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Автор Тема: My favourite poem  (Прочитано 32169 раз)
Maryna
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« Ответ #100 : 09 Июля 2014, 21:33:21 »

Fog at 5 a.m.

When milky fog hovers over the river,
I see autumn paddocks hallucinate ti-trees,
paperbarks steaming, a swamp wreathed in ether,
bovine forms moving more lightly than ruminants,
collar bells chinking reminders of substance
in a volatile, vapid world.

I walk to the river to listen to water,
a phantom poised on the dim pontoon
along with vague silhouettes of herons
hunkered down to watch eddies inbound
for quicksilver glimpsed
through shapeshifting mass,
that signifies fingerlings, morning’s catch.

Jena Woodhouse
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« Ответ #101 : 09 Июля 2014, 21:34:03 »

The Style of Silence

There are no adjectives for this:
a state beyond the epithet,
when at night
it tries to rain,
but there are only
semblances:
wind’s passing breath,
the phantom drops
that stir the grass,
then silences.

I should replace
this meagre light
that fades
before it finds the page,
but there are no more
lines to add,
no words that burn
the tongue, the brain.
The pen has lost
the urge to fly.

Jena Woodhouse
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« Ответ #102 : 09 Июля 2014, 21:35:00 »

Old Man in Coffee House

His fingers count the worry beads -
the number is the same;
but when his memory tries to tally years
he finds that most have gone,
like gaps where there were teeth,
like soldier sons.

He'll wear the black armband
until the end, because he loved
his wife, and then bequeath it to his blue-
eyed child, the daughter left behind.

Longer grow the autumn nights,
extinguishing the days.

Jena Woodhouse
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« Ответ #103 : 27 Июля 2014, 22:33:43 »

A Green Cornfield

The earth was green, the sky was blue:
I saw and heard one sunny morn
A skylark hang between the two,
A singing speck above the corn;

A stage below, in gay accord,
White butterflies danced on the wing,
And still the singing skylark soared,
And silent sank and soared to sing.

The cornfield stretched a tender green
To right and left beside my walks;
I knew he had a nest unseen
Somewhere among the million stalks.

And as I paused to hear his song
While swift the sunny moments slid,
Perhaps his mate sat listening long,
And listened longer than I did.

Christina Rossetti
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« Ответ #104 : 09 Августа 2014, 15:29:14 »

PIANO

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

D.H. Lawrence, 1918
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« Ответ #105 : 11 Августа 2014, 11:59:33 »

                   Christina Georgina Rossetti.


                    Three Seasons

                   "A cup for hope!" she said,
                   In springtime ere the bloom was old:
                   The crimson wine was poor and cold
                   By her mouth's richer red.
                   "A cup for love!" how low,
                   How soft the words; and all the while
                   Her blush was rippling with a smile
                   Like summer after snow.
                   "A cup for memory!"
                   Cold cup that one must drain alone:
                   While autumn winds are up and moan
                   Across the barren sea.
                   Hope, memory, love:
                   Hope for fair morn, and love for day,
                   And memory for the evening grey
                   And solitary dove.
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« Ответ #106 : 22 Августа 2014, 21:27:48 »

OUT OF THE WINDOW

In the middle of countries, far from hills and sea,
Are the little places one passes by in trains
And never stops at; where the skies extend
Uninterrupted, and the level plains
Stretch green and yellow and green without an end.
And behind the glass of their Grand Express
Folk yawn away a province through,
With nothing to think of, nothing to do,
Nothing even to look at - never a "view"
In this damned wilderness.
But I look out of the window and find
Much to satisfy the mind.
Mark how the furrows, formed and wheeled
In a motion orderly and staid,
Sweep, as we pass, across the field
Like a drilled army on parade.
And here's a market - garden, barred
With stripe on stripe of varied greens...
Bright potatoes, flower starred,
And the opacous colour of beans.
Each line deliberately swings
Towards me, till I see a straight
Green avenue to the heart of things,
The glimpse of a sudden opened gate
Piercing the adverse walls of fate...
A moment only, and then, fast, fast,
The gate swings to, the avenue closes;
Fate laughs, and once more interposes
Its barriers. The train has passed.

Aldous Leonard Huxley
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« Ответ #107 : 01 Сентября 2014, 15:18:24 »

September 1, 1939

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism’s face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
“I will be true to the wife,
I’ll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

W. H. Auden
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« Ответ #108 : 21 Сентября 2014, 18:56:42 »

Lawrence Ferlinghetti


Number 20

The pennycandystore beyond the El
is where I first
fell in love
with unreality
Jellybeans glowed in the semi-gloom
of that september afternoon
A cat upon the counter moved among
the licorice sticks
and tootsie rolls
and Oh Boy Gum

Outside the leaves were falling as they died

A wind had blown away the sun

A girl ran in
Her hair was rainy
Her breasts were breathless in the little room

Outside the leaves were falling
and they cried
Too soon! too soon!
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« Ответ #109 : 01 Октября 2014, 02:37:37 »

"The More Loving One"

by W. H. Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well...
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
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Казахстан, г.Алматы


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« Ответ #110 : 14 Октября 2014, 16:28:28 »

A LEAVE-TAKING

Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.
Let us go hence together without fear;
Keep silence now, for singing-time is over,
And over all old things and all things dear.
She loves not you nor me as all we love her.
Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,
            She would not hear.

Let us rise up and part; she will not know.
Let us go seaward as the great winds go,
Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here?
There is no help, for all these things are so,
And all the world is bitter as a tear.
And how these things are, though ye strove to show,
            She would not know.

Let us go home and hence; she will not weep.
We gave love many dreams and days to keep,
Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow,
Saying, ‘If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap.’
All is reaped now; no grass is left to mow;
And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep,
            She would not weep.

Let us go hence and rest; she will not love.
She shall not hear us if we sing hereof,
Nor see love’s ways, how sore they are and steep.
Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough.
Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep;
And though she saw all heaven in flower above,
            She would not love.

Let us give up, go down; she will not care.
Though all the stars made gold of all the air,
And the sea moving saw before it move
One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair;
Though all those waves went over us, and drove
Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair,
            She would not care.

Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see.
Sing all once more together; surely she,
She, too, remembering days and words that were,
Will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we,
We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there.
Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me,
            She would not see.

Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Есть реки в пустыне, и есть пути в одиночестве, но нет ни рек, ни пути в том, кто растворился в других.
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« Ответ #111 : 14 Октября 2014, 16:47:27 »

Спасибо.  :) Как я люблю  повторы и заклинания в стихах. В этом есть что-то древнее, колдовское. :)
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« Ответ #112 : 18 Декабря 2014, 20:08:38 »

Johnny Depp Recites ‘Chorus 113′ from Kerouac’s Mexico City Blues

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dW9s_sYeB9o

In 1995 Johnny Depp made a cameo appearance on an improbable TV mini-series called The United States of Poetry. The series was broadcast on PBS and featured highly stylized vignettes spotlighting a range of poets–Joseph Brodsky, Derek Walcott, Czeslaw Milosz and Allen Ginsberg to name but a few–along with some famous names better known for their work in other fields–Lou Reed, Leonard Cohen, Jimmy Carter–in six fast-moving episodes, each tied to a theme. Depp appeared in “Show Five: The Word” to read from a poem by one of his own idols, Jack Kerouac.

In the scene above, Depp reads a selection from Kerouac’s 1959 book of improvisational verse, Mexico City Blues: 242 Choruses. “I want to be considered a jazz poet,” Kerouac writes in the introduction to the book, “blowing a long blues in an afternoon jam session on Sunday. I take 242 choruses; my ideas vary and sometimes roll from chorus to chorus or from halfway through a chorus to halfway into the next.” Here’s the chorus Depp reads from:

Mexico City Blues [113th Chorus]

Got up and dressed up
         and went out & got laid
Then died and got buried
         in a coffin in the grave,
Man–
         Yet everything is perfect,
Because it is empty,
Because it is perfect
         with emptiness,
Because it’s not even happening.

Everything
Is Ignorant of its own emptiness–
Anger
Doesn’t like to be reminded of fits–

You start with the Teaching
         Inscrutable of the Diamond
And end with it, your goal
         is your startingplace,
No race has run, no walk
         of prophetic toenails
Across Arabies of hot
         meaning–you just
         numbly don’t get there

         Jack Kerouac, 1959
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« Ответ #113 : 30 Декабря 2014, 12:02:24 »

               Life-
I am of both your directions
Existing more with the cold frost
Strong as a cobweb in the wind
Hanging downward the most
      Somehow remaining
those beaded rays have the colours
    I've seen in paintings-ah life
      they have cheated you
thinner than a cobweb's thread
        sheerer than any-
     but it did attach itself
  and held fast in strong winds
and singed by the leaping hot fires
   life-of which at singular times
     I am both of your directions-
somehow I remain hanging downward
                the most
 as both of your directions pull me.

          Marilyn Monroe
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« Ответ #114 : 30 Декабря 2014, 12:21:15 »

Cruci-Fiction in Space

This is evolution
The monkey, the man, then the gun
If Christ was in Texas
The hammer, the sickle, the only Son
This is your creation
The Adam of Eden was a bomb
If Jack was a baptist
We'd drink wine from his head

This is evolution
The monkey, the man, then the gun
This is evolution
The monkey, the man, then the gun

I am a revolution
Pull my knuckles down, if I could
I am a revelation
And I'm nailed to the holy wood

This is evolution
The monkey, the man, then the gun
This is evolution
The monkey, the man, then the gun

We are dead and tomorrow's cancelled
We are dead in a yesterday
We are dead and tomorrow's cancelled
Crucify us in our space
In our space
In our space
In our space
In our space

This is evolution
The monkey, the man, then the gun
This is evolution
The monkey, the man, then the gun

Marilyn Manson
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Everything is about control.
I must never slip, nor ever fall.
Anything is possible for me.
I must never doubt, and finally be free
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« Ответ #115 : 22 Января 2015, 16:47:08 »

LOUISE GLÜCK - SNOWDROPS

Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
what despair is; then
winter should have meaning for you.

I did not expect to survive,
earth suppressing me. I didn't expect
to waken again, to feel
in damp earth my body
able to respond again, remembering
after so long how to open again
in the cold light
of earliest spring-

afraid, yes, but among you again
crying yes risk joy

in the raw wind of the new world.
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« Ответ #116 : 10 Февраля 2015, 17:35:09 »

Eric Bogle

And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda


When I was a young man I carried my pack
And I lived the free life of a rover
From the Murrays green basin to the dusty outback
I waltzed my Matilda all over
Then in nineteen fifteen my country said Son
It's time to stop rambling 'cause there's work to be done
So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun
And they sent me away to the war
And the band played Waltzing Matilda
As we sailed away from the quay
And amidst all the tears and the shouts and the cheers
We sailed off to Gallipoli

How well I remember that terrible day
How the blood stained the sand and the water
And how in that hell that they called Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter
Johnny Turk he was ready, he primed himself well
He chased us with bullets, he rained us with shells
And in five minutes flat he'd blown us all to hell
Nearly blew us right back to Australia
But the band played Waltzing Matilda
As we stopped to bury our slain
We buried ours and the Turks buried theirs
Then we started all over again

Now those that were left, well we tried to survive
In a mad world of blood, death and fire
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
But around me the corpses piled higher
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over tit
And when I woke up in my hospital bed
And saw what it had done, I wished I was dead
Never knew there were worse things than dying
For no more I'll go waltzing Matilda
All around the green bush far and near
For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs two legs
No more waltzing Matilda for me

So they collected the cripples, the wounded, the maimed
And they shipped us back home to Australia
The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla
And as our ship pulled into Circular Quay
I looked at the place where my legs used to be
And thank Christ there was nobody waiting for me
To grieve and to mourn and to pity
And the band played Waltzing Matilda
As they carried us down the gangway
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared
Then turned all their faces away

And now every April I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me
And I watch my old comrades, how proudly they march
Reliving old dreams of past glory
And the old men march slowly, all bent, stiff and sore
The forgotten heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask, "What are they marching for?"
And I ask myself the same question
And the band plays Waltzing Matilda
And the old men answer to the call
But year after year their numbers get fewer
Some day no one will march there at all

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who'll come a waltzing Matilda with me
And their ghosts may be heard as you pass the Billabong
Who'll come-a-waltzing Matilda with me?

 
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« Ответ #117 : 17 Февраля 2015, 00:35:19 »

COST

He sees a woman, his daughter,
fly away.

Knew this fluff bundle this
totter of feathers she flew then fumbled
as do all gristle to the
adolescent mill when bodies
mystify & mirage so
certain about nothing it’s
almost grown-up.

Lost her somewhere around year 9. They became poles,
the magnets spun their unchosen roles
chalk & chilli.

He knows he’s no authority, no man, no failure
despite. These are the deaths each were promised
eat joylessly a caged lettuce
but need as they
think climb
but decline
into wisdom itself
a fraud one can’t discuss.

Lords of fix or fragment –
she the stubborn, judgemental,
opinionated little brat (just like her old papa).
Forgive him
this not-enough
more to come
bungled but unconditional love.

In awe he watches her name, she
builds a sturdy thing with broken eyes,
the School of Scars
has made something impenetrable to him but a
smile’s worth of trouble.
Friends are salved, worthied the mend with days.
Networks emerge newborn from her fingers,
her business busies (that shop in Newtown)
while managing two children (Grandpa’s quarterly visits
those tiny, priceless strangers).
She strides through
a lush crop of episodic
light & sails.

The father leaves life for those who are ardent, their
petty thrills of territory.
But one thing wanted, waits (for her) unfinished
sucking sense from a regretful river outside
always outside
the Last Iconoclast Saloon
at the end of a train line.

Les Wicks
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« Ответ #118 : 17 Февраля 2015, 00:39:44 »

HINDERED BY THE HEARTH

Leave our doors
step
with weight
stop on a tickle
check the mailbox (you do know
it’s the middle of a long weekend?) back upstairs
to verify the heater is cold have you
got your wallet this
leaving will take a while,
maybe have a cup of coffee?
We work hard to fill the question.

Jowled sky
about the courtesies of coal
you say the day is leaden
leading nowhere
the whimlost winter,
this breeder of night,
is subtle. I will convince myself.
Our tracksuits are smeared with belief.

Les Wicks
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« Ответ #119 : 17 Февраля 2015, 00:45:04 »

HOW WE PREPARED FOR WAR

It was necessary to become cold. To forget the lives
we'd dreamed of. The days were taut and full of smoke.
Our pockets were mostly empty. We practiced crawling
through progressively smaller holes. Made quick work
of a tangled bandage. You served me poisoned, oily fish
until my mouth became a bell that only you could hear.
I came to crave the lovely pain—my strange want—
and ate the fish with gusto. Every day prepared us
for the next explosion, a new desire. I lived as though
you moved the earth, its axis stilled when you entered a room.
The slow ravage of my gut surprised no one. When the war began
I would stand stupid and stunned, unconvinced the world
could throttle on beyond our pause, our meticulous training.

Caitlin Bailey
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« Ответ #120 : 26 Февраля 2015, 02:05:08 »

Sometimes the best way to grow up
is to watch a dog bark at something,
that no one else can see.
Dogs can see gods and other creatures
in a peculiar manner.
They are afraid of something, that can not feed them
though is definitely stronger then their Master.
Something that can come and leave
without a reason
that seems reasonable
to a man and a dog.
And then you learn something from these creatures.
When they step out of the room, you know you would never learn of their existence
Unless there was a friend who can see much more than he can explain.
Fear of the unknown makes you a slave.
And trust is the only thing that matters
even in an empty room
where the unseen reverberation
can make your most devoted friend think
that you can no longer protect him.

Aleksei Bobrovnikov
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« Ответ #121 : 26 Февраля 2015, 02:05:31 »

Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport — Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind —
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? — That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

William Wordsworth
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« Ответ #122 : 28 Февраля 2015, 16:59:28 »

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCRAE, 1915
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« Ответ #123 : 03 Марта 2015, 05:30:25 »

I Know My Soul

I plucked my soul out of its secret place,
And held it to the mirror of my eye,
To see it like a star against the sky,
A twitching body quivering in space,
A spark of passion shining on my face.
And I explored it to determine why
This awful key to my infinity
Conspires to rob me of sweet joy and grace.
And if the sign may not be fully read,
If I can comprehend but not control,
I need not gloom my days with futile dread,
Because I see a part and not the whole.
Contemplating the strange, I’m comforted
By this narcotic thought: I know my soul.

Claude McKay, 1922
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« Ответ #124 : 03 Марта 2015, 05:30:53 »

Watch the Film You Paid to See

In my bedroom my weight is three times more
than what I’d weigh on Jupiter.
If your kitchen was on Mercury I’d be heavier by half
of you while sitting at your table.
On Uranus, a quarter of my weight is meat,
or an awareness of myself as flesh.
On Venus the light would produce a real volume around me
that would make me look happy in photographs.
This is how it is with quantity in any life. It’s a fact
that on certain planets I’d actually be able to mount
the stairs four at a time. Think of the most beautiful horse
in the world: a ridiculously beautiful golden horse,
with a shimmering coat; it would weigh no more
than an empty handbag on Mars. You need
to get real about these things.

Todd Colby, 2014
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« Ответ #125 : 03 Марта 2015, 05:31:25 »

During September-October 1939 throughout ten Allied countries, and upon the suggestion of FIDAC, the 25th anniversary of Laurence Binyon's "For the Fallen", was observed.

This is one of the most famous and enduring war poems, and it was written at an historic moment - just after the retreat from Mons and the victory of the Marne.



For the Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Robert Laurence Binyon, 1914
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« Ответ #126 : 29 Марта 2015, 23:30:28 »

Philip Levine

DURING THE WAR


When my brother came home from war
he carried his left arm in a black sling
but assured us most of it was still there.
Spring was late, the trees forgot to leaf out.

I stood in a long line waiting for bread.
The woman behind me said it was shameless,
someone as strong as I still home, still intact
while her Michael was burning to death.

Yes, she could feel the fire, could smell
his pain all the way from Tarawa–
or was it Midway?–and he so young,
younger than I, who was only fourteen,

taller, more handsome in his white uniform
turning slowly gray the way unprimed wood
grays slowly in the grate when the flames
sputter and die. “I think I’m going mad,”

she said when I turned to face her. She placed
both hands on my shoulders, kissed each eyelid,
hugged me to her breasts and whispered wetly
in my bad ear words I’d never heard before.

When I got home my brother ate the bread
carefully one slice at a time until
nothing was left but a blank plate. “Did you see her,”
he asked, “the woman in hell, Michael’s wife?”

That afternoon I walked the crowded streets
looking for something I couldn’t name,
something familiar, a face or a voice or less,
but not these shards of ash that fell from heaven.


У ДНІ ВІЙНИ

Мій брат, повернувшись з війни,
носив ліву руку на чорній перев’язі і запевняв,
що вона – все ще там, майже ціла.
Весна була пізньою, дерева світили голим гіллям.

Я стояв у довгій черзі по хліб.
Жінка, що чекала за мною, гукнула: сором!
Такий сильний чоловік, як я, і вдома, неушкоджений,
а її Майкл згорів живцем.

Так, її обпікав той вогонь, вона вчувала запах
його болю цілу дорогу з Тарави
(чи, може, то було в Мідвеї?) – такий молодий,
молодший за мене, чотирнадцятирічний,

вищий, гарніший у своєму білому однострої,
що поволі сірішає, наче неґрунтоване дерево
ґратів, коли полум’я сичить, задихається
й помирає. «Я, певно, з’їжджаю з глузду», –

каже вона, коли я обертаюсь до неї. Кладе
мені руки на плечі, цілує мої повіки, пригортає
до грудей і шепоче волого в моє
погане вухо слова, яких я не чув раніше.

Коли я повернувся додому, мій брат їв хліб,
обережно, скибку за скибкою, аж доки
перед ним не лишилась біла тарілка. «Ти бачив її, –
спитав він, – жінку в пеклі, Майклову дружину?».

Того дня я ходив людними вулицями,
шукаючи чогось, чого не міг назвати,
якогось знаку, обличчя, голосу, хоч чогось,
аби не цих клаптів попелу, що падають з неба.

Переклад: Остап Сливинський

_____________

"14 лютого, помер цей чоловік - поет Філіп Левайн. Американський єврей-пролетар, один з, можливо, найчесніших поетів цієї загалом чесної і прямолінійної країни Америки. Він любив роботяг і простих тварин, як вміє їх любити лише той, хто пережив свою безнадію, свою скруту, свою війну."
Остап Сливинський
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« Ответ #127 : 30 Марта 2015, 13:25:16 »

Edward Estlin Cummings

if there are any heavens my mother will (all by herself) have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses
my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight
he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)


Эдвард Эстлин Каммингс

если есть небеса моя мать добьется (сама)
неба. Это не небо фиалок,
не ландышей хрупкое небо,
это небо роз черно-красных.

мой отец будет (глубокий как роза
высокий как роза)

стоять у моей

(качаясь над нею тихо)
с глазами которые лепестки и видеть

не будет с лицом поэта которое
будет цветок, а не лицо с руками
которые шепчут
это моя дорогая моя

(внезапно в солнечном свете
он наклоняется

и весь наклоняется сад)

Перевод В. Шаргунова

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« Ответ #128 : 30 Марта 2015, 17:59:08 »

AFTERNOON ON A HILL

I will be the gladdest thing   
Under the sun!   
I will touch a hundred flowers   
And not pick one.   

I will look at cliffs and clouds   
With quiet eyes,   
Watch the wind bow down the grass,   
And the grass rise.   

And when lights begin to show   
Up from the town,   
I will mark which must be mine,   
And then start down!

by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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« Ответ #129 : 01 Апреля 2015, 14:50:33 »

For The Foxes

by Charles Bukowski


Don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.

be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain

who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.

juggling mates
and
attitudes

their
confusion is
constant

and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.

beware of them:
one of their
key words is
'love.'

and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God

for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.

don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.

I am a dog walking
backwards

I am a broken
banjo

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.

put your sympathy
aside.
they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
lucky.
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« Ответ #130 : 03 Мая 2015, 21:30:14 »

 
Us & Co.

by Tracy K. Smith

Life on Mars

We are here for what amounts to a few hours,
a day at most.

We feel around making sense of the terrain,
our own new limbs,

Bumping up against a herd of bodies
until one becomes home.

Moments sweep past. The grass bends
then learns again to stand.
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« Ответ #131 : 04 Мая 2015, 22:29:24 »

BREAK OF DAY IN THE TRENCHES

The darkness crumbles away.
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet’s poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies.
Now you have touched this English hand
You will do the same to a German
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our eyes
At the shrieking iron and flame
Hurled through still heavens?
What quaver—what heart aghast?
Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe—
Just a little white with the dust.

by Isaac Rosenberg (December 1916)
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« Ответ #132 : 07 Мая 2015, 14:13:30 »

Louis Simpson


The Redwoods

Mountains are moving, rivers
are hurrying. But we
are still.

We have the thoughts of giants--
clouds, and at night the stars.

And we have names-- guttural, grotesque--
Hamet, Og-- names with no syllables.

And perish, one by one, our roots
gnawed by the mice. And fall.

And are too slow for death, and change
to stone. Or else too quick,

like candles in a fire. Giants
are lonely. We have waited long

for someone. By our waiting, surely
there must be someone at whose touch

our boughs would bend; and hands
to gather us; a spirit

to whom we are light as the hawthorn tree.
O if there is a poet

let him come now! We stand at the Pacific
like great unmarried girls,

turning in our heads the stars and clouds,
considering whom to please.



Секвойи

Горы движутся, реки бегут.
Но мы — неподвижны.

У нас размышленья гигантов —
облака и ночные звезды.

У нас имена гортанные, дикие —
Хэмт, Ог — древние имена.

И мы умираем одна за другой,
мышами подточенные. И рушимся.

В смерти медлительны — мы каменеем.
Или мгновенны — как свечи в огне.

Гиганты всегда одиноки. Мы долго
ждали кого-нибудь. Должен же быть

кто-то, кто нашим терпением взыскан,
кто наши ветки нежно сомнет

в крепких ладонях; должны же быть руки,
которые нас обнимут, поймут,

кому мы легки, как кусты барбариса.
О, если такой существует поэт,

пусть он придет! Мы стоим над Тихим,
как большие безмужние бабы,

и, вращая звезды и облака в головах,
смотрим, кому бы нам приглянуться.

Перевод Олега Чухонцева
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« Ответ #133 : 16 Мая 2015, 12:21:50 »

Tracy K. Smith

Us & Co.

We are here for what amounts to a few hours,
a day at most.

We feel around making sense of the terrain,
our own new limbs,

Bumping up against a herd of bodies
until one becomes home.

Moments sweep past. The grass bends
then learns again to stand.



Трэйси К. Смит

Мы и Ко.

Мы по сути здесь — несколько часов,
от силы день.

Наощупь определяем местность,
и новые конечности свои,

Толкаемся, толчемся в стаде тел,
пока одно из них не обживем.

Мгновенья улетают. Прогибается трава
и снова научается стоять.

Перевод Антона Тенсера
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« Ответ #134 : 25 Мая 2015, 21:03:22 »

Benjamin Franklin King


The Pessimist

NOTHING to do but work,
Nothing to eat but food,
Nothing to wear but clothes
To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air
Quick as a flash 't is gone;
Nowhere to fall but off,
Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair,
Nowhere to sleep but in bed,
Nothing to weep but tears,
Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs,
Ah, well, alas! alack!
Nowhere to go but out,
Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights,
Nothing to quench but thirst,
Nothing to have but what we've got;
Thus thro' life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait;
Everything moves that goes.
Nothing at all but common sense
Can ever withstand these woes.
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« Ответ #135 : 19 Июня 2015, 19:57:03 »

W. H. Auden

A VOYAGE

I. Whither?


Where does this journey look which the watcher
upon the quay,
Standing under his evil star, so bitterly envies,
As the mountains swim away with slow calm strokes
And the gulls abandon their vow? Does it promise a
juster life?
Alone with his heart at last, does the fortunate
traveler find
In the vague touch of a breeze, the fickle flash of a wave,
Proofs that somewhere exists, really, the Good Place,
Convincing as those that children find in stones and
holes?

No, he discovers nothing: he does not want to arrive.
His journey is false, his unreal excitement really an illness
On a false island where the heart cannot act and
will not suffer:
He condones his fever; he is weaker than he thought;
his weakness is real.

But at moments, as when real dolphins with leap and panache
Cajole for recognition or, far away, a real island
Gets up to catch his eye, his trance is broken: he
remembers
Times and places where he was well; he believes in joy,
That, maybe, his fever shall find a cure, the true journey an end
Where hearts meet and are really true, and crossed
this ocean, that parts
Hearts which alter but is the same always, that goes
Everywhere, as truth and falsehood go, but cannot suffer.


У. Х. Оден


ПУТЕШЕСТВИЕ

I. Куда?

Что путешествие скажет тому, кто стоит у борта
под несчастливой звездой и глядит
на залив, где горы,
плавно качаясь на волнах,
уходят все дальше, дальше
в море, где даже чайки не держат слова?

Нынче, оставшись один на один
с собою, странник
в этих касаниях ветра, во всплесках моря
ищет приметы того, что отыщется
наконец то место,
где хорошо. Вспоминает из детства
пещеры, овраги, камни.

Но ничего не находит, не открывает.
Возвращаться не с чем.
Путешествие в мертвую точку
было смертельной ошибкой.
Здесь, на мертвом острове, ждал,
что боль в сердце утихнет.
Подхватил лихорадку. Оказался слабее,
чем раньше думал.

Но временами, наблюдая, как в море
мелькают дельфины,
в прятки играя, или растет
на горизонте незнакомый остров
точкой опоры зрачку, он с надеждой верит
в те времена и места, где был счастлив.

В то, что
боль и тревога проходят и ведут дороги
на перекресток сердец, рассекая море, ибо
сердце изменчиво, но остается
в конечном счете
прежним повсюду. Как правда и ложь,
что друг с другом схожи.

Перевод Глеба Шульпякова
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« Ответ #136 : 28 Июня 2015, 00:13:17 »

Statues in the Park

Billy Collins

I thought of you today
when I stopped before an equestrian statue
in the middle of a public square,

you who had once instructed me
in the code of these noble poses.

A horse rearing up with two legs raised,
you told me, meant the rider had died in battle.

If only one leg was lifted,
the man had elsewhere succumbed to his wounds;

and if four legs were touching the ground,
as they were in this case-
bronze hooves affixed to a stone base-
it meant that the man on the horse,

this one staring intently
over the closed movie theater across the street,
had died of a cause other than war.

In the shadow of the statue,
I wondered about the others
who had simply walked through life
without a horse, a saddle, or a sword-

pedestrians who could no longer
place one foot in front of the other.

I pictured statues of the sickly
recumbent on their cold stone beds,
the suicides toeing the marble edge,

statues of accident victims covering their eyes,
the murdered covering their wounds,
the drowned silently treading the air.

And there was I,
up on a rosy-gray block of granite
near a cluster of shade trees in the local park,
my name and dates pressed into a plaque,

down on my knees, eyes lifted,
praying to the passing clouds,
forever begging for just one more day.
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« Ответ #137 : 29 Июня 2015, 10:45:12 »

Статуи в парке

Билли Коллинз

Сегодня я вспоминал тебя,
остановившись перед конной статуей,
что стоит посередине сквера —

как-то раз ты раскрыла мне
тайный смысл этих величавых поз.

Если лошадь стоит дыбом на задних ногах —
говорила ты, — это значит, что всадник погиб в битве.

Если поднята лишь одна нога,
значит, он умер от ран, но не прямо на месте.

Если же все четыре ноги стоят на земле,
как это было в данном случае:
бронзовые копыта, впаянные в каменное основание —
это значит, что сидящий на лошади,

вот этот вот, устремивший свой взгляд
поверх закрытого кинотеатра на той стороне улицы,
умер от других причин, не из-за войны.

И, стоя в тени этой статуи,
я подумал обо всех других,
тех, что просто идут по жизни,
без коня, без седла, без оружия —

всех этих пешеходах, которые однажды
больше не смогли переставлять ноги.

И я представил статуи больных,
простёршихся на холодных каменных ложах,
самоубийц, нащупывающих ногой мраморный край,

статуи жертв ДТП, закрывающих руками глаза,
статуи зарезанных, зажимающих свои раны,
статуи утопленников, барахтающихся в воздухе,

и среди них — себя,
на розово-сером куске гранита,
рядом с группой тенистых деревьев в местном парке,
с моим именем и датами жизни, выгравированными на табличке,

на коленях, устремившего взгляд к облакам,
молящегося, вечно просящего лишь об одном —
дать мне еще один день.

Перевод Владимира Иванова
supposedly_me

29 июня 2015
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« Ответ #138 : 30 Июня 2015, 20:01:13 »

Prelude


by Derek Walcott

I, with legs crossed along the daylight, watch

The variegated fists of clouds that gather over

The uncouth features of this, my prone island.

Meanwhile the steamers which divide horizons prove

Us lost;

Found only

In tourist booklets, behind ardent binoculars;

Found in the blue reflection of eyes

That have known cities and think us here happy.

Time creeps over the patient who are too long patient,

So I, who have made one choice,

Discover that my boyhood has gone over.

And my life, too early of course for the profound cigarette,

The turned doorhandle, the knife turning

In the bowels of the hours, must not be made public

Until I have learnt to suffer

In accurate iambics.

I go, of course, through all the isolated acts,

Make a holiday of situations,

Straighten my tie and fix important jaws,

And note the living images

Of flesh that saunter through the eye.

Until from all I turn to think how,

In the middle of the journey through my life,

O how I came upon you, my

Reluctant leopard of the slow eyes.

1948



Прелюдия


Дерек Уолкотт


Вытянув скрещенные ноги вдоль солнечных лучей,
я наблюдаю за пестрыми кулаками облаков,
что нависли над грубыми чертами
моего растянувшегося под ногами острова.
А тем временем пароходы разграфили перспективу,
подтверждая - мы затеряны
и разыскать нас можно лишь в туристическом буклете
или в окулярах рыскающих биноклей,
отраженными от ясных голубых глаз,
что насмотрелись на свои города и считают нас счастливыми.
Время ползет по потерпевшему, что слишком долго терпел,
и я, сделавший однажды выбор, понимаю -
с мальчишеством пора попрощаться.
И свою жизнь - еще не созревшую для глубокой затяжки,
повернутой дверной ручки, ножа, выпустившего
времени кишки - мне не стоит выносить на всеобщее обозрение,
пока я не научусь страдать в правильных ямбах.
Я рассортирую все одиночные события,
позабавлюсь ситуацией,
поправлю галстук и разрулю проблему,
и один в один нарисую картины с человеческими фигурами,
что будут забредать мне в глаза.
А после вернусь к мыслям о том,
как на середине жизненного путешествия
встречу - о, как я встречу тебя, моя упирающаяся
пантера с медленным взглядом.

Перевод Андрея Пустогарова
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« Ответ #139 : 02 Июля 2015, 13:41:07 »

Louis MacNeice


Round the Corner

Round the corner was always the sea. Our childhood
Tipping the sand from its shoes on return from holiday
Knew there was more where it came from, as there was more
Seaweed to pop and horizon to blink at. Later
Our calf loves yearned for union in solitude somewhere
Round that corner where Xenophon crusted with parasangs
Knew he was home, where Columbus feared he was not,
And the Bible said there would be no more of it. Round
That corner regardless there will be always a realm
Undercutting its banks with repeated pittance of spray,
The only anarchic democracy, where we are all vicarious
Citizens; which we remember as we remember a person
Whose wrists are springs to spring a trap or rock
A cradle; whom we remember when the sand falls out on the
carpet
Or the exiled shell complains or a wind from round the corner
Carries the smell of wrack or the taste of salt, or a wave
Touched to steel by the moon twists a gimlet in memory.
Round the corner is sooner or later the sea.


Луис Макнис

Там, за углом - там всегда было море. И в детстве,
вернувшись с каникул, вытрясая песок из ботинок,
мы знали: там, откуда он взялся - его много больше - бесконечность песка,
водрослей и горизонтов, чтобы щуриться вдаль. И в щенячестве наших
любовей мы томились по слиянию двух одиночеств: где-то там
за углом, там, где Ксенофонт, запорошенный пылью, после всех переходов
знал - он добрался до дома, а Колумб - тот боялся: ему не доплыть,
в Откровении же у Иоанна сказано: этого больше не будет. Там
за углом, невзирая на все, - там всегда будет царство,
что врезает свои берега - долетевшими брызгами пенных валов, -
та республика одиночеств, где когда-то у нас было право
гражданства - мы помним ее, как запястья того, кто разжал нам капкан,
или качал колыбель, - этот образ всплывает, когда песок сыпется на ковер,
когда раковина плачет нам об изгнанье, когда ветер из-за угла
доносит запах водорослей и привкус соли, или волну
что тронута сталью луны и вгрызается в память, как бур.
Там за углом дожидается - море.

Перевод Антона Нестерова
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« Ответ #140 : 04 Сентября 2015, 16:15:11 »

The Exact Moment I Became a Poet

                        for Kay Foran

was in 1963 when Miss Shannon
rapping the duster on the easel’s peg
half obscured by a cloud of chalk

said Attend to your books, girls,
or mark my words, you’ll end up
in the sewing factory.

It wasn’t just that some of the girls’
mothers worked in the sewing factory
or even that my own aunt did,

and many neighbours, but
that those words ‘end up’ robbed
the labour of its dignity.

Not that I knew it then,
not in those words – labour, dignity.
That’s all back construction,

making sense; allowing also
the teacher was right
and no one knows it like I do myself.

But: I saw them: mothers, aunts and neighbours
trussed like chickens
on a conveyor belt,

getting sewn up the way my granny
sewed the sage and onion stuffing
in the birds.

Words could pluck you,
leave you naked,
your lovely shiny feathers all gone.

Paula Meehan
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« Ответ #141 : 04 Сентября 2015, 16:16:07 »

Пола Миэн

Минута, когда я стала поэтом

                    Кэй Форан

выдалась в 1963 году, когда мисс Шэннон
похлопала по тряпке, висевшей на крючке
под классной доской, и, полускрытая облачком меловой пыли,

сказала: «Учите уроки, девочки,
или, запомните мои слова,
вы окончите свой век на швейной фабрике».

Неважно, что матери нескольких девочек
как раз и работали на швейной фабрике,
и даже моя собственная тетя,

и многие соседки; дело было в том,
что эти слова – «окончите свой век» –
лишили труд присущего ему достоинства.

Конечно, тогда я этого не понимала,
не знала даже этих слов – «труд», «достоинство», –
все эти мысли оформились позже,

обрели смысл со временем. Возможно,
учительница даже была права,
никто не знает этого лучше, чем я сама.

Однако я увидела их, матерей, теток и соседок,
связанных, как цыплята
на конвейерной ленте,

опутанных нитками, как пучки
шалфея и лука, которыми моя бабушка
набивала птичьи чучела.

Слова могут раздеть человека,
ощипать его,
лишить переливающихся павлиньих перьев.

Перевод Анатолия Кудрявицкого
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« Ответ #142 : 13 Марта 2016, 01:27:33 »

JAMES RICHARDSON


“ESSAY ON CLOUDS”

Everything
we know well
lightens and escapes us, and isn’t that
when we escape? So, just as
Old and Middle English clūd
meant rock or hill, but now
means cloud, really I mean
in exactly the same way that stone
got over being stone


FEBRUARY 2, 2015
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« Ответ #143 : 28 Марта 2016, 17:29:17 »

James Tate

CHERUBIC

I took my daughter Kelsey to the train
station. As the train was leaving, we waved
and waved to one another. I never saw her again.
She went on to become the first woman on the moon.
How she got there nobody knew. And she never
came back, as far as I know. And she never wrote
me a letter, she never called. I just hope she’s
happy, my moonbeam. Every night I’m at my telescope.
I’ve seen dinosaurs, snow leopards, flamingos.
I saw a one-eyed dog wagging its tail. I saw a
mail truck. I saw a sailboat, but, of course,
there is no water. I saw a sign for water pointing
to the earth. I saw a sign for hamburgers
pointing to the earth. And I saw a little girl
fall off her tricycle. A poof of atomic tangerine
dust, that’s all. I never saw the girl again.
The tumbled tricycle’s wheels kept spinning.
Sleep, I said, sleep, little baby.


« Последнее редактирование: 29 Марта 2016, 00:47:45 от Лiнкс » Записан

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« Ответ #144 : 28 Марта 2016, 17:29:45 »

Джеймс Тейт

ЯНГОЛЬСЬКЕ

Я відвіз свою доньку Келсі на вокзал.
Потяг рушав, а ми ще довго махали
одне одному на прощання. Я ніколи її більше не бачив.
Вона поїхала, щоб стати першою жінкою на місяці.
Ніхто не знав, як вона туди дісталась. Ніколи
не повернулась, наскільки мені відомо. Ніколи не писала
мені листів, не телефонувала. Сподіваюсь, вона
щаслива, мій місячний промінець. Щоночі дивлюся у телескоп.
Бачив уже динозаврів, снігових барсів, фламінго.
Бачив одноокого пса, що метляв хвостом. Бачив
поштовий фургон. Бачив вітрильник, хоч там,
звісно, немає води. Бачив стрілку «там вода»,
що показувала на Землю. Бачив стрілку «гамбурґери»,
що показувала на Землю. Бачив дівчинку,
що падала з триколісного велосипеда. Легка мандаринка
ядерного пилу, не більше. Лиш раз я побачив ту дівчинку.
Колеса перекинутого велосипеда усе крутились.
Спи, - кажу я, - спи, маленька.

Переклав Остап Сливинський
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« Ответ #145 : 10 Сентября 2016, 21:34:00 »

Stevie Smith

Not Waving but Drowning


Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
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« Ответ #146 : 12 Сентября 2016, 16:02:33 »

Wallace Stevens

Large Red Man Reading

There were ghosts that returned to earth to hear his phrases,
As he sat there reading, aloud, the great blue tabulae.
They were those from the wilderness of stars that had expected more.

There were those that returned to hear him read from the poem of life,
Of the pans above the stove, the pots on the table, the tulips among them.
They were those that would have wept to step barefoot into reality,

That would have wept and been happy, have shivered in the frost
And cried out to feel it again, have run fingers over leaves
And against the most coiled thorn, have seized on what was ugly

And laughed, as he sat there reading, from out of the purple tabulae,
The outlines of being and its expressings, the syllables of its law:
Poesis, poesis, the literal characters, the vatic lines,

Which in those ears and in those thin, those spended hearts,
Took on color, took on shape and the size of things as they are
And spoke the feeling for them, which was what they had lacked.
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« Ответ #147 : 16 Октября 2016, 13:46:02 »

James Tate

Just to Feel Human

A single apple grew on our tree, which
was some kind of miracle because it was a
pear tree. We walked around it scratching
our heads. "You want to eat it?" I asked
my wife. "I'd die first," she replied. We
went back into the house. I stood by the
kitchen window and stared at it. I thought
of Adam and Eve, but I didn't believe in Adam
and Eve. My wife said, "If you don't stop
staring at that stupid apple I'm going to go
out there and eat it." "So go," I said, "but
take your clothes off first, go naked." She
looked at me as if I were insane, and then
she started to undress, and so did I.
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« Ответ #148 : 25 Марта 2017, 17:38:12 »

E. J. Pratt

The Empty Room

I know that were my soul tonight
Strung to the silence of this room,
I'd hear remembered footfalls light
As wayward drift of lotus bloom.

Nor would it just be make-believe,
Were I to find her in this chair,
Or catch the rustle of her sleeve,
Or note the glint upon her hair.

Say, would you blame me if I knelt
To put faith to its enterprise?
So surely must her touch be felt
In liquid coolness on my eyes.

Now listen! If the veil should part
Within this holy ritual,
You'll hear a voice call to my heart
More lovely than a madrigal.
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Есть реки в пустыне, и есть пути в одиночестве, но нет ни рек, ни пути в том, кто растворился в других.
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« Ответ #149 : 20 Апреля 2017, 13:00:25 »

Dorothy Parker

Cassandra Drops Into Verse

We’d break the city’s unfeeling clutch
And back to good Mother Earth we’d go,
With Birds and blossoms and such-and-such,
And love and kisses and so-and-so.
We’d build a bungalow, white and green,
With rows of hollyhocks, all sedate.
And you’d come out on the five-eighteen
And meet me down at the garden gate.
We’d leave the city completely flat
And dwell with chickens and cows and bees,
‘Mid brooks and bowers and this and that,
And joys and blisses and those and these.
We’d greet together the golden days,
And hail the sun in the morning sky.
We’d find an Eden—to coin a phrase—
The sole inhabitants, you and I.
With sweet simplicity all our aim,
We’d fare together to start anew
In peace and quiet and what’s-its-name,
And soul communion, or what have you?
But oh, my love, if we made the flight,
I see the end of our pastoral plan . . .
Why, you’d be staying in town each night,
And I’d elope with the furnace man.
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«... І у вi снах, навік застиглих у моїх очах » Віктуар
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Форум Альдебаран  |  Литература  |  Специальная литература и Обучение  |  Наша Academia (Модератор: Лiнкс)  |  Тема: My favourite poem « предыдущая тема следующая тема »
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