[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
Pressmarked Urgent
'Mens sana in corpore sano' — Motto for Press Corps
DESPATCH ADGENERAL PUBLICS EXTHE WEST
PERPETUAL MOTION QUITE UNFINDING REST
ADVANCES ETRETREATS UPON ILLUSION
PREPARES NEW METAPHYSICS PERCONFUSION

PARA PERDISPOSITION ADNEW EVIL
ETREFUSAL ADCONCEDE OUR ACTS ADDEVIL
NEITHER PROFIT SHOWS NOR LOSS
SEDSOME MORE PROPHETS NAILED ADCROSS

ATTACK IN FORCE SURMEANS NONENDS
BY MULTIPLYING CONFUSION TENDS
ADCLOUD THE ISSUES WHICH ARE PLAIN
COLON DISTINGUISH PROFIT EXGAIN

ETBY SMALL CONCEPTS LONG NEGLECTED
FIND VIRTUE SUBACTION CLEAR REFLECTED
ETWEIGHING THE QUANTUM OF THE SIN
BEGIN TO BE REPEAT BEGIN.

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

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[Lika_k]

Alberto Caeiro
Poemas Inconjuntos
O PENÚLTIMO POEMA
Também sei fazer conjecturas.
Há em cada coisa aquilo que ela é que a anima.
Na planta está por fora e é uma ninfa pequena.
No animal é um ser interior longínquo.
No homem é a alma que vive com ele e é já ele.
Nos deuses tem o mesmo tamanho
E o mesmo espaço que o corpo
E é a mesma coisa que o corpo.
Por isso se diz que os deuses nunca morrem.
Por isso os deuses não têm corpo e alma
Mas só corpo e são perfeitos.
O corpo é que lhes é alma
E têm a consciência na própria carne divina.

7-5-1922

Алберто Каэйро (1889-1915) (гетероним Фернандо Пессоа)
Бессвязные стихи
Строить догадки о том и о том - это я тоже умею.
В каждой вещи есть нечто, которое есть ее суть,
И оно-то и делает вещи живыми.
В растенье мы его видим глазом невооруженным -
этакой крохотной нимфой.
В животном - оно существо, притаившееся в глубине.
В человеке - это душа, существующая с ним вместе
неразделимо.
В богах оно, это нечто, имеет те же размеры,
И пространство оно занимает то же, что тело.
Это и есть их тело.
По этой причине мы говорим, что боги бессмертны.
Боги не состоят из души и тела.
У них есть одно лишь тело, и они совершенны.
Тело для них - душа,
И сознанье их - в их же божественной плоти.

пер. Ю. Левитанский

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

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[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
The Daily Mirror
Writing this stuff should not have been like
Suicide over some ordinary misapprehension:

A man going into his own house, say,
Turning out all the lights before undressing,

At the bedside of some lovely ignoramus
Whispering: 'Tomorrow I swear is the last time.'

Or: 'Believe, and I swear you will never die.'
This nib dragged out like the late train

Racing on iron bars for the north.

Target: another world, not necessarily better,

Of course, but different, completely different.
The hour-glass shifting its trash of seconds.

If it does not end this way perhaps some other.
Gossip lying in a furnished room, blinds drawn.

A poem with its throat cut from ear to ear.

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

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[Lika_k]

Alberto Caeiro
Poemas Inconjuntos
Quando está frio no tempo do frio, para mim é como se estivesse agradável,
Porque para o meu ser adequado à existência das coisas
O natural é o agradável só por ser natural.

Aceito as dificuldades da vida porque são o destino,
Como aceito o frio excessivo no alto do Inverno—
Calmamente, sem me queixar, como quem meramente aceita,
E encontra uma alegria no facto de aceitar—
No facto sublimemente científico e difícil de aceitar o natural inevitável.

Que são para mim as doenças que tenho e o mal que me acontece
Senão o Inverno da minha pessoa e da minha vida?
O Inverno irregular, cujas leis de aparecimento desconheço,
Mas que existe para mim em virtude da mesma fatalidade sublime,
Da mesma inevitável exterioridade a mim,
Que o calor da terra no alto do Verão
E o frio da terra no cimo do Inverno.

Aceito por personalidade.
Nasci sujeito como os outros a erros e a defeitos,
Mas nunca ao erro de querer compreender demais,
Nunca ao erro de querer compreender só com a inteligência.
Nunca ao defeito de exigir do Mundo
Que fosse qualquer coisa que não fosse o Mundo.

Алберто Каэйро (1889-1915) (гетероним Фернандо Пессоа)
Бессвязные стихи
Когда холод приходит порой холодов - это мне
по душе,
Ибо мне, этой малой частице всего, что вокруг,
Все приятно в природе уже потому, что оно
от природы.
Я все трудное в жизни приемлю, как долю свою,
Как приемлю и холод чрезмерный в разгаре зимы -
Так приемлю спокойно, без жалоб, как всякий, кто
просто приемлет
И находит великую радость в самом этом факте
приятья,
В этом трудном и мудром приятье велений природы.
Что такое болезни мои и невзгоды,
Как не та же зима моего существа
и всей жизни моей?
Та зима, что приходит внезапно, и мне неизвестны
законы ее появленья,
Но в которой я вижу высокую ту неизбежность,
Как во всем неизбежном, что есть вне меня
и помимо меня,
Как тепло, что восходит от летней земли,
Или холод от зимней земли.

Я приемлю, поскольку я есть человек.
Я, как все, обречен от рожденья иметь недостатки
и делать ошибки,
Но не эту ошибку - желанье понять слишком много,
И не эту ошибку - желанье понять одним разумом
только,
И не тот недостаток - желать, чтобы в жизни
Было нечто такое, что не было б жизнью.

пер. Ю. Левитанский

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

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[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
'A Soliloquy of Hamlet'
(to Anne Ridler)
I
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.

II
One innocent observer in a foreign cell
Died when my father lay beside his ghost.

Dumb poison in the hairy ear of kings
Can map the nerves and halt the tick of hearts.

The phoenix burning at his window-sill
Put peace around him like a great basin.

So whether the ocean curved beneath his dreams
On floors full of the sea-shell's music,

His privacy aims like a pointed finger:
Death grows like poison-ivy on a stick.

Truly his unruly going grows like a green wand
Between the broken pavements of the heart,

And all whose blood ticks fast at funerals
Must dread the tapping of the vellum drum.

III
Guilt can lie heavier than house of tortoise.
Winter and love, O desperate medicines,

Under the turf we bless the wishing spring,
The seed from the index-finger of the saint.

To the snow I sing out this hoarse prescription:
'Sweet love, from the enduring geometric egg,

An embryo grinning in its coloured cap,
O I walk under a house of horn, seeking a door.'

The charming groans of ladies come to me
From the nursery sills of an invented climate:

My outlawed mother patient at the loom,
Behind her, oaks, their nude machinery,

The dark ones shining on their snowy tuffets.
I take this image on a screaming nib.

IV
Here in the hollow curvature of the world,
Now time turns through her angles on a dial,

The unspeaking surgeon cuts beneath the fur,
And pain forever green winds her pale horn.

Make in the beautiful harbours of the heart,
For scholars sitting at their fire-lit puzzles,

The three-fold climate and the anchorage.
Make in the dormitory of the self

For sleepless murders combing out the blood
A blessing and an armistice to fear.

Though bankers pile debentures to the worm,
And death like Sunday only brings the owls

Though some must founder trying for the rock,
Bless mice and women in their secret places.

V
To you in high heaven the unattainable,
The surnamed Virgin, I lift a small scripture,

Brushed by the quill of a black boy's madness;
Pour one sweet drop of mercy on the mind!

You three, being holy and great linguists,
The oval singers of the Cretan eikon,

Give to the ghost your charity's ghostly shirt,
Defence by pity and a green captivity.

Consider: here the thorn crawled in the heart,
Here traitors laid an axe upon the root.

Grant like a bruise his sweetest homecoming,
Find laughing Hamlet sitting in a tree,

The silken duchess frowning at her baubles,
And swart Ophelia crooning at her lauds.

VI
Winter and love are Euclid's properties.
The charm of candles smoking on a coffin

Like nursery years upon a birthday cake,
Teach, like the soft declensions of the term,

How dust being sifted from the sheet of nuns,
Returns beneath the swollen veil once more,

So women bend like trees and utter figs,
And children from their pillows prophesy.

The unnumbered garrison still holds the womb.
O suffer the mirages of the dazed ladies,

Give love with all its tributary patience
That when the case of bones is broken open,

The heart can bless, or the sad skin of saints
Be beaten into drum-heads for the truth.

VII
Walk upon dreams, and pass behind the book.
Hamlet is nailed between the thieves of love.

Wear the black waistcoat, boy, for death is king,
His margin is a waxen candle-dip at night:

By day a grace-note in the mid of silence,
The gambler smiling in his royal sheet.

For this I put the obol in the lips.
For this I wear my sex beneath a towel.

I take the round skull of the nunnery girl
To bless until the tears break in the brain;

As those who by the Babylonian fable
Hung up their piercing harps beside the waters,

I hang my heart, being choked, upon a noun.
I hang her name upon this frantic pothook.

VIII
I close an hinge on the memorial days.
I perch my pity on an alp of silence.

Cold water took my pretty by the beard,
Flatter than glass she blew to the tongueless zone.

I learn now from nightingale on the spit
The science of the cowl and killing-bottle.

I hum now the harsh tune of the too finite swan,
Piping behind the ambush of my guilt.

My comfort smiled on me and gave me flowers:
Freckles, as on a sparrow's egg, and quiet faces.

The water strips her humour like a bean.
Barbarian ladies with their fingernails,

Strip off her simple reason like a wedding-dress.
She turns upon the pedals of her prison.

IX
Pain hangs more bloody than the mystic's taws.
Down corridors of pain I follow patience,

Make notes behind the nerve-ends of the brain.
Lean, lean on the iron elbow of the armoured man,

Button the nipples on his coat of mercy,
The widow walking in a rubber mask!

Your murderer's napkin hangs upon a bush,
And the king who stiffens in a shirt of blood,

Too good, too grave to number with the crumbs,
Can leave an incubus to this winter castle.

Shoot back the lips like bolts upon your grace.
Make thimble of the mouth to suck your fly.

I cool my spittle on the smoking hook.

I take these midnight thoughts between a tong.

X
As husband is laid down beside the lute,
Widow and minstrel in a single cerement,

So I on the plinth of passing, shall I marry
The lunatic image in the raven frock?

The curved meridian of hazard like a bow
Paints on the air the dark tree of my death

Gums without ivory for the skeletal smile:
A natal joker squeaking in his crib.

Here birth and death are knitted by a vowel.
A mariner must sail his crew of furies

Beyond the hook of hazard to the oceanic lands.
His prayers will bubble up before the throne.

I, now, go, where the soliloquy of the sad bee
O numbs the nettles and the hieroglyphic stone.

XI
On the stone sill of the embalming winter
I tell my malady by the wheel and the berry,

The hunters making their necklace on the hills.
The escaping dead hang frozen down like flags,

A breathing frost upon the eyeball lens
Blooms like still poison in a dish of quinces.

Spawn of the soft, the unwrinkled womb of queens,
I add my number to the world's defeated,

I learn the carrion's scientific torpor
The five-day baby swollen with its gases,

The nun who fell from the ladder of Jacob

My love hangs longer than the tongue of hound.

I kneel at the keyhole of death's private room
To meet His eye, enormous in the keyhole.

XII
This pain goes deeper than the fish's fathom.
Peel me an olive-branch and hold it shining:

You have Ophelia smiling at her chess,
The suit of love gored by the courtier's fang.

You have my mother folded like a rag,
Whiter than piano-keys the canine smile.

The marble statues bleed if she walks by,
Pacing the margins of the chequerboard

Where the soft rabbit and her man in black
Play move for move, the pawn against the prince.

O men have made cradles of their loving fingers
To rock my youth, and I have slipped between,

Led like the magi to the child's foul crib,
To hear my hands nailed up between two thieves.

XIII
Then walk where roses like disciples can
Aim at the heart their innocent attention.

Where the apostle-spring beneath the cover
Of throstle and dove, loves in his green asylum.

Time shall bestow a pupil to the nipple,
A red and popular baby born for the urn.

For him I make a book by the moving finger-bone,
A rattle, cap and comedy of queens.

Then suckle the weather if the winter will not,
Seal down a message in a dream of spring,

More than this painful meditation of feet,
The frigid autist pacing out his rope.

The candle and the lexicon have picked your bones.
The tallow spills upon my endless bible.

XIV
To you by whom the sweet spherical music
Makes in heaven a tree-stringed oracle,

I bend a sonnet like a begging-bowl,
And hang my tabor from the greenest willow-wand.

Give to the rufus sons of Pudding Island
The stainless sheet of a European justice,

That death's pure canon smiling in the trees
Can lure the fabulous lion from his walks.

My ash I dress to dance upon the void,
My mercy in a wallet like a berry bright,

And when hemp sings of murder bless your boy,
The double fellow in the labyrinth,

Whose maps were stifled with him in the maze,
Whose mother dropped him like the seedless pod.

@темы: s, d, links, 20, english-british, durrell, lawrence, shakespeare, r

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[Lika_k]

Alberto Caeiro
Poemas Inconjuntos
Quando tornar a vir a Primavera
Talvez já não me encontre no mundo.
Gostava agora de poder julgar que a Primavera é gente
Para poder supor que ela choraria,
Vendo que perdera o seu único amigo.
Mas a Primavera nem sequer é uma coisa:
É uma maneira de dizer.
Nem mesmo as flores tornam, ou as folhas verdes.
Há novas flores, novas folhas verdes.
Há outros dias suaves.
Nada torna, nada se repete, porque tudo é real.

7-11-1915

Алберто Каэйро (1889-1915) (гетероним Фернандо Пессоа)
Бессвязные стихи
В те дни, когда опять придет весна,
Меня уже, возможно, и не будет.
Хотел бы думать, что весна - как мы, как люди,
И может горько плакать, потеряв
Любимого единственного друга.
Но нет, она ведь даже не предмет -
Она скорее способ выраженья.
Не возвращаются ни листья, ни цветы.
Есть новые цветы, и есть другие листья.
Другие есть отраднейшие дни.
Ничто не может возвратиться, повториться,
Все сущее - оно, увы, реально.

пер. Ю. Левитанский

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

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[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
Cities, Plains and People
I
Once in idleness was my beginning,

Night was to the mortal boy
Innocent of surface like a new mind
Upon whose edges once he walked
In idleness, in perfect idleness.

O world of little mirrors in the light.
The sun's rough wick for everybody's day:
Saw the Himalayas like lambs there
Stir their huge joints and lay
Against his innocent thigh a stony thigh.

Combs of wind drew through this grass
To bushes and pure lakes
On this tasteless wind
Went leopards, feathers fell or flew:
Yet all went north with the prayer-wheel,
By the road, the quotation of nightingales.

Quick of sympathy with springs
Where the stone gushed water
Women made their water like thieves.

Caravans paused here to drink Tibet.
On draughty corridors to Lhasa
Was my first school
In faces lifted from saddles to the snows:
Words caught by the soft klaxons crying
Down to the plains and settled cities.

So once in idleness was my beginning.
Little known of better then or worse
But in the lens of this great patience
Sex was small,
Death was small,
Were qualities held in a deathless essence,
Yet subjects of the wheel, burned clear
And immortal to my seventh year.

To all who turn and start descending
The long sad river of their growth:
The tidebound, tepid, causeless
Continuum of terrors in the spirit,
I give you here unending
In idleness an innocent beginning

Until your pain become a literature.

II
Nine marches to Lhasa.

Those who went forward
Into this honeycomb of silence often
Gained the whole world: but often lost each other.
In the complexion of this country tears
Found no harbour in the breast of rock.
Death marched beside the living as a friend
With no sad punctuation by the clock.

But he for whom steel and running water
Were roads, went westward only
To the prudish cliffs and the sad green home
Of Pudding Island o'er the Victorian foam.

Here all as poets were pariahs.
Some sharpened little follies into hooks
To pick upon the language and survive.
Some in search could only found
Pulpits of smoke like Blake's Jerusalem.

For this person it was never landfall,
With so many representative young men
And all the old being obvious in feeling,
But like good crafty men

He saw the business witches in their bowlers,
The blackened Samsons of the green estate,
The earls from their cockney-boxes calling,
And knew before it was too late, London
Could only be a promise-giving kingdom.

Yet here was a window
Into the great sick-room, Europe,
With its dull set-books,
The Cartesian imperatives, Dante and Homer,
To impress the lame and awkward newcomer.

Here he saw Bede who softly
Blew out desire and went to bed,
So much greater than so many less
Who made their unconquered guilt in atrophy
A passport to the dead.

Here St. Augustine took the holy cue
Of bells in an English valley; and mad Jerome
Made of his longing half a home from home.

Scythes here faithfully mark
In their supple practice paths
For the lucky and unambitious owners.
But not a world as yet. Not a world.

Death like autumn falls
On the lakes its sudden forms, on walls
Where everything is made more marginal
By the ruling planes of the snow;
Reflect how Prospero was born to a green cell
While those who noted the weather-vane
In Beatrice's shadow sang
With the dying Emily: 'We shall never
Return, never be young again".

The defeat of purpose in days and lichens.
Some here unexpectedly put on the citizen,
Go walking to a church
By landscape rubbed in rain to grey
As wool on glass,
Thinking of spring which never comes to stay.

(The potential passion hidden, Wordsworth
In the desiccated bodies of postmistresses.
The scarlet splash of campion, Keats.
Ignorant suffering that closes like a lock.)

So here at last we did outgrow ourselves.
As the green stalk is taken from the earth,
With a great juicy sob, I turned him from a Man
To Mandrake, in Whose awful hand I am.

III
Prospero upon his island
Cast in a romantic form,
When his love was fully grown
He laid his magic down.

Truth within the tribal wells,
Innocent inviting creature
Does not rise to human spells
But by paradox

Teaches all who seek for her
That no saint or seer unlocks
The wells of truth unless he first
Conquer for the truth his thirst.

IV
So one fine year to where the roads
Dividing Europe meet in Paris.

The gnome was here and the small
Unacted temptations. Tessa was here whose dark
Quickened hair had brushed back rivers,
Trembling with stars by Buda,
In whose inconstant arms he waited
For black-hearted Descartes to seek him out
With all his sterile apparatus.
Now man for him became a thinking lobe,
Through endless permutations sought repose.
By frigid latinisms he mated now
To the hard frame of prose the cogent verb.

To many luck may give for merit
More profitable teachers. To the heart
A critic and a nymph:
And an unflinching doctor to the spirit.

All these he confined in metaphors,
She sleeping in his awkward mind
Taught of the pace of women or birds
Through the leafy body of man
Enduring like the mammoth, like speech
From the dry clicking of the greater apes
To these hot moments in a reference of stars
Beauty and death, how sex became
A lesser sort of speech, and the members doors.

V
Faces may settle sadly
Each into its private death
By business travel or fortune,
Like the fat congealing on a plate
Or the fogged negative of labour
Whose dumb fastidious rectitude
Brings death in living as a sort of mate.

Here however man might botch his way
To God via Valery, Gide or Rabelais.
All rules obtain upon the pilot's plan
So long as man, not manners, makyth man.
Some like the great Victorians of the past
Through old Moll Flanders sailed before the mast,
While savage Chatterleys of the new romance
Get carried off in Sex, the ambulance.
All rules obtain upon the pilot's chart
If governed by the scripture of the heart.

VI
Now November visiting with rain
Surprises and humbles with its taste of elsewhere,
Licks in the draughty galleries there,
Like a country member quickened by a province,
Turning over books and leaves in haste,
Takes at last her slow stains of waste
Down the stone stairs into the rivers.

And in the personal heart, weary
Of the piercing innocents in parks
Who sail the rapt subconscious there like swans,
Disturbs and brightens with her tears, thinking:

'Perhaps after all it is we who are blind,
While the unconscious eaters of the apple
Are whole as ingots of a process
Punched in matter by the promiscuous Mind.'

VII
By the waters of Buda
We surrendered arms, hearts, hands,
Lips for counting of kisses,
Fingers for money or touch,
Eyes for the hourglass sands.

Uncut and unloosened
Swift hair by the waters of Buda
In the shabby balcony rooms
Where the pulses waken and wonder
The churches bluff one as heart-beats
On the river their dull boom booms.

By the waters of Buda
Uncomb and unlock then,
Abandon and nevermore cherish
Queer lips, queer heart, hands.
There to futurity leave
The luckier lover who's waiting,
As, like a spring coiled up,
In the bones of Adam, lay Eve.

VIII
So Time, the lovely and mysterious
With promises and blessings moves
Through her swift degrees,
So gladly does he bear
Towards the sad perfect wife,
The rocky island and the cypress-trees.

Taken in the pattern of all solitaries,
An only child, of introspection got,
Her only playmates, lovers, in herself.
Nets were too coarse to hold her
Where the nymph broke through
And only the encircling arms of pleasure held.

Here for the five lean dogs of sense
Greece moved in calm memorial
Through her own unruffled blue,
Bearing in rivers upside down
The myrtle and the olive, in ruins
The faces of the innocents in wells.

Salt and garlic, water and dry bread,
Greek bread from the comb they knew
Like an element in sculpture:
By these red aerial cherries,
Or flawed grapes painted green
But pouted into breasts: as well
By those great quarries of the blood —
The beating crimson hearts of the grenades:
All far beyond the cupidity of verses
Or the lechery of images to tell.

Here worlds were confirmed in him.

Differences that matched like cloth
Between the darkness and the inner light,
Moved on the undivided breath of blue.
Formed moving, trees asserted here
Nothing but simple comparisons to
The artist's endearing eye.

Sleep. Napkins folded after grace.

Veins of stealing water
By the unplumbed ruins, never finding peace.
A watershed, a valley of tombs,
Never finding peace.

'Look' she might say Tress here
With your fingers at the temples.
Are they not the blunt uncut horns
Of the small naked Ionian fauns?'

Much later, moving in a dark,
Snow-lit landscape softly
In her small frock walked his daughter
And a simile came into his mind
Of lovers, like swimmers lost at sea,
Exhausted in each other's arms,
Urgent for land, but treading water.

IX
Red Polish mouth,
Lips that as for the flute unform,
Gone round on nouns or vowels,
To utter the accepting, calm
'Yes', or make terrible verbs
Like 'I adore, adore'.

Persuader, so long hunted
By your wild pack of selves,
Past peace of mind or even sleep,

So longed for and so sought,
May the divider always keep
Like unshed tears in lashes
Love, the undeclared thought.

X
Now earth turns her cold shoulders to us,
Autumn with her wild packs
Comes down to the robbing of the flowers.
On this unstained sky, printless
Snow moves crisp as dreamers' fingers,
And the rate of passion or tenderness
In this island house is absolute.

Within a time of reading
Here is all my growth
Through the bodies of other selves,
In books, by promise or perversity
My mutinous crew of furies — their pleading
Threw up at last the naked sprite
Whose flesh and noise I am,
Who is my jailor and my inward night.

In Europe, bound by Europe,
I saw them moving, the possessed
Fedor and Anna, the last
Two vain explorers of our guilt,
Turn by turn holding the taws,
Made addicts of each other lacking love,
Friendless embittered and alone.

The lesser pities held them back
Like mice in secrecies,
Yet through introspection and disease,
Held on to the unflinching bone,
The sad worn ring of Anna,
Loyal to filth and weakness,
Hammered out on this slender bond,
Fedor's raw cartoons and episodes.
By marriage with this ring,
Companioned each their darkness.
In cracked voices we can hear
These hideous mommets now
Like westering angels over Europe sing.

XI
So knowledge has an end,
And virtue at the last an end,
In the dark field of sensibility
The unchanging and unbending;
As in aquariums gloomy
On the negative's dark screen
Grow the shapes of other selves,
So groaned for by the heart,
So seldom grasped if seen.

Love bears you. Time stirs you.
Music at midnight makes a ground,
Or words on silence so perplex
In hidden meanings there like bogies
Waiting the expected sound.

Art has limits and life limits
Within the nerves that support them.

So better with the happy
Discover than with the wise
Who teach the sad valour
Of endurance through the seasons,
In change the unchanging
Death by compromise.

XII
Now darkness comes to Europe
Dedicated by a soft unearthly jazz.
The greater hearts contract their joys
By silence to the very gem,
While the impertinent reformers,
Barbarians with secretaries move,
Whom old Cavafy pictured,
Whom no war can remove.

Through the ambuscades of sex,
The follies of the will, the tears,
Turning, a personal world I go
To where the yellow emperor once
Sat out the summer and the snow,
And searching in himself struck oil,
Published the first great Tao
Which all confession can only gloze
And in the Consciousness can only spoil
Apparent opposition of the two
Where unlocked numbers show their fabric,

He laid his finger to the map,
And where the signs confuse,
Defined the Many and the None
As base reflections of the One.

What bifid Hamlet in the maze
Wept to find; the doppelgdnger
Goethe saw one morning go
Over the hill ahead; the man
So gnawed by promises who shared
The magnificent responses of Rimbaud.
All that we have sought in us,
The artist by his greater cowardice
In sudden brush-strokes gave us clues —
Hamlet and Faust as front-page news.
The yellow emperor first confirmed
By one Unknown the human calculus,
Where feeling and idea,
Must fall within this space,
This personal landscape built
Within the Chinese circle's calm embrace.

Dark Spirit, sum of all
That has remained unloved,
Gone crying through the world:
Source of all manufacture and repair,
Quicken the giving-spring
In ferns and birds and ordinary people
That all deeds done may share,
By this our temporal sun,
The part of living that is loving,
Your dancing, a beautiful behaviour.

Darkness, who contain
The source of all this corporal music,
On the great table of the Breath
Our opposites in pity bear,
Our measure of perfection or of pain,
Both trespassers in you, that then
Our Here and Now become your Everywhere.

XIII
The old yellow Emperor
With defective sight and matted hair
His palace fell to ruins
But his heart was in repair.

Veins like imperfect plumbing
On his flesh described a leaf.
His palms were mapped with cunning
Like geodesies of grief.

His soul became a vapour
And his limbs became a stake
But his ancient heart still visits us
In Lawrence or in Blake.

XIV
All cities plains and people
Reach upwards to the affirming sun,
All that's vertical and shining,
Lives well lived,
Deeds perfectly done,
Reach upwards to the royal pure
Affirming sun.

Accident or error conquered
By the gods of luck or grace,
Form and face,
Tribe or caste or habit,
All are aspects of the one
Affirming race.

Ego, my dear, and id
Lie so profoundly hid
In space-time void, though feeling,
While contemporary, slow,
We conventional lovers cheek to cheek
Inhaling and exhaling go.

The rose that Nostradamus
In his divining saw
Break open as the world;
The city that Augustine
Founded in moral law,
By our anguish were compelled
To urge, to beckon and implore.

Dear Spirit, should I reach,
By touch or speech corrupt,
The inner suffering word,
By weakness or idea,
Though you might suffer
Feel and know,
Pretend you do not hear.

XV
Bombers bursting like pods go down
And the seed of Man stars
This landscape, ancient but no longer known.
Only the critic perseveres
Within his ant-like formalism
By deduction and destruction steers;
Only the trite reformer holds his own.

See looking down motionless
How clear Athens or Bremen seem
A mass of rotten vegetables
Firm on the diagram of earth can lie;
And here you may reflect how genus epileptoid
Knows his stuff; and where rivers
Have thrown their switches and enlarged
Our mercy or our knowledge of each other;
Wonder who walks beside them now and why,
And what they talk about.

There is nothing to hope for, my Brother.
We have tried hoping for a future in the past.
Nothing came out of that past
But the reflected distortion and some
Enduring, and understanding, and some brave.
Into their cool embrace the awkward and the sinful
Must be put for they alone
Know who and what to save.

XVI
Small temptations now — to slumber and to sleep,
Where the lime-green, odourless
And pathless island waters
Crossing and uncrossing, partnerless
By hills alone and quite incurious
Their pastures of reflection keep.
For Prospero remains the evergreen
Cell by the margin of the sea and land,
Who many cities, plains, and people saw
Yet by his open door
In sunlight fell asleep
One summer with the Apple in his hand.

Beirut

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

---

[Lika_k]

Alberto Caeiro
Tu, místico, vês uma significação em todas as coisas.
Para ti tudo tem um sentido velado.
Há uma coisa oculta em cada coisa que vês.
O que vês, vê-lo sempre para veres outra coisa.
Para mim graças a ter olhos só para ver,
Eu vejo ausência de significação em todas as coisas;
Vejo-o e amo-me, porque ser uma coisa é não significar nada.
Ser uma coisa é não ser susceptível de interpretação.

12-4-1919

Алберто Каэйро (1889-1915) (гетероним Фернандо Пессоа)
Бессвязные стихи
Мистик, пытаешься ты вникнуть в суть вещей,
Все зримое ты наделяешь скрытым смыслом,
Лишь для того, чтоб в каждой вещи
Отыскивать ее иную суть.
Мои глаза даны мне, чтобы видеть,
Поэтому я вижу бессмыслицу вещей.
И, видя это, люблю себя за то, что я есть вещь
и ничего не значу,
И потому не поддаюсь истолкованью.

пер. М. Березкина

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

---

[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
A Noctuary in Athens
I
I have tasted my quantum of misfortune,
Have prayed before the left-handed woman;

Now as the rain of heaven downfalling tastes of space,
So the swimmer in the ocean of self, alone,

Utters his journey like a manual welcome,
Sculptures his element in search of grace.

II
I have sipped from the flask of resurrection,
Have eaten the oaten cake of redemption,

And love, sweet love, who weeps by the water-clock
Can bring if she will the sexton and the box,

For I wear my age as wood wears voluble leaves,
The temporal hunger and the carnal locks.

Ill
I have buried my wife under a dolmen,
Where others sleep as naked as the clouds,

Where others lie and weigh their dreams by ounces,
Where tamarisk, lentisk lean to utter sweets,

And angels in their shining moods retire:
Where from the wells the voice of truth pronounces.

IV
I have tasted my quantum of misfortune.
In the desert, the cities of ash and feathers,

In front of others I have spoken the vowel,
Knelt to the curly wool, the uncut horns;

Have carried my tribulation in a basket of wattle,
Solitary in my penitence as the owl.

V
I have set my wife's lip under the bandage,
pound the roses, bind the eye of the soul,

Recite the charm of the deep and heal soon,
For the mountains accuse, and the sky's walls.

Let the book of sickness be put in the embers.
1 have tasted my quantum of misfortune.

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

---

[Lika_k]

Алберто Каэйро (1889-1915) (гетероним Фернандо Пессоа)
Пастух
Теми словами или не теми,
Кстати или некстати,
Иногда мне удается сказать, что думаю.
Порой неумело и путано,
Я всегда пишу стихи по наитию.
Писать стихи - вовсе не означает водить
пером по бумаге,
Стихотворство - это потребность моего существа,
То, что в меня привносит солнце.

Я пытаюсь поведать о том, что чувствую,
Мысль моя - тоже чувство.
Облекая мысли в слова, я слов не ищу -
Они приходят сами,
Я не прогоняю слова сквозь коридоры рассудка;
Не всегда удается добыть истину.
Моя мысль медленно переплывает реку!
Тяжелы ей одежды, в которые ее облекли.

Я стараюсь сбросить с себя все, чему обучен,
Разбередить память,
Соскоблить краску, которой замазаны чувства,
Расцарапать истинные ощущения,
Освежевать себя, чтобы стать самим собой -
не Алберто Каэйро,
Но человечным животным в доподлинном естестве.

пер. М. Березкина

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

---

[Lika_k]

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.

We will never record it: the black
Choirs of water flowing on moss,
The black sun's kisses opening,
Upon their blindness, like two eyes
Enormous, open in bed against one's own.

Something sang in the firmament.
The past, my friend compelled you,
The charge of habit and love.
The olive in the blood awoke,
The stones of Athens in their pride
Will remember, regret and often bless.

Kisses in letter from home:
Crosses in the snow: now surely
Lover and loved exist again
By a strange communion of darkness.
Those who went in all innocence,
Whom the wheel disfigured: whom
Charity will not revisit or repair,
The innocent who fell like apples.

Consider how love betrays us:
In the conversation of the prophets
Who daily repaired the world
By profit and loss, with no text
On the unknown quantity
By whose possession all problems
Are only ink and air made words:
I mean friends everywhere who smile
And reach out their hands.

Anger inherits where love
Betrays: iron only can clean:
And praises only crucify the loved
In their matchless errand, death.
Remember the earth will roll
Down her old grooves and spring
Utter swallows again, utter swallows.

Others will inherit the sea-shell,
Murmuring to the foolish its omens,
Uncurving on the drum of the ear,
The vowels of an ocean beyond us,
The history, the inventions of the sea:
Upon all parallels of the salt wave,
To lovers lying like sculptures
In islands of smoke and marble,
Will enter the reflections of poets
By the green wave, the chemical water.

I have no fear for the land
Of the dark heads with aimed noses,
The hair of night and the voices
Which mimic a traditional laughter:
Nor for a new language where
A mole upon a dark throat
Of a girl is called 'an olive':
All these things are simply Greece.

Her blue boundaries are
Upon a curving sky of time,
In a dark menstruum of water:
The names of islands like doors
Open upon it: the rotting walls
Of the European myth are here
For us, the industrious singers,
In the service of this blue, this enormous blue.

Soon it will be spring. Out of
This huge magazine of flowers, the earth,
We will enchant the house with roses,
The girls with flowers in their teeth,
The olives full of charm: and all of it
Given: can one say that
Any response is enough for those

Who have a woman, an island and a tree?
I only know that this time
More than ever, we must bless
And pity the darling dead: the women
Winding up their hair into sea-shells,
The faces of meek men like dials,
The great overture of the dead playing,
Calling all lovers everywhere in all stations
Who lie on the circumference of ungiven kisses.

Exhausted rivers ending in the sand;
Windmills of the old world winding
And unwinding in musical valleys your arms.
The contemptible vessel of the body lies
Lightly in its muscles like a vine;
Covered the nerves: and like an oil expressed
From the black olive between rocks,
Memory lulls and bathes in its dear reflections.

Now the blue lantern of the night
Moves on the dark in its context of stars.
O my friend, history with all her compromises
Cannot disturb the circuit made by this,
Alone in the house, a single candle burning
Upon a table in the whole of Greece.

Your letter of the 4th was no surprise.
So Tonio had gone? He will have need of us.
The sails are going out over the old world.
Our happiness, here on a promontory,
Marked by a star, is small but perfect.
The calculations of the astronomers, the legends
The past believed in could not happen here.
Nothing remains but Joy, the infant Joy
(So quiet the mountain in its shield of snow,
So unconcerned the faces of the birds),
With the unsuspected world somewhere awake,
Born of this darkness, our imperfect sight,
The stirring seed of Nostradamus' rose.

@темы: s, d, 20, seferis, giorgos, english-british, helenike, durrell, lawrence

---

[Lika_k]

Алберто Каэйро (1889-1915) (гетероним Фернандо Пессоа)
Пастух
XXVI
Порою, при освещении ярком и точном,
Когда вещи до осязаемости реальны,
Я сам себя вопрошаю в недоуменье -
Почему я вещам приписываю красоту?

Разве сам по себе цветок красотой обладает?
Разве плод обладает сам по себе красотою?
Нет, они только цвет имеют, имеют форму,
Да жизнь еще им дана - не более того.
Красота - лишь названье чего-то, чего в природе
Не существует. Чем я наделяю предметы
В обмен на ту радость, что они доставляют мне.
Само же оно ничего не означает.
Почему ж я зову прекрасным то или то?

Да, даже меня, живущего так, как живется,
Касаются тоже все выдумки эти людские
О вещах,
О вещах, которые просто живут.

До чего же не просто оставаться самим собою
И видеть лишь то, что видно, - не более того!

пер. Ю. Левитанский

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

---

[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
Conon the Critic on the six Landscape Painters of Greece
On Peter of Thebes
'This landscape is not original in its own mode. First smells
were born — of resin and pine. Then someone got drunk on
arbutus berries. Finally as an explanatory text someone added
this red staunch clay and roots. You cannot smell one without
tasting the other — as with fish and red sauce.'

On Manoli of Crete
'After a lifetime of writing acrostics he took up a brush and
everything became twice as attentive. Trees had been trees be-
fore. Distinctions had been in ideas. Now the old man went
mad, for everything undressed and ran laughing into his arms.'

On Julian of Arcadia
'Arcadia is original in a particular sense. There is no feeling
of "Therefore" in it. Origin, reason, meaning it has none in the
sense of recognizable past. In this, both Arcadia and all good
poems are original.'

On Spiridon of Epirus
'You look at this landscape for five years. You see little but
something attentive watching you. Another five and you remark
a shape that is barely a shape; a shadow like the moon's penumbra.
Look a lifetime and you will see that the mountains lie like the
covers of a bed; and you discern the form lying under them.'

On Hero of Corinth
'Style is the cut of the mind. Hero was not much interested
in his landscape, but by a perpetual self-confession in art removed
both himself and his subject out of the reach of the people. Thus
one day there remained only a picture-frame, an empty studio,
and an idea of Hero the painter.'

On Alexander of Athens
'Alexander was in love with Athens. He was a glutton and
exhausted both himself and his subject in his art. Thus when
he had smelt a flower it was quite used up, and when he painted
a mountain it felt that living on could only be a useless competi-
tion against Alexander's painting of it. Thus with him Athens
ceased to exist, and we have been walking about inside his
canvases ever since looking for a way back from art into life.'

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

---

[Lika_k]

Алберто Каэйро (1889-1915) (гетероним Фернандо Пессоа)
Пастух
XX
Река Тежо лучше реки, что течет в моей деревне,
Но все же она не лучше реки, что течет
в моей деревне,
Ведь Тежо не та река, что течет в моей деревне.

Как прежде, ходят по Тежо большие суда,
И хранит она память
О кораблях минувших времен
Для тех, кто видит то, чего нет.

Река Тежо течет из Испании,
Впадает в океан в Португалии.
Об этом знают все.
Но мало кто знает, какая река течет в моей деревне,
По каким краям она протекает,
Где ее исток.
У моей реки мало хозяев,
Потому она так велика и свободна.

Река Тежо уходит в огромный мир,
Где в дальней дали - Америка.
И где ждет удача счастливчиков.
Но никто не думает
О запредельном береге моей реки.
Река деревни моей никуда не манит,
Кто стоит на ее берегу - тот всего лишь стоит
на ее берегу.

пер. М. Березкина

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

---

[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
Cavafy
I like to see so much the old man's loves
Egregious if you like and often shabby
Protruding from the ass's skin of verse,
For better or for worse,
The bones of poems cultured by a thirst —
Dilapidated taverns, dark eyes washed
Now in the wry and loving brilliance
Of such barbaric memories
As held them when the dyes of passion ran.
No cant about the sottishness of man!

The forest of dark eyes he mused upon,
Out of ikons, waking beside his own
In stuffy brothels on stained mattresses,
Watched by the melting vision of the flesh,
Eros the tutor of our callowness
Deployed like ants across his ageing flesh
The crises of great art, the riders
Of love, their bloody lariats whistling,
The cries locked in the quickened breath,
The love-feast of a sort of love-in-death.

And here I find him great. Never
To attempt a masterpiece of size —
You must leave life for that. No
But always to preserve the adventive
Minute, never to destroy the truth
Admit the coarse manipulations of the lie.
If only the brown fingers franking his love
Could once be fixed in art, the immortal
Episode be recorded — there he would awake

On a fine day to shed his acts like scabs,
The trespasses on life and living slake

In the taste, not of his death but of his dying:
And like the rest of us he died still trying.

@темы: c, d, 20, cavafy, english-british, helenike, durrell, lawrence

---

[Lika_k]

Алберто Каэйро (1889-1915) (гетероним Фернандо Пессоа)
Пастух
VIII
Однажды в полдень, в день конца весны,
Мне сон приснился - четкий, словно фото.
Я видел, как Христос сошел на землю.
Вновь став ребенком,
Он бежал с горы,
Бежал с горы, катился по траве
И рвал цветы, бросал их и смеялся -
Был слышен его смех издалека.

Он убежал с небес.
Он слишком нашим был, чтоб притворяться
Второй персоной в Троице небесной.
Там, в небе, было все ненастоящим,
Так явно контрастируя с земными
Деревьями, цветами и камнями.
Там должно было быть ему серьезным,
И становиться взрослым то и дело,
И на кресте все время умирать,
Венец надев с колючими шипами,
С ногами, приколоченными крепко
Гвоздями, и с набедренной повязкой,
Какие встарь носили дикари.
И мать с отцом ему иметь не полагалось
Таких же, как у всех других детей.
Его отец в двух лицах был - старик
По имени Иосиф, был он плотник
И не был, в сущности, ему отцом;
Другой был просто голубем, к тому же
Весьма престранным голубем, настолько,
Что голубем, по сути, не был он.
А мать его - она и не познала
Любви пред тем, как в свет ему явиться.
Она была как бы лишь колыбелью,
В которой он спустился к нам с небес.
И что ж, они хотели, чтобы он,
Рожденный лишь от матери одной
И не имевший никогда отца,
Которого бы мог он полюбить, -
Чтоб он носил с собою и в себе
Одну лишь доброту и справедливость!

Однажды, когда Бог-отец уснул,
А Дух Святой парил в небесной сини,
Из ящика чудес похитил он три чуда.
И первым сделал он, чтобы никто не
О том, что он навек покинул небо.
При помощи второго чуда стал он
Навечно человеком и ребенком.
А третьим чудом сотворил Христа,
Который на кресте пребудет вечно,
Там, в небесах, распятый на кресте,
Служа моделью для своих подобий.

Затем бегом пустился к солнцу
И по его лучу спустился наземь.
Теперь со мною он живет в моей деревне.
Отличный малый, и смешливый, и притом -
Сама естественность. То бегает по лужам,
То рвет цветы, любуясь ими,
А то в осла запустит камнем.
Охотно рвет плоды в чужих садах
И от собаки удирает с криком.
Еще и за девицами не прочь
Побегать, хоть и знает, что они
Едва ли с одобреньем принимают
Забавы эти, важно проходя
С кувшинами на смуглых головах.

Он научил меня всему. Он научил
Меня внимательнее вглядываться в вещи.
Он показал мне все, что есть в цветах.
Он обратил мое вниманье на изящность
Камней, когда в руках их держат люди
И не спеша разглядывают их.

Он очень странно говорит о Боге -
Как о больном и о наивном старце,
Который произносит иногда
Такие речи, коих смысл неясен.
Он о Марии говорит - она
Дни вечности проводит за вязаньем.
А Дух Святой все чистит клювом перья,
И там, где он сидел, витает дух,
Одним лишь голубям, увы, присущий.
И все на небесах примерно так же,
Как в церкви католической земной.
Он говорит мне, что Господь едва ли
Все понимает в том, что сам когда-то
Он сотворил, - "хоть я и сомневаюсь,
Что это он-то сам и сотворил".
Вот, например, он говорит, что "все живое
Хвалу ему поет, - но ничего
Живое не поет, иначе были б
Певцами все живые существа.
Живое - оно просто существует,
И оттого зовут его живым".
Затем, устав от этих разговоров
О Господе престранных, засыпает
Мой мальчик Иисус, и я несу,
К своей груди прижав его, домой.
..............................................................
Он в доме моем живет посреди холма.
Он - это Вечное Дитя, тот именно бог,
которого так нам недоставало.
Он - сама человечность, для которой
естественность - это суть.
Он - божество, которое к шалостям склонно
и улыбаться умеет.
Вот поэтому-то я и знаю точно,
Что именно он - настоящий маленький Иисус.

Этот ребенок, такой человеческий и потому
Божественный, всю повседневную жизнь поэта
Наполнил легко собою, и потому
Что он всегда и повсюду ходит со мною,
Я остаюсь поэтом всегда и везде.
Самый беглый мой взгляд
Наполняет меня ощущеньем,
И все тайные звуки
Адресуются именно мне.

Новый Ребенок, живущий там же, где я,
Простирает ко мне одну руку,
А другую протягивает всему остальному
Сущему в мире.
И так мы идем втроем по любой дороге,
Смеемся, поем и скачем,
Храня нашу тайну,
Которая состоит в максимальном знанье
Того, что в мире секретов не существует
И в мире достойно вниманья буквально все.
Вечный Ребенок пребывает всегда со мною.
И куда мне смотреть - указывает его палец.
И слух мой радостно внемлет каждому звуку -
Это он, расшалившись, щекочет в моих ушах.

Нам так хорошо друг с другом
И со всем, что нас окружает,
Что мы никогда и не думаем друг о друге,
А просто вместе живем
И живем вдвоем
В полном согласье,
Как левая с правой рука.

В сумерки
Мы играем в пять камешков
На пороге нашего дома,
Неторопливо,
Как подобает поэту и богу,
Так, словно каждый камешек - это Вселенная,
И поэтому так опасно
Его уронить.

Потом я рассказываю ему истории о делах
человеческих,
И он улыбается, ибо трудно ему в них поверить.
Он смеется над королями, и не только над ними,
И печалится, слыша рассказы мои о войнах,
О торговле и о громоздких морских судах.
Потому что он знает, что во всем этом
нет той правды,
Которую в себе заключает цветок расцветший
И которая бродит повсюду с солнечным светом,
Что спокойно струится от побеленных стен.

Потом он засыпает. Осторожно
Прижав к груди, несу его домой,
Кладу в постель и раздеваю догола,
Над ним по-матерински наклоняясь,
Как бы верша священный ритуал.

Он спит в моей душе, там, в глубине,
А ночью просыпаясь, он играет
Моими снами, вертит как попало,
Переворачивает вверх ногами,
И перемешивает, как захочет,
И хлопает в ладоши, улыбаясь
Причудливости снов моих ночных.
................................................................
Когда умру, мой мальчик, пусть я стану
Ребенком малым. Ты меня прижми
К своей груди
И отнеси в свой дом.
Раздень мое земное существо
Усталое, и уложи в постель,
И расскажи мне парочку историй,
Когда проснусь, чтоб я уснул опять.
И дай мне сны свои, чтоб поиграть
Я ими мог, покуда день родится,
Покуда день придет,
Какой - ты знаешь.
...................................
Вот такова история о нем,
О Мальчике моем, об Иисусе.
Так на каком разумном основанье
Не быть ей достоверней и правдивей,
Чем все, что нам философы твердят,
И все, чему религии нас учат?

пер. Ю. Левитанский

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

---

[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
A Water-Colour of Venice
Zarian was saying: Florence is youth,
And after it Ravenna, age,
Then Venice, second-childhood.
The pools of burning stone where time
And water, the old siege-masters,
Have run their saps beneath
A thousand saddle-bridges,
Puffed up by marble griffins drinking,
And all set free to float on loops
Of her canals like great intestines
Now snapped off like a berg to float,
Where now, like others, you have come alone,
To trap your sunset in a yellow glass,
And watch the silversmith at work
Chasing the famous salver of the bay . . .
Here sense dissolves, combines to print only
These bitten choirs of stone on water,
To the rumble of old cloth bells,
The cadging of confetti pigeons,
A boatman singing from his long black coffin . .

To all that has been said before
You can add nothing, only that here,
Thick as a brushstroke sleep has laid
Its fleecy unconcern on every visage,
At the bottom of every soul a spoonful of sleep.

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

---

[Lika_k]

Алберто Каэйро (1889-1915) (гетероним Фернандо Пессоа)
Пастух
III
В тусклом свете сумерек -
Поля за окном.
Я читаю до потемненья в глазах
Книгу стихов Сезарио Верде.

Что за горе! Он, бывший крестьянин,
Стал узником города, чья тюрьма - свобода.
Он так вглядывался в каждую улицу,
В каждый дом,
Пытаясь постичь все, что вокруг,
Как глядят на деревья,
На тропу под ногами,
Как смотрят на полевые цветы.
Его душу терзала такая тоска,
Что и в словах не мог он излить.
Шел он по улице, как идут вдоль межи,
И грустил, будто сорвал цветок,
В книге засушил или в вазу поставил...

пер. М. Березкина

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

---

[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
Visitations
Left like an unknown's breath on mirrors,
The enchanters, the persuaders
Whom the seasons swallow up,
Only leave us ash in saucers,
Or to mice the last invaders
Open cupboard-doors or else
Lipstick-marks upon a cup.

Fingerprint the crook of time,
Ask him what he means by it,
Eyes and thoughts and lovely bodies,
David's singing, Daphne's wit
Like Eve's apple undigested
Rot within us bit by bit.

Experience in a humour ends,
Wrapped in its own dark metaphor,
And divining winter breaks:
Now one by one the Hungers creep
Up from the orchards of the mind
Here to trouble and confuse
Old men's after-dinner sleep.

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

---

[Lika_k]

Алберто Каэйро (1889-1915) (гетероним Фернандо Пессоа)
Пастух
I
В жизни ни разу не пас я стада.
А все мне кажется - пас когда-то.
Моя душа, как пастух прилежный,
Близко знакома с солнцем и ветром
И, подчиняясь времени года,
Бродит, вдаль напряженно глядя.
Мир безлюдной этой природы
Со мной в согласии пребывает.
Лишь позже я становлюсь печальным,
Когда солнце, как кажется нам, уходит,
И тянет холодом из долины,
И ночь наступающая влетает,
Словно бабочка, к нам в окошко.

Впрочем, печаль моя, она спокойна,
Ибо естественна в своей сути -
Лишь ею и должно наполнить душу,
Когда ухе знаешь о ней, и руки
Обрывают цветы, хотя ей об этом
Ни за что на свете не догадаться.

От звона бубенчиков, зазвеневших
Где-то за поворотом дороги,
Вмиг благодать на меня нисходит.
Одно только жаль - что я о ней знаю,
Потому что, когда б я о ней не ведал,
Мои мысли, полные благодати,
Отзывались бы радостью, а не грустью.

Беспокойные мысли - они как дорога,
На которой все время и дождь и ветер.

У меня ни стремлений нет, ни желаний.
И не в том моя цель, чтобы быть поэтом.
Это просто мой способ быть одиноким.
Ну, а если мне хочется временами
На мгновенье представить себя барашком
(Или даже целым огромным стадом,
На заре рассыпавшимся по склону,
Или тысячью разных вещей счастливых) -
Это лишь оттого, что я сам ощущаю
Все, о чем я пишу на закате или
Когда туча свет прикрывает лапой
И по траве пробегает молчанье.
Когда я сижу, стихи сочиняя,
Или тихо по горной бреду тропинке
И пишу стихи свои на бумаге,
Воображаемой лишь условно, -
Я ощущаю в руках своих посох
И вижу свой силуэт, одиноко
Маячащий где-нибудь на вершине.
Когда я поглядываю на стадо,
Я вижу собственные свои мысли,
А когда я заглядываю в свои мысли,
Я вижу стадо свое и смутно
Тогда улыбаюсь, как тот, кто смысла
Собственной речи не понимает,
А лишь притворяется, что понимает.

Приветствую всех, кто меня читает.
Я молча снимаю пред ними шляпу,
Когда по дороге ползет телега
И они замечают меня у двери.
Я приветствую их, я желаю им солнца,
А также дождя, когда дождь им нужен,

А также чтоб возле окна в их доме
Всегда стоял бы их стул любимый,
На котором они, удобно усевшись,
Под вечер стихи бы мои читали.
И чтобы, читая стихи, считали,
Что я тоже некая часть природы,
Вроде старого дерева, под которым
В своем давнем детстве, уже забытом;
Наигравшись вдоволь, они сидели,
Утирая лоб свой разгоряченный
Рукавом полосатой своей рубашки.

пер. Ю. Левитанский

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