!

Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű zóna

tide P>!
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

William Shakespeare – 1564–1616
Tempest, Act V, Scene I

Ariel sings

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Kép: Mark Quartley as Ariel in the RSC’s The Tempest

Kapcsolódó könyvek: William Shakespeare: The Tempest · Martin Cruz Smith: Nightwing

William Shakespeare: The Tempest
Martin Cruz Smith: Nightwing

Kapcsolódó alkotók: William Shakespeare

discipula_magistri>!
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Sylvia Plath: The Moon and the Yew Tree

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky –
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness –
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness – blackness and silence.

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Sylvia Plath

blancanieve>!
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Chant d'Automne
I

Bientôt nous plongerons dans les froides ténèbres;
Adieu, vive clarté de nos étés trop courts!
J'entends déjà tomber avec des chocs funèbres
Le bois retentissant sur le pavé des cours.


Tout l'hiver va rentrer dans mon être: colère,
Haine, frissons, horreur, labeur dur et forcé,
Et, comme le soleil dans son enfer polaire,
Mon coeur ne sera plus qu'un bloc rouge et glacé.

J'écoute en frémissant chaque bûche qui tombe
L'échafaud qu'on bâtit n'a pas d'écho plus sourd.
Mon esprit est pareil à la tour qui succombe
Sous les coups du bélier infatigable et lourd.

II me semble, bercé par ce choc monotone,
Qu'on cloue en grande hâte un cercueil quelque part.
Pour qui? – C'était hier l'été; voici l'automne!
Ce bruit mystérieux sonne comme un départ.

II

J'aime de vos longs yeux la lumière verdâtre,
Douce beauté, mais tout aujourd'hui m'est amer,
Et rien, ni votre amour, ni le boudoir, ni l'âtre,
Ne me vaut le soleil rayonnant sur la mer.

Et pourtant aimez-moi, tendre coeur! soyez mère,
Même pour un ingrat, même pour un méchant;
Amante ou soeur, soyez la douceur éphémère
D'un glorieux automne ou d'un soleil couchant.

Courte tâche! La tombe attend – elle est avide!
Ah! laissez-moi, mon front posé sur vos genoux,
Goûter, en regrettant l'été blanc et torride,
De l'arrière-saison le rayon jaune et doux!

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Charles Baudelaire

chhaya P>!
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Emily Dickinson

nola P>!
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Rainer Maria Rilke: Herbsttag

Herr, es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los.

Befiehl den letzten Früchten, voll zu sein;
gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin, und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.

2 hozzászólás
tide P>!
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

fotó: Navajo medicine man, 1904

“I usually walk where the rains fall.
Below the east I walk.
I being Born of Water,
I usually walk where the rains fall.
Within the dawn I walk.

I usually walk where the rains fall.
Among the white corn I walk.
Among the soft goods I walk.
Among the collected waters I walk.
Among the pollen I walk.
I usually walk where the rain falls.”

Régi navajo ének
fordította: Tony Hillerman

Kapcsolódó könyvek: Tony Hillerman: The Blessing Way

Tony Hillerman: The Blessing Way
tide P>!
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

John Donne
'No Man is an Island'

No man is an island entire of itself; every man
is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe
is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine
own were; any man's death diminishes me,
because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

Olde English Version
No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; every man
is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine;
if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe
is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as
well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine
owne were; any mans death diminishes me,
because I am involved in Mankinde;
And therefore never send to know for whom
the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.

MEDITATION XVII
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

Kapcsolódó alkotók: John Donne

Scarlett0722 P>!
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Volker Braun –
Aus dem dogmatischen Schlummer geweckt

Hast du die Nacht genutzt? – Ich übte mich
In der Erwartung. – Wessen? – Kennst du auch
Den süßen Schmerz: die Unbekannte lieben? –
Die unbekannte Tat? – Wie? – Wovon sprichst du? –
Die Adern sprangen fast in meinem Fleisch.
Wie bin ichs müd, den Markusplatz zu queren. –
Du träumst, nicht wahr, du träumst mit Konsequenz. –
Und auf den Straßen weht die Transparenz.

*****

Felriadva a dogmatikus szendergésből

Kihasználtad az éjt? – Gyakoroltam
Csak várni. – Minek? – Ismered te is
Az édes kínt: Ismeretlent szeretni? –
Ismeretlen tettet? – Hogy? – Miről beszélsz?
Majd’ felrobbantak az erek húsomban.
Hogy vagyok fáradt átmenni a téren? –
Álmodsz, hát, álmodsz rendületlenül. –
Az utcán transzparencia feszül.

/Mohácsi Árpád fordítása/

A karc írója kikapcsolta a hozzászólás lehetőségét.

discipula_magistri>!
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Sylvia Plath: I Am Vertical

But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them –
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Sylvia Plath

lilyluna>!
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Martha Lavinia Hoffman: Autumn Leaves

Beautiful leaves of Autumn,
With the sunset hues they vie;
Gems for the glorious setting
Of the pale and pensive sky.
Bright as the flaming opals,
That gleam in the amber West,
Is the Autumn's rich creation
Of gold and amethyst.

Beautiful leaves of Autumn,
How brief is their rich display;
Like all other earthly glories
They must perish and decay.
And where through the lovely summer,
They hung in their stations high;
Trodden by careless footsteps,
Their moldering forms shall lie.

Beautiful leaves of Autumn,
They are robed for an early bier;
Destined to fade and wither
On the grave of the dying year.
And a strange sweet theme of sadness,
With their gorgeous splendor weaves
For all, yes all that is earthly
Doth fade like the Autumn leaves.

Beautiful leaves of Autumn,
Where the breezes of Spring rejoice;
The Autumn winds are chanting,
In a sadder, sweeter voice.
And while in gorgeous splendor,
The Summer glories wane;
In plaintive tones they murmur
Their soul-subduing strain.

Beautiful leaves of Autumn,
Glowing with hectic hues;
Dripping with pearly rain-drops,
Or laden with honey-dews.
Bright is your reign of beauty,
But beauty is always brief;
And human pride and glory,
Shall fade like an Autumn leaf.

Beautiful woods of Autumn,
I love your pensive shades;
Where each silent aisle of brightness,
A solemn air pervades.
'Till I pause midst the fading beauty,
So gorgeous and so brief;
And say with the ancient prophet:
„We all do fade as a leaf.”