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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.

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Старый 20.12.2007, 05:38   #1
Che
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Poetry

Though we travel
the world over
to find the beautiful,
we must carry it with us
or we will
find it not.

R.W.Emerson
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Старый 17.04.2015, 09:24   #2
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Though we travel
the world over
to find the beautiful,
we must carry it with us
or we will
find it not.

R.W.Emerson
The gods talk in the breath of the world,
They talk in the shaken pine,
And they fill the reach of the old seashore
With dialoge divine;
And the poet who overhears
One random word they say
Is the fated man of men
Whom the ages must obey...

Emerson
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Старый 17.04.2015, 18:34   #3
ileana
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The gods talk in the breath of the world,
I do not know much about gods;
...
For most of us, there is only the unattended
Moment, the moment in and out of time,
The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,
The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning
Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply
That it is not heard at all, but you are the music
While the music lasts.

T.S. Eliot
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Старый 21.05.2015, 21:15   #4
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В оригинале, по-английски и по-русски

"Song of Childhood" by Peter Handke

Lied Vom Kindsein – Peter Handke

Als das Kind Kind war,
ging es mit hängenden Armen,
wollte der Bach sei ein Fluß,
der Fluß sei ein Strom,
und diese Pfütze das Meer.

Als das Kind Kind war,
wußte es nicht, daß es Kind war,
alles war ihm beseelt,
und alle Seelen waren eins.

Als das Kind Kind war,
hatte es von nichts eine Meinung,
hatte keine Gewohnheit,
saß oft im Schneidersitz,
lief aus dem Stand,
hatte einen Wirbel im Haar
und machte kein Gesicht beim fotografieren.

Als das Kind Kind war,
war es die Zeit der folgenden Fragen:
Warum bin ich ich und warum nicht du?
Warum bin ich hier und warum nicht dort?
Wann begann die Zeit und wo endet der Raum?
Ist das Leben unter der Sonne nicht bloß ein Traum?
Ist was ich sehe und höre und rieche
nicht bloß der Schein einer Welt vor der Welt?
Gibt es tatsächlich das Böse und Leute,
die wirklich die Bösen sind?
Wie kann es sein, daß ich, der ich bin,
bevor ich wurde, nicht war,
und daß einmal ich, der ich bin,
nicht mehr der ich bin, sein werde?

Als das Kind Kind war,
würgte es am Spinat, an den Erbsen, am Milchreis,
und am gedünsteten Blumenkohl.
und ißt jetzt das alles und nicht nur zur Not.

Als das Kind Kind war,
erwachte es einmal in einem fremden Bett
und jetzt immer wieder,
erschienen ihm viele Menschen schön
und jetzt nur noch im Glücksfall,
stellte es sich klar ein Paradies vor
und kann es jetzt höchstens ahnen,
konnte es sich Nichts nicht denken
und schaudert heute davor.

Als das Kind Kind war,
spielte es mit Begeisterung
und jetzt, so ganz bei der Sache wie damals, nur noch,
wenn diese Sache seine Arbeit ist.

Als das Kind Kind war,
genügten ihm als Nahrung Apfel, Brot,
und so ist es immer noch.

Als das Kind Kind war,
fielen ihm die Beeren wie nur Beeren in die Hand
und jetzt immer noch,
machten ihm die frischen Walnüsse eine rauhe Zunge
und jetzt immer noch,
hatte es auf jedem Berg
die Sehnsucht nach dem immer höheren Berg,
und in jeder Stadt
die Sehnsucht nach der noch größeren Stadt,
und das ist immer noch so,
griff im Wipfel eines Baums nach dem Kirschen in einemHochgefühl
wie auch heute noch,
eine Scheu vor jedem Fremden
und hat sie immer noch,
wartete es auf den ersten Schnee,
und wartet so immer noch.

Als das Kind Kind war,
warf es einen Stock als Lanze gegen den Baum,
und sie zittert da heute noch.




Song of Childhood – Peter Handke

When the child was a child
It walked with its arms swinging,
wanted the brook to be a river,
the river to be a torrent,
and this puddle to be the sea.

When the child was a child,
it didn’t know that it was a child,
everything was soulful,
and all souls were one.

When the child was a child,
it had no opinion about anything,
had no habits,
it often sat cross-legged,
took off running,
had a cowlick in its hair,
and made no faces when photographed.

When the child was a child,
It was the time for these questions:
Why am I me, and why not you?
Why am I here, and why not there?
When did time begin, and where does space end?
Is life under the sun not just a dream?
Is what I see and hear and smell
not just an illusion of a world before the world?
Given the facts of evil and people.
does evil really exist?
How can it be that I, who I am,
didn’t exist before I came to be,
and that, someday, I, who I am,
will no longer be who I am?

When the child was a child,
It choked on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding,
and on steamed cauliflower,
and eats all of those now, and not just because it has to.

When the child was a child,
it awoke once in a strange bed,
and now does so again and again.
Many people, then, seemed beautiful,
and now only a few do, by sheer luck.

It had visualized a clear image of Paradise,
and now can at most guess,
could not conceive of nothingness,
and shudders today at the thought.

When the child was a child,
It played with enthusiasm,
and, now, has just as much excitement as then,
but only when it concerns its work.

When the child was a child,
It was enough for it to eat an apple, … bread,
And so it is even now.

When the child was a child,
Berries filled its hand as only berries do,
and do even now,
Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw,
and do even now,
it had, on every mountaintop,
the longing for a higher mountain yet,
and in every city,
the longing for an even greater city,
and that is still so,
It reached for cherries in topmost branches of trees
with an elation it still has today,
has a shyness in front of strangers,
and has that even now.
It awaited the first snow,
And waits that way even now.

When the child was a child,
It threw a stick like a lance against a tree,
And it quivers there still today.


Песня детства - Петер Хандке
  • Когда ребёнок был ребёнком, он ходил, опустив руки… Он хотел, чтобы ручеёк был рекой, река — бурным потоком, а эта лужа — морем. Когда ребёнок был ребёнком, он не знал, что он — ребёнок. Всё его воодушевляло, и все души сливались в единое целое. Когда ребёнок был ребёнком, у него не было ни суждений, ни привычек. Часто он садился, скрестив ноги, а потом срывался и бежал. У него были густые вихры, и он корчил рожи, когда его фотографировали.
  • Когда ребёнок был ребёнком, это было время вопросов: Почему я — это я, и почему я — это не ты? Почему я здесь, почему не там? Когда началось время и когда кончается пространство? Может быть, наша жизнь под Солнцем — это только сон? Может быть, то, что я вижу, слышу, чувствую — это только мираж мира в этом мире? Существует на самом деле зло и есть ли по-настоящему злые люди? Как получается, что до того как я стал тем, кто я есть, меня не было, и что однажды я перестану быть тем, кто я есть?
  • Когда ребёнок был ребёнком, он терпеть не мог шпинат, зелёный горошек, рисовую кашу и варёную цветную капусту. А теперь он всё это ест — и не потому что его заставляют… Когда ребёнок был ребёнком, он однажды проснулся в чужой постели, а теперь это происходит с ним постоянно. Тогда многие люди казались ему красивыми, а теперь — лишь некоторые. Он имел ясные представления о рае, а теперь он о нём лишь догадывается. Тогда он не думал о небытии, а теперь трепещет перед ним. Когда ребёнок был ребёнком, его жизнь была вдохновенной игрой, а теперь вдохновение иногда посещает его во время работы.
  • Когда ребёнок был ребёнком, ему хватало яблок и хлеба, чтобы наесться. Так было всегда. Когда ребёнок был ребёнком, ягоды сами падали ему в руки, как это делают только ягоды. И так было всегда. Неспелые орехи пощипывали ему язык. Так было всегда. Забравшись на гору, он мечтал забраться на другую, еще выше. А попав в какой-нибудь город, мечтал оказаться в другом, ещё большем. Так было всегда. Забравшись на дерево, он тянул руку к вишням и испытывал восторг такой же, как сейчас. Стеснялся незнакомых людей так же, как сейчас. Он ждал первого снега, ждёт его и теперь. Когда ребёнок был ребёнком, он метнул в дерево палку, как копьё, и она до сих пор дрожит.
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Старый 22.05.2015, 12:29   #5
ileana
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A Song of Opposites by John Keats

"Under the flag
Of each his faction, they to battle bring
Their embryon atoms." - Milton

Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow,
Lethe's weed and Hermes' feather;
Come to-day, and come to-morrow,
I do love you both together!
I love to mark sad faces in fair weather;
And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder;
Fair and foul I love together.
Meadows sweet where flames are under,
And a giggle at a wonder;
Visage sage at pantomine;
Funeral, and steeple-chime;
Infant playing with a skull;
Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull;
Nightshade with the woodbine kissing;
Serpents in red roses hissing;
Cleopatra regal-dress'd
With the aspic at her breast;
Dancing music, music sad,
Both together, sane and mad;
Muses bright and muses pale;
Sombre Saturn, Momus hale; -
Laugh and sigh, and laugh again;
Oh the sweetness of the pain!
Muses bright, and muses pale,
Bare your faces of the veil;
Let me see; and let me write
Of the day, and of the night -
Both together: - let me slake
All my thirst for sweet heart-ache!
Let my bower be of yew,
Interwreath'd with myrtles new;
Pines and lime-trees full in bloom,
And my couch a low grass-tomb.


↓↓ Песня противоположностей
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Старый 22.05.2015, 20:23   #6
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For years this short verse is my favourite:

Remember me is all I ask,
But if remembrance proves a task -
Forget!

Byron
__________________
у вас ещё не всё так плохо
и в целом даже хорошо
сказал психолог и заплакав
ушел
(с)
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Старый 30.05.2015, 07:42   #7
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We and They


FATHER, Mother, and Me
Sister and Auntie say
All the people like us are We,
And every one else is They.
And They live over the sea,
While We live over the way,
But - would you believe it? - They look upon We
As only a sort of They !
We eat pork and beef
With cow-horn-handled knives.
They who gobble Their rice off a leaf,
Are horrified out of Their lives;
And They who live up a tree,
And feast on grubs and clay,
(Isn't it scandalous?) look upon We
As a simply disgusting They!

We shoot birds with a gun.
They stick lions with spears.
Their full-dress is un-.
We dress up to Our ears.
They like Their friends for tea.
We like Our friends to stay;
And, after all that, They look upon We
As an utterly ignorant They!

We eat kitcheny food.
We have doors that latch.
They drink milk or blood,
Under an open thatch.
We have Doctors to fee.
They have Wizards to pay.
And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We
As a quite impossible They!

All good people agree,
And all good people say,
All nice people, like Us, are We
And every one else is They:
But if you cross over the sea,
Instead of over the way,
You may end by (think of it!) looking on We
As only a sort of They !
Rudyard Kipling

На русском
МЫ и ОНИ

Мама, папа и сам я не раз
повторяли: вовек, искони
МЫ- это те, кто похожи на нас
А все остальные - ОНИ
Далеко за морями ОНИ живут,
наших улиц близко огни
Но (можешь поверить?)
ОНИ нас зовут
Какие-то эти ОНИ

МЫ мясо, которым смогли запастись,
Вилкой едим и ножом
ОНИ с листьев в вечном страхе за жизнь
Рис глотают нечищенным ртом
Поглoщая личинок в глине запас,
Проводя на деревьях дни

Какая наглость! ОНИ зовут нас
Омерзительные ОНИ.


МЫ стреляем из ружей в птиц,
ОНИ целятся копьями в львов
Степень их наготы не имеет границ,
МЫ одеты с ног до голов
МЫ ценим за чаем друга рассказ.
ОНИ ценят друзей, как гарнир
И после всего ОНИ зовут нас
Невежественные ОНИ!


МЫ на кухнях еду готовим легко,
И надежен замков наших плен
ОНИ кровь сырую, как молоко,
Лакают в лачугах без стен.
Для нас докторов спасающий труд
Почетней шамана возни
Но дерзкие варавары нас зовут
Возмутительные ОНИ.



Все добрые люди, их - много, их-тьмы
Согласны - кого ни возьми
Хорошие люди, как МЫ - это МЫ,
А все остальные ОНИ
Но, подумай, увидев море с кормы,
А не соседей плетни
Может, и вправду, случится, что МЫ
Для тебя превратятся в ОНИ
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Старый 30.05.2015, 10:01   #8
ileana
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the soul is built to cruise..

↓↓ Jim Dodge



↓↓ медитативное созерцание
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Старый 02.06.2015, 21:48   #9
ileana
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[love is more thicker than forget]

by E. E. Cummings

love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail


it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea


love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive


it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky


↓↓ Перевод Леонида Черткова
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Старый 07.08.2015, 20:26   #10
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The Song of Wandering Aengus

W. B. Yeats, 1865 - 1939

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.




Песня скитальца Энгуса
(перевод Г.М.Кружков)


Я вышел в мглистый лес ночной,
Чтоб лоб горящий остудить,
Орешниковый срезал прут,
Содрал кору, приладил нить.
И в час, когда светлела мгла
И гасли звезды-мотыльки,
Я серебристую форель
Поймал на быстрине реки.

Я положил ее в траву
И стал раскладывать костер,
Как вдруг услышал чей-то смех,
Невнятный тихий разговор.
Предстала дева предо мной,
Светясь, как яблоневый цвет,
Окликнула — и скрылась прочь,
В прозрачный канула рассвет.

Пускай я стар, пускай устал
От косогоров и холмов,
Но чтоб ее поцеловать,
Я снова мир пройти готов,
И травы мять, и с неба рвать,
Плоды земные разлюбив,
Серебряный налив луны
И солнца золотой налив.
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Старый 09.08.2015, 10:29   #11
ileana
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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
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Старый 22.09.2015, 07:39   #12
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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
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Старый 22.09.2015, 21:15   #13
ileana
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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
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Старый 29.09.2015, 08:09   #14
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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
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Старый 29.09.2015, 08:13   #15
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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
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Старый 10.10.2015, 18:18   #16
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***
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")
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Старый 28.10.2015, 19:48   #17
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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.
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Старый 03.12.2015, 03:48   #18
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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!
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Старый 15.12.2015, 06:42   #19
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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
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Старый 18.08.2016, 18:53   #20
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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.
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Старый 13.12.2018, 17:59   #21
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Гертруда Стайн написала портрет Пикассо в стихах. Стих необычный, но если читать вслух, то воспринимается как стих. И в конце там (спойлер) появляется смысл. Пикассо тоже написал портрет Гертруды Стайн




If I Told Him, A Completed Portrait of Picasso




If I told him would he like it. Would he like it if I told him.
Would he like it would Napoleon would Napoleon would would he like it.
If Napoleon if I told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if I
told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if Napoleon if Napoleon
if I told him. If I told him if Napoleon if Napoleon if I told him. If I told
him would he like it would he like it if I told him.
Now.
Not now.
And now.
Now.
Exactly as as kings.
Feeling full for it.
Exactitude as kings.
So to beseech you as full as for it.
Exactly or as kings.
Shutters shut and open so do queens. Shutters shut and shutters and so
shutters shut and shutters and so and so shutters and so shutters shut and
so shutters shut and shutters and so. And so shutters shut and so and also.
And also and so and so and also.
Exact resemblance. To exact resemblance the exact resemblance as exact
as a resemblance, exactly as resembling, exactly resembling, exactly in
resemblance exactly a resemblance, exactly and resemblance. For this is so.
Because.
Now actively repeat at all, now actively repeat at all, now actively repeat
at all.
Have hold and hear, actively repeat at all.
I judge judge.
As a resemblance to him.
Who comes first. Napoleon the first.
Who comes too coming coming too, who goes there, as they go they share, who
shares all, all is as all as as yet or as yet.
Now to date now to date. Now and now and date and the date.
Who came first. Napoleon at first. Who came first Napoleon the first.
Who came first, Napoleon first.
Presently.
Exactly do they do.
First exactly.
Exactly do they do too.
First exactly.
And first exactly.
Exactly do they do.
And first exactly and exactly.
And do they do.
At first exactly and first exactly and do they do.
The first exactly.
And do they do.
The first exactly.
At first exactly.
First as exactly.
As first as exactly.
Presently
As presently.
As as presently.
He he he he and he and he and and he and he and he and and as and as he
and as he and he. He is and as he is, and as he is and he is, he is and as he
and he and as he is and he and he and and he and he.
Can curls rob can curls quote, quotable.
As presently.
As exactitude.
As trains
Has trains.
Has trains.
As trains.
As trains.
Presently.
Proportions.
Presently.
As proportions as presently.
Father and farther.
Was the king or room.
Farther and whether.
Was there was there was there what was there was there what was there
was there there was there.
Whether and in there.
As even say so.
One.
I land.
Two.
I land.
Three.
The land.
Three
The land.
Three
The land.
Two
I land.
Two
I land.
One
I land.
Two
I land.
As a so.
They cannot.
A note.
They cannot.
A float.
They cannot.
They dote.
They cannot.
They as denote.
Miracles play.
Play fairly.
Play fairly well.
A well.
As well.
As or as presently.
Let me recite what history teaches. History teaches.
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Старый 17.12.2018, 22:05   #22
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Вчера ходила на встречу книжного клуба. Все читали свои любимые стихи. Я читала "Цыганы" (начало) Пушкина, естественно в переводе.


Одна женщина(родом из Индии) читала стихи Рабиндраната Тагора (мне понравились) еще одна читала Оду Вязаным Носкам (https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/ode-my-socks) Пабло Неруды.


Потом по памяти декламировали


Одна женщина поделилась шедевром


See the happy moron,
He doesn’t give a damn,
I wish I were a moron,
My God! perhaps I am!
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Старый 08.02.2019, 19:12   #23
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The Tyger

By William Blake (он также был художноком, и картины его похожи на эти стихи)

Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
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