[Lika_k]

Federico García Lorca
Nocturno esquemático
Hinojo, serpiente y junco.
Aroma, rastro y penumbra.
Aire, tierra y soledad.
(La escala llega a la luna.)

Федерико Лорка
Схематический ноктюрн
Мята, змея, полуночь.
Запах, шуршанье, тени.
Ветер, земля, сиротство.
(Лунные три ступени.)

Пер. Гелескул

Federico García Lorca
Schematic Nocturne
The fennel, a serpent, and rushes.
Aroma, a sign, and penumbra.
Air, earth, and solitariness.
(The ladder lifts up to the moon.)

Transl. by A.S.Kline

@темы: espanol, л, 20, lorca, l

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[Lika_k]

D. H. Lawrence
Amores: Poems (1916)
59. Firelight and Nightfall
The darkness steals the forms of all the queens,
But oh, the palms of his two black hands are red,
Inflamed with binding up the sheaves of dead
Hours that were once all glory and all queens.

And I remember all the sunny hours
Of queens in hyacinth and skies of gold,
And morning singing where the woods are scrolled
And diapered above the chaunting flowers.

Here lamps are white like snowdrops in the grass;
The town is like a churchyard, all so still
And grey now night is here; nor will
Another torn red sunset come to pass.

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

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[Lika_k]

Хорхе Луис Борхес
Бенарес*
Игрушечный, тесный,
как сдвоенный зеркалом сад,
воображаемый голод,
ни разу не виденный въяве,
ткет расстояния
и множит дома, до которых не дотянуться.
Внезапное солнце
взрывается, путаясь в тьме
храмов, тюрем, помоек, дворов,
лезет на стены,
искрится в священной реке.
Стиснутый город, расплющивший опаль созвездий,
перехлестывает горизонт,
и на заре, полной
снами и эхом шагов,
свет расправляется паветью улиц.
Разом светает
в тысячах окон, обращенных к Востоку
и стон муэдзина
с вознесшейся башни
печалит рассветную свежесть,
возвещая столице несчетных божеств
одиночество истого Бога.
(Только подумать:
пока я тасую туманные образы,
мой воспеваемый город живет
на своем предназначенном месте,
со своей планировкой,
перенаселенной как сон, –
лазареты, казармы
и медленные тополя,
и люди с прогнившими ртами
и смертной ломотой в зубах.)
(Из книги "Страсть к Буенос-Айресу" ("Fervor de Buenos Aires"), 1923)
Пер. Б.Дубина

Jorge Luis Borges
Benares*
False and impenetrable
like a garden traced on a mirror,
the imagined city
which my eyes have never seen
interweaves distances
and repeats its unreachable houses.
The sudden sun
shatters the complex obscurity
of temples, dunghills, prisons, patios
and will scale walls
and blaze on to a sacred river.
Panting
the city which a foliage of stars oppressed
pours over the horizon
and in a morning
full of steps and of sleep
light is opening the streets like branches.
At the same time dawn breaks
on all shutters looking east
and the voice of a muezzin
from its high tower
saddens the air of day
and announces to the city of many gods
the solitude of God.
(And to think that while I play with doubtful images
the city I sing persists
in a predestined place of the world,
with its precise topography
peopled like a dream,
with hospitals and barracks
and slow avenues of poplars
and men with rotten lips
who feel the cold in their teeth.)
1923

transl. by Charles Tomlinson

* Benares,“ or Varanasi, is among the holiest of Hinduism’s holy cities, and is where the Gautama Buddha delivered his first sermon. It’s also where they cremate bodies on the Ganges, which is why you go there really, but then it is flooded and all the Ghats are underwater and it’s a public health hazard as the city is full of uncremated dead bodies that they can’t dispose of due to religious duties and an annual monsoon of unusual force…

@темы: б, b, links, 20, latinoamericano, borges, jorge luis

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[Lika_k]

William Butler Yeats
A Coat
I made my song a coat
Covered with embroideries
Out of old mythologies
From heel to throat;
But the fools caught it,
Wore it in the world’s eyes
As though they’d wrought it.
Song, let them take it
For there’s more enterprise
In walking naked.

@темы: y, 20, yeats, w. b., english-british, english-british-irish

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[Lika_k]

Sara Teasdale
A Prayer
When I am dying, let me know
That I loved the blowing snow
⁠Although it stung like whips;
That I loved all lovely things
And I tried to take their stings
⁠With gay unembittered lips;
That I loved with all my strength,
To my soul's full depth and length,
⁠Careless if my heart must break,
That I sang as children sing
Fitting tunes to everything,
⁠Loving life for its own sake.

@темы: t, 20, english-american, teasdale, sara

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[Lika_k]

Осип Мандельштам
[Обращено к О. Арбениной]
Возьми на радость из моих ладоней
Немного солнца и немного меда,
Как нам велели пчелы Персефоны.

Не отвязать неприкрепленной лодки,
Не услыхать в меха обутой тени,
Не превозмочь в дремучей жизни страха.

Нам остаются только поцелуи,
Мохнатые, как маленькие пчелы,
Что умирают, вылетев из улья.

Они шуршат в прозрачных дебрях ночи,
Их родина - дремучий лес Тайгета,
Их пища - время, медуница, мята.

Возьми ж на радость дикий мой подарок,
Невзрачное сухое ожерелье
Из мертвых пчел, мед превративших в солнце.

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

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[Lika_k]

Dylan Thomas
Clown In The Moon
My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.

@темы: t, 20, english-british, thomas, dylan

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[Lika_k]

Леопольдо Лугонес
Луна-обманщица
Луна золотая
блестит в небесах,
в кошачьих глазах
коварно мерцая.

Поэты, не зная,
что путь ваш – впотьмах,
бредете, в стихах
луну воспевая.

О, как же был прав
Шекспир, написав
(и не поленитесь

прочесть те, кто юн):
«Swear not by the moon...» –
«Луной не клянитесь...»

Пер. Викт. Андреева

@темы: л, 20, latinoamericano, shakespeare

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[Lika_k]

D. H. Lawrence
Amores: Poems (1916)
43. The Enkindled Spring
This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.

And I, what fountain of fire am I among
This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed
About like a shadow buffeted in the throng
Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.

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

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[Lika_k]

Амадо Нерво
Гераклит
На всё, что вокруг, посмотри изумленно,
не мысля коснуться – как на отраженье
луны, что дробится в реке полусонной;
так видят себя из зеркального лона
иль облачной тени по саду скольженье.

И ты убедишься, что всё – неизменно
изменчиво; мир – словно клочья тумана,
он формы еще не обрел, несомненно;
и если ты встретиться с ним дерзновенно
решишься – увидишь лишь призрак обмана.

пер. Виктор Андреев

@темы: antiquity, н, 20, latinoamericano

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[Lika_k]

@темы: 20, h, 19, hardy, thomas, english-british

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[Lika_k]

Хосе Мануэль Поведа
Свирель Пана
В тенистых и пьяных деревьях так странно
запела свирель козлоного Пана.
Дыханье весны растекалось по чащам,
тревожа округу безмолвьем дрожащим.
Ленивые запахи в дымке текучей
и отзвук неясный бессчетных созвучий
будили глухим содроганьем природу –
листву, облака и неспешную воду.
В тенистых и пьяных деревьях так странно
запела свирель козлоного Пана.
О чем камышинка в тиши напевала?
Пророчица, чьи голоса выдавала?
Негромко и страстно, протяжно и кратко –
о чем она пела то горько, то сладко,
волшебно сливая в ликующем клике
все спектры и гаммы, все звуки и блики?..
Не знаю… Но стоит во мраке нежданно
услышать свирель козлоного Пана,
чьи гулкие зовы и нежны, и грубы,
как вкусом хмельным обжигает мне губы,
в нем дико и дивно смешались в одно
живица и кровь, молоко и вино.

пер. П. Грушко

@темы: 20, latinoamericano

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[Lika_k]

Fernando Pessoa
The Mad Fiddler (Pessoa's English Poetry)
1. The Mad Fiddler
7. I feel pale and I shiver.
What power of the moonlight
Tremulous under the river
Thus pains me with delight?

What spell told by the moon
Unlooses all my soul?
O speak to me! I swoon!
I fade from life's control!

I am a far spirit, e'en
In the felt place of me.
O river too serene
For my tranquillity!

O ache somehow of living!
O sorrow for something!
O moon‑pain the sense‑giving
That I am vainly king

In some spell‑bound realm mute,
In a lunar land lone!
O ache as of a dying flute
When we would have't play on!
("The Mad Fiddler")

1
2
3
4
5
6

@темы: portuguese, p, links, 20, english-other, pessoa, fernando

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[Lika_k]

Fernando Pessoa
The Mad Fiddler (Pessoa's English Poetry)
1. The Mad Fiddler
6. Dream
It was somewhere secluded
In silence and moon.
All like a lagoon.
No cares there intruded
Save the vague wind's swoon.

Landscape intermediate
Between dreams and land.
The wind slept, calm‑fanned.
The waters were weedy at
Where we plunged our hand.

We let the hand wander
In the water unseen.
Our eyes were with th' sheen
Of the moonlit meander
Of the forest scene.

There we lost the spirit
Of our still being we.
We were fairy‑free,
Having to inherit
Nothing from to be.

The fairies there and the elves
Damasked their moonlit train.
There we shall awhile gain
All the elusive selves
We never can obtain.
("The Mad Fiddler")

1
2
3
4
5

@темы: portuguese, p, links, 20, english-other, pessoa, fernando

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[Lika_k]

Fernando Pessoa
The Mad Fiddler (Pessoa's English Poetry)
1. The Mad Fiddler
5. Goblin Dance
First there was but the moon
And the black‑tramelled trees
In the lunar lagoon
Of the forgotten breeze.

Then some unseen thing stirred
Where the moon‑silence snowed
And a vague whirl unheard
Vacantly tip‑toed.

Slowly, idly, alone,
Beyond the eyes of sight,
Somewhere invisibly shown,
They danced their delight.

Their far vagueness wound
Round the heart a pain,
A phantom fear found
Voluble and vain.

The heart remembered lives
Before loves and homes,
Whose rare memory revives
Only when this dance comes.

A wish for a vague thing soon,
A loosened sense of selves,
A thing in the soul like moon,
Aught in the hopes like elves -

Tip‑toe aerial gliding
Shadow‑lunar blent,
Bending, mingling, hiding,
To and fro they went.

Left and right, belonging
To no place, they swayed.
A low pipe, like longing,
To their dancing played.

There, in the silence dropped
Like a thing on the ground,
Whirled they awhile, then stopped,
Then renewed their round,

Till with their slowing turns
The cold air grows more bare.
Then the mere moonlight returns
And there had been nothing there.
("The Mad Fiddler")

1
2
3
4

@темы: portuguese, p, links, 20, english-other, pessoa, fernando

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[Lika_k]

Fernando Pessoa
The Mad Fiddler (Pessoa's English Poetry)
1. The Mad Fiddler
4. Spell
From the moonlit brink of dreams
I stretch foiled hands to thee,
O borne down other streams
Than eye can think to see!
O crowned with spirit beams!
O veiled spirituality!
My dreams and thoughts abate
Their pennons at thy feet.
O angel born too late
For fallen man to meet!
In what new sensual state
Could our twined lives fell sweet?
What new emotion must
I dream to think thee mine?
What purity of lust?
O tendrilled as a vine
Around my caressed trust!
O dream‑pressed spirit‑wine!
("The Mad Fiddler")

1
2
3

@темы: portuguese, p, links, 20, english-other, pessoa, fernando

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[Lika_k]

Fernando Pessoa
The Mad Fiddler (Pessoa's English Poetry)
1. The Mad Fiddler
3. Lycanthropy
Somewhere dreams will be true.
There is a lonely lake
Moonlit for me and you
And like none for our sake.

There the dark white sail spread
To a vague wind unfelt
Shall make our sleep‑life led
Towards where the waters melt

Into the black‑tree'd shore,
Where the unknown woods meet
The lake's wish to be more,
And make the dream complete.

There we will hide and fade,
Emptly moon‑bound all,
Feeling that what we are made
Was something musical.
("The Mad Fiddler", 2-5-1915 e 8-4-1917)

1
2

@темы: portuguese, p, links, 20, english-other, pessoa, fernando

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[Lika_k]

Fernando Pessoa
The Mad Fiddler (Pessoa's English Poetry)
1. The Mad Fiddler
2. The Island
Weep, violin and viol,
Low flute and fine bassoon.
Lo, an enchanted isle
Moon‑bound beneath the moon!
My dream‑feet rustle through it
Chequered by shade and beam.
Oh, could my soul but woo it
From being but a dream!

Violin, viol and flute.
Lo, the isle hangs in air!
Through it I wander, mute
With too much loss of care.
And the air where't doth float
No air's, but light of moon.
Its paths are known to each note
Of viol and bassoon.

Yet is it real, that isle,
As our clear islands mortal?
Do flute, bassoon and viol
But ope with sound a portal,
And show, somehow, somewhere,
To what looks out from me
That pendulous island rare
In a moon‑woven sea?

Maybe 'tis truer than ours.
How true are these? But lo!
That isle that knows no hours
Nor needeth hours to know,
And that hath truth and root
Somewhere known of the moon,
Fades in the fading of flute,
Violin and bassoon.

("The Mad Fiddler", 18-4-1915 e 20-4-1917)

1

@темы: portuguese, p, links, 20, english-other, pessoa, fernando

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[Lika_k]

Fernando Pessoa
The Mad Fiddler (Pessoa's English Poetry)
1. The Mad Fiddler
1. The Mad Fiddler
Not from the northern road,
Not from the southern way,
First his wild music flowed
Into the village that day.

He suddenly was in the lane,
The people came out to hear,
He suddenly went, and in vain
Their hopes wished him to appear.

His music strange did fret
Each heart to wish 'twas free.
It was not a melody, yet
It was not no melody.

Somewhere far away,
Somewhere far outside
Being forced to live, they
Felt this tune replied.

Replied to that longing
All have in their breasts,
To lost sense belonging
To forgotten quests.

The happy wife now knew
That she had married ill,
The glad fond lover grew
Weary of loving still,

The maid and the boy felt glad
That they had dreaming only,
The lone hearts that were sad
Felt somewhere less lonely.

In each soul woke the flower
Whose touch leaves earthless dust,
The soul's husband's first hour,
The thing completing us,

The shadow that comes to bless
From kissed depths unexpressed,
The luminous restlessness
That is better than rest.

As he came, he went.
They felt him but half‑be.
Then he was quietly blent
With silence and memory.

Sleep left again their laughter,
Their tranced hope ceased to last,
And but a small time after
They knew not he had passed.

Yet when the sorrow of living,
Because life is not willed,
Comes back in dreams' hours, giving
A sense of life being chilled,

Suddenly each remembers -
It glows like a coming moon
On where their dream‑life embers ­-
The mad fiddler's tune.

("The Mad Fiddler", 18-4-1915 e 20-4-1917)

@темы: portuguese, p, links, 20, english-other, pessoa, fernando

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[Lika_k]

Rainer Maria Rilke
Eingang
Wer du auch seist: am Abend tritt hinaus
aus deiner Stube, drin du alles weisst;
als letztes vor der Ferne liegt dein Haus:
wer du auch seist.
Mit deinen Augen, welche müde kaum
von der verbrauchten Schwelle sich befrein,
hebst du ganz langsam einen schwarzen Baum
und stellst ihn vor den Himmel: schlank, allein.
Und hast die Welt gemacht. Und sie ist groß
und wie ein Wort, das noch im Schweigen reift.
Und wie dein Wille ihren Sinn begreift,
lassen sie deine Augen zärtllich los...

24.2.1900, Berlin-Schmargendorf

Rainer Maria Rilke
Entrance
Whoever you are: step out of doors tonight,
Out of the room that lets you feel secure.
Infinity is open to your sight.
Whoever you are.
With eyes that have forgotten how to see
From viewing things already too well-known,
Lift up into the dark a huge, black tree
And put it in the heavens: tall, alone.
And you have made the world and all you see.
It ripens like the words still in your mouth.
And when at last you comprehend its truth,
Then close your eyes and gently set it free.

Transl. By Dana Gioia

@темы: g, links, 20, rilke, deutsche-oesterreichisch, r