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Women's Rights? posted:Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath I wanted to link this, which is Sylvia Plath reading it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=esBLxyTFDxE She's super intense, and it's awesome. Here's another Russian one, since some folks here seem to be into that and I don't really have anyone to talk about Russian poetry to IRL. занавес, The Curtain, by Marina Tsvetaeva. Водопадами занавеса, как пеной -- Хвоей - пламенем - прошумя. Нету тайны у занавеса от сцены: (Сцена - ты, занавес - я). Сновиденными зарослями (в высоком Зале - оторопь разлилась) Я скрываю героя в борьбе с Роком, Место действия - и - час. Водопадными радугами, обвалом Лавра (вверился же! знал!) Я тебя загораживаю от зала, (Завораживаю - зал!) Тайна занавеса! Сновиденным лесом Сонных снадобий, трав, зeрн... (За уже содрогающейся завесой Ход трагедии - как - шторм!) Ложи, в слезы! В набат, ярус! Срок, исполнься! Герой, будь! Ходит занавес - как - парус, Ходит занавес - как - грудь. Из последнего сердца тебя, о недра, Загораживаю. - Взрыв! Над ужа - ленною - Федрой Взвился занавес - как - гриф. Нате! Рвите! Глядите! Течет, не так ли? Заготавливайте - чан! Я державную рану отдам до капли! (Зритель бел, занавес рдян). И тогда, сострадательным покрывалом Долу, знаменем прошумя. Нету тайны у занавеса - от зала. (Зала - жизнь, занавес - я) I'm not even close to good enough to try to translate it. e: Housman's great, I like his conversational style. When I was One and Twenty is great.
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Dec 30, 2013 02:45
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Robert Louis Stevenson, Heather Ale From the bonny bells of heather They brewed a drink long-syne, Was sweeter far than honey, Was stronger far than wine. They brewed it and they drank it, And lay in a blessed swound For days and days together In their dwellings underground. There rose a king in Scotland, A fell man to his foes, He smote the Picts in battle, He hunted them like roes. Over miles of the red mountain He hunted as they fled, And strewed the dwarfish bodies Of the dying and the dead. Summer came in the country, Red was the heather bell; But the manner of the brewing Was none alive to tell. In graves that were like children’s On many a mountain head, The Brewsters of the Heather Lay numbered with the dead. The king in the red moorland Rode on a summer’s day; And the bees hummed, and the curlews Cried beside the way. The king rode, and was angry, Black was his brow and pale, To rule in a land of heather And lack the Heather Ale. It fortuned that his vassals, Riding free on the heath, Came on a stone that was fallen And vermin hid beneath. Rudely plucked from their hiding, Never a word they spoke: A son and his aged father— Last of the dwarfish folk. The king sat high on his charger, He looked on the little men; And the dwarfish and swarthy couple Looked at the king again. Down by the shore he had them; And there on the giddy brink— “I will give you life, ye vermin, For the secret of the drink.” There stood the son and father And they looked high and low; The heather was red around them, The sea rumbled below. And up and spoke the father, Shrill was his voice to hear: “I have a word in private, A word for the royal ear. “Life is dear to the aged, And honour a little thing; I would gladly sell the secret,” Quoth the Pict to the King. His voice was small as a sparrow’s, And shrill and wonderful clear: “I would gladly sell my secret, Only my son I fear. “For life is a little matter, And death is nought to the young; And I dare not sell my honour Under the eye of my son. Take him, O king, and bind him, And cast him far in the deep; And it’s I will tell the secret That I have sworn to keep.” They took the son and bound him, Neck and heels in a thong, And a lad took him and swung him, And flung him far and strong, And the sea swallowed his body, Like that of a child of ten;— And there on the cliff stood the father, Last of the dwarfish men. “True was the word I told you: Only my son I feared; For I doubt the sapling courage That goes without the beard. But now in vain is the torture, Fire shall never avail: Here dies in my bosom The secret of Heather Ale. --- The Russian translation (by Marshak) is really really good. Из вереска напиток Забыт давным-давно, А был он слаще меда, Пьянее, чем вино. В котлах его варили И пили всей семьей Малютки-медовары В пещерах под землей. Пришел король шотландский Безжалостный к врагам. Погнал он бедных пиктов К скалистым берегам. На вересковом поле На поле боевом Лежал живой на мертвом И мертвый на живом. Лето в стране настало, Вереск опять цветет, Но некому готовить Вересковый мед. В своих могилах тесных В горах родной земли Малютки-медовары Приют себе нашли. Король по склону едет Над морем на коне, А рядом реют чайки С дорогой на равне. Король глядит угрюмо И думает: "Кругом Цветет медовый вереск, А меда мы не пьем." Но вот его вассалы Заметили двоих - Последних медоваров, Оставшихся в живых. Вышли они из-под камня, Щурясь на белый свет, - Старый горбатый карлик И мальчик пятнадцати лет. К берегу моря крутому Их привели на допрос, Но никто из пленных Слова не произнес. Сидел король шотландский Не шевелясь в седле, А маленькие люди Стояли на земле. Гневно король промолвил: - Плетка обоих ждет, Если не скажете, черти, Как вы готовите мед! Сын и отец смолчали, Стоя у края скалы. Вереск шумел над ними, В море катились валы. И вдруг голосок раздался: - Слушай, шотландский король, Поговорить с тобою С глазу на глаз позволь. Старость боится смерти, Жизнь я изменой куплю, Выдам заветную тайну,- Карлик сказал королю. Голос его воробьиный Резко и четко звучал. - Тайну давно бы я выдал, Если бы сын не мешал. Мальчику жизни не жалко, Гибель ему нипочем. Мне продавать свою совесть Совестно будет при нем. Пусть его крепко свяжут И бросят в пучину вод И я научу шотландцев Готовить старинный мед. Сильный шотландский воин Мальчика крепко связал И бросил в открытое море С прибрежных отвесных скал. Волны над ним сомкнулись, Замер последний крик. И эхом ему ответил С обрыва отец-старик: - Правду сказал я, шотландцы, От сына я ждал беды, Не верил я в стойкость юных, Не бреющих бороды. А мне костер не страшен, Пусть со мною умрет Моя святая тайна, Мой вересковый мед.
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Jan 3, 2014 01:23
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I love poetry as much for how it sounds as for the imagery, and Hopkins has some good stuff. The Leaden Echo is really fun to read out loud. The Leaden Echo HOW to kéep—is there ány any, is there none such, nowhere known some, bow or brooch or braid or brace, láce, latch or catch or key to keep Back beauty, keep it, beauty, beauty, beauty, … from vanishing away? Ó is there no frowning of these wrinkles, rankéd wrinkles deep, Dówn? no waving off of these most mournful messengers, still messengers, sad and stealing messengers of grey? No there ’s none, there ’s none, O no there's none, Nor can you long be, what you now are, called fair, Do what you may do, what, do what you may, And wisdom is early to despair: Be beginning; since, no, nothing can be done To keep at bay Age and age's evils, hoar hair, Ruck and wrinkle, drooping, dying, death’s worst, winding sheets, tombs and worms and tumbling to decay; So be beginning, be beginning to despair. O there's none; no no no there's none: Be beginning to despair, to despair, Despair, despair, despair, despair. --- We've had some Yeats and The Second Coming is great and all, but by far my favorite Yeats poem is The Fiddler of Dooney. It's just really... life-affirming, I guess? The Fiddler of Dooney WHEN I play on my fiddle in Dooney, Folk dance like a wave of the sea; My cousin is priest in Kilvarnet, My brother in Moharabuiee. I passed my brother and cousin: They read in their books of prayer; I read in my book of songs I bought at the Sligo fair. When we come at the end of time, To Peter sitting in state, He will smile on the three old spirits, But call me first through the gate; For the good are always the merry, Save by an evil chance, And the merry - love the fiddle; And the merry - love to dance: And when the folk there spy me, They will all come up to me, With ‘Here is the fiddler of Dooney!’ And dance like a wave of the sea. LogicNinja has a new favorite as of 21:29 on Feb 12, 2014 |
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Feb 12, 2014 21:26
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Inspector Zenigata posted:Adrienne Rich Adrienne Rich is really good. I like What Kind of Times Are These There’s a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted who disappeared into those shadows. I’ve walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don’t be fooled this isn’t a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here, our country moving closer to its own truth and dread, its own ways of making people disappear. I won’t tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods meeting the unmarked strip of light— ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise: I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear. And I won’t tell you where it is, so why do I tell you anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these to have you listen at all, it’s necessary to talk about trees.
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Apr 11, 2014 20:22
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