|
Mosaic/Mosaik/Mosaïque/Mosaico/Mosáico Other languages... Раздел для общения на языках, отличных от русского, а так же для обсуждения межъязыковой психологии с использованием нескольких языков одновременно. |
|
Опции темы |
09.08.2015, 10:29 | #11 |
точка с запятой
Регистрация: 20.02.2006
Сообщений: 1,080
|
Who are you really, wanderer?
A Story That Could Be True
If you were exchanged in the cradle and your real mother died without ever telling the story then no one knows your name, and somewhere in the world your father is lost and needs you but you are far away. He can never find how true you are, how ready. When the great wind comes and the robberies of the rain you stand on the corner shivering. The people who go by – you wonder at their calm. They miss the whisper that runs any day in your mind, “Who are you really, wanderer?”— and the answer you have to give no matter how dark and cold the world around you is: “Maybe I'm a king.” Yes It could happen any time, tornado, earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen. Or sunshine, love, salvation. It could, you know. That's why we wake and look out – no guarantees in this life. But some bonuses, like morning, like right now, like noon, like evening. The Little Ways That Encourage Good Fortune Wisdom is having things right in your life and knowing why. If you do not have things right in your life you will by overwhelmed: you may be heroic, but you will not be wise. If you have things right in your life but do not know why, You are just lucky, and you will not move in the little ways that encourage good fortune. The saddest are those not right in their lives who are acting to make things right for others: they act only from the self – and that self will never be right: no luck, no help, no wisdom. William Stafford |
22.09.2015, 07:39 | #12 |
Старожил
Регистрация: 24.10.2006
Сообщений: 7,710
|
The Gypsy Trail
THE white moth to the closing bine, The bee to the opened clover, And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood Ever the wide world over. Ever the wide world over, lass, Ever the trail held true, Over the world and under the world, And back at the last to you. Out of the dark of the gorgio camp, Out of the grime and the gray (Morning waits at the end of the world), Gipsy, come away! The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp The red crane to her reed, And the Romany lass to the Romany lad, By the tie of a roving breed. The pied snake to the rifted rock, The buck to the stony plain, And the Romany lass to the Romany lad, And both to the road again. Both to the road again, again! Out on a clean sea-track -- Follow the cross of the gipsy trail Over the world and back! Follow the Romany patteran North where the blue bergs sail, And the bows are grey with the frozen spray, And the masts are shod with mail. Follow the Romany patteran Sheer to the Austral Light, Where the besom of God is the wild South wind, Sweeping the sea-floors white. Follow the Romany patteran West to the sinking sun, Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift. And the east and west are one. Follow the Romany patteran East where the silence broods By a purple wave on an opal beach In the hush of the Mahim woods. "The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, The deer to the wholesome wold, And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, As it was in the days of old." The heart of a man to the heart of a maid -- Light of my tents, be fleet. Morning waits at the end of the world, And the world is all at our feet! Rudyard Kipling |
22.09.2015, 21:15 | #13 |
точка с запятой
Регистрация: 20.02.2006
Сообщений: 1,080
|
Meg Merrilies (John Keats)
Old Meg she was a gipsy; And liv'd upon the moors: Her bed it was the brown heath turf, And her house was out of doors. Her apples were swart blackberries, Her currants, pods o' broom; Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, Her book a church-yard tomb. Her brothers were the craggy hills, Her sisters larchen trees; Alone with her great family She liv'd as she did please. No breakfast had she many a morn, No dinner many a noon, And 'stead of supper she would stare Full hard against the moon. But every morn, of woodbine fresh She made her garlanding, And every night the dark glen yew She wove, and she would sing. And with her fingers old and brown She plaited mats o' rushes, And gave them to the cottagers She met among the bushes. Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen, And tall as Amazon: An old red blanket cloak she wore, A chip hat had she on. God rest her aged bones somewhere-- She died full long agone! ↓↓ Мэг Меррилиз |
29.09.2015, 08:09 | #14 |
Старожил
Регистрация: 24.10.2006
Сообщений: 7,710
|
I met a ghost, but he didn’t want my head,
He only wanted to know the way to Denver. I met a devil, but he didn’t want my soul, He only wanted to borrow my bike awhile. I met a vampire, but he didn’t want my blood, He only wanted two nickels for a dime. I keep meeting all the right people— At all the wrong times. Shel Silverstein |
29.09.2015, 08:13 | #15 |
Старожил
Регистрация: 24.10.2006
Сообщений: 7,710
|
THE PLANET OF MARS
On the planet of Mars They have clothes just like ours, And they have the same shoes and same laces, And they have the same charms and same graces, And they have the same heads and same faces… But not in the Very same Places. Shel Silverstein |
10.10.2015, 18:18 | #16 |
Старожил
Регистрация: 24.10.2006
Сообщений: 7,710
|
***
Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird. *** I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. *** The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying. (from Wallace Stevens. "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird") |
28.10.2015, 19:48 | #17 |
Старожил
Регистрация: 24.10.2006
Сообщений: 7,710
|
Wallace Stevens
Six Significant Landscapes I An old man sits In the shadow of a pine tree In China. He sees larkspur, Blue and white, At the edge of the shadow, Move in the wind. His beard moves in the wind. The pine tree moves in the wind. Thus water flows Over weeds. II The night is of the colour Of a woman's arm: Night, the female, Obscure, Fragrant and supple, Conceals herself. A pool shines, Like a bracelet Shaken in a dance. III I measure myself Against a tall tree. I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun, With my eye; And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way ants crawl In and out of my shadow. IV When my dream was near the moon, The white folds of its gown Filled with yellow light. The soles of its feet Grew red. Its hair filled With certain blue crystallizations From stars, Not far off. V Not all the knives of the lamp-posts, Nor the chisels of the long streets, Nor the mallets of the domes And high towers, Can carve What one star can carve, Shining through the grape-leaves. VI Rationalists, wearing square hats, Think, in square rooms, Looking at the floor, Looking at the ceiling. They confine themselves To right-angled triangles. If they tried rhomboids, Cones, waving lines, ellipses -- As, for example, the ellipse of the half-moon -- Rationalists would wear sombreros. Gray Room Although you sit in a room that is gray, Except for the silver Of the straw-paper, And pick At your pale white gown; Or lift one of the green beads Of your necklace, To let it fall; Or gaze at your green fan Printed with the red branches of a red willow; Or, with one finger, Move the leaf in the bowl-- The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia Beside you... What is all this? I know how furiously your heart is beating. |
03.12.2015, 03:48 | #18 |
Старожил
Регистрация: 24.10.2006
Сообщений: 7,710
|
Robert Graves. Fairies and Fusiliers
I NEVER dreamed we’d meet that day In our old haunts down Fricourt way, Plotting such marvellous journeys there For jolly old “Après-la-guerre.” Well, when it’s over, first we’ll meet 5 At Gweithdy Bach, my country seat In Wales, a curious little shop With two rooms and a roof on top, A sort of Morlancourt-ish billet That never needs a crowd to fill it. 10 But oh, the country round about! The sort of view that makes you shout For want of any better way Of praising God: there’s a blue bay Shining in front, and on the right 15 Snowden and Hebog capped with white, And lots of other jolly peaks That you could wonder at for weeks, With jag and spur and hump and cleft. There’s a grey castle on the left, 20 And back in the high Hinterland You’ll see the grave of Shawn Knarlbrand, Who slew the savage Buffaloon By the Nant-col one night in June, And won his surname from the horn 25 Of this prodigious unicorn. Beyond, where the two Rhinogs tower, Rhinog Fach and Rhinog Fawr, Close there after a four years’ chase From Thessaly and the woods of Thrace, 30 The beaten Dog-cat stood at bay And growled and fought and passed away. You’ll see where mountain conies grapple With prayer and creed in their rock chapel Which Ben and Claire once built for them; 35 They call it Söar Bethlehem. You’ll see where in old Roman days, Before Revivals changed our ways, The Virgin ’scaped the Devil’s grab, Printing her foot on a stone slab 40 With five clear toe-marks; and you’ll find The fiendish thumbprint close behind. You’ll see where Math, Mathonwy’s son, Spoke with the wizard Gwydion And bad him from South Wales set out 45 To steal that creature with the snout, That new-discovered grunting beast Divinely flavoured for the feast. No traveller yet has hit upon A wilder land than Meirion, 50 For desolate hills and tumbling stones, Bogland and melody and old bones. Fairies and ghosts are here galore, And poetry most splendid, more Than can be written with the pen 55 Or understood by common men. In Gweithdy Bach we’ll rest awhile, We’ll dress our wounds and learn to smile With easier lips; we’ll stretch our legs, And live on bilberry tart and eggs, 60 And store up solar energy, Basking in sunshine by the sea, Until we feel a match once more For anything but another war. So then we’ll kiss our families, 65 And sail across the seas (The God of Song protecting us) To the great hills of Caucasus. Robert will learn the local bat For billeting and things like that, 70 If Siegfried learns the piccolo To charm the people as we go. The jolly peasants clad in furs Will greet the Welch-ski officers With open arms, and ere we pass 75 Will make us vocal with Kavasse. In old Bagdad we’ll call a halt At the Sâshuns’ ancestral vault; We’ll catch the Persian rose-flowers’ scent, And understand what Omar meant. 80 Bitlis and Mush will know our faces, Tiflis and Tomsk, and all such places. Perhaps eventually we’ll get Among the Tartars of Thibet. Hobnobbing with the Chungs and Mings, 85 And doing wild, tremendous things In free adventure, quest and fight, And God! what poetry we’ll write! |
15.12.2015, 06:42 | #19 |
Старожил
Регистрация: 14.04.2015
Сообщений: 3,899
|
Gift
You tell me that silence is nearer to peace than poems but if for my gift I brought you silence (for I know silence) you would say This is not silence this is another poem and you would hand it back to me Leonard Cohen |
18.08.2016, 18:53 | #20 |
Старожил
Регистрация: 24.10.2006
Сообщений: 7,710
|
Tell Me
Shel Silverstein Tell me I'm clever, Tell me I'm kind, Tell me I'm talented, Tell me I'm cute, Tell me I'm sensitive, Graceful and wise, Tell me I'm perfect - But tell me the truth. |