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Antrekot
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CНС с большой дороги

   
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English collection
« В: 10/23/03 в 15:48:51 »
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In translation, Russian poetry
smells of mothballs and Shakespeare,
overblown nursery rhymes,
jingling with alliterations.
 
Under the gliding coils of English
there’s a wrongness, a tension,
a tang of predestination,
a landslide waiting to happen.
 
In the original this force is held
by a rigid scheme of rhythm and rhyme,
else it’ll rush into the world,
upsetting every balance.
 
The verses twirl into spirals,
the rhymes are interlocked,
so music won’t drown the universe,
so it won’t lose itself in space.
 
While mellow English flows away
this fierce harmony’s still there,
still trying to contain the pulse
within the chalky limits of a rib cage.
 
It has not been told yet
that the center cannot hold.
Russian poetry, in translation…
 
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
 
A Harbour Bridge Rhyme
 
A heady premonition
encased in steel and stone.
A point of no return.
The instincts are subverted
converting “fright” to “right”
to “flight”.
 
Look, on the cape across the strait
there’s a jacaranda blooming.
You do not stir
reading your book,
riding your train,
reining in chaos.
 
Otherwise  
you’d have to embrace
a net of empty spaces
a spine over your head.
 
Look across the strait…
 
Where the angular head of a giraffe
mirrors Centerpoint,
across the strait,
where the monorail vine
twists among the rocks,
across the strait,
where it’s always teatime.
 
A bridge,
a perfect rhyme,
a life designed to funnel
the tensions of the day,
a way to conquer pain.
 
So
what do you think
coming home from work,
sliding down the globe,
tracing the path of a Cheshire moon
across the glimmering dome?
 
At that moment the train  
enters the tunnel.
 
------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 
I speak both Russian and English,
I read in Polish and French,
and my Ukrainian might be called fair
if truth can survive such a stretch.
I revel in useless knowledge
and dabble at verbal chess.
So who am I?
Guess.
 
I come from a limestone city
on the post-deluvian beach
and my children won’t master its jingling speech,
for it’s not a thing you can teach.
But I hear its lateral grammar
making offers I can’t refuse.
So is that me?
Choose.
 
So what am I:
a tilt of a head,
a ricochet of a thought,
the force of entropy wants me dead
and harmony wants me not.
 
My bones change to the very marrow
every time someone says my name,
and whatever language I speak tomorrow
will probably be the same.
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Простите, я плохо вижу днём. Позвольте, моя лошадь посмотрит на это. (c) Назгул от R2R
Antrekot
Bori-tarkhan
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CНС с большой дороги

   
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English collection
« Ответить #1 В: 10/23/03 в 15:49:26 »
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January tune
 
From the melting glaciers the South wind comes
banging upon my door.
It doesn’t even know if I’m at home,
what is it knocking for?
 
Over the ridge the ochre reigns
and drought eats up land like a tide.
And the North wind needn’t bother to knock
for the heat is already inside.
 
Hold fast.  It’s January
on the edge of the sea,
on the edge of the desert,
in the place where the Earth is flat.
 
So the wind whistles down the winding streets
and the ocean riles at the beach,
and polysyllabic herbage slides
its roots into every breach.
 
And while chasing after a sneaky rhyme
through the suburbs of dark renown
you can walk the night in the molten light
of the moon that hangs upside-down.
 
Hold fast.  It’s still January
by the alien sea,
on the alien land,
in the place where the Earth is flat.
 
And whatever present tomorrow brings
there is always a past to forge
with our thoughts and longings layering up
all the way from Olduvai Gorge.
 
So we fill empty spaces and flood the air
with our knowledge and love and strife,
so this city may answer the howling wind
with the subliminal roar of life.
 
Hold fast.  It’s January
by the changing sea,
in whatever land,
in the place where the Earth is flat.
 
------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 
Jinny Mae
 
What are you going to do, Jinny Mae?
What are you going to do now?
The wind is rising, my Jinny Mae,
don’t you hear it howl?
I’ll find myself a cloak so blue,
I’ll wrap myself in that cloak.
I’ll go out to meet my true love
and the Devil may take you all.  
 
But there’s no “cloak” or “love”, Jinny Mae,
and “blue” is a colour no more now.
The wind is here, my Jinny Mae,
it’s blowing the words away.
Then I shall pray to the Powers Above,
I’ll give my life to that prayer.
I’ll ask for this raging wind to abate
and never again hold sway.
 
But you have no will or voice, Jinny Mae,
you have no life of your own now.
There’s just the wind talking to itself
from the mountains to the sea.
Then I’m free in my choice, my friend,
Then there’s nothing but freedom.
And if I can be anything at all
I might just as well be me.
 
What are you going to do, Jinny Mae?
What are you going to do now?
The wind is rising, my Jinny Mae,
don’t you hear the call?
I’ll find myself a cloak so blue,
I’ll wrap myself in that cloak.
I’ll go out to meet my true love
and the Devil may take you all.
 
------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 
Counting raindrops, rolling along
down the gravity well.
Thoroughbred mongrels,  
fallen from grace
to the shore
where time is a measure of space,
is there a notion we can’t embrace
      and work into a song?
 
------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 
The hardest stone can be described
in terms of pressure and life.
And the weed that once grew
on Gondwana’s shores
hasn’t gone anywhere.
So whatever coordinates you choose to believe
you live on a coral reef.
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Простите, я плохо вижу днём. Позвольте, моя лошадь посмотрит на это. (c) Назгул от R2R
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Гость

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Re: English collection
« Ответить #2 В: 10/28/03 в 09:24:09 »
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Наконец прочитав (раньше руки не доходили)
 
Антрекот, а еще можно? Smiley
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Nadia Yar
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Catilinarische Existenz

   
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Re: English collection
« Ответить #3 В: 10/29/03 в 01:40:16 »
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Вот именно, ещё можно? Smiley
« Изменён в : 10/29/03 в 01:41:02 пользователем: Nadia Yar » Зарегистрирован

Я предлагаю для начала собраться, определить виноватых, расстрелять, а уж потом разбираться. (с)

Мой ЖЖ.
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