перевод и поэзия, ru<->eng eng<->ru

141421 @ 2006-08-08T21:21:00

2006-08-09T01:19:37Z

this is powerful

The Secret Life of a Toy Piano - Andrei Senkov - TRANSLATION -

2006-07-14T22:52:34Z

Я над этим переводом еще работаю.
I'm working on this translation right now.

1.
The snowflakes fell
with the gentle crumple
of clumsily folded airplanes -
in columns.
He hurt.
He was in pain:
stubbly, rakish, and trembling
like a phrase from a half-written
poem.
Or a key, which resonates...
Vibrations - aerial incisions,
preparing to become a sound.
Etchings of the infallible and mistaken,
of the seized and the lost,
of the abridged and the expanded.
Of jazz,
the panic between inhale and exhale.
Of sheets,
(crushed by bodies of white
nails),
of a cup of hot rain for breakfast,
of the inside of Chinese tea,
of sugared optics.

Должно между мужчинами, детьми и женщинами
быть что-то, ни счастье и ни несчастье.

Чеслав Милош

1.

Снег падал так,
как падают
неумело сделанные самолётики.
Колом. -
Ему было больно.
Больно было ему:
небритому, худому и дрожащему,
словно строчка из недописанного
стихотворения.
Или клавиша, которая вибрирует...
Вибрация - надрезы воздуха,
готовящегося стать звуком.
Надрезы о безошибочном и ошибках,
об охваченном и утерянном,
о сокращённом и увеличенном.
О джазе,
панике между вдохом и выдохом.
О простынях
(раздавленных телами белых
гвоздиках),
о завтраке чашкой горячего дождя,
изнанкой китайского чая,
фаршированной сахарной оптикой.
-------------ДО СЮДА ИДЕТ ПЕРЕВОД-------------------
Об игрушечном пианино,
загримированном под Белое
кусочке дерева.
Об игрушечной музыке,
появляющейся внутри нас
в виде маленького,
только что вылупившегося, сна,
на плече которого сидит
крохотная снежинка,
похожая на птенца белого попугая
и южный полюс белой клавиатуры.
Надрезы о том, что из музыки можно
конструировать всё.
Зиму, остров Лесбос,
камешки и камушки моря,
50 звёзд американского флага...
О первом, что было создано, -
джазовой Конфете,
звучащей всхлипами, кинополовинками
и голосами удивлённых созвездий.
О том, что позже появляются Обёртка
для Конфеты,
введение в джазовый
Принцип Неопределённости,
банка с джазовой Пылью,
надкушенное джазовое Пирожное...

Ещё позже - Рисунок.
Похожий на какую-то Карту для поиска
утонувших в зеркалах отражений,
он - деревце музыкальных ветвей.
Веточка #1 -
попытка использовать насекомые звуки.
С мухами исполняется
"Сентябрь - обнажение августа",
в котором основа - звучание,
возникающее при перелёте мух
из сентября в август и обратно.
Ветвь #2 -
истекающее межножье разбитого стекла.
Ветвь #3 -
вполне возможная бифуркация
пальцев пианиста.
Ветвь #4 - переход в ветвь #5,
переплетающейся с ветвью #6,
которая - ветвь #4...

2.

Снег исчез.
Исчезла вибрация.
остался пожелтевший
неровный листок бумаги, заполненный точками
различной величины
и странным текстом

... точки - литературные пирожки
точки - вогнутые ноли
точки - крохотные запачканные
луны
точки - хронические запятые
точки - зрачки микроцыган
точки - шарики типографского
мороженого
точки точки точки точки точки...

и стихи,
которые на присосках
держались на стекле.
По форме они напоминали
яркие тропические
растения,
только очень маленькие.
Чьи они, эти недоношенные верлибры?
Эти надломленные слезинки?
Эти неустойчивые во времени
филологические пейзажи?
Эти волшебные истинки?

3.

Снег в горах
хоронит разбившийся насмерть дождь
и собирает на склонах озябшие
стихотворения.

Тихо. Слышно,
Как муравьи - чёрные снежинки -
Вздыхают о лете.

Осень в горах.
Туман, словно серая спелая слива,
Забрызгал мне руки.

Не уснуть.
Луна - лужица белых дождей -
Над нами висит.

В горах не бывает осени:
Сентябрь, октябрь и ноябрь -
Оранжевая зима.

4.

Время года, когда у девочек застывают слёзы,
превращаясь в родинки...
Звучит музыка.
- Что это?
- Это? -
"Свирель из семи неравных тростинок",
подаренная Овидием.
А у музыкального деревца
появляется новая ветвь,
точнее - семь маленьких,
параллельно растущих веточек.
Джазовая радуга.
Семь волшебных наитий.
Семь чистых страничек.
Семь вытянутых жемчужин.
Джазовая радуга,
исполняющаяся на свирели
из семи неравных тростинок...

5.

Сон - это живопись лимонадом,
в пустом бокале из-под которого
сновидения и реальность
меняются местами.
Словно влюблённые в постели.
Сон - это восторг лимонадом.
Случается восторг -
Африка,
маски йоруба,
родом из коричневой Нигерии.
Эти маски -
непокорство рыжего воображения,
которое негры прячут
в деревянные одежды.
Эти маски - мебель для лиц.

Эти маски - вертикальные легенды
о горизонталях,
о женщинах с вытянутыми лицами,
похожими на месяц,
в котором 32 дня,
о нгангах,
напоминающих неизлечимые
горбики материи,
о Солнце,
о сказочной красоты животных
африканской деревни,
о том, как они вращаются в волшебстве,
пачкают постели своими осколками,
подчиняют сердцебиение благодати,
лечат вывихи у комнатных тайничков,
шепчут о любви к сумеркам
на исходе тени
и падают тихо.

Как слёзы в платок.
Как падают
неумело сделанные самолётики.

1991

forsaken (partially inspired by bulgakov)

2006-07-14T07:12:50Z

The crowd may have insisted,
clamored, even,
but Pontius Pilate washed his hands of regret.
He could see Golgatha faintly, misty and wretched,
from his balcony.

Nobody mentioned that it may have rained
that night on Golgatha,
and it would only be natural, then, for a poor soul
to take shelter in a cave for three days.
It thundered like the dickens:
yet he never told the four that loved him most
about the crown of thorns;
the frustration that scraped at his goodness.

He was resigned to the crucifixion,
forsaken by the world's worst
for thirty silver.
His head dropped on his chest.
He took one glaring look at the sky,
and thanks to the mobs,
and to Pontius Pilate,
the wrong prisoner asked
the right question.

141421 @ 2006-07-14T00:51:00

2006-07-14T04:52:18Z

yet I did not know it would give you so much grief, my dear
grieving cucumbers <- like como agua para chocolate!

Rainy days begin
when a salty sunrise breaks light
over greiving cucumbers in a bowl.
It is never a tragedy, but always a setback:
Cardinals, cheerful winter caps, bob like buoys in the network of tree branches.
----
^ this will likely never be a poem on its own BUT may be dissected as an organ donor to other poems.

optic by andrei senkov - TRANSLATION -

2006-07-13T08:18:02Z

Глаз есть символ желания, его постоянные перемещения - движение желания.

The eye is a symbol of desires; its shift represents the shift of desires.
Jean-François Lyotard

optic shift

.

the beginning of love:
carefully exploring
grabbling
at brown labyrinths
with salty minotaurs
.

a theatre glass:
a pane
of glassy detail
of plastic dramaturgy
.

rain:
impatience
tears

there
.

gauguin. his paintings:
shrouded doors
to
a rectangular polynesia

Глаз есть символ желания, его постоянные перемещения - движение желания.
Ж.Ф.Лиотар

.
начало любви:
осторожное путешествие
наощупь
в карих лабиринтах
с
солёными минотаврами
.
театральный бинокль:
протяженность
стеклянных подробностей
пластмассовой драматургии
.
дождь:
нетерпение
слезы
там
.
гоген. его картины:
потайные дверцы
в
прямоугольную полинезию

advice

2006-07-13T07:30:53Z

The art of making butterflies
from newspaper fillings:
The first page is always the hardest to write.
Names are changed to protect the blushing
bastards.

The phone hangs up quietly and
sleepy goodbyes find their way to the front page.
Between us, he was always doing things like that:
buying cigarettes just because he could,
only to trample them into the snow.
I bet he thought those geeeeee-hucks and cahoots were reaaaally something.
----

gosh I like this one. I'll keep playing with it, but boy howdy.
sleepy goodbyes? sloppy goodbyes?

141421 @ 2006-07-13T01:40:00

2006-07-13T05:49:37Z

The table: her grandmother's glasses, thick
like the biscuit crumbs and oil stains
on the corner of the gossip rag.
Chairs turned from the table are frozen in mid-scrape.
If you listen, sometimes, the noises get louder, more petulant.
But it's also true that sometimes, at night,
when the kitchen light is left on to ward away ghosts,
the stairs creak under the weight of the people.
And pots, shifting quietly in the darkness
of a cupboard, patiently clang.
Silent white moths powder the windows and doors, while
outside, it rains, the moon imploring through the occasional wounded cloud.
---
add more here
god this is terrible.

this poem came on thick and sluggish

141421 @ 2006-07-12T03:52:00

2006-07-12T07:54:29Z

Ach mein gott. I'm back. Aaaand I have a poem, which I stole from my other LJ, but no one will ever find out what it is.

...unless they run a Google search.

Chiltonella, hampsonellus, sandersiella,
Enantiopoda, hutchinsoniella.
These are the arthropods I find unobtrusive:
The rest better make themselves really elusive.
Large ants, for example, should all up and die,
Or depart to where other conditions apply.
-
And playing with words.

a yemeni yeti

A yeti yesterday
a yemeni yahoo
yesterday's yemenis
yesterday's yeti venison
yesterday's lamenting yemeni yetis
yes, a yeti
your yeti, yes.
Yikes, a yeti!
Yikes, a yemeni!
Yikes, a yemeni yeti!
Yet a yemeni yeti yak yak yak *yank*...blabbering Bigfoot.

the news

2006-01-16T23:07:08Z

names are never changed to protect the innocent or not so much blushing bastards

141421 @ 2006-01-15T23:50:00

2006-01-16T04:52:19Z

A kiss on the cheek was unsatisfying.

I wanted a make-out session.

There. I said it.

Oh, and now I have time to write for fun again, so I'm back. I hope none of the communities have kicked me out for inactivity.

141421 @ 2005-12-04T15:42:00

2005-12-04T20:43:19Z

Red dress regress.
Redress red dresses.
Red dress red dress. Don't fret. It will pass.

---

I have no idea. I feel like I'm shitting out poetry.

141421 @ 2005-12-04T14:17:00

2005-12-04T19:18:14Z

the blue girl and i looked at one another and made butterflies
i caught them with a net and stuck them with pins?

^no, i promise it won't suck this much, just playing with it

141421 @ 2005-12-02T19:47:00

2005-12-03T00:48:01Z

I showed my English teacher "the accident."

she did not like it.

balls.

141421 @ 2005-12-01T22:35:00

2005-12-02T03:35:57Z

another snippet. damn.

the phone hangs up. quietly,
sleepy goodbyes find their way to the front page.

141421 @ 2005-12-01T15:52:00

2005-12-01T20:53:20Z

i want stuff to translate and the last two poems seem forced. these sentiments are unrelated.

happy the end of hurricane season.

---
snippets
---
-sleepy goodbyes find their way onto the front page of the newspaper
how
---
(sonorous)?

snippets

2005-12-01T20:23:54Z

"The Accident"

He made a spectacle of himself.
Tomato sauce splattered down his shirt and red cheeks,
the mozzarella complexion quite uncouth.

We laughed softly and covered our mouths,
red-faced and ruthless,
mouthing impeccable platitudes.

--
this is the original; i left deleterious in there because it sounded pretentious enough to fit the mood but too long to flow smoothly.

He made a spectacle of himself.
Tomato sauce splattered down his shirt
and red cheeks,
the mozarrella pigmentation quite ~~deleterious~~ uncouth.

We laughed softly and covered our mouths,
red-faced and ruthless,
mouthing impeccable platitudes.

(edit: deleterious -> uncouth. I wanted to see what it looked like with both.)</lj-cut"

the reck'ning

2005-12-01T20:19:49Z

It is two minutes past pi o'clock. I shat out a poem.
--
The Reck'ning

Phil
and
Tom
met in the dead of winter
at a dreary, civilized gas station.
Their bellies bulged like big, friendly beach balls.
Shuffling around each other,
they exchanged pard'ns and a coupla reck'ns
and awkward sideways glances
at soggy bags of miscellany lined against the wall
like dissidents.
Phil and Tom spouted teck'ns that driving's dangerous today,
on account of, uh, the snow.
The slush, too.
Looked like icy rain later, too. Maybe.
I reck'n.

You know,
you really shouldn't be driving out
in alla this weather. Come in?

Uh. Uh.
Looka, pard'n. But I really gotta get going. Gotta get back to my
dog, dinner, and wife.
Still.
Nice talkin' to ya. You take care now,
and watch for that snow.
Slush, too.
Icy rain, maybe.
I reck'n.

141421 @ 2005-11-30T16:58:00

2005-11-30T22:00:39Z

I'm going to enter one of these poems into the Kenyon Review contest.

obligatory poem-building

he buys cowboy boots and tramples ciggies into the snow
i bet he thought those geeeeeeeeeeee-hucks and cahoots were reeeeaaalllly something.

Degas at the Harvard Galleries

2005-11-28T08:09:35Z

Degas at the Harvard Galleries

he gave of the same vague elegance to horses (thoroughbreds) pretty,
women and boys crawling through brown paper.
For example, Miss Julie Burtey resembles
one of Raphael's architectural wonders, the way they always concede to softness towards the middle but are
defined along the edges, and one could say the haughty young woman blossomed out
of the yellow paper in her bluebell dress with petals of folds and bows but none so obnoxious. If only her
beak were not so nosy.
Excuse me.
On either side of her he loved the grizzly old men whose baudy uniqueness he could only capture through angle rotations
and broad, cuddly pencil strokes. I bet when he laughed, eggs came flying merrily
out of his mouth into his beard at breakfast.

Degas wrote sonnets. And I suppose Shakespeare, too must have doodled
on occasion sometimes, in the margins and his pens had, anxiously, teeth marks. (Though in art, one must trust more,
I suppose, and fanaticize less.)
"Reproduce only what has struck you," they are said to have said he is said to have said.
I would not fancy being stricken by a bronze ballerina,

her toes pointed out like Achilles in battle,
nothing so sad and stately as a falling leaf.

141421 @ 2005-11-28T02:51:00

2005-11-28T07:52:28Z

i bet he thought those geeeee-hucks and cahoots were reeeeeeaaally something.

141421 @ 2005-07-31T14:28:00

2005-07-31T18:29:02Z

..maxims debase profundity
and puppies howl and flinch in their sleep.

Walden Pond

2005-07-31T18:24:23Z

The man
who sings like a goldfish
in the middle of Walden Pond bade me have
a beautiful day
and I did 20
miles or just under the sleep-blurred July shadow only halfheartedly harbors the sun
shown over Walden pond at times just like I wanted an unassuming
young man who would notice my book of Longley's poetry you rip
and gnash and tear apart into juicy delicious pre-packaged pieces of poetry jerky
and,slurping each succulent mouthful of morsels, swallow
s eat waterbugs (or I thought they did -
maybe they swoop down for the thrill of confusing
porch amateur Audubons) of which I didn't remember there being this many of
them last time...