[Lika_k]

Хорхе Луис Борхес
Буэнос-Айрес
Когда-то я искал тебя, отрада,
Там, где сходились вечер и равнина,
И холодок от кедров и жасмина
Дремал в саду за кованой оградой.
Ты был в Палермо -- родине поверий
О днях клинка и карточной колоды
И в отсветах пожухлой позолоты
На рукояти молотка у двери
С кольцом на пальце. След твоей печати
Лежал в дворах, спускающихся к югу,
В растущей тени, ползавшей по кругу
И медленно густевшей на закате.
Теперь во мне ты, ставший потайною
Моей судьбой -- всем, что уйдет со мною.

Пер. Борис Дубин

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

---

[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
Portfolio
Late seventeenth, a timepiece rusted by dew,
Candles, a folio of sketches where rotting
I almost found you a precarious likeness —
The expert relish of the charcoal stare!
The copies, the deposits, why the very
Undermeaning and intermeaning of your mind,
Everything was there.

Your age too, its preoccupations like ours...
"The cause of death is love though death is all"
Or else: "Freedom resides in choice yet choice
Is only a fatal imprisonment among opposites."
Who told you you were free? What can it mean?
Come, drink! The simple kodak of the hangman's brain
Outstares us as it once outstared your world.
After all. we were not forced to write,
Who bade us heed the inward monitor?

And poetry, you once said, can be a deliverance
And true in many sorts of different sense,
Explicit or else like that awkward stare,
The perfect form of public reticence.

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

---

[Lika_k]

Лорка
Песня сухого апельсинного дерева
Отруби поскорей
тень мою, дровосек,
чтоб своей наготы
мне не видеть вовек!
Я томлюсь меж зеркал:
день мне облик удвоил,
ночь меня повторяет
в небе каждой звездою.
О, не видеть себя!
И тогда мне приснится:
муравьи и пушинки -
мои листья и птицы.
Отруби поскорей
тень мою, дровосек,
чтоб своей наготы
мне не видеть вовек!
пер. В. Парнаха

@темы: espanol, л, 20, lorca

---

[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
Father Nicholas His Death: Corfu
Hush the old bones their vegetable sleep,
For the islands will never grow old.
Nor like Atlantis on a Monday tumble,
Struck like soft gongs in the amazing blue.

Dip the skull's chinks in lichens and sleep,
Old man, beside the water-gentry.
The hero standing knee-deep in his dreams
Will find and bind the name upon his atlas,
And put beside it only an X marked spot.

Leave memory to the two tall sons and lie
Calmed in smiles by the elegiac blue.
A man's address to God is the skeleton's humour,
A music sipped by the flowers.

Consider please the continuous nature of Love:
How one man dying and another smiling
Conserve for the maggot only a seed of pity,
As in winter's taciturn womb we see already
A small and woollen lamb on a hilltop hopping.

The dying and the becoming are one thing,
So wherever you go the musical always is;
Now what are your pains to the Great Danube's pains,
Your pyramids of despair against Ithaca
Or the underground rivers of Dis?

Your innocence shall be as the clear cistern
Where the lone animal in these odourless waters
Quaffs at his own reflection a shining ink.
Here at your green pasture the old psalms
Shall kneel like humble brutes and drink.

Hush then the finger bones their mineral doze
For the islands will never be old or cold
Nor ever the less blue: for the egg of beauty
Blossoms in new migrations, the whale's grey acres,
For men of the labyrinth of the dream of death.
So sleep.
All these warm when the flesh is cold.
And the blue will keep.

(1939)

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

---

[Lika_k]

Альберто Урета
Баллада о морской розе
Стрелки твои означают тридцать две дороги,
одни уводят на землю, другие — в простор морской.
Скажи мне, роза ветров,
нет ли еще одной?
Стрелки твои означают тридцать две дороги,
одни уводят на землю, другие — в простор морской.
Скажи мне, роза ветров,
нет ли новой, совсем иной?
Роза ветров, укажи мне, укажи мне мою дорогу,
и пусть ни на суше, ни в море не будет ее примет.
Дай в никуда мне дорогу, неприкаянных странников, роза,
а лучше всего такую, откуда возврата нет.

Пер. М. Квятковская

@темы: 20, latinoamericano, у (rus)

---

[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
Nemea
A song in the valley of Nemea:
Sing quiet, quiet, quiet here.

Song for the brides of Argos
Combing the swarms of golden hair:
Quiet quiet, quiet, there.

Under the rolling comb of grass,
The sword outrusts the golden helm.

Agamemnon under tumulus serene
Outsmiles the jury of skeletons:
Cool under cumulus the lion queen:

Only the drum can celebrate,
Only the adjective outlive them.

A song in the the valley of Nemea:
Sing quiet, quiet, quiet here.

Tone of the frog in the empty well,
Drone of the bald bee on the cold skull,

Quiet, Quiet, Quiet.

(1940)

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

---

[Lika_k]

Луиш де Камоэнс
Имея ум, любовь, заслуги, честь,
Мы мним, что путь наш радостен и гладок,
Но Рок, случайность, время свой порядок
Наводит в мире, нам готовя месть.

Загадок неразгаданных не счесть,
Хоть на догадки разум наш и падок,
И вот она, загадка из загадок:
Что выше жизни, выше смерти есть?

Ученый муж нередко лицемерит,
Тогда как опыт к знанию приводит:
Побольше наблюдать - важней всего.

Пусть происходит то, во что не верят,
И верят в то, чего не происходит, -
Вы лучше верьте в Бога одного.

Пер. В. Резниченко

@темы: portuguese, 16, sonnet, к (rus)

---

[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
On Ithaca Standing
Tread softly, for here you stand
On miracle ground, boy.
A breath would cloud this water of glass,
Honey, bush, berry and swallow.
This rock, then, is more pastoral, than
Arcadia is, Illyria was.

Here the cold spring lilts on sand.
The temperature of the toad
Swallowing under a stone whispers: "Diamonds,
Boy, diamonds, and juice of minerals!"
Be a saint here, dig for foxes and water,
Mere water springs in the bones of the hands.

Turn from the hearth of the hero. Think:
Other men have their emblems, I this:
The heart's dark anvil and the crucifix
Are one, have hammered and shall hammer
A nail of flesh, me to an island cross,
Where the kestrel's arrow falls only,
The green sea licks.

(1937)

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

---

[Lika_k]

Альберто Урета
Уснуло время…
В часах уснуло время. Ни одной
неверной ноты нет в гармонии напевной,
исторгнутой в ночи болезненной луной,
чей свет — как музыка, как стон тоски душевной.
Все спит в печальной спальне одинокой.
Жизнь застывает. Миг перерастает в вечность.
Мы растворяемся в недвижности глубокой,
и мнится, сон души уходит в бесконечность.

Пер. М. Квятковская

@темы: 20, latinoamericano, у (rus)

---

[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
On First Looking into Loeb's Horace
I found your Horace with the writing in it;
Out of time and context came upon
This lover of vines and slave to quietness,
Walking like a figure of smoke here, musing
Among his high and lovely Tuscan pines.

All the small-holder's ambitions, the yield
Of wine-bearing grape, pruning and drainage
Laid out by laws, almost like the austere
Shell of his verses — a pattern of Latin thrift;
Waiting so patiently in a library for
Autumn and drying of the apples;
The betraying hour-glass and its deathward drift.

Surely the hard blue winterset
Must have conveyed a message to him —
The premonitions that the garden heard
Shrunk in its shirt of hair beneath the stars,
How rude and feeble a tenant was the self ,
An Empire, the body with its members dying —
And unwhistling now the vanished Roman bird?

The fruit-trees dropping apples; he counted them;
The soft bounding fruit on leafy terraces,
And turned to the consoling winter rooms
Where, facing south, began the great prayer,
With his reed laid upon the margins
Of the dead, his stainless authors,
Upright, severe on an uncomfortable chair.

Here, where your clear hand marked up
"The hatred cypress" I added "Because it grew
On tombs, revealed his fear of autumn and the urns",
Depicting a solitary at an upper window
Revising metaphors for the winter sea: "O
Dark head of storm-tossed curls"; or silently
Watching the North Star which like a fever burns
Away the envy and neglect of the common,
Shining on this terrace, lifting up in recreation
The sad heart of Horace who must have seen it only
As a metaphor for the self and its perfection —
A burning heart quite constant in its station.

Easy to be patient in the summer,
The light running like fishes among the leaves,
Easy in August with its cones of blue
Sky uninvaded from the north; but winter
With its bareness pared his words to points
Like stars, leaving them pure but few.

He will not know how we discerned him, disregarding
The pose of sufficiency, the landed man,
Found a suffering limb on the great Latin tree
Whose roots live in the barbarian grammar we
Use, yet based in him, his mason's tongue;
Describing clearly a bachelor, sedentary,
With a fond weakness for bronze-age conversation,
Disguising a sense of failure in a hatred for the young,

Who built in the Sabine hills this forgery
Of completeness, an orchard with a view of Rome;
Who studiously developed his sense of death
Till it was all around him, walking at the circus,
At the baths, playing dominoes in a shop —
The escape from self-knowledge with its tragic
Imperatives: Seek, suffer, endure. The Roman
In him feared the Law and told him where to stop.

So perfect a disguise for one who had
Exhausted death in art — yet, who could guess
You would discern the liar by a line,
The suffering hidden under gentleness
And add upon the flyleaf in your tall
Clear hand: "Fat, human and unloved,
And held from loving by a sort of wall,
Laid down his books and lovers one by one,
Indifference and success had crowned them all."

His great achievement in this vein is "On First Looking into Loeb's Horace". This is a poem of a highly original order. The title immediately suggests a postmodern reordering of Keats's famous sonnet, but Durrell is more conscientious than most poets who play with the retreading of past masterpieces. It is a love poem into which is folded an indirect narrative and an excellent example of literary criticism. Critical assessment is always more attractive written in the form's own medium - this is, verse itself. The poet finds a copy of the Loeb Edition crib of Horace's poetry annotated by a former lover's hand. Reading along with her comments he analyses the Roman poet's life and work. Not only has the love affair perished, but its loss is matched by the vanished Mediterranean civilization which nurtured Horace and still inspires today's readers of Latin literature.
(c) Peter Porter

@темы: antiquity, d, 20, citatus, ...logy, english-british, durrell, lawrence

---

[Lika_k]

Sam Taylor
Song: Infernal
I was lost in the middle of my life
when the planes hit the towers,
lost in the middle of my life
when the glass gods, one at a time, cowered

and fell, when a bomb of blue sky
exploded a bride where she stood—
I was lost in the middle of my life,
far from a leopard, far from a dark wood—

when the night clerk at Circle K
handed me back too much change,
I was lost in the middle of our life's way,
when an army of wings arranged

on flatbed trucks brushed past me on the road,
I was lost in the hallways of a glass dream,
trying to find my way out to the ground
turning in circles, crying secretly

in green languages, unknown even to me—
far from a lion, far from a dark wood—
with armfuls of Fritos, and ribs, and iced tea,
and web pages circling through my blood.

There were wires all around, and siren wails
and people running about, bereft and intent
as I. I didn't know whether to stay still
and wait for my life to grow transparent

there in my chair, with the sprinklers overhead
like golden showers of sorrow
and emergency lights flashing red
up and down the hall

or whether to run madly from stairwell
to stairwell, kissing women's knees
and the foreheads of men, drunk on cries for help
beseeching and singing and weeping

entering one life after another
and leaping from each one. Yes, I
was lost in the middle of the tower
when I came upon my life.

("Nude Descending an Empire", 2014)

@темы: t, 21, english-american

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[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
Olives
The grave one is patron of a special sea,
Their symbol, food and common tool in one,
Yet chtonic as ever the ancients realized,
Noting your tips in trimmings kindled quick,
Your mauled roots roared with confused ardours,
Holding in heat, like great sorrows contained
by silence; dead branch or alive grew pelt
Refused the rain and harboured the ample oil
For lamps to light the human eye.

So the poets confused your attributes,
Said you were The Other but also the domestic useful,
And as the afflatus thrives on special discontents,
Little remedial trespasses of the heart, day,
Which grows it u: poor heart, starved pet of the mind:
They supposed your serenity compassed the human span,
Momentous, deathless, a freedom from the chain,
And every one wished they were like you,
Who live or dead brought solace,
The gold spunk of your berries making children fat.
Nothing in you being lame or fraudulent
You discountenanced all who saw you.

No need to add how turning downwind
You pierce again today the glands of memory,
Or how in summer calms you still stand still
In etchings of a tree-defining place.

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

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[Lika_k]

05.10.2010 в 15:23

Пишет  Нэт Старбек:

Я теперь счастливый обладатель "Избранных переводов" Анатолия Гелескула (за что спасибо Юко). И там много моих любимых испанцев и поляков. Пока читаю испанские песни.
Сегидильи
"Люблю!" — во сне я крикнул
и до рассвета
от ревности метался,
услышав это.

+5

Мне ревность не по средствам,
сплошная трата —
дарю кому попало
и без возврата.

Твоей зеленой ленты
мне было мало —
ты, как надежду, бросил,
я не поймала.

Не одолжить ли на ночь
глаза любимой?
Мне кой-кого прикончить
необходимо.

Тебя, мой ненаглядный,
мой смуглолицый,
мне разглядеть мешают
мои ресницы.

Мне снилось, будто любишь
и я спасен,
но и во сне мне снилось,
что это сон.

Канте хондо (солеарес)
Такие наши забавы!
Кидал бы камешки в воду,
да что-то брызги кровавы.

+1

Пустырь, поросший быльем.
Хочу посидеть немного,
где мы сидели вдвоем.

Севильяны
Опять карабинеру
идти в погоню,
но я контрабандистку
не провороню.

+2

За недомерка, мама,
не выдай силой.
Таскать его, как веер, —
Господь помилуй!
(ИМХО обычная испанская ситуация. )

Ты глуп и на рассвете,
и на закате.
А днем еще глупее,
замечу кстати.
Скажу короче.
Едва не позабыла,
что глуп и ночью.

@темы: espanol, repost

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[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
Seferis
Time quietly compiling us like sheaves
Turns round one day, beckons the special few,
With one bird singing somewhere in the leaves,
Someone like K. or somebody like you,
Free-falling target for the envious thrust,
So tilting into darkness go we must.

Thus the fading writer signing off
Sees in the vast perspectives of dispersal
His words float off like tiny seeds,
Wind-borne or bird-disturbed notes,
To the very end of loves without rehearsal,
The stinging image riper than his deeds.

Yours must have set out like ancient
Colonists, from Delos or from Rhodes,
To dare the sun-gods, found great entrepôts,
Naples or Rio, far from man's known abodes,
To confer the quaint Grecian sсript on other man;
A new Greek fire ignited by your pen.

How marvellous to have done it and then left
It in the lost property office of the loving mind,
The secret whisper those who listen find.
You show us all the way the great ones went,
In silences becalmed, so well they knew
That even to die is somehow to invent.

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

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[Lika_k]

Элисео Диего
В окне
Боевые тучи, а за ними большими ватагами хмурые
тучи бредут с песней в сторону воскресенья,
настолько далекие, что мы их никогда не услышим.

А в горах, в потаенном укрытии гор, нашли
прибежище бархатнобородый молчаливый пророк и
священный кузнец с молотом на плече.

И бедняки с их серыми вытертыми холстинами,
некоторые с огненными горбами,
гигантские бедняки, которые пляшут, радуясь как Давид.

И смирные доисторические животные, замыкающие
шествие, такие неторопливые в спокойном небе.

Пер. П. Грушко

@темы: д, 20, latinoamericano

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[Lika_k]

Robert Graves
Symptoms of Love
Love is universal migraine,
A bright stain on the vision
Blotting out reason.

Symptoms of true love
Are leanness, jealousy,
Laggard dawns;

Are omens and nightmares -
Listening for a knock,
Waiting for a sign:

For a touch of her fingers
In a darkened room,
For a searching look.

Take courage, lover!
Could you endure such pain
At any hand but hers?

@темы: g, 20, english-british, english: anglo-american, graves, robert

---

[Lika_k]

Хуан Рамон Хименес
Холодные радуги в зарослях сада,
размокшие листья в затопленной яме,
и сонный ручей под дождем листопада,
и черные бабочки над пустырями...
Больная трава на развалинах давних,
на старых могилах, на мусорных кучах,
фасады на север и плесень на ставнях,
агония роз, и доныне пахучих...
Тоска о несбыточном, о непонятном,
о том, что исчезло, да вряд ли и было,
и темные знаки на небе закатном,
и тот, кому горько, и та, что забыла...

Пер. А. Гелескул

@темы: espanol, 20, х (rus)

---

[Lika_k]

Lawrence Durrell
A Persian Lady
Some diplomatic mission - no such thing as "fate" -
Brought her to the city that ripening spring.
She was much pointed out - a Lady-in Waiting -
To some Persian noble; well, and here she was
Merry and indolent amidst fashionable abundance.
By day under a saffron parasol on royal beaches,
By night in queer crocketed tent with tassels.

He noted the perfected darkness of her beauty,
The mind recoiling as from a branding-iron:
The sea advancing and retiring at her laquered toes;
How would one say "to enflame" in her tongue,
He wondered, knowing it applied to female beauty?
When their eyes met he felt dis-figured
It would have been simple - three paces apart!

Disloyal time! The let the seminal instant go,
The code unbroken, the collision of ripening wishes
Bandoned to hiss on the great syllabaries of memory.
Next day he deliberately left the musical city
To join a boring water-party on the lake.
Telling himself "Say what you like about it,
I have been spared very much in this business."

He meant, I think, that never should he now
Know the slow disgracing of her mind, the slow
Spiral of her beauty's deterioration, flagging desires,
The stagnant fury of the temporal yoke,
Grey temple, long slide into fat.

On the other hand neither would she build him sons
Or be a subject for verses - the famished in-bred poetry
Which was the fashion of his time and ours.
She would exist, pure, symmetrical and intact
Like the sterile hyphen which divides and joins
In a biography the year of birth and death.

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

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[Lika_k]

Диего Элисео
Две руки
Две руки, как два верных пса, проворно
управляются с раздраженными вещами.

Устает старший - приходит на помощь другой,
второй в этом бессменном празднестве,
и играет. Безразличие, с каким его принимает
брат, скрывает некоторое недовольство, сквозь
которое проглядывают гордость и нежность.

Обе руки вечно трудятся. Они - словно два
упоминаемых в Апокалипсисе животных,земных
и ангелоподобных. Их таинственная страсть,
их волшебные занятия и сравнить-то не с чем.

Когда хозяин умирает, они деревенеют
у него в груди - никогда его не покинут.

Пер. П. Грушко

@темы: э, 20, latinoamericano

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[Lika_k]

Raymond Carver

@темы: c, 20, english: anglo-american