-

 -

 -

   sova1221

 - e-mail

 

 -

 -

 LiveInternet.ru:
: 02.12.2017
: 1225
: 697
: 3132

:

.


: (30), (8), (19), (0), ...(5), (4), (1), (27), (3), (3), (7), : (11), (9), ()(20), /f-ok(149), zewa(45), (3), (79), - ...(85), (10), (3), (34), (19), 321(17), זה יכ&(10)
(0)

hotel:

, 20 2023 . 05:43 +






















:  
(0)

Ted Hughes Birthday Letters

, 04 2022 . 12:41 +




Ted Hughes
Birthday Letters
***
We were where we we had never been in our lives


We were where we we had never been in our lives.
Visitors--visiting even ourselves.

The bats were part of the sun's machinery,
Connected to the machinery of the flowers
By the machinery of insects. The bats' meaning

Oiled the unfailing logic of the earth.
Cosmic requirement--on the wings of a goblin.
A rebuke to our flutter of half-participation...

Those bats had their eyes open. Unlike us,
They knew how, and when, to detach themselves
From the love that moves the sun and other stars.





**


















ted_huizz (700x525, 169Kb)





:  
(0)

Ted Hughes Birthday Letters

, 03 2022 . 12:18 +



Ted Hughes
Birthday Letters
***
So missed everything...


So missed everything
in the white, blindfolded, rigid faces
of those women. I felt their frailty, yes:
friable, burnt aluminium.
Fragile, like the mantle of a gas-lamp.
But made nothing
of that massive, starless, mid-fall, falling
heaven of granite
stopped, as if in a snapshot,
by their hair.







**

"










"


942635 (700x465, 162Kb)





:  

Ted Hughes Birthday Letters

, 02 2022 . 11:37 +
Ted Hughes
Birthday Letters
***
What can I tell you that you do not know


What can I tell you that you do not know
Of the life after death?

Your sons eyes, which had unsettled us
With your Slavic Asiatic
Epicanthic fold, but would become
So perfectly your eyes,
Became wet jewels,
The hardest substance of the purest pain
As I fed him in his high white chair.
Great hands of grief were wringing and wringing
His wet cloth of face. They wrung out his tears.
But his mouth betrayed you it accepted
The spoon in my disembodied hand
That reached through from the life that had survived you.

Day by day his sister grew
Paler with the wound
She could not see or touch or feel, as I dressed it
Each day with her blue Breton jacket.

By night I lay awake in my body
The Hanged Man
My neck-nerve uprooted and the tendon
Which fastened the base of my skull
To my left shoulder
Torn from its shoulder-root and cramped into
knots
I fancied the pain could be explained
If I were hanging in the spirit
From a hook under my neck-muscle.

Dropped from life
We three made a deep silence
In our separate cots.

We were comforted by wolves.
Under that February moon and the moon of March
The Zoo had come close.
And in spite of the city
Wolves consoled us. Two or three times each night
For minutes on end
They sang. They had found where we lay.
And the dingos, and the Brazilian-maned wolves
All lifted their voices together
With the grey Northern pack.

The wolves lifted us in their long voices.
They wound us and enmeshed us
In their wailing for you, their mourning for us,
They wove us into their voices. We lay in your death,
In the fallen snow, under falling snow,

As my body sank into the folk-tale
Where the wolves are singing in the forest
For two babes, who have turned, in their sleep,
Into orphans
Beside the corpse of their mother.





**






























































...
wolf2z (700x471, 158Kb)


:  
(1)

Shakespeare, Sonnet 58

, 09 2020 . 09:33 +


Shakespeare, Sonnet 58
That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your time of pleasure,
Or at your hand th'account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal bound to stay your leasure.
O let me suffer (being at your beck)
Th'imprisoned absence of your liberty,
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong
That you yourself may priviledge your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.





:  
(1)

Shakespeare, Sonnet 40

, 01 2020 . 16:02 +
Shakespeare, Sonnet 40
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robb'ry, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.


, *, , .
, ? --
, , :
, .
**,
,
, ,
, .
, ,
, ;
,
, .
, ,
, .

**************************************

* "love",
, .
, (
) , (
). , "my love" -- ,
" ", "".
** , ,
.


( lib.ru)




, 40



, , .
, ,
, , ,
.

, ,
,
,
, .

, , , .

, ,
.

, ,
, ...


...
. , . , " (), , ..." /... , ... ... , , . - ...- ... , ... ... ...


:  
(1)

Robert Frost The Road Not Taken

, 31 2020 . 17:31 +
The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.







,
, .
,
,
, .

, ,
,
;
,
, .


, .
, !
, ,
, - .


- -...
, ...
,
.








, , -... , ... , , ...
" ". . . . ... ... .. ... .........


:  
(0)

...

, 23 2020 . 12:39 +









1359083 (700x525, 349Kb)















...
...





:  
(4)

"ABBA" Happy new year"

, 02 2019 . 23:42 +

, . " ", , . , , , . . - . , . , .





:  
(0)

, 27 2019 . 18:44 +























.....

452416 (700x393, 36Kb)




... ..... .. ...


:  
(0)

Charles Bukowski air and light and time and space ()

, 22 2019 . 20:40 +


air and light and time and space

'- you know, I've either had a family, a job, something
has always been in the
way
but now
I've sold my house, I've found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I'm going to have a place and
the time to
create.'
no baby, if you're going to create
you're going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you're going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you're on
welfare,
you're going to create with part of your mind and your
body blown
away,
you're going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you're going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquakes, bombardment,
flood and fire.
baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don't create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.
Charles Bukowski

1133050 (700x466, 70Kb)



" -








"



16




























:  
(0)

Mama Charles Bukowski ()

, 22 2019 . 20:33 +


Mama
Charles Bukowski

here I am
in the ground
my mouth
open
and
I can't even say
mama,
and
the dogs run by and stop and piss
on my stone; I get it all
except the sun
and my suit is looking
bad
and yesterday
the last of my left
arm gone
very little left, all harp-like
without music.

at least a drunk
in bed with a cigarette
might cause 5 fire
engines and
33 men.

I can't
do
any
thing.

but p.s. - Hector Richmond in the next
tomb thinks only of Mozart and candy
caterpillars.
he is
very bad
company.

1146787 (700x350, 67Kb)


--























33






P.S.












:  
(0)

NAHE DES GELIEBTEN ( )

, 10 2019 . 19:33 +



NAHE DES GELIEBTEN

Ich denke dein, wenn mir der Sonne Schimmer
Vom Meere strahlt;
Ich denke dein, wenn sich des Mondes Flimmer
In Quellen malt.

Ich sehe dich, wenn auf dem fernen Wege
Der Staub sich hebt,
In tiefer Nacht, wenn auf dem schmalen Stege
Der Wandrer bebt.

Ich hore dich, wenn dort mit dumpfem Rauschen
Die Welle steigt,
Im stillen Hain, da geh ich oft zu lauschen,
Wenn alles schweigt.

Ich bin bei dir, du seist auch noch so ferne,
Du bist mir nah!
Die Sonne sinkt, bald leuchten mir die Sterne
O, warst du da!





























:  
(0)

A Ouestion by Robert Frost

, 07 2019 . 10:29 +
A Ouestion by Robert Frost

A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.













(0)

( )

, 06 2019 . 23:28 +


A Late Walk
by Robert Frost

When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy


(1)

. . ( )

, 04 2019 . 13:50 +
Rozmowa
 
Kochanko moja! na co nam rozmowa?
Czemu, chcąc z tobą uczucia podzielać,
Nie mogę duszy prosto w duszę przelać?
Za co ją trzeba rozdrabiać na słowa,
Które nim słuch twój i serce dościgną,
W ustach wietrzeją, na powietrzu stygną?
 
Kocham, ach! kocham, po sto razy wołam,
A ty się smucisz i zaczynasz gniewać,
że ja kochania mojego nie zdołam
Dosyć wymówić, wyrazić, wyśpiewać;
I jak w letargu, nie widzę sposobu
Wydać znak życia, bym uniknął grobu.
 
Strudziłem usta daremnym u życiem,
Teraz je z twymi stopić chcę ustami.
I chcę rozmawiać tylko serca biciem,
I westchnieniami, i całowaniami.
I tak rozmawiać godziny, dni, lata,
Do końca świata i po końcu świata.
 



:  
(2)

Alone With Everybody / Charles Bukowski ( )

, 03 2019 . 05:02 +

, . , . — . ( , , ) ( ) , . .



:  
(2)

, 01 2019 . 13:21 +
, - ... . , , , , , .
- , . 90 , .





:  
(4)

90 ,

, 29 2019 . 04:21 +
17- -, . 87, 89. , .. , , .





:  

 : [1]