[Lika_k]

Антеру де Кентал (1842-1891)
Избавление
I
Голос волн, деревьев, голос ветров!
В горестном сне слышу голос могучий,
Полон я весь мукой вашей певучей -
Мукой родной странных ваших миров...

Сумрачное дыхание дубров -
Это псалом тайных, темных созвучий,
Может, весь мир плачет во тьме текучей,
Сетует во тьме немых вечеров?

Форм бегущих огненна и тяжка
По свободе трепетная тоска,
Дух, что к воле ртвется, в даль бездорожний.

Жалобой тревожат ночной простор
Голос моря, голос далеких гор...
Души - сестры мои, пленницы тоже.

II
Первобытный хор ночных голосов:
Ветер стылый и морские приливы.
Замолчите, этот стон сиротливый -
На кладбище вой одичалых псов.

Знайте, будет день, на призрачный зов
Вы придете, вы очнетесь, счастливы,
Радугой взрывая сумрак пугливый
Сна гнетущего жестоких часов.

Души, что стряхнут вековечный прах,
Чистой мыслью став в синих небесах,
Медленно паря в золотом свеченьи,

Вы увидите крушение их:
Форм несбывшихся, иллюзий больных.
И растает ваше злое мученье.

пер. Ир. Фещенко-Скворцова

@темы: portuguese, sonnet, 19, к (rus)

---

[Lika_k]

Siegfried Sassoon
War Poems
The Last Meeting
I
Because the night was falling warm and still
Upon a golden day at April's end,
I thought; I will go up the hill once more
To find the face of him that I have lost,*
And speak with him before his ghost has flown
Far from the earth that might not keep him long.

So down the road I went, pausing to see
How slow the dusk drew on, and how the folk
Loitered about their doorways, well content
With the fine weather and the waxing year.
The miller's house, that glimmered with grey walls,
Turned me aside; and for a while I leaned
Along the tottering rail beside the bridge
To watch the dripping mill-wheel green with damp.
The miller peered at me with shadowed eyes
And pallid face: I could not hear his voice
For sound of the weir's plunging. He was old.
His days went round with the unhurrying wheel.

Moving along the street, each side I saw
The humble, kindly folk in lamp-lit rooms;
Children at table; simple, homely wives;
Strong, grizzled men; and soldiers back from war,
Scaring the gaping elders with loud talk.

Soon all the jumbled roofs were down the hill,
And I was turning up the grassy lane
That goes to the big, empty house that stands
Above the town, half-hid by towering trees.
I looked below and saw the glinting lights:
I heard the treble cries of bustling life,
And mirth, and scolding; and the grind of wheels.
An engine whistled, piercing-shrill, and called
High echoes from the sombre slopes afar;
Then a long line of trucks began to move.

It was quite still; the columned chestnuts stood
Dark in their noble canopies of leaves.
I thought; 'A little longer I'll delay,
And then he'll be more glad to hear my feet,
And with low laughter ask me why I'm late.
The place will be too dim to show his eyes,
But he will loom above me like a tree,
With lifted arms and body tall and strong."

There stood the empty house; a ghostly hulk
Becalmed and huge, massed in the mantling dark,
As builders left it when quick-shattering war
Leapt upon France and called her men to fight.
Lightly along the terraces I trod,
Crunching the rubble till I found the door
That gaped in twilight, framing inward gloom.
An owl flew out from under the high eaves
To vanish secretly among the firs,
Where lofty boughs netted the gleam of stars.
I stumbled in; the dusty floors were strewn
With cumbering piles of planks and props and beams;
Tall windows gapped the walls; the place was free
To every searching gust and jousting gale;
But now they slept; I was afraid to speak,
And heavily the shadows crowded in.

I called him, once; then listened: nothing moved:
Only my thumping heart beat out the time.
Whispering his name, I groped from room to room.

Quite empty was that house; it could not hold
His human ghost, remembered in the love
That strove in vain to be companioned still.

II
Blindly I sought the woods that I had known
So beautiful with morning when I came
Amazed with spring that wove the hazel twigs
With misty raiment of awakening green.
I found a holy dimness, and the peace
Of sanctuary, austerely built of trees,
And wonder stooping from the tranquil sky.

Ah! but there was no need to call his name.
He was beside me now, as swift as light.
I knew him crushed to earth in scentless flowers,
And lifted in the rapture of dark pines.
‘For now,’ he said, ‘my spirit has more eyes
Than heaven has stars; and they are lit by love.
My body is the magic of the world,
And dawn and sunset flame with my spilt blood.
My breath is the great wind, and I am filled
With molten power and surge of the bright waves
That chant my doom along the ocean’s edge.

‘Look in the faces of the flowers and find
The innocence that shrives me; stoop to the stream
That you may share the wisdom of my peace.
For talking water travels undismayed.
The luminous willows lean to it with tales
Of the young earth; and swallows dip their wings
Where showering hawthorn strews the lanes of light.

‘I can remember summer in one thought
Of wind-swept green, and deeps of melting blue,
And scent of limes in bloom; and I can hear
Distinct the early mower in the grass,
Whetting his blade along some morn of June.

‘For I was born to the round world’s delight,
And knowledge of enfolding motherhood,
Whose tenderness, that shines through constant toil,
Gathers the naked children to her knees.
In death I can remember how she came
To kiss me while I slept; still I can share
The glee of childhood; and the fleeting gloom
When all my flowers were washed with rain of tears.

‘I triumph in the choruses of birds,
Bursting like April buds in gyres of song.
My meditations are the blaze of noon
On silent woods, where glory burns the leaves.
I have shared breathless vigils; I have slaked
The thirst of my desires in bounteous rain
Pouring and splashing downward through the dark.
Loud storm has roused me with its winking glare,
And voice of doom that crackles overhead.
I have been tired and watchful, craving rest,
Till the slow-footed hours have touched my brows
And laid me on the breast of sundering sleep.’

III
I know that he is lost among the stars,
And may return no more but in their light.
Though his hushed voice may call me in the stir
Of whispering trees, I shall not understand.
Men may not speak with stillness; and the joy
Of brooks that leap and tumble down green hills
Is faster than their feet; and all their thoughts
Can win no meaning from the talk of birds.

My heart is fooled with fancies, being wise;
For fancy is the gleaming of wet flowers
When the hid sun looks forth with golden stare.
Thus, when I find new loveliness to praise,
And things long-known shine out in sudden grace,
Then will I think: ‘He moves before me now.’
So he will never come but in delight,
And, as it was in life, his name shall be
Wonder awaking in a summer dawn,
And youth, that dying, touched my lips to song.

Flixécourt. May 1916

* DC Thomas, killed on March 18 [1916].

@темы: s, 20, english-british, sassoon, siegfried

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[Lika_k]

Антеру де Кентал (1842-1891)
Что говорит смерть
Ко мне придите от земной юдоли
Во тьме сомнений, зла, страстей плутая;
Ничтожество плодов ума и воли
Увидите вы, прошлое листая.

И хворь, неиздечимая дотоле,
Во мне, как сон, бдеднееет, отлетая.
И неустанные потоки Боли
В меня вливаются, как в море тая".

Так смерть нам говорит. Глухое слово —
Истолкователь призрачного зова
Предвечных тайн, холодных и безгневных.

И в немоте своей, не умолкая,
Шумней она, чем в бури ширь морская,
В ночи своей светлей лучшей полдневных.

пер. Ир. Фещенко-Скворцова

@темы: portuguese, 19, к (rus)

---

Fall of the Western Roman Empire - September 4, 476 AD

[Lika_k]

W. H. Auden
The Fall of Rome
(for Cyril Connolly)
The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.

Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.

Cerebrotonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.

Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.

Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.

Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.

@темы: a, 20, auden, w.h., english: anglo-american

---

[Lika_k]

Антеру де Кентал (1842-1891)
Эволюция
Я камнем был на склоне одиноком
Во времена, что прячутся в тумане,
Волною был, гранит седой тараня,
И деревом, с кривым, замшелым боком.

Я - зверь, рычал в пещере, крытой дроком,
О, древний монстр, ревел на зорьке ранней,
Я голову вздымал в ночном лимане,
Я жертву ждал под пламенным востоком.

Я-человек теперь, из давней тени
у ног моих спускаются ступени
Спирально вниз, к бездонности пустынь...

Я к вечности протягиваю руки,
Но в пустоте, в которой никнут звуки,
Свобода мне дороже всех святынь.

пер. Ир. Фещенко-Скворцова

@темы: portuguese, sonnet, 19, к (rus)

---

[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
Card-players: Still-life
Observe then my eyes what I have seen.
Remark the small in asleep among olive-boughs:
The curtain of scavenging flies,
Like hanging beads, in the doorway: and men
Snoozing against an olive-bole or playing
Slow, greasy cards, Thumbed colours of conquest.

At their backs, stacked up under the wall,
Long rows of formal melons in sunlight,
Melodious pippins, bright as lighted butter,
Crushed full of juice in crazy sizes
Between black shadow and shadow.

If you could see my scene, would you believe
That men can slough the creeping pale-skinned north
And become one with the afternoon silences,
With the loungers,
The gnomic card-players in a dead tavern
Out of all time and circumstance?

There's no regret here, nor circumspection.
The sun devours these morsels strip by strip
Until we are one among the brown men,
The respectful snoozers in hats of straw.

Nothing, nothing is vocal now, nothing's to say —
Unless the melons burst their heavy cheeks
And dither in the dust, in uproar,
Haunting the incandescence of the sun!

Parama, Corfu [1935]

(from "Spirit of Place")

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

---

[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Трехстишия
«Осень уже пришла!» —
Шепнул мне на ухо ветер,
Подкравшись к постели моей.

("По тропинкам севера: стихи из путевого дневника", 2017)

Пер. В. Маркова

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

---

[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Трехстишия
Какая вдруг перемена!
Я спустился с гор — и подали мне
Первые баклажаны.

("По тропинкам севера: стихи из путевого дневника", 2017)

Пер. В. Маркова

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

---

[Lika_k]

Siegfried Sassoon
War Poems
The Dragon and the Undying
All night the flares go up; the Dragon sings
And beats upon the dark with furious wings;
And, stung to rage by his own darting fires,
Reaches with grappling coils from town to town;
He lusts to break the loveliness of spires,
And hurl their martyred music toppling down.

Yet, though the slain are homeless as the breeze,
Vocal are they, like storm-bewilder'd seas.
Their faces are the fair, unshrouded night,
And planets are their eyes, their ageless dreams.
Tenderly stooping earthward from their height,
They wander in the dusk with chanting streams,
And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms up-flung,
To hail the burning heavens the left unsung.

4 February 1916

@темы: s, 20, english-british, sassoon, siegfried

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[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Трехстишия
С ветки скатился каштан.
Тому, кто в дальних горах не бывал,
В подарок его отнесу.

("По тропинкам севера: стихи из путевого дневника", 2017)

Пер. В. Маркова

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

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[Lika_k]

Siegfried Sassoon
War Poems
To Victory
To Edmund Gosse)
Return to greet me, co;ours that were my joy,
Not in the Woeful crimson of men slain,
But shining as garden: come with the streaming
Banners of dawn and sundown after rain.

I want to fill my gaze with blue and silver,
Radiance through living roses, spires of green
Rising in young-limbed copse and lovely wood
Where the hueless wind passes and cries unseen.

I am not sad; only I long for lustre.
I am tired of the greys and browns and the leafless ash.
I would have hours that move like a glitter of dancers
Far from the angry guns that boom and flash.

Return, musical, gay with blossom and fleetness,
Days when my sight shall be clear and my heart rejoice;
Come from the sea with breadth of approaching
brightness,
When the blithe wind laughs on the hills with uplifted
voice.

4 January 1916

@темы: s, 20, english-british, sassoon, siegfried

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[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Трехстишия
Морская капуста легче…
А носит торговец-старик на плече
Корзины тяжелых устриц.

("По тропинкам севера: стихи из путевого дневника", 2017)

Пер. В. Маркова

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

---

[Lika_k]

Siegfried Sassoon
War Poems
A Testament
If, as I think, I'm warned to pack and go
On a longer journey than I've made before,
I must be taking stock of what I leave,
And what I stand to lose, of all my store.

Cries for completion. Things, that made me weep
For joy of loveliness, comes shining back
Dazzling my spirit that prepares for sleep.

Hushed is the house that once was full of songs.
In stillness rich with music that has been,
I wait death's savage hour that shall deliver
My soul and leave the soaring night serene.

There was a narrow path from glade to glade
Theading the golden forest, like a story
Planned to no certain close; a path that went
Fromm morning to a sundown split with glory:

My home was safe among the slender trees;
There, on the blossomed slopes of time and sense,
Birds flocked and days came delicate and cold;
But now the tempest stoops to bear me hence.

The arches of the air are mighty songs
That tell me of a wide-flung radiance spread
Across the world; my feet roam with the tides,
And I am crowned with the triumphant dead.

Montagne, 1 January 1916

@темы: s, 20, english-british, sassoon, siegfried

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[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Трехстишия
Ветку, что ли, обломил
Ветер, пробегая в соснах? —
Как прохладен плеск воды!

("По тропинкам севера: стихи из путевого дневника", 2017)

Пер. В. Маркова

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

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[Lika_k]

Siegfried Sassoon
War Poems
Asking for it
Lord God whose mercy guards the virgin jungle;
Lord God whose fields with dragon's teeth are farmed;
Lord God of blockheads, bombing-planes, and bungle,
Assist us to be adequately armed.

Lord God of cruelties incomprehensible
And randomized damnations indefensible,
Perfect in us thy tyrannous technique
For torturing the innocent and weak.

God of the dear old Mastodon's morasses
Whose love pervaded pre-diluvial mud,
Grant us the power to prove, by poison gases,
The needlessness of shedding human blood.

@темы: s, 20, english-british, sassoon, siegfried

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[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Сцепленные строфы (рэнку) из поэтического сборника «Соломенный плащ обезьяны»*
VII
Вдруг выпрыгнет в темноте
Вспугнутая лягушка
Из чащи спутанных трав.

(Бонтё)

VIII
Сбиравшая травы женщина
Роняет из рук фонарь.
(Басе)

("По тропинкам севера: стихи из путевого дневника", 2017)

Пер. В. Маркова

* Сцепленные строфы, или цепочки стихотворений (рэнку). — Каждая строфа в «рэнку» — законченное маленькое стихотворение. Но в то же время любое трехстишие в сочетании с двустишием образует «сложное стихотворение» («танка»), и притом в двух вариантах. Для этого нужно присоединить к трехстишию предыдущую или последующую строфы (двустишия).

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

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22.08.1893-7.06.1967

[Lika_k]

Dorothy Parker
Penelope
In the pathway of the sun,
In the footsteps of the breeze,
Where the world and sky are one,
He shall ride the silver seas,
He shall cut the glittering wave.
I shall sit at home, and rock;
Rise, to heed a neighbor's knock;
Brew my tea, and snip my thread;
Bleach the linen for my bed.
They will call him brave.

@темы: antiquity, p, 20, english-american

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[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Трехстишия
Ручеек чуть заметный.
Проплывают сквозь чащу бамбука
Лепестки камелий.

("По тропинкам севера: стихи из путевого дневника", 2017)

Пер. В. Маркова

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

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[Lika_k]

Oscar Wilde
On the Sale By Auction of Keats’ Love Letters
These are the letters which Endymion wrote
To one he loved in secret, and apart.
And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote
The merchant’s price. I think they love not art
Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.

Is it not said that many years ago,
In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
With torches through the midnight, and began
To wrangel for mean raiment, and to throw
Dice for the garments of a wretched man,
Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?

@темы: k, w, 19, english-british

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[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Трехстишия
Камелии лепестки…
Может быть, соловей уронил
Шапочку из цветов?

("По тропинкам севера: стихи из путевого дневника", 2017)

Пер. В. Маркова

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