Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű zóna

Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Sylvia Plath – Black Rook in Rainy Weather

On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident

To set the sight on fire
In my eye, not seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.

Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Leap incandescent

Out of the kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then –
Thus hallowing an interval
Otherwise inconsequent

By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); sceptical,
Yet politic; ignorant

Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant

A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content

Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel.
For that rare, random descent.


A költőnő előadásában:

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Sylvia Plath

Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Hermann Löns


Die Maienglöckchen läuten
Mit Totenglockenklang;
Es ist ein Herz gestorben,
Das war so lange krank.

Die Totengräber fliegen
Die ganze Maiennacht;
Sie haben dem roten Herzen
Ein schwarzes Grab gemacht.

In dem Zypressenbaume
Da singt ein Vögelein;
Nun lasset uns aber trinken
Den roten, roten Wein.

Nun lasset uns aber singen,
Zu Ende ist die Not;
Wir haben das Herz begraben,
Das rote Herz ist tot.

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Hermann Löns

Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Poétikai szempontból nem feltétlenül tökéletes költemény, viszont a szerző személyéből adódóan (is) érdekes lehet.

Margaret Cavendish (Duchess of Newcastle) – A Poet I am neither borne, nor bred

A Poet I am neither borne, nor bred,
But to a witty Poet married:
Whose Braine is Fresh, and Pleasant, as the Spring,
Where Fancies grow, and where the Muses sing.
There oft I leane my Head, and list'ning harke,
To heare his words and all his Fancies mark;
And from that Garden Flowers of Fancies take,
Whereof a Posie up in Verse I make.
Thus I, that have no Garden of mine owne,
There gather Flowers that are newly blowne.

Kapcsolódó könyvek: Virginia Woolf: A Room of One's Own

Virginia Woolf: A Room of One's Own

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Margaret Cavendish

Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Bár már hallottam a szerzőről, a csatolt könyv igencsak felkeltette az érdeklődésemet.

Anne Finch (Countess of Winchilsea) – The Tree

Fair tree! for thy delightful shade
'Tis just that some return be made;
Sure some return is due from me
To thy cool shadows, and to thee.
When thou to birds dost shelter give,
Thou music dost from them receive;
If travellers beneath thee stay
Till storms have worn themselves away,
That time in praising thee they spend
And thy protecting pow'r commend.
The shepherd here, from scorching freed,
Tunes to thy dancing leaves his reed;
Whilst his lov'd nymph, in thanks, bestows
Her flow'ry chaplets on thy boughs.
Shall I then only silent be,
And no return be made by me?
No; let this wish upon thee wait,
And still to flourish be thy fate.
To future ages may'st thou stand
Untouch'd by the rash workman's hand,
Till that large stock of sap is spent,
Which gives thy summer's ornament;
Till the fierce winds, that vainly strive
To shock thy greatness whilst alive,
Shall on thy lifeless hour attend,
Prevent the axe, and grace thy end;
Their scatter'd strength together call
And to the clouds proclaim thy fall;
Who then their ev'ning dews may spare
When thou no longer art their care,
But shalt, like ancient heroes, burn,
And some bright hearth be made thy urn.

Kapcsolódó könyvek: Virginia Woolf: A Room of One's Own

Virginia Woolf: A Room of One's Own
lone_digger P>!
Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

William Wordsworth: Lucy Gray

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And when I cross'd the Wild,
I chanc'd to see at break of day
The solitary Child.

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wild Moor,
The sweetest Thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,
The Hare upon the Green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

'To-night will be a stormy night,
You to the Town must go,
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your Mother thro' the snow.'

'That, Father! will I gladly do;
'Tis scarcely afternoon—
The Minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the Moon.'

At this the Father rais'd his hook
And snapp'd a faggot-band;
He plied his work, and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe,
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse, the powd'ry snow
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time,
She wander'd up and down,
And many a hill did Lucy climb
But never reach'd the Town.

The wretched Parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlook'd the Moor;
And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood
A furlong from their door.

And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd
'In Heaven we all shall meet!'
When in the snow the Mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They track'd the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they cross'd,
The marks were still the same;
They track'd them on, nor ever lost,
And to the Bridge they came.

They follow'd from the snowy bank
The footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank,
And further there were none.

Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living Child,
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome Wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

A csatolt könyvet hallgattam, és megtetszett az a néhány sor, amely elhangzott a versből.

Christina Rossetti – A Birthday

My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.

Kapcsolódó könyvek: Virginia Woolf: A Room of One's Own

Virginia Woolf: A Room of One's Own

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Christina Rossetti

Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Sylvia Plath: Poppies in July

Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?

You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.

And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.

A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!

There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?

If I could bleed, or sleep!
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.

But colorless. Colorless.

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Sylvia Plath

Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű




Yan Jidao: A szerelmes hazatér – A régi púder illata, mint egykoron

A régi púder illata, mint egykoron,
De az érzelem, jaj, már régen elkopott.
Tavasszal még jónéhány levél érkezett,
Ősszel már elvétve írsz nekem levelet.

Hímzett párnán magányos a főnix, kacsa.
Bús szívem vágyik az enyhítő italra.
Álmában céltalanul bolyong a lelkem,
Hogy viseljem, hogy álom és való nem egy?


Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Quand le livre où s'endort chaque soir ma pensée

Quand le livre où s'endort chaque soir ma pensée,
Quand l'air de la maison, les soucis du foyer,
Quand le bourdonnement de la ville insensée
Où toujours on entend quelque chose crier,

Quand tous ces mille soins de misère ou de fête
Qui remplissent nos jours, cercle aride et borné,
Ont tenu trop longtemps, comme un joug sur ma tête,
Le regard de mon âme à la terre tourné ;

Elle s'échappe enfin, va, marche, et dans la plaine
Prend le même sentier qu'elle prendra demain,
Qui l'égare au hasard et toujours la ramène,
Comme un coursier prudent qui connaît le chemin.

Elle court aux forêts où dans l'ombre indécise
Flottent tant de rayons, de murmures, de voix,
Trouve la rêverie au premier arbre assise,
Et toutes deux s'en vont ensemble dans les bois

Kapcsolódó alkotók: Victor Hugo

Egy költő, egy vers – idegen nyelvű

Alone With Everybody
by Charles Bukowski

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
and nobody finds the
but keep
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else