[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Трехстишия
Шатая дощатую дверь,
Сметает к ней листья с чайных кустов
Зимний холодный вихрь.

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

Пер. В. Маркова

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

---

[Lika_k]

Ezra Pound
Collected Shorter Poems (Faber and Faber, 1973)
The Tree
I stood still and was a tree amid the wood,
Knowing the truth of things unseen before;
Of Daphne and the laurel bow
And that god-feasting couple old
that grew elm-oak amid the wold.
'Twas not until the gods had been
Kindly entreated, and been brought within
Unto the hearth of their heart's home
That they might do this wonder thing;
Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood
And many a new thing understood
That was rank folly to my head before.

@темы: p, 20, english-american, pound, ezra, mythology

---

[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Трехстишия
Даже дикого кабана
Закружи́т, унесет с собою
Этот зимний вихрь полевой!

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

Пер. В. Маркова

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

---

[Lika_k]

Ingeborg Bachmann
Gedichte 1945-1956
Im Krieg

Ingeborg Bachmann
The Collected Poems
Poems 1945-1956
In Wartime
The night is so deep around me,
and lonely and full of dread.
Trembling walls press at me
and tears run from the bread.

It's so bitter cold in the house.
No fire burns and there's no light anywhere.
My breath smokes from my mouth
and all hope turns to despair.

Everywhere the streets yawn wide
and continue to call me.
Yet full of sorrow, I'm so tired...
The night is so deep around me.

transl. by Peter Filkins

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

---

[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Трехстишия
Зимние дни в одиночестве.
Снова спиной прислонюсь
К столбу посредине хижины.

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

Пер. В. Маркова

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

---

[Lika_k]

Ingeborg Bachmann
Anrufung des großen Bären
Lieder auf der Flucht

Ingeborg Bachmann
The Collected Poems
Invocation of the Great Bear
Songs in Flight
Dura legge d’Amor, ma ben ché obliqua
Servar conviensi, però ch’ella aggiunge,
Di cielo in terra universale, antique.

Petrarch, I Trionfi*

I
The palm branch breaks in snow
that collapses the stairway's flight,
the city lies stiff and gleaming
in a strange winter light.

The children wail and climb
their mountain of hunger,
praying to the sky
while they eat white flour.

Winter's wealth of tinsel
in a mandarin's gold,
the wind gusts wildly on,
and the blood orange rolls.

II
But I lie alone,
wounds fill an abbatis of ice.

The snow upon me
has not yet sealed my eyes..

The dead pressed against me
are silent, no matter the tongue.

No one loves me,
no lamp for me is hung.

III
The Sporades, the islands,
patchwork in a sea so clear,
cold, the streams that surround them,
yet they bear the fruit that's here.

White rescuers, the ships,
— O lonesome sailor's hand! —
they point, before they sink,
back towards the land.

IV
Cold, as never before, has penetrated.
Over the sea, commandos racing.
Down to its last lights, the bay has surrendered.
The city has fallen.

I am innocent and captive
in conquered Naples,
where winter
silhouettes Posilipo and Vomero,
where its white lightening cleans up
among songs
and sets its hoarse thunder
in command.

I am innocent, and until Camaldoli
stone pines nudge the clouds;
without comfort, because the rain
does not cleanse the palms;

without hope, because I shall not escape,
even though the fish bristles its fins
and the beach's winter mist
blown warm from the waves
protects and walls me in,
even though the tide
in fleeing
draws away the next goal
of those who flee.

V
Away with snow from the city fragrant with spice!
The scent of fruits must drift through the streets.
Scatter the currents,
bring the figs and the capers!
Renew the summer,
renew the cycle,
birth, blood, filth and scum,
death — sink into the welts,
deepen the lines
on faces
mistrustful, lazy and old,
covered with chalk and drenched in oil,
sly from clever deals,
immerse them in danger,
the anger of the lava god,
grant smoke to angels
and the fire's cursed aura!

VI
Educated in love
by ten thousand books,
made wise through the sharing
of barely changed gestures
and foolish oaths —

initiated into love
but first knowing it here —
when the lava spilled over
and its breath reached us
at the foot of the mountain,
when finally the spent crater
surrendered the key
to these locked bodies —

We entered enchanted rooms
and illuminated the dark
with our fingertips.

VII
Within, your eyes are windows
to a land where in clarity I stand.

Within, your breast is a sea
that draws me to its bed.
Within, your hips are a quay
that greets my ships returning
from journeys too far from home.

Happiness weaves a silver chain
to which I lie attached.

Within, your mouth is a downy nest
for my fledgling, nascent tongue.
Within, your veins contain a tranquillity
and are filled with the gold
that U wash with my tears,
and that one day will outweigh me.

Receiving your title, your arms embrace goods
that you are the first to be granted.

Within, your feet never wander,
but are already in my velvet land.
Within, your bones are bright flutes
on which I can conjure the tunes
that would even charm death...

VIII
... the earth, sea and sky.
Dug into with kisses,
the earth, the sea and the sky.
Gripped by my words,
the earth,
still clung to by my last word,
the sea and the sky!

Afflicted with my sounds,
this earth
that, sobbing in my teeth,
put down anchor
with all its furnaces, towers
and proud peaks,

this battered earth,
which before me uncovered its ravines,
its steppes, deserts and tundras,

this restless earth,
with its quivering magnetic fields,
which chained it here
with its unknown chains of power,

this stunned and stunning earth
grown thick with belladonna,
leaden poisons
and streams of fragrance —

sunk in the sea
and risen in the sky
the earth!


IX
The black cat,
oil on the floor,
the evil glance:

Bad luck!

Pull out the coral horn,

hang the horns before the house!
Darkness! No light!

[
O love, which broke open
and flung away our shells, our shield,
our shelters and the brown rust of years.

O sorrows, which stamped out our love,
its damp fire felt in tender places!
Filled with smoke, dying in smoke, the flame consumes itself.

XI
Wanting summer lightning, you throw the knife,
slicing through the air to the warmth of its veins;

blinding, as they spring up from open wounds,
are the soundless last fireworks you see displayed:

madness, contempt, and then revenge,
as remorse follows soon, then sharp disdain.

You realize that your sword is blunted,
and finally you feel just how love ends:

with raging storms, with purest breath.
It locks you up inside the dream dungeon.

Where love's golden hair id hanging down,
the ladder to emptiness is what you'll be grasping.

A thousand and one nights high are the rungs.
The very last step is the step into nothing.

And there where you crash exist the old places,
and to each place you give three drops of blood.

Deranged, you cling to rootless curls.
The bell rings out, and you've had enough.

XII
Mouth, which slept in my mouth,
Eye that guarded my own,
Hand —

and those eyes that drilled through me!
Mouth, which spoke the sentence,
Hand, which executed me!

XIII
The sun gives no warmth, voiceless is the sea.
No one opens the graves packed in snow.
Is it because no brazier is filled
with glowing coals? Yet the glow does nothing.

Release me! I can no longer die.

The saint is busy elsewhere,
he is concerned with the city and bread.
The washline is heavy with cloth;
soon it will fall. But it won't cover me.

I am guilty. Raise me up.
I am guilty. Raise me up.

Loosen the silver of ice from the frozen eye,
break through with glance,
see the blue depths,
swim, look and dive:

I am not the one.
I am.

XIV
Wait for my death, then hear me again.
The snow basket tips and the water sings,
all sounds flow into the Toledo, its surfae thaws,
a melody melts the ice.
O great thaw!

So much awaits you.

Syllables in oleander,
words in acacian green,
cascades from the wall.

The basins fill,
turbulent and clear,
with music.

XV**
Love has its triumph and death has one,
in time and the time beyond us.
We have none.

Only the sinking of stars. Silence and reflection.
Yet the song beyond the dust
will overcome our own.

transl. by Peter Filkins

* The epigraph is from Petrarch's "Triumph of Love". Ernest Hatch Wilkins translates the passage as "Hard is the law of Love! But though unjust / One must obey it, for that law prevails / Thtoughout the universe, and lasts for aye"
Luca Marenzio - Dura legge d'Amor


** Holthusen observes the strong links between this section and Rilke's "Sonette an Orpheus", 1.19 (1, 2. Kurt Bartsch also observes a link between "Sinken um uns von Gestirnen" and Robert Musil's play "Die Schwaermer", which Bachmann helped adapt for the radio.

@темы: italian, music, b, p, links, m, 20, youtube, rilke, rinascimento, deutsche-oesterreichisch, bachmann, ingeborg, r

---

[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Трехстишия
Этой, поросшей травою,
Хижине верен остался лишь ты.
Разносчик зимней сурепки.

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

Пер. В. Маркова

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

---

[Lika_k]

Timothy Thomas Fortune
Edgar Allan Poe
I know not why, but it is true—it may,
In some way, be because he was a child
Of the fierce sun where I first wept and smiled—
I love the dark-browed Poe. His feverish day
Was spent in dreams inspired, that him beguiled,
When not along his path shone forth one ray
Of light, of hope, to guide him on the way,
That to earth’s cares he might be reconciled.
Not one of all Columbia’s tuneful choir
Has pitched his notes to such a matchless key
As Poe—the wizard of the Orphic lyre!
Not one has dreamed, has sung, such songs as he,
Who, like an echo came, an echo went,
Singing, back to his mother element.

@темы: p, 20, 19, english-american, f

---

[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Из путевого дневника «Письма странствующего поэта»*
Солнце зимнего дня.
Тень моя леденеет
У коня на спине.

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

Пер. В. Маркова

* В оригинале этот дневник носит название «Ои-но кобуми», то есть письма из ои — небольшой сумы, которую буддийские монахи носили на шее. В ней хранились священные изображения и дорожные принадлежности.

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

---

[Lika_k]

Ingeborg Bachmann
Gedichte 1945-1956
Unstillbar

Ingeborg Bachmann
The Collected Poems
Poems 1945-1956
Unappeasable
In a wintery forest
I circle the fruit of the south.
How they will fall to me
I do not know,
they being unable, like I, to flee at all
and thus to yearn.

My beak wanders frozen.
My song is forgotten.
I flee as outlaws flee,
with an eye torn,
over pebbles and stones.
The claws of the ice in my feathers
still make my mouth yearn for
almonds and golden currants.

Death is my part.
The polar moon shines palely in my dreams,
and the bitter roots of the tundra
long for me.

But I still am true to myself!
I steel flee, burning with desire!

transl. by Peter Filkins

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

---

[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Из путевого дневника "Кости, белеющие в поле"
В храме молюсь всю ночь.
Стук башмаков… Это мимо
Идет ледяной монах.

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

Пер. В. Маркова

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

---

[Lika_k]

Isabel Galleymore
Harvest
For Frances
After stripping the branches of berries
the robin held a handful of seeds
in her stomach: the robin carried a tree
– in fact she secretly sowed a whole forest –
a store of bows and arrows and shields.
Years found the bird had planted a battle,
her tiny body had borne the new king.

Men looked up to the skies and blessed
or blamed the planets moving overhead.
A blackbird, meanwhile, started to pick
at the fruit both armies had left.

@темы: g, links, 21, english-british

---

[Lika_k]

Александр Блок
Всё бытие и сущее согласно
В великой, непрестанной тишине.
Смотри туда участно, безучастно,—
Мне всё равно — вселенная во мне.

Я чувствую, и верую, и знаю,
Сочувствием провидца не прельстишь.
Я сам в себе с избытком заключаю
Все те огни, какими ты горишь.

Но больше нет ни слабости, ни силы,
Прошедшее, грядущее — во мне.
Всё бытие и сущее застыло
В великой, неизменной тишине.

Я здесь в конце, исполненный прозренья,
Я перешел граничную черту.
Я только жду условного виденья,
Чтоб отлететь в иную пустоту.

@темы: б, 20, block, alexander, russian

---

[Lika_k]

Ingeborg Bachmann
Gedichte 1963-1964
Enigma
So früh schon Abend, und so spät noch Morgen,
immer dunkelts ins Zimmer herein,
Schnee, Nebel als Grund, wievielter Winter schon?

Ingeborg Bachmann
The Collected Poems
Poems 1963-1964
Enigma
Dark so early already, and the morning so late,
always it seems to be dark in the room.
Snow, fog the reason. How long will winter last?

transl. by Peter Filkins

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

---

[Lika_k]

Мацуо Басё
Трехстишия
Монах Сэнка скорбит о своем отце
Темно-мышиный цвет
Рукавов его рясы
Еще холодней от слез.

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

Пер. В. Маркова

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

---

[Lika_k]

Stevie Smith
My Hat
Mother said if I wore this hat
I should be certain to get off with the right sort of chap
Well, look where I am now, on a desert island
With so far as I can see no one at hand
I know what has happened though I suppose Mother wouldn’t see
This hat being so strong has completely run away with me
I had the feeling it was beginning to happen the moment I put it on
What a moment that was as I rose up, I rose up like a flying swan
As strong as a swan too, why see how far my hat has flown me
away
It took us a night to come and then a night and a day
And all the time the swan wing in my hat waved beautifully
Ah, I thought, How this hat becomes me.
First the sea was dark but then it was pale blue
And still the wing beat and we flew and we flew
A night and a day and a night, and by the old right way
Between the sun and the moon we flew until morning day.
It is always early morning here on this peculiar island
The green grass grows into the sea on the dipping land
Am I glad I am here? Yes, well, I am,
It’s nice to be rid of Father, Mother and the young man
There’s just one thing causes me a twinge of pain,
If I take my hat off, shall I find myself home again?
So in this early morning land I always wear my hat
Go home, you see, well I wouldn’t run a risk like that.

@темы: s, 20, english-british

---

[Lika_k]

Флорбела Эшпанка (1894-1930)
Сонет
Мертвы слепцы, не видящие ясно,
Что жизнь – лишь путь, неведомый и страшный,
Тропа тревог, тропа тоски всегдашней,
Где наши чувства над собой не властны.

Мертвы, кто не трудился ежечасно,
И на развалинах мечты вчерашней
Собрав все силы, вновь не строил Башню;
Кто не смеялся, не рыдал напрасно.

Пусть, Господи, со мной случится так:
Когда умру, позволь мне превратиться
В спокойный вечер, в тень его, во мрак.

И саваном, струящимся окрест,
Овею остывающие лица
Достойно несших свой нелёгкий крест.

пер. Ир. Фещенко-Скворцова

@темы: portuguese, э, sonnet, 20

---

[Lika_k]

Seamus Heaney
Poems 1965-1975
North (1975)
Bog Queen
I lay waiting
between turf-face and demesne wall,
between heathery levels
and glass-toothed stone.

My body was braille
for the creeping influences:
dawn suns groped over my head
and cooled at my feet,

through my fabrics and skins
the seeps of winter
digested me,
the illiterate roots

pondered and died
in the cavings
of stomach and socket.
I lay waiting

on the gravel bottom,
my brain darkening,
a jar of spawn
fermenting underground

dreams of Baltic amber.
Bruised berries under my nails,
the vital hoard reducing
in the crock of the pelvis.

My diadem grew carious,
gemstones dropped
in the peat floe
like the bearings of history.

My sash was a black glacier
wrinkling, dyed weaves
and phoenician stitchwork
retted on my breasts'

soft moraines.
I knew winter cold
like the nuzzle of fjords
at my thighs–

the soaked fledge, the heavy
swaddle of hides.

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

---

[Lika_k]

Florbela Espanca
Conto De Fadas
Eu trago-te nas mãos o esquecimento
Das horas más que tens vivido, Amor!
E para as tuas chagas o ungüento
Com que sarei a minha própria dor.

Os meus gestos são ondas de Sorrento...
Trago no nome as letras duma flor...
Foi dos meus olhos garços que um pintor
Tirou a luz para pintar o vento...

Dou-te o que tenho: o astro que dormita,
O manto dos crepúsculos da tarde,
O sol que é de oiro, a onda que palpita.

Dou-te, comigo, o mundo que Deus fez!
Eu sou Aquela de quem tens saudade,
A princesa de conto: "Era uma vez..."

Флорбела Эшпанка (1894-1930)
Сказка о волшебницах
Ты видишь, я несу тебе, любимый,
Забвение страдания и зла,
Смягчаю раны боль неисцелимой,
Как собственную боль я уняла.

Цветком зовусь, а взор неутолимый
Зеленоватых глаз моих дала
Художнику, чьи краски – свет и мгла –
Раскрасить ветер, пО миру гонимый.

Дарю тебе владения мои:
Жар солнца, звёздный шлейф, летящий мимо,
Трепещущие на волне буи...

Со мной дарю мир света и тепла.
Я – сказка, я – тоска твоя, любимый,
Принцесса из мечты: «Жила, была...»

пер. Ир. Фещенко-Скворцова

@темы: portuguese, э, e, 20

---

[Lika_k]

Seamus Heaney
Poems 1965-1975
North (1975)
Funeral Rites
I
I shouldered a kind of manhood
stepping in to lift the coffins
of dead relations.
They had been laid out

in tainted rooms,
their eyelids glistening,
their dough-white hands
shackled in rosary beads.

Their puffed knuckles
had unwrinkled, the nails
were darkened, the wrists
obediently sloped.

The dulse-brown shroud,
the quilted satin cribs:
I knelt courteously
admiting it all

as wax melted down
and veined the candles,
the flames hovering
to the women hovering
behind me.
And always, in a corner,
the coffin lid,
its nail-heads dressed

with little gleaming crosses.
Dear soapstone masks,
kissing their igloo brows
had to suffice

before the nails were sunk
and the black glacier
of each funeral
pushed away.

II
Now as news comes in
of each neighbourly murder
we pine for ceremony,
customary rhythms:

the temperate footsteps
of a cortège, winding past
each blinded home.
I would restore

the great chambers of Boyne,
prepare a sepulchre
under the cupmarked stones.
Out of side-streets and bye-roads

purring family cars
nose into line,
the whole country tunes
to the muffled drumming

of ten thousand engines.
Somnambulant women,
left behind, move
through emptied kitchens

imagining our slow triumph
towards the mounds.
Quiet as a serpent
in its grassy boulevard

the procession drags its tail
out of the Gap of the North
as its head already enters
the megalithic doorway.

III
When they have put the stone
back in its mouth
we will drive north again
past Strang and Carling fjords

the cud of memory
allayed for once, arbitration
of the feud placated,
imagining those under the hill

disposed like Gunnar
who lay beautiful
inside his burial mound,
though dead by violence

and unavenged.
men said that he was chanting
verses about honour
and that four lights burned

in corners of the chamber:
which opened then, as he turned
with a joyful face
to look at the moon.

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