—November—
How she disliked the cold!

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

---

[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
В небе такая луна,
Словно дерево спилено под корень:
Белеется свежий срез.

пер. Вера Маркова

@темы: б, japanese, 17, eastern, basho, matsuo

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[Lika_k]

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
Renascence and Other Poems, 1917
13. The Dream
Love, if I weep it will not matter,
And if you laugh I shall not care;
Foolish am I to think about it,
But it is good to feel you there.

Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking,—
White and awful the moonlight reached
Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere,
There was a shutter loose,—it screeched!

Swung in the wind,—and no wind blowing!—
I was afraid, and turned to you,
Put out my hand to you for comfort,—
And you were gone! Cold, cold as dew,

Under my hand the moonlight lay!
Love, if you laugh I shall not care,
But if I weep it will not matter,—
Ah, it is good to feel you there!

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

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[Lika_k]

Ли Бо
В глухой деревне
В день "Холодной пищи"

Опавшие
Кружатся лепестки.

Восходит солнце,
Осветив жилища,

И в легкой дымке -
Отмель у реки.

Крестьяне пригласят -
Пойду к их дому,

Пришлют подарки -
Не отвергну их.

Здесь все друг с другом
Хорошо знакомы,

И даже куры -
Спят в дворах чужих.

Пер. А. Гитович

@темы: chinese, л, middle ages, 8, eastern

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[Lika_k]

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
Renascence and Other Poems, 1917
11. Three Songs of Shattering
I
The first rose on my rose-tree
Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
Nothing mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean;
Still it seems a pity
No one saw,—it must have been
Very pretty.

II
Let the little birds sing;
Let the little lambs play;
Spring is here; and so ’tis spring;—
But not in the old way!

I recall a place
Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
And blossoms covered you.

If the little birds sing,
And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so ’tis spring—
But not in the old way!

III
All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
Ere spring was going—ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,—
Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!

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

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[Lika_k]

Ли Бо
Луна над Тянь-Шанем восходит, светла,
И бел облаков океан,
И ветер принесся за тысячу ли
Сюда от заставы Юймынь.
С тех пор как китайцы пошли на Бодэн,
Враг рыщет у бухты Цинхай,
И с этого поля сраженья никто
Домой не вернулся живым.
И воины мрачно глядят за рубеж -
Возврата на родину ждут,
А в женских покоях как раз в эту ночь
Бессонница, вздохи и грусть.

Пер. А. Ахматова

@темы: chinese, л, middle ages, 8, а (rus), russian

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[Lika_k]

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
Renascence and Other Poems, 1917
10. Kin to Sorrow
Am I kin to Sorrow,
That so oft
Falls the knocker of my door—
Neither loud nor soft,
But as long accustomed,
Under Sorrow’s hand?
Marigolds around the step
And rosemary stand,
And then comes Sorrow—
And what does Sorrow care
For the rosemary
Or the marigolds there?
Am I kin to Sorrow?
Are we kin?
That so oft upon my door—
Oh, come in!

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

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[Lika_k]

Генрих Сапгир
Северная повесть
кентавры северных лесов и чудовищные кресты озер —
о них говорили в доме
бледные рассветы светили сквозь очки директора музея
хранитель северных лесов и озер встречал в доме
гостей с юга
он показывал им дом где бледные рассветы светили
насквозь чудовищными крестами окон
из окон было видно: тени северных лесов и озер
светились насквозь в небе
кентавры северных лесов — лоси уходили в озера неба
возле дома — музея бледный хранитель показывал
женщине с юга чудовищные кресты и камни
тени северных лесов в небе — женщина с юга снилась
себе чудовищным крестом
в доме бледный хранитель равнодушно перебирал камни —
кентавры
среди северных лесов и озер светились их тени:
женщина — чудовищный крест и хранитель — бледный
кентавр

@темы: 20, с (rus), russian

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[Lika_k]

Walt Whitman (1819-1892)
Song of Myself
20
Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude;
How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?

What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you?

All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own,
Else it were time lost listening to me.

I do not snivel that snivel the world over,
That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.

Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity
goes to the fourth-remov'd,
I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.

Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious?

Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with
doctors and calculated close,
I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less,
And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.

I know I am solid and sound,
To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow,
All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.

I know I am deathless,
I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass,
I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt
stick at night.

I know I am august,
I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood,
I see that the elementary laws never apologize,
(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by,
after all.)

I exist as I am, that is enough,
If no other in the world be aware I sit content,
And if each and all be aware I sit content.

One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself,
And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten
million years,
I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.

My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite,
I laugh at what you call dissolution,
And I know the amplitude of time.

@темы: w, 19, english-american

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[Lika_k]

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
Renascence and Other Poems, 1917
9. The Little Ghost
I knew her for a little ghost
That in my garden walked;
The wall is high—higher than most—
And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that
Till after she was gone—
I knew her by the broad white hat,
All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet,
By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
Her gown’s white folds among.

I watched to see if she would stay,
What she would do—and oh!
She looked as if she liked the way
I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favourite mint
With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled—there was no hint
Of sadness in her face.

She held her gown on either side
To let her slippers show,
And up the walk she went with pride,
The way great ladies go.

And where the wall is built in new
And is of ivy bare
She paused—then opened and passed through
A gate that once was there.

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

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[Lika_k]

Чеслав Милош
Посвящение
Ты, которого я не сумел спасти,
выслушай. Постарайся понять эти простые слова. Ей-богу,
я не знаю других, говорю с тобой молча,
как дерево или туча,
то, что меня закалило, тебя убило.
Ты конец эпохи посчитал за начало новой
эры. А пафос ненависти – за лирические восторги.
Силу слепую за совершенство формы.

Мелкие польские реки, струящиеся по равнине.
И колоссальный мост, тонущий в белой мгле.
И разрушенный город. Ветер швыряет вопли
чаек тебе на гроб, пока я говорю с тобою.
В неумелых попытках пера добиться
стихотворенья, в стремлении строчек
к недостижимой цели –
в этом, и только в этом, как выяснилось, спасенье.
Раньше просом и семенами мака
посыпали могилы – ради всегда бездомных
птиц; в них, считалось, вселяются души мертвых.
Я кладу сюда эту книгу нынче,
чтоб тебе сюда больше не возвращаться.

Краков, 1945
Пер. И.Бродский

@темы: polish, м, б, 20, brodsy, joseph, milosz, czeslaw, russian

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[Lika_k]

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: d, 19, english-american, dickinson, emily

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[Lika_k]

Чеслав Милош
Элегия для Н. Н.
Неужели тебе это кажется столь далеким?
Стоит лишь пробежать по мелким Балтийским волнам
И за Датской равниной, за буковым лесом
Повернуть к океану, а там уже, в двух шагах,
Лабрадор – белый, об эту пору года.
И если уж тебе, о безлюдном мечтавшей мысе,
Так страшны города и срежет на автострадах,
То нашлась бы тропа – через лесную глушь,
По-над синью талых озер со следами дичи,
Прямо к брошенным золотым рудникам у подножья Сьерры.
Дальше – вниз по течению Сакраменто,
Меж холмов, поросших колючим дубом,
После – бор эвкалиптовый, за которым
Ты и встретишь меня.

Знаешь часто, когда цветет манцанита
И залив голубеет весенним утром,
Вспоминаю невольно о доме в краю озерном,
О сетях, что сохнут под низким литовским небом.
Та купальня, где ты снимала юбку,
Затвердела в чистый кристалл навеки.
Тьма сгустилась медом вокруг веранды.
Совы машут крылами, и пахнет кожей.

Как сумели мы выжить, не понимаю.
Стили, строи клубятся бесцветной массой,
Превращаясь в окаменелость.
Где ж тут в собственной разобраться сути.
Уходящее время смолит гнедую
Лошадь, и местечковую колоннаду
Рынка, и парик мадам Флигельтауб.

Знаешь сама, мы многому научились.
Как отнимается постепенно то,
Что не может быть отнято: люди, местность,
И как сердце бьется тогда, когда надо бы разорваться.
Улыбаемся; чай на столе, буханка.
Лишь сомнение порою мелькнет, что мог бы
Прах печей в Заксенхаузене быть нам чуть-чуть дороже.
Впрочем, тело не может влюбиться в пепел.

Ты привыкла к новым, дождливым зимам,
К стенам дома, с которых навеки смыта
Кровь хозяина-немца. А я – я тоже
Взял от жизни, что мог: города и страны.
В то же озеро дважды уже не ступишь;
Только солнечный луч по листве ольховой,
Дно устлавшей ему, преломляясь, бродит.

Нет, не затем это, что далеко,
Ты ко мне не явилась ни днем, ни ночью.
Год от года, делаясь все огромней,
Созревает в нас общий плод: безучастность.

Пер. И.Бродский

@темы: polish, м, б, 20, brodsy, joseph, milosz, czeslaw, russian

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[Lika_k]

D. H. Lawrence
Birds, Beasts and Flowers (1923)
Humming-Bird
I can imagine, in some otherworld
Primeval-dumb, far back
In that most awful stillness, that only gasped and hummed,
Humming-birds raced down the avenues.

Before anything had a soul,
While life was a heave of Matter, half inanimate,
This little bit chipped off in brilliance
And went whizzing through the slow, vast, succulent stems.

I believe there were no flowers, then
In the world where the humming-bird flashed ahead of creation.
I believe he pierced the slow vegetable veins with his long beak.

Probably he was big
As mosses, and little lizards, they say were once big.
Probably he was a jabbing, terrifying monster.

We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time,
Luckily for us.

Española

@темы: 20, lawrence, d. h., english-british, l

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[Lika_k]

Леопольд Стафф
Мост
Я не верил,
Стоя на берегу реки,
Широкой и бурной,
Что перейду через мост,
Сплетенный из хрупкого тростника,
Перевязанного лыком.
Я шел легко, как мотылек,
И тяжело, как слон,
Уверенно, как танцор,
И шатаясь, будто слепец.
Я не верил, что перейду через мост,
И даже теперь,
Стоя на другом берегу,
Не верю, что перешел.

Пер. А.Базилевский

@темы: polish, 20, staff, leopold, с (rus)

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[Lika_k]

D. H. Lawrence
Birds, Beasts and Flowers (1923)
Tortoise Family Connections
On he goes, the little one,
Bud of the universe,
Pediment of life.

Setting off somewhere, apparently.
Whither away, brisk egg?

His mother deposited him on the soil as if he were no more than droppings,
And now he scuffles tinily past her as if she were an old rusty tin.

A mere obstacle,
He veers round the slow great mound of her--
Tortoises always foresee obstacles.

It is no use my saying to him in an emotional voice:
"This is your Mother, she laid you when you were an egg."

He does not even trouble to answer: "Woman, what have I to do with thee?"
He wearily looks the other way,
And she even more wearily looks another way still,
Each with the utmost apathy,
Incognizant,
Unaware,
Nothing.

As for papa,
He snaps when I offer him his offspring,
Just as he snaps when I poke a bit of stick at him,
Because he is irascible this morning, an irascible tortoise
Being touched with love, and devoid of fatherliness.

Father and mother,
And three little brothers,
And all rambling aimless, like little perambulating pebbles scattered in the garden,
Not knowing each other from bits of earth or old tins.

Except that papa and mama are old acquaintances, of course,
But family feeling there is none, not even the beginnings.

Fatherless, motherless, brotherless, sisterless
Little tortoise.

Row on then, small pebble,
Over the clods of the autumn, wind-chilled sunshine,
Young gayety.

Does he look for a companion?

No, no, don't think it.
He doesn't know he is alone;
Isolation is his birthright,
This atom.

To row forward, and reach himself tall on spiny toes,
To travel, to burrow into a little loose earth, afraid of the night,
To crop a little substance,
To move, and to be quite sure that he is moving:
Basta!

To be a tortoise!
Think of it, in a garden of inert clods
A brisk, brindled little tortoise, all to himself--
Crœsus!

In a garden of pebbles and insects,
Slow, and unquestioned,
And inordinately there, O stoic!
Wandering in the slow triumph of his own existence,
Ringing the soundless bell of his presence in chaos,
And biting the frail grass arrogantly,
Decidedly arrogantly.

@темы: 20, lawrence, d. h., english-british, l

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[Lika_k]

Геннадий Алексеев
Человек редок
и встретить его трудно

издергаешься весь
ожидая встречи
похудеешь и осунешься
тоскуя по встрече
забросишь все дела
думая о встрече
но однажды
встреча состоится

ба! — скажешь —
неужто он?
и остолбенеешь
потрясенный
батюшки! — скажешь —
это же он!
и всплеснешь
руками

потом обойдешь его вокруг
и рассмотришь как следует —
забавен человек снаружи!

После подойдешь к нему поближе
и влезешь ему в душу —
внутри он еще забавнее!
ха! — скажешь —
встретился-таки!
и хлопнешь человека
ладонью по плечу
а потише нельзя?
скажет человек
и поморщится

@темы: 20, а (rus), russian

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[Lika_k]

D. H. Lawrence
Birds, Beasts and Flowers (1923)
Tortoise Shell
The Cross, the Cross
Goes deeper in than we know,
Deeper into life;
Right into the marrow
And through the bone.

Along the back of the baby tortoise
The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge,
Scale-lapping, like a lobster's sections
Or a bee's.

Then crossways down his sides
Tiger-stripes and wasp-bands.

Five, and five again,
And round the edges twenty-five little ones,
The sections of the baby tortoise shell.

Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Then twenty-four, and a tiny little keystone.

It needed Pythagoras to see life playing with counters on the living back
Of the baby tortoise;
Life establishing the first eternal mathematical tablet,
Not in stone, like the Judean Lord, or bronze, but in life-clouded, life-rosy tortoise shell.

The first little mathematical gentleman
Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers
Under all the eternal dome of the mathematical law.

Fives, and tens,
Threes and fours and twelves,
All the volte face of decimals,
The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven.

Turn him on his back,
The kicking little beetle.
And there again, on his shell-tender, earth-touching belly,
The long cleavage of division, upright of the eternal cross
And on either side count five,
On each side, two above, on each side, two below
The dark bar horizontal.

The Cross!
It goes right through him, the sprottling insect,
Through his cross-wise cloven psyche,
Through his five-fold complex-nature.

So turn him over on his toes again;
Four pin-point toes, and a problematical thumb-piece,
Four rowing limbs, and one wedge-balancing head,
Four and one makes five, which is the clue to all mathematics.

The Lord wrote it down on the little slate
Of the baby tortoise.
Outward and visible indication of the plan within,
The complex, manifold involvedness of an individual creature
Plotted out
On this small bird, this rudiment,
This little dome, this pediment
Of all creation,
This slow one.

@темы: 20, lawrence, d. h., english-british, l