Анастасия [Гета] Иванова

Ответ 5663 : 19 апр 2008 в 19:18 »
But Could You? I blurred at once the map of humdrum,by splashing colours like a potion;I showed upon the dish of jellythe slanted cheekbones of the ocean.Upon the scales of metal fishesI read the new lips’ attitude.But could younowperform a nocturneJust playing on a drainpipe flute?<1913>

Анастасия [Гета] Иванова

Ответ 5664 : 19 апр 2008 в 19:24 »
AT THE TOP OF MY VOICE Unfinished Prelude to the Second Part of a Poem on the Five Year Plan 1 She loves me-loves me not. My hands I pick and having broken my fingers fling away. So the first daisy-heads one happens to flick are plucked, and guessing, scattered into May. Let a cut and shave reveal my grey hairs. Let the silver of the years ring out endlessly ! Shameful common sense - I hope, I swear - Will never come to me. 2 It's already two. No doubt, you've gone to sleep. In the night The Milky Way with silver filigrees. I don't hurry, and there is no point in me waking and disturbing you with express telegrams. 3 The sea goes to weep. The sea goes to sleep. As they say, the incident has petered out. The love boat of life has crashed on philistine reefs You and I are quits. No need to reiterate mutual injuries, troubles and griefs. 4 D'you see, In the world what a quiet sleeps. Night tributes the sky with silver constellations. In such an hour as this, one rises and speaks to eras, history, and world creation. 5 I know the power of words, I know words' tocsin. They're not the kind applauded by the boxes. From words like these coffins burst from the earth and on their own four oaken legs stride forth. It happens they reject you, unpublished, unprinted. But saddle-girths tightening words gallop ahead. See how the centuries ring and trains crawl to lick poetry's calloused hands. I know the power of words. Seeming trifles that fall like petals beneath the heel-taps of dance. But man with his soul, his lips, his bones… 1928-1930

Анастасия [Гета] Иванова

Ответ 5665 : 19 апр 2008 в 19:25 »
Vladimir Mayakovsky A Cloud in Trousers [Part 1] You think malaria makes me delirious? It happened.In Odessa it happened. "I'll come at four," Maria promised. Eight.Nine.Ten. Then the eveningturned its back on the windowsand plunged into grim night,scowlingDecemberish. At my decrepit backthe candelabras guffawed and whinnied. You would not recognise me now:a bulging bulk of sinews,groaning,and writhing,What can such a clod desire?Though a clod, many things! The self does not carewhether one is cast of bronzeor the heart has an iron lining.At night the self only desiresto steep its clangour in softness,in woman. And thus,enormous,I stood hunched by the window,and my brow melted the glass.What will it be: love or no-love?And what kind of love:big or minute?How could a body like this have a big love?It should be teeny-weeny,humble, little love;a love that shies at the hooting of cars,that adores the bells of horse-trams. Again and againnuzzling against the rain,my face pressed against its pitted face,I wait,splashed by the city's thundering surf. Then midnight, amok with a knife,caught up,cut him down –out with him! The stroke of twelve felllike a head from a block. On the windowpanes, grey raindropshowled together,piling on a grimaceas though the gargoyles of Notre Dame were howling. Damn you!Isn't that enough?Screams will soon claw my mouth apart. Then I heard,softly,a nerve leap like a sick man from his bed.Then,barely moving,at first,it soon scampered about,agitated,distinct.Now, with a couple more,it darted about in a desperate dance. The plaster on the ground floor crashed. Nerves,big nerves,tiny nerves,many nerves! – galloped madlytill soontheir legs gave way. But night oozed and oozed through the room –and the eye, weighed down, could not slither out of the slime. The doors suddenly banged ta-ra-bang,as though the hotel's teethchattered. You swept in abruptlylike "take it or leave it!"Mauling your suede gloves,you declared:"D'you know,I'm getting married." All right, marry then.So what,I can take it.As you see, I'm calm!Like the pulse of a corpse. Do you rememberhow you used to talk?"Jack London,money,love,passion."But I saw one thing only:you, a Gioconda,had to be stolen! And you were stolen. In love, I shall gamble again,the arch of my brows ablaze.What of it!Homeless tramps often find shelter in a burnt-out house! You're teasing me now?"You have fewer emeralds of madnessthan a beggar has kopeks!"But remember!When they teased Vesuvius,Pompeii perished! Hey!Gentlemen!Amateursof sacrilege,crime,and carnage,have you seenthe terror of terrors – my facewhen Iam absolutely calm? I feelmy "I"is much too small for me.Stubbornly a body pushes out of me. Hello!Who's speaking?Mamma?Mamma!Your son is gloriously ill!Mamma!His heart is on fire.Tell his sisters, Lyuda and Olya,he has no nook to hide in. Each word,each joke,which his scorching mouth spews,jumps like a naked prostitutefrom a burning brothel.

Анастасия [Гета] Иванова

Ответ 5666 : 19 апр 2008 в 19:25 »
People sniffthe smell of burnt flesh!A brigade of men drive up.A glittering brigade.In bright helmets.But no jackboots here!Tell the firemento climb lovingly when a heart's on fire.Leave it to me.I'll pump barrels of tears from my eyes.I'll brace myself against my ribs.I'll leap out! Out! Out!They've collapsed.You can't leap out of a heart! From the cracks of the lipsupon a smouldering facea cinder of a kiss rises to leap. Mamma!I cannot sing.In the heart's chapel the choir loft catches fire! The scorched figurines of words and numbersscurry from the skulllike children from a flaming building.Thus fear,in its effort to grasp at the sky,lifted highthe flaming arms of the Lusitania. Into the calm of the apartmentwhere people quake,a hundred-eye blaze bursts from the docks.Moaninto the centuries,if you can, a last scream: I'm on fire!

Максим Халимовский

Ответ 5667 : 22 апр 2008 в 10:50 »
Интересно почитать.Только ничего не рифмуется.Кто переводил?

Никита Чекушкин

Ответ 5668 : 3 июл 2009 в 13:20 »
Сколько читал переводов, хорошие видел только у Пастернака. Уж извините, но это искусство. Всем понятно, что пионист играет, как умеет. Но тут либо очень хорошо, либо никак.Это мое мнение.

Антон ...полиморф... Никушкин

Ответ 5669 : 15 янв 2010 в 23:35 »
Я вообще считаю поэтические переводы практикой почти безнадёжной...Читать — так в оригинале.

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