Записи пользователя: robert ross (список заголовков)

robert ross
Questions Of Travel
by Elizabeth Bishop


Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
Where should we be today?
Is it right to be watching strangers in a play
in this strangest of theaters?
What childishness is it that while there's a breath of life
in our bodies, we are determined to rush
to see the sun the other way around?
The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?
To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,
inexplicable and impenetrable,
at any view,
instantly seen and always, always delightful?
Oh, must we dream our dreams
and have them, too?
And have we room
for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?


@темы: 1960s, Elizabeth Bishop


PV by Eileen Myles

robert ross
Today is so full, and yet
today never gets spoiled.


Some old drunk who’d been
to France recently died, left
his collection of Isherwood, John
O’Hara, tobacco-stained, grungy
with tattered invites hanging out.
I come wagging out of the train
station at 59th & nearly scream,
Just the books I need!

I take my own sense of
abundance down
into the subway, the
F, Second Ave., the
bodies strewn, the
stink of human
shit the ungodly
lights, standing, waiting
in the heat

The mother won’t repeat
for the child. If you
didn’t get it the first
time . . .

Who is that Irish novelist
he says, the one we see
in meetings in East Hampton

the train arrives & I hop

on that lesbian poet, the
one we always see around
3:30 in Kiev, having a very
late lunch I guess.

We whiz uptown to get help.
We whiz back down. This
is an old fashioned phone
call, Do you have
10 bucks, All saints’ day 1989.

I slept with her last night,
first time since August, she’s
moving so the smells of her
neighbor’s pot won’t waft
insidiously into her bedroom
anymore, Jan with his
new electric piano, Jan the
monkey-faced pot dealer who
teaches tai chi.

I went to see 17 art shows on
Saturday. 17. That’s not a lot.
Saw Tim in the hospital on Sun-
day. Thin Tim. We know he’ll
come out. He doesn’t want to
be everyone’s friend Tim who has AIDS
so we won’t let him be that.
We won’t.
We charged around in our
dungarees watching the century
approach. Another one, nicer
than this, young again, full
of conviction, naïveté, covered
with hair and sunlight, brim-
ming with time, a wave of invention . . .

I take my sense of abundance
into the subway & what do
I see? People bending reading
swaying, torn posters
waving in a song of
sickening movement.
Why don’t they think we know about
rice, racing . . . handsome woman
fiddling with her bag. We’re
the same people who met in
a disaster, but nothing hap-
pened here. You can’t call
it joy this somnolence, licking
our lips with our earphones
on. The poet got off
in the yellowing light,
the rising tile, then
Lexington Ave. Have you
gone here, did you
go there everyone wants
to know. & there’s the
EXIT. Absolutely now
I’m going & the buildings
are growing before my

@темы: 1990s, Eileen Myles, немертвые поэты


robert ross
The Rain
by Robert Creeley

All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.

What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it

that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me

something other than this,
something not so insistent -
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.

Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out

of tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.


robert ross
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin


robert ross

A word drops into the mist
like a child’s ball into high grass
where it remains seductively
flashing and glinting until
the gold bursts are revealed to be
simply field buttercups.
Word/mist, word/mist: thus it was with me.
And yet, my silence was never total—
Like a curtain rising on a vista,
sometimes the mist cleared: alas, the game was over.
The game was over and the word had been
somewhat flattened by the elements
so it was now both recovered and useless.
I was renting, at the time, a house in the country.
Fields and mountains had replaced tall buildings.
Fields, cows, sunsets over the damp meadow.
Night and day distinguished by rotating birdcalls,
the busy murmurs and rustlings merging into
something akin to silence.
I sat, I walked about. When night came,
I went indoors. I cooked modest dinners for myself
by the light of candles.
Evenings, when I could, I wrote in my journal.
Far, far away I heard cowbells
crossing the meadow.
The night grew quiet in its way.
I sensed the vanished words
lying with their companions,
like fragments of an unclaimed biography.
It was all, of course, a great mistake.
I was, I believed, facing the end:
like a fissure in a dirt road,
the end appeared before me—
as though the tree that confronted my parents
had become an abyss shaped like a tree, a black hole
expanding in the dirt, where by day
a simple shadow would have done.
It was, finally, a relief to go home.
When I arrived, the studio was filled with boxes.
Cartons of tubes, boxes of the various
objects that were my still lives,
the vases and mirrors, the blue bowl
I filled with wooden eggs.
As to the journal:
I tried. I persisted.
I moved my chair onto the balcony—
The streetlights were coming on,
lining the sides of the river.
The offices were going dark.
At the river’s edge,
fog encircled the lights;
one could not, after a while, see the lights
but a strange radiance suffused the fog,
its source a mystery.
The night progressed. Fog
swirled over the lit bulbs.
I suppose that is where it was visible;
elsewhere, it was simply the way things were,
blurred where they had been sharp.
I shut my book.
It was all behind me, all in the past.
Ahead, as I have said, was silence.
I spoke to no one.
Sometimes the phone rang.
Day alternated with night, the earth and sky
taking turns being illuminated.

- Louise Glück - Faithful and Virtuous Night


robert ross

The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn't thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I'd hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I'd hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine,
I said, "There aren't enough to be worth while."

"I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over."

"You could look.
But don't expect I'm going to let you have them."
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded "Yes" to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer's moderation, "That would do."
I thought so too, but wasn't there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north.

He said, "A thousand."

"A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?"

He felt some need of softening that to me:
"A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars."

Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn't know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn't lay one in a letter.
I can't help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

—Robert Frost


Счастливого 2009-го!

In Memoriam
by Lord Alfred Tennyson

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.


Emily Dickinson

robert ross

We never know how high we are
Till we are asked to rise
And then if we are true to plan
Our statures touch the skies —

The Heroism we recite
Would be a normal thing
Did not ourselves the Cubits warp
For fear to be a King —


Мы не знаем — как высоки —
Пока не встаём во весь рост —
Тогда — если мы верны чертежу —
Головой достаём до звёзд.

Обиходным бы стал Героизм —
О котором Саги поём —
Но мы сами ужимаем размер
Из страха стать Королём.

Перевод Веры Марковой



C. S. Lewis

There is a house that most of all on earth I hate.
Though I have passed through many sorrows and have been
In bloody fields, sad seas, and countries desolate,
Yet most I fear that empty house where the grasses green
Grow in the silent court the gaping flags between,
And down the moss-grown paths and terrace no man treads
Where the old, old weeds rise deep on the waste garden beds.
Like eyes of one long dead the empty windows stare
And I fear to cross the garden, I fear to linger there,
For in that house I know a little, silent room
Where Someone’s always waiting, waiting in the gloom
To draw me with an evil eye, and hold me fast—
Yet thither doom will drive me and He will win at last.


Осип Мандельштам ;)

robert ross


Средь аляповатых дач,
Где шатается шарманка,
Сам собой летает мяч,
Как волшебная приманка.

Кто, смиривший грубый пыл,
Облеченный в снег альпийский,
С резвой девушкой вступил
В поединок олимпийский?

Слишком дряхлы струны лир:
Золотой ракеты струны
Укрепил и бросил в мир
Англичанин вечно юный.

Он творит игры обряд,
Так легко вооруженный,
Как аттический солдат,
В своего врага влюбленный.

Май. Грозовых туч клочки.
Неживая зелень чахнет.
Все моторы и гудки, -
И сирень бензином пахнет.

Ключевую воду пьет
Из ковша спортсмен веселый,
И опять война идет,
И мелькает локоть голый!



robert ross
Засилье русских мостодонтов случилось, как я погляжу..) tsk-tsk..)
А я, пожалуй, вверну немного антивоенщины.
Типа, make love, not war.)

Joy Davidman
"Near Catalonia"

We have the sweet noise of the sea at our back
and before us the bitter shouting of the gun;
and the brass wing of aeroplanes and the sun
that walks about us burning. Here we wound
our feet on metal fragments of the bomb,
the sword unburied and the poisoned ground.
Here we stand; here we lie; here we must see
what we can find potent and good to set
between the Fascist and the deep blue sea.

If we had bricks that could make a wall we would use them,
but bricks will break under a cannonball;
if we had iron we would make a wall,
but iron rings and splinters at the bomb
and wings go across the sky and over a wall,
and if we made a barrier with our earth
they would murder the earth with Fascist poison,
and no one will give us iron for the wall.
We have only the bodies of men to put together,
the wincing flesh, the peeled white forking stick,
easily broken, easily made sick,
frightened of pain and spoiled by evil weather;
we have only the most brittle of all things the man
and the heart the most iron admirable thing of all,
and putting these together will make a wall.


robert ross
Обнять и плакать.




Леон Фелипе

robert ross

Эта жизнь моя -
камешек легкий,
словно ты. Словно ты,
словно ты,
попавший под ноги
сирота проезжей дороги;
словно ты,
певучий клубочек,
бубенец дорог и обочин;
словно ты,
что в день непогожий
в грязи бездорожий,
а потом
принимается снова
плакать искрами
в лад подковам;
словно ты,
пилигрим, пылинка,
никогда не мостивший рынка,
никогда не венчавший замка;
словно ты, неприметный камень,
неприглядный для светлых залов,
непригодный для смертных камер...
словно ты, искатель удачи,
вольный камешек,
прах бродячий...
словно ты, что рожден, быть может,
для пращи, пастухом несомой...
легкий камешек придорожный,

перевод А. Гелескула


robert ross
Что может помнить пламя? Если оно помнит немного меньше необходимого, оно гаснет; если помнит немного больше необходимого, тоже гаснет. Если бы только оно могло научить нас, пока горит, как правильно помнить.

Джордж Сеферис. Моряк Стратис описывает человека


Китай, VIII в.

robert ross
Немного бородатой, но симпатичной древности.)

Ли Бо
Одиноко сижу в горах Цзинтиншань

Плывут облака
Отдыхать после знойного дня,

Стремительных птиц
Улетела последняя стая.

Гляжу я на горы,
И горы глядят на меня,

И долго глядим мы,
Друг другу не надоедая.

Перевод А. Гитовича.

Ду Фу
Вижу во сне Ли Бо

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Аллен Гинзберг

robert ross

29 февраля 1958

Прошлой ночью мне снился Т. С. Элиот
он звал меня с собою в царство грез
Кровати диваны туман над Англией
Чай в его доме радуга в Челси
Шторы на окнах, дым поднимается
вверх по трубе, а в тихом и теплом доме
невероятно милый крючконосый
Элиот любил меня, приютил меня,
предложил лечь на диван и поспать,
был очень вежлив и слушал серьезно
спросил мое мнение о Маяковском
я читал ему Корсо Крили Керуака
советовал Берроуза Олсона Ханке
бородатая леди в зоопарке
мудрая пума в Мехико Сити
шестеро мальчиков из хора в Занзибаре
измученно пели на разных языках
суахили и пульсирующий ритм
Ма Рэйни и Рэйчел Линдсей.
На Королевском острове
мы вели долгую вечернюю беседу
Потом он накрыл меня,
лежащего в красных семейных трусах
на диване у камина,
мягким шелковым одеялом
отдал мне недокуренную трубку
и с грустью отправился в постель,
Сказав ах Гинзберг я так рад
встретить такого чудесного юношу, как Вы.
Потом я проснулся, стыдясь за себя.
Так ли он добр и хорош? Так ли велик я?
С чего это я вдруг мечтаю
о манне небесной? Кого во всей Англии
хотел поразить я? Что я сделал не так,
чтобы стать совершенным пророком?
Мне снится моя доброта к Т. С. Элиоту
ведь я желаю быть частью истории
и владеть частью его воображения -
амбициозная мечта эксцентричного мальчишки.
Боже, пусть не сбудутся мои злые мечты.
Прошлой ночью мне снился Аллен Гинзберг.
Т. С. Элиоту не было бы стыдно за меня.

перевод М. Гунина


robert ross
А есть у кого стихов про Нью-Йорк?




Caught on a side street
in heavy traffic, I said
to the cabbie, I should
have walked. He replied,
I should have been a doctor.

1993, from "A Day's Portion"


robert ross
Lay Your Sleeping Head, My Love
by W.H. Auden

Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephermeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.

Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's sensual ecstasy.

Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell,
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreadful cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but not from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of sweetness show
Eye and knocking heart may bless.
Find the mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness see you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.

особенно умиляет русский перевод.


Жак Превер. Песенка

robert ross
Какое сегодня у нас число?
Число? Любое... и день любой,
Моя дорогая.
Все дни такие у нас с тобой,
Вся жизнь такая.
Мы любим и воздухом дышим,
Живем и любим друг друга,
Не зная, что значит жизнь,
Не зная, что значит день,
Что значит любовь, не зная.


robert ross
Думаю, мне, старому яойщику, сегодня можно немного пошалить в честь праздника, нэ?)
Warning: оно неприличное!

Михаил Кузмин
Занавешенные картинки

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