[Lika_k]

Antonio Machado
Last Night As I Was Sleeping
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.

transl. by Robert Bly

@темы: espanol, m, 20

---

[Lika_k]

Осип Мандельштам
Нежнее нежного
Лицо твое,
Белее белого
Твоя рука,
От мира целого
Ты далека,
И все твое -
От неизбежного.
От неизбежного
Твоя печаль,
И пальцы рук
Неостывающих,
И тихий звук
Неунывающих
Речей,
И даль
Твоих очей.

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

---

[Lika_k]

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.

That the maker of cities grew faint
with the splendour of palaces,
paused while the incense-flowers
from the incense-trees
dropped on the marble-walk,
thought anew, fashioned this—
street after street alike.

For alas,
he had crowded the city so full
that men could not grasp beauty,
beauty was over them,
through them, about them,
no crevice unpacked with the honey,
rare, measureless.

So he built a new city,
ah can we believe, not ironically
but for new splendour
constructed new people
to lift through slow growth
to a beauty unrivalled yet—
and created new cells,
hideous first, hideous now—
spread larve across them,
not honey but seething life.

And in these dark cells,
packed street after street,
souls live, hideous yet—
O disfigured, defaced,
with no trace of the beauty
men once held so light.

Can we think a few old cells
were left—we are left—
grains of honey,
old dust of stray pollen
dull on our torn wings,
we are left to recall the old streets?

Is our task the less sweet
that the larve still sleep in their cells?
Or crawl out to attack our frail strength:

You are useless. We live.
We await great events.
We are spread through this earth.
We protect our strong race.
You are useless.
Your cell takes the place
of our young future strength.

Though they sleep or wake to torment
and wish to displace our old cells—
thin rare gold—
that their larve grow fat—
is our task the less sweet?

Though we wander about,
find no honey of flowers in this waste,
is our task the less sweet—
who recall the old splendour,
await the new beauty of cities?

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

---

[Lika_k]

Тадеуш Ружевич
Уцелевший
Мне двадцать четыре года
уцелел,
когда вели на бойню.

Вот названия - пусты и однозначны:
человек и зверь
любовь и ненависть
враг и друг
Темнота и свет.

Человека убивают так, как зверя
я видел:
фургоны, полные изрубленных людей,
Которым не найти спасенья.

Понятие по сути только слово:
порок и добродетель
обман и правда
красота и мерзость
мужество и трусость

Один и тот же вес у добродетели с пороком
я видел:
человека, который был один -
и благороден, и порочен.

Ищу учителя, наставника,
пусть он вернёт мне речь, и зрение, и слух
пусть он ещё раз назовёт понятия и вещи
пусть он отделит свет от темноты.

Мне двадцать четыре года
уцелел,
когда вели на бойню.

пер. ?

@темы: polish, 20, ro'z'ewicz, tadeusz, р (rus)

---

[Lika_k]

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
But we bring violets,
great masses—single, sweet,
wood-violets, stream-violets,
violets from a wet marsh.
Violets in clumps from hills,
tufts with earth at the roots,
violets tugged from rocks,
blue violets, moss, cliff, river-violets.
Yellow violets' gold,
burnt with a rare tint—
violets like red ash
among tufts of grass.
We bring deep-purple
bird-foot violets.
We bring the hyacinth-violet,
sweet, bare, chill to the touch—
and violets whiter than the in-rush
of your own white surf.

III
For you will come,
you will yet haunt men in ships,
you will trail across the fringe of strait
and circle the jagged rocks.
You will trail across the rocks
and wash them with your salt,
you will curl between sand-hills—
you will thunder along the cliff;—
break—retreat—get fresh strength—
gather and pour weight upon the beach.
You will draw back,
and the ripple on the sand-shelf
will be witness of your track.

O privet-white, you will paint
the lintel of wet sand with froth.
You will bring myrrh-bark
and drift laurel-wood from hot coasts!
when you hurl high—high—
we will answer with a shout.
For you will come,
you will come,
you will answer our taut hearts,
you will break the lie of men's thoughts,
and cherish and shelter us.

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

---

[Lika_k]

Тадеуш Ружевич
Баллада о винтовке
Сын-сынок, мой голубочек
Что кричишь ты ночью
Сын-сынок, моё сердечко
Что с тобой случилось?

Мама, мама
Были прямо в нашем доме
Головы рубили,
Нам сердца вырвали
Дом наш подпалили

Мама, мама
Где моя винтовка?

Сыночек, сыночек,
Что тебе приснилось?
Кончилась война-то
Дом наш стоит наш белый
А в саду деревья

Сын-сынок, мой голубочек
Что с тобой случилось?

Мама, мама
Где моя винтовка?
Слышал я шаги их
Видел я их лица
Скрытые во мраке

Где моя винтовка?
Надо убивать их.
Война не кончалась.
Надо убивать их
В Греции и в Испании
В Индии в Китае
Даже под землёю.

Иль дойдут досюда
И дом наш подпалят
Вырубят деревья
И сердца нам вырвут.

пер. ?

@темы: polish, 20, ro'z'ewicz, tadeusz, р (rus)

---

[Lika_k]

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.

Your feet cut steel on the paths,
I followed for the strength
of life and grasp.
I have seen beautiful feet
but never beauty welded with strength.
I marvelled at your height.

You stood almost level
with the lance-bearers
and so slight.

And I wondered as you clasped
your shoulder-strap
at the strength of your wrist
and the turn of your young fingers,
and the lift of your shorn locks,
and the bronze
of your sun-burnt neck.

All of this,
and the curious knee-cap,
fitted above the wrought greaves,
and the sharp muscles of your back
which the tunic could not cover—
the outline
no garment could deface.

I wonder if you knew how I watched,
how I crowded before the spearsmen—
but the gods wanted you,
the gods wanted you back.

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

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[Lika_k]

Иосиф Бродский
Одиночество
Когда теряет равновесие
твоё сознание усталое,
когда ступеньки этой лестницы
уходят из под ног,
как палуба,
когда плюёт на человечество
твоё ночное одиночество, -
ты можешь
размышлять о вечности
и сомневаться в непорочности
идей, гипотез, восприятия
произведения искусства,
и - кстати - самого зачатия
Мадонной сына Иисуса.
Но лучше поклоняться данности
с глубокими её могилами,
которые потом,
за давностью,
покажутся такими милыми.

Да.
Лучше поклоняться данности
с короткими её дорогами,
которые потом
до странности
покажутся тебе
широкими,
покажутся большими,
пыльными,
усеянными компромиссами,
покажутся большими крыльями,
покажутся большими птицами.
Да. Лучше поклонятся данности
с убогими её мерилами,
которые потом до крайности,
послужат для тебя перилами
(хотя и не особо чистыми),
удерживающими в равновесии
твои хромающие истины
на этой выщербленной лестнице.

@темы: б, 20, brodsy, joseph, russian

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[Lika_k]

Gwendolyn Brooks
When you have forgotten Sunday: the love story
—And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday,
And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday—
When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed,
Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limping afternoon
Looking off down the long street
To nowhere,
Hugged by my plain old wrapper of no-expectation
And nothing-I-have-to-do and I’m-happy-why?
And if-Monday-never-had-to-come—
When you have forgotten that, I say,
And how you swore, if somebody beeped the bell,
And how my heart played hopscotch if the telephone rang;
And how we finally went in to Sunday dinner,
That is to say, went across the front room floor to the ink-spotted table in the southwest corner
To Sunday dinner, which was always chicken and noodles
Or chicken and rice
And salad and rye bread and tea
And chocolate chip cookies—
I say, when you have forgotten that,
When you have forgotten my little presentiment
That the war would be over before they got to you;
And how we finally undressed and whipped out the light and flowed into bed,
And lay loose-limbed for a moment in the week-end
Bright bedclothes,
Then gently folded into each other—
When you have, I say, forgotten all that,
Then you may tell,
Then I may believe
You have forgotten me well.

@темы: b, 20, english-american

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[Lika_k]

Октавио Пас
Пришелец
Я понял на ходу, что я в тумане.
Струились лица, контуры текли,
все исчезало прежде, чем возникнуть.

Я плелся по безлюдным мостовым.
Вдруг на углу мне улыбнулся мальчик,
и мне взбрело потрогать его кожу
и убедиться, что она живая.
Но кисть руки в мальчишеских вихрах
растаяла – и мальчик содрогнулся,
впервые ощутив небытие.
И замер, изумленный этой дрожью.

Я плыл, меня несло ленивым ветром.
Стал виден сад и женщина в саду.
Я крикнул "Это я! Ты не узнала?"
Слова мои, бесшумные снежинки,
расплылись в безответной тишине.
Чтоб добудиться, я поцеловал,
но губ ее, изваянных из камня,
коснулся только воздух – и казалось,
что целовало их воспоминанье.
И я оставил женщину вдвоем
с ее судьбой – остаться изваяньем.

И вновь меня несло ленивым ветром.
И были серы площади и стены.
И люди во плоти или в металле
выказывали, как они горды
быть явью, плотью, кровью или бронзой.
(А между тем наедине с собой
довольно взгляда, зеркала, молчанья,
чтобы разверзлась бездна под ногами –
мгновенье пустоты, неумолимость,
неизмеримость этого провала,
и злая безнадежность ожиданья,
и вечный страх, что ты такой, как есть.)

Опять меня несло ленивым ветром.
Пустыни улиц. Крик. Небытие.
И, от химер устав, я растворился
в тумане, из которого возник.

@темы: 20, latinoamericano, п

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[Lika_k]

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.

But you—you are unsheltered,
cut with the weight of wind—
you shudder when it strikes,
then lift, swelled with the blast—
you sink as the tide sinks,
you shrill under hail, and sound
thunder when thunder sounds.

You are useless—
when the tides swirl
your boulders cut and wreck
the staggering ships.

II
You are useless,
O grave, O beautiful,
the landsmen tell it—I have heard—
you are useless.

And the wind sounds with this
and the sea
where rollers shot with blue
cut under deeper blue.

O but stay tender, enchanted
where wave-lengths cut you
apart from all the rest—
for we have found you,
we watch the splendour of you,
we thread throat on throat of freesia
for your shelf.

You are not forgot,
O plunder of lilies,
honey is not more sweet
than the salt stretch of your beach.

III
Stay—stay—
but terror has caught us now,
we passed the men in ships,
we dared deeper than the fisher-folk
and you strike us with terror
O bright shaft.

Flame passes under us
and sparks that unknot the flesh,
sorrow, splitting bone from bone,
splendour athwart our eyes
and rifts in the splendour,
sparks and scattered light.

Many warned of this,
men said:
there are wrecks on the fore-beach,
wind will beat your ship,
there is no shelter in that headland,
it is useless waste, that edge,
that front of rock—
sea-gulls clang beyond the breakers,
none venture to that spot.

IV
But hail—
as the tide slackens,
as the wind beats out,
we hail this shore—
we sing to you,
spirit between the headlands
and the further rocks.

Though oak-beams split,
though boats and sea-men flounder,
and the strait grind sand with sand
and cut boulders to sand and drift—

your eyes have pardoned our faults,
your hands have touched us—
you have leaned forward a little
and the waves can never thrust us back
from the splendour of your ragged coast.

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

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[Lika_k]

Осип Мандельштам
Silentium
Она еще не родилась,
Она и музыка и слово,
И потому всего живого
Ненарушаемая связь.

Спокойно дышат моря груди,
Но, как безумный, светел день,
И пены бледная сирень
В черно-лазоревом сосуде.

Да обретут мои уста
Первоначальную немоту,
Как кристаллическую ноту,
Что от рождения чиста!

Останься пеной, Афродита,
И слово в музыку вернись,
И сердце сердца устыдись,
С первоосновой жизни слито!

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

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[Lika_k]

Ingeborg Bachmann
When you rise from the dead,
when I rise from the dead,
no stone will lie before the gate,
no boat will rest on the sea.
Tomorrow the casks will roll
toward Sunday waves,
we come on anointed
soles to the shore, wash
the grapes and stamp
the harvest into wine,
tomorrow, on the shore.
When you rise from the dead,
when I rise from the dead,
the hangman will hang at the gate,
the hammer will sink into the sea.

from “Songs from an Island”
tr. by Mark Anderson

@темы: b, 20, deutsche-oesterreichisch, bachmann, ingeborg

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[Lika_k]

Осип Мандельштам
Невыразимая печаль
Открыла два огромных глаза,
Цветочная проснулась ваза
И выплеснула свой хрусталь.

Вся комната напоена
Истомой - сладкое лекарство!
Такое маленькое царство
Так много поглотило сна.

Немного красного вина,
Немного солнечного мая -
И, тоненький бисквит ломая,
Тончайших пальцев белизна...

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

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[Lika_k]

Edith Wharton
All Souls
I
A Thin moon faints in the sky o'erhead,
And dumb in the churchyard lie the dead.
Walk we not, Sweet, by garden ways,
Where the late rose hangs and the phlox delays,
But forth of the gate and down the road,
Past the church and the yews, to their dim abode.
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.

II
Fear not that sound like wind in the trees:
It is only their call that comes on the breeze;
Fear not the shudder that seems to pass:
It is only the tread of their feet on the grass;
Fear not the drip of the bough as you stoop:
It is only the touch of their hands that grope—
For the year's on the turn and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can yearn and the dead can smite.

III
And where should a man bring his sweet to woo
But here, where such hundreds were lovers too?
Where lie the dead lips that thirst to kiss,
The empty hands that their fellows miss,
Where the maid and her lover, from sere to green,
Sleep bed by bed, with the worm between?
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.

IV
And now they rise and walk in the cold,
Let us warm their blood and give youth to the old.
Let them see us and hear us, and say: "Ah, thus
In the prime of the year it went with us!"
Till their lips drawn close, and so long unkist,
Forget they are mist that mingles with mist!
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the dead can burn and the dead can smite.

V
Till they say, as they hear us—poor dead, poor dead!—
"Just an hour of this, and our age-long bed—
Just a thrill of the old remembered pains
To kindle a flame in our frozen veins,
A touch, and a sight, and a floating apart,
As the chill of dawn strikes each phantom heart—
For it's turn of the year and All Souls' night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight."

VI
And where should the living feel alive
But here in this wan white humming hive,
As the moon wastes down, and the dawn turns cold,
And one by one they creep back to the fold?
And where should a man hold his mate and say:
"One more, one more, ere we go their way"?
For the year's on the turn, and it's All Souls' night,
When the living can learn by the churchyard light.

VII
And how should we break faith who have seen
Those dead lips plight with the mist between,
And how forget, who have seen how soon
They lie thus chambered and cold to the moon?
How scorn, how hate, how strive, wee too,
Who must do so soon as those others do?
For it's All Souls' night, and break of the day,
And behold, with the light the dead are away. . .

@темы: 20, w, english-american

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[Lika_k]

Хуан Рамон Хименес
Я просто сказал однажды -
услышать она сумела, -
мне нравится, чтоб весною
любовь одевалась белым.

Глаза голубые вскинув,
взглянула с надеждой зыбко
и только детские губ
светились грустной улыбкой.

С тех пор, когда через площадь
я шел на майском закате,
она стояла у двери,
серьезная, в белом платье.

пер. Н. Ванханен

@темы: espanol, 20, х (rus)

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[Lika_k]

Christine Lavant
Who will help ME to starve tonight
and all the nights which may yet come?
The round moon makes a wide arc
away from me, I am already too slim for it.

How I would love it now to drop my eyes
like gravel from the window,
for a drunk down in the street
to tread them deep into first snow.

But even blind, I would still
know everything and see you leave
over again, for sparks climb
like stars of hunger from my crying.

tr. by David Chorlton.

@темы: 20, deutsche-oesterreichisch, l

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[Lika_k]

Анна Свирщинская
Счастлива как хвост собаки
Счастлива как что-то несущественное
и свободна как нечто несуществующее.
Как что-то никем не отмеченное
также как не отмеченное и собой.
Как кто-то над кем издеваются все
а он издевается над их же издёвками.
Как смех без серьезной причины.
Как крик могущий вырываться.
Счастлива не смотря ни на что
как и другие не глядящие ни на что.

Счастлива
как хвост собаки.

Пер. Р.Винниченко

@темы: polish, 20, с (rus), swirszczynska, anna

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[Lika_k]

Sir Henry Newbolt (1862–1938)
Vitaï Lampada
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night --
Ten to make and the match to win --
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red, --
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; --
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks,
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

This is the word that year by year
While in her place the School is set
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind --
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

@темы: n, 19, english-british

---

[Lika_k]

Federico García Lorca
El niño mudo
El niño busca su voz.
(La tenía el rey de los grillos.)
En una gota de agua
buscaba su voz el niño.
No la quiero para hablar;
me haré con ella un anillo
que llevará mi silencio
en su dedo pequeñito.

En una gota de agua
buscaba su voz el niño.

(La voz cautiva, a lo lejos,
se ponía un traje de grillo.

Федерико Гарсиа Лорка
Немой мальчик
Мальчик искал свой голос,
спрятанный принцем-кузнечиком.
Мальчик искал свой голос
в росных цветочных венчиках.
- Сделал бы я из голоса
колечко необычайное,
мог бы я в это колечко
спрятать свое молчание.
Мальчик искал свой голос
в росных цветочных венчиках,
а голос звенел вдалеке,
одевшись зеленым кузнечиком.

Пер. М. Самаев

Federico García Lorca
The Little Mute Boy
The little boy was looking for his voice.
(The king of the crickets had it.)
In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.

I do not want it for speaking with;
I will make a ring of it
so that he may wear my silence
on his little finger

In a drop of water
the little boy was looking for his voice.

(The captive voice, far away,
put on a cricket’s clothes.)

translated by W.S. Merwin

@темы: espanol, л, 20, lorca, l