thyme_for_love: (Default)
Оригинал здесь

I once realized: there is no special hell for
those who leave dirty dishes till morning.
Not all those who smoke
are doomed for soon death by lung cancer.
Not all who skip classes will by all means end up
working shifts in some hole in a wall
selling spirits and liqueurs.
it's okay to peek in others' cards
as long as no one sees it.

I once realized: there is no special heaven
for those moms who breastfeed their toddlers.
Being always on time for your school does not mean
you'll grow up smart or happy.
Being shut-in or giggly or dorky
is no path to eternity, those are just your personal quirks.
it's never enough to know all Yeats by heart
to be happy in marriage.

I once realized: there is no special heaven
for those skippers on evening dishwashing.
I once realized: there is no special hell for
those moms who breastfeed their toddlers.
But there is my neighbor Elena -
a breastfeeding chain-smoker
with a quick friendly smile and a sinkfull of stale dirty dishes,
a valedictorian, a single mother of two,
and a true fan of Yeats.

I meet her under a neon sign "Spirits and Liquers",
where she sits by the counter, all hunched
over textbooks on Mandarin.
She always says hi, greets my dog by his name,
offers mints for sore throat
and witty comments about the weather.
Last night she forgot to give me change from a tenner
and wished me to have a good one.

Her older one sits and plays by the counter, as usual.
ID says: Tristan. Nickname: the kid.
Middle name: got-nowhere-to-leave-him.
Character: nordic. Shock and awe are his favorite methods.
He's playing the cello,
and its low and tremulous voice
strokes the sky hanging low at this hour
over those who went shopping
for spirits and liqueurs.

Проблема с верлибром в том, что это не просто набор незарифмованных строк, он обязательно тикает (ну, если он крутой, а не то, что Салли Браун родила после кружки абсента, а ее bff на радостях запилила эпиграфом к своей новой драме о зомби-вампирах). А вот как и чем тикает - с ходу фиг поймешь, это тебе не размерный стих, эквивалентность перевода которого можно поверить алгеброй и на том успокоить сердце. То есть, кто образованный, тому, может, сразу и понятно, но я, being poor, всегда испытываю сложности. Что не мешает мне продолжать тренироваться на кошках - в лучших традициях Салли Браун)) В вышеуказанное я влюбилась с первого взгляда, но смелости подступиться набралась не сразу. Кассирше пришлось выдать высшее образование - нужен был короткий и емкий плюс-минус эквивалент "медалистке", и кроме valedictorian в моем кругозоре ничего не нашлось. Соответственно, и с языком потребовалось основательно задрать планку. А также пройтись по именам, чтобы расширить географию предполагаемого места действия. А там пришлось и поэта сменить, да простит меня Пастернак, но на этом локализация, в общем-то, и закончилась. Tread, карочи, softly, и не стреляйте в тапера, кто прочитал.
thyme_for_love: (Default)
Оригинал здесь

After one of my mom's usual sermons
over fish with them baked brussels sprouts
(and just for the record , that is like my least favorite food)
she yells at my face - don't you dare lie, you were at your father's,
you know I can see you right through!

Me be like - who? me? at my dad's? no, mom, I would never!
and she grabs me by scruff like some pup that pissed in her shoe,
seething - oh yeah? where were you
when you said you are going to Ernie's?
I talked to his mom, she says she saw nothing of you!

There I pretend to cave in,
like "you got me!", in guilty defiance -
guys made a raft at the river, I'm sorry, now stop with that fuss!
but she's crying already - of course, that's his bullshitty parlance.
Even your meaningless sorry vibrates just like his always does.

You think I'm what, deaf? You think, I can't hear it?
His trashy adverbs, his puns that you pick up like fleas?
He crippled himself, now he seeks to make you a cripple,
he's seeing you just for the pleasure of messing with me!

Then I am grounded, she's sad, we're talking around this matter,
air is thick like molasses and silence is pressing my spine.
Me ain't no poet, mom, really,
don't fret, it ain't gonna happen,
I swear I'll write with no rhyme.

them words inside be instantly flashing
morale beguile sublime
three-dime deny lifeline
thyme_for_love: (Default)

Wading through the rivers of the cold tarmac
I glance over my shoulder just to tease my luck
And see my death - it's always one step behind.
Buying some bread for my evening meal
I see it in the cobwebs along the windowsill,
My hunger, it's watching me through the blinds.
People scurry shivering from cold
With deaths on their heels, so creepy to behold,
Deaths follow like ducklings behind their ducks.
And through this sooty rain, above the foggy gloom
I feel its frosty breath, I see the winter loom
And somewhere inside this fog I am lost and stuck.

This eery home of mine has rounded stairs of utter madness
And splendid moulded ceilings, high to no one's joy.
This journey tends to take me weeks or even years
But here's the worn up doorstep and so in I go.

My madness comes to greet me, gentle and refined,
Approaches me so light, so airy, softly prancing,
And rising on its toes like graceful ballet dancer
It lands a kiss at both my eyes and I turn blind.
My madness has these fragile, frail musician's hands,
Semitrasparent like a sweet, ripe golden apple
But their friendly hug turns quickly into grapple,
There is no way for me to put it to an end.
And there I go again to you.

Those who love St.Petersburg aren't so keen on senses,
They don't seem to care too much for precious health of mind.
And across the leaden sky the city spreads its saplings
Like a vicious poison plant, alluring and unkind.

And there I go again right down your track…
thyme_for_love: (Default)

Tucking beneath leather and shearling
A handful of brass
You'll kindly offer me some good reasons
To my stubborn whys.
Say, this old rock that we all live on
Hit a bump moving forth,
Mixed right and wrong, honest and evil,
South and north.
Say, far beyond deep oceans clashing
Foes never sleep,
Under a stake lies a heap of ashes
At my heart to keep.
Snakes are their own ultimate measures
Of all their ways.
How d'you like beating under the cold scales,
Heart of a snake?

Дальше )
thyme_for_love: (Default)
Оригинал здесь

for about fifteen years it had been in the air
since we took up this chatting here and there
ever since everyone
got themselves an e-mail
e-mails are about as solid as trails
of chalk or breadcrumbs
one good rainfall
and they disappear to be never recalled

we chose to agree with david brin
we passively waited for it to begin
at forums
then in blogs
then in social networks
we molded our fear into words and letters
into morbidly witty
epistolary art

about the thing that will do us part

Read more... )
thyme_for_love: (Default)
Взяла себя на слабо без особой надежды, а пасьянс взял и сошелся. Может, теперь оригинал перестанет привязываться ко мне на марше и сгинет наконец прочь из моей головы. С предыдущими вот сработало.

Возможно, мир сгорит в огне,
а может - лед его скует.
Желаний жар известен мне,
я выбрал бы уйти в огне.
Но тем ли, кто за годом год
от черной ненависти сох,
не знать: для разрушений лед
весьма неплох.
Он подойдет.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
(Robert Frost)
thyme_for_love: (Default)

There are hills you believe that you just have to climb them
to find out in awe - they've been hiding the ocean.
Seagulls' clamour will greet you and all of a sudden
you will see the whole truth and a way out will open.

Although I know so well that there lies a grey river,
endless plain, slits of fir-trees, slate blue clouds curling.
Еverything is the same - maybe better and freer,
but that place is not there, could it hide somewhere further?

Why is it that elsewhere but at those northern hillfoots
I don't feel this vague promise: just over the cresting
the limitless ocean is shifting its waters,
or perhaps not the ocean - but something amazing.

Есть такие холмы, за которыми море.
Стоит вроде бы только взойти на вершицу —
и увижу летящую чайку, и вскоре
всё откроется, всё наконец разрешится.
Только там ведь река за бойницами елей,
сухопутная даль, облака над рукою.
Там всё так, как и здесь, может, лучше, вольнее,
но другого там нет, много дальше другое.
Отчего же нигде, лишь за теми холмами,
я предчувствую это, — в подвижном покое
бесконечное море колышет волнами,
и не море, наверное, что-то другое.
(Всеволод Константинов)
thyme_for_love: (Default)
they say I was drunk got my paws all down her backline
true but I wasn't drunk that much I remember
my hands they remember as well so clear and sharply
and after I was even taken alive to heaven
where to all the thirsty they kindly offer some water
some clean and sparkly water - of course with no vessel
where those backs-and-forths of us simple mortals
are fluent as water tides coming in and regressing
dizzying wind of april quiet september dawn
sun in gold hair and with both my palms on...
...can't help but say this wood is so dark and drear
oi Virgil mate we went astray I fear

врут я был пьян и обнимал Наташу
верь ты чему угодно но пьян я не был
помню довольно много руками даже
помню потом меня взяли живым на небо
там всем кто хочет пить подают воды
чистой воды без сосуда самой собой
там даже это наше туды сюды
будто вода без сосуда прилив прибой
ветер апрельский сентябрьская тишина
блеск золотых волос и руки на…
...экой тут лес, сумрачный и немой
слушай, Вергилий, мы точно идем домой?

Midway in our life's journey, I went astray from the straight road and woke to find myself alone in a dark wood. How shall I say what wood that was! I never saw so drear, so rank, so arduous a wilderness!
Its very memory gives a shape to fear.
thyme_for_love: (Default)
пробую силы в поэтисськом переводе в непривычную сторону.

Прекрасный оригинал здесь

If your feeble human eyes had been better equipped
you would see that your home's not a home - it's a crypt
for some queer and curious little creatures,
neither fish and nor fowl, some primeval relicts.

There's a couple of dozens of mossy old books
that describe what they are, who they eat, how they look -
named, like, "Bestiary", or maybe "The Physiologus",
try to read them to see the crypt's crannies and nooks.

Those books tell us the tales of the merry old times,
blight and plague, the four horses and cardinal crimes,
teeth and talons, and venom, and eyes of the monsters,
and their daddy Old Nick over all that presides.

But the world of our time is a different place
than it had been designed for all those fangs and blades.
Retrogression, inbreeding - you know, degradation,
thus the monsters are now hardly bigger than rats.

Look, what lies in the corner so helplessly strewn?
Wordless fright, childhood nightmare with limbs all askew,
quiet and numb, stiff jaw upward and spinal bones scattered,
while some thought it's eternal like the Eternal Jew.

And the three living souls in the crypt are as plain
as a garden device for collecting the rain,
and they love making fun of their silly old kitty
that all of a sudden freaks out like insane.

They believe they're alone, and their home is their hold,
they just fail to see those demons' eyes shining cold,
red and yellow like jewels in ominous darkness.
No limits to ignorance, save us sweet Lord.

They just think its so comic: "Hey look what Boo does!
Do you see, oh my god, do you see those wild jumps?"
Boo is hissing and spitting at the old wardrobe mirror
scaring off all the demons that are trying to pass.
Page generated Sep. 22nd, 2017 07:02 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios