Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű zóna

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.”

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

e.e. cummings: You Are Tired (I Think)

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away –
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and –
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart –
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

Kapcsolódó könyvek: e. e. cummings: Complete Poems

e. e. cummings: Complete Poems

Kapcsolódó alkotók: e. e. cummings

2 hozzászólás
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Sylvia Plath: Apprehensions

There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself –
Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.
Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.
They are my medium.
The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.

A gray wall now, clawed and bloody.
Is there no way out of the mind?
Steps at my back spiral into a well.
There are no trees or birds in this world,
There is only sourness.

This red wall winces continually:
A red fist, opening and closing,
Two gray, papery bags –
This is what I am made of, this and a terror
Of being wheeled off under crosses and a rain of pietas.

On a black wall, unidentifiable birds
Swivel thier heads and cry.
There is no talk of immortality among these!
Cold blanks approach us:
They move in a hurry.

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Sylvia Plath

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

Anne Sexton: Her Kind

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

Kapcsolódó könyvek: Anne Sexton: The Complete Poems

Anne Sexton: The Complete Poems

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Anne Sexton

Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Sylvia Plath: Crossing the Water

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.
Where do the black trees go that drink here?
Their shadows must cover Canada.

A little light is filtering from the water flowers.
Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:
They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

Cold worlds shake from the oar.
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

Stars open among the lilies.
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of astounded souls.

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Sylvia Plath

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

Silja Walter – Fieberlied

Rote, rote Fieberspinnen
Drehen dicke Woll’.
Drehn mich selber mit darinnen,
Und ich kann mich nicht besinnen,
Wie ich tanzen soll.

Wie man tanzt in blauen Wicken,
Wie ich selber heiß.
Rote Fieberspinnen stricken
Netze, um mich zu ersticken,
Weil ich’s nicht mehr weiß.

Rote, rote Fieberspinnen,
Jener, der mich liebt,
Bringt mir Schuh’ aus goldnem Linnen,
Und dann tanze ich darinnen,
Bis mir Gott vergibt.

Was ich tat, wird er vergeben,
Was ich tat und litt,
Weil mein liebster Schuster eben
Sie mir heimlich aus Geweben
Seines eignen Herzens schnitt.



Szőnek rőtvörös láz-pókok
sűrű kóc-csuhát.
Magam is bennük forgódom.
Mint táncoljak, nincsen módom
megfontolni már:

Kék pólyában mint táncoljak,
s nem tudom nevem.
Vörös lázpókok hálókat
szőnek: fojtani hálóznak,
mert elment eszem.

Sok vörös lázpók viháncoz.
Ki a kedvesem:
nékem arany lentopánt hoz,
majd abban járom a táncot.
Isten megbocsát nekem.

Amit tettem, kínban éltem,
mert az én bűvös cipészem
azt a tündér kelmét éppen
enszivéből vágta ki.

/Jánosy István fordítása/

A karc írója kikapcsolta a hozzászólás lehetőségét.

Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

George Gordon Noël Byron – Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
[There is a pleasure in the pathless woods]

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean – roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin – his control
Stops with the shore –; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths – thy fields
Are not a spoil for him –, thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: – there let him lay.

Kapcsolódó könyvek: George Gordon Noël Byron: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

George Gordon Noël Byron: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

Kapcsolódó alkotók: George Gordon Noël Byron

Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű


Li Bai: Gondolatok tavaszi napon ébredéskor
Az élet, mint egy nagy álom, minek is töltsük dologgal?
Egész nap bortól részegen, oszlop alatt fekszem komoran.
Ébredve a kertet nézem, madárszó száll virágokból.
Az időről faggatózom, tavaszi széllel poszáta szól.
Meghatódva sóhajtanék, borral töltöm poharamat.
Várom a holdat nótázva, dalommal feledem magamat.


Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Elizabeth Barrett Browning – My Heart and I

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that name were carved for us.
The moss reprints more tenderly
The hard types of the mason's knife,
As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we're tired, my heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I.
We dealt with books, we trusted men,
And in our own blood drenched the pen,
As if such colours could not fly.
We walked too straight for fortune's end,
We loved too true to keep a friend;
At last we're tired, my heart and I.

How tired we feel, my heart and I!
We seem of no use in the world;
Our fancies hang grey and uncurled
About men's eyes indifferently;
Our voice which thrilled you so, will let
You sleep; our tears are only wet:
What do we here, my heart and I?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
It was not thus in that old time
When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime
To watch the sunset from the sky.
Dear love, you're looking tired,' he said;
I, smiling at him, shook my head:
'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
Though now none takes me on his arm
To fold me close and kiss me warm
Till each quick breath end in a sigh
Of happy languor. Now, alone,
We lean upon this graveyard stone,
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

Tired out we are, my heart and I.
Suppose the world brought diadems
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
Of powers and pleasures? Let it try.
We scarcely care to look at even
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains? My heart and I?
In this abundant earth no doubt
Is little room for things worn out:
Disdain them, break them, throw them by
And if before the days grew rough
We once were loved, used, — well enough,
I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Elizabeth Barrett Browning – A Musical Instrument

What was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river:
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan
While turbidly flowed the river;
And hacked and hewed as a great god can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river!)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notched the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sat by the river.

'This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan
(Laughed while he sat by the river),
'The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.'
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
Piercing sweet by the river!
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man:
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,—
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Elizabeth Barrett Browning