ermenengilda | Entries tagged with poems

The seer was right to warn us,
beware the ides of March.
It’s a dangerous time, peering
through iced windows at the jeweled
tease of crocus and daffodil.
We've weathered another season
of deep-freeze, locked up tight
in muscle and mind. We're tired
of winter’s grey and gritty leftovers.
But this is no time to get careless,
toss a floorboard heater through
the beveled glass and go out,
where Spring flashes her flannel petticoat
embroidered in pinks and greens,
leaves us gaping, breathless,
in air still cold as a knife blade,
stripping off the down.

Marcella Redmund

Death devours all lovely things:
Lesbia with her sparrow
Shares the darkness,—presently
Every bed is narrow.

Unremembered as old rain
Dries the sheer libation;
And the little petulant hand
Is an annotation.

After all, my erstwhile dear,
My no longer cherished,
Need we say it was not love,
Now that love is perished?

Edna St. Vincent Millay

От чтения Эдны и еще Сары Тисдейл у меня то и дело возникает описанное Маршаком, кажется, ощущение маленького мальчика, который говорил, что ему хочется написать стихотворение Лермонтова "Горные вершины".

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -
It gives a lovely light.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Greu e totul, timpul, pasul.
Grea-i purcederea, popasul.
Grele-s pulberea şi duhul,
greu pe umeri chiar văzduhul.
Greul cel mai greu, mai mare
fi-va capătul de cale.
Să mă-mpace cu sfîrşitul
cîntă-n vatră greieruşa:
Mai uşoară ca viaţa
e cenuşa, e cenuşa.

Lucian Blaga

Listen not to the rain beating against the trees.
Why not walk slowly while chanting at ease?
Better than a saddle I like sandals and cane.
I'd fain
In a straw cloak, spend my life in mist and rain.

Drunken, I am sobered by the vernal wind shrill
And rather chill.
In front, I see the slanting sun atop the hill;
Turning my head, I see the dreary beaten track.
Let me go back!
Impervious to rain or shine, I'll have my own will.

-- Su Shi (Su Dong-po)
Translated by Xu Yuan-zhong.

Интересная подборка английских переводов известного стихотворения Ахматовой в блоге http://www.jskesliencharles.com/2010/01/lost-found-in-translation/:

He loved three things in life:
Evensong, white peacocks
And old maps of America.
He hated it when children cried,
He hated tea with raspberry jam
And woman’s hysterics.
. . . and I was his wife.
Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer

( Read more... )

Собственно, набрела я на нее а поисках версии "...and he married me", которую deliciously цитирует в delicious антикварном книжном магазинчике delicious мисс Дал во второй серии The Delicious Miss Dahl. Хоть программа и выложена под графой Food, она вовсе не о еде. Она о мисс Дал, ее квартире, ее прогулках, воспоминаниях, мужчинах, соображениях, представлениях и идеях -- ну и при этом она готовит или ест приготовленное. Интересная эстетика и музыкальный ряд, но еда как таковая [меня] не вдохновляет.

Is Mise Raifteirí an file,
Lán dúchais is grádh,
Le súile gan solas,
Le ciúnas gan crá.

Ag dul síar ar m'aistear
Le solas mo chroí
Fann agus tuirseach
Go deireadh mo shlí

Féach anois mé
Is mo chúl le bhfalla
Ag seinm ceoil
Do phócaí folamh

http://www.irishpage.com/poems/miseraft.htm

I saw the sunset-colored sands,
The Nile, like flowing fire between,
Where Ramses stares forth serene
And ammon's heavy temple stands.

I saw the rocks where long ago,
Above the sea that cries and breaks,
Bright Perseus with Medusa's snakes
Set free the maiden white like snow.

And many skies have covered me,
And many winds have blown me forth,
And I have loved the green, bright north,
And I have loved the cold, sweet sea.

But what to me are north and south,
And what the lire of many lands,
Since you have learned to catch my hands
And lay a kiss upon my mouth.

Sara Teasdale

by Pat Ingoldsby

I don’t know how he did it.
The bus driver said ― “Watch this!”
And he stopped the bus.
The trees and fields
on both sides of the road
kept on moving past us.

“Now they think the bus
is moving,” he said

Miles Away
by Mark Hill

I can hear my son singing a love song in his room.
My mother is sitting in her chair in the living room and reading a book
And from time to time asking if my son is okay
I don't know how my son has learned to sing a love song
I entered the living room to translate my son's song to my mother
Because she doesn't know English
But there was no one in that chair
Then I realised she was thousands of miles away
So was my mind

Знаю это чувство.

Об авторе, и еще тексты.

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Whoever reads my words is inventing them

Entries tagged with poems

The Ides of March

Passer Mortuus Est

First Fig

Greieruşa

Caught in the Rain on My Way to the Sandy Lake

Три вещи на свете

Le ciúnas gan crá

The Wanderer

A Good Trick If You Can Do It

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