Ryszard Mierzejewski poeta, tłumacz i
krytyk literacki,
wolny ptak

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

Sylvia Plath (1932-1963) – amerykańska poetka, zaliczana do nurtu konfesjonalistów,
a z powodu burzliwego życia osobistego, uzależnienia od alkoholu i samobójczej śmierci,
w wyniku wieloletniej depresji, do tzw. poetów przeklętych. Autorka tomów poezji:
„The Colossus and Other Poems” (Kolos i inne wiersze, 1960), „Ariel” (Ariel, 1965), „Crossing the Water” (Przeprawa przez wodę, 1971), „Winter Trees” (Zimowe drzewa, 1972).
W 2003 r. powstał film fabularny „Sylvia” w reżyserii Christine Jeffs z Gwyneth Paltrow
i Danielem Craigiem w rolach głównych, który opowiada o życiu Sylvii Plath, jej nieudanym związku z poetą angielskim Tedem Hughesem oraz samobójstwie.
Szerzej o życiu i twórczości Sylvii Platch w temacie Zbliżenia - eseje o poezji i poetach.

Z tomu "The Colossus and Other Poems", 1960


Two Views of a Cadaver Room


The day she visited the dissecting room
They had four men laid out, black as burnt turkey,
Already half unstrung. A vinegary fume
Of the death vats clung to them;
The white-smocked boys started working.
The head of his cadaver had caved in,
And she could scarcely make out anything
In that rubble of skull plates and old leather.
A sallow piece of string held it together.

In their jars the snail-nosed babies moon and glow.
He hands her the cut-out heart like a cracked heirloom.


In Brueghel's panorama of smoke and slaughter
Two people only are blind to the carrion army:
He, afloat in the sea of her blue satin
Skirts, sings in the direction
Of her bare shoulder, while she bends,
Finger a leaflet of music, over him,
Both of them deaf to the fiddle in the hands
Of the death's-head shadowing their song.
These Flemish lovers flourish;not for long.

Yet desolation, stalled in paint, spares the little country
Foolish, delicate, in the lower right hand corner.

przekład Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. "Dwa spojrzenia
na prosektorium" w temacie Śmierć

Suicide off Egg Rock

Behind him the hotdogs split and drizzled
On the public grills, and the ochreous salt flats,
Gas tanks, factory stacks- that landscape
Of imperfections his bowels were part of-
Rippled and pulsed in the glassy updraught.
Sun struck the water like a damnation.
No pit of shadow to crawl into,
And his blood beating the old tattoo
I am, I am, I am. Children
Were squealing where combers broke and the spindrift
Raveled wind-ripped from the crest of the wave.
A mongrel working his legs to a gallop
Hustled a gull flock to flap off the sandspit.

He smoldered, as if stone-deaf, blindfold,
His body beached with the sea's garbage,
A machine to breathe and beat forever.
Flies filing in through a dead skate's eyehole
Buzzed and assailed the vaulted brainchamber.
The words in his book wormed off the pages.
Everything glittered like blank paper.

Everything shrank in the sun's corrosive
Ray but Egg Rock on the blue wastage.
He heard when he walked into the water
The forgetful surf creaming on those ledges.

przekład Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. "Samobójstwo
przy Egg Rock" w temacie Samobójstwo w wierszach...


Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.

przekład Jana Rostworowskiego pt. "Grzyby" w temacie
Poetyckie grzybobranie i inne leśne zbieranie

Watercolour of Grantchester Meadows

There, spring lambs jam the sheepfold. In air
Stilled, silvered as water in a glass
Nothing is big or far.
The small shrew chitters from its wilderness
Of grassheads and is heard.
Each thumb-size bird
Flits nimble-winged in thickets, and of good colour.

Cloudrack and owl-hollowed willows slanting over
The bland Granta double their white and green
World under the sheer water
And ride that flux at anchor, upside down.
The punter sinks his pole.
In Byron’s pool
Cat-tails part where the tame cygnets steer.

Its in a country on a nursery plate.
Spotted cows revolve their jaws and crop
Red clover or gnaw beetroot
Bellied on a nimbus of sun-glazed buttercup.
Hedging meadows of benign
Arcadian green
The blood-berried hawthorn hides its spines with white.

Droll, vegetarian, the water rat
Saws down a reed and swims from his limber grove,
While the students stroll or sit,
Hands laced, in a moony indolence of love—
Black-gowned, but unaware
How in such mile air
The owl shall stoop from his turret, the rat cry out.

przekład Jana Rostworowskeigo pt. "Awarela przedstawiająca łąki
Grantchester" w tematach: Poezja i malarstwo i Najpiękniejsze łąki

Z tomu "Ariel", 1965


Sheep in Fog

The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.

The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow
Horse the colour of rust,

Hooves, dolorous bells -
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,

A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.

They threaten
To let me through to a heaven
Starless and fatherless, a dark water.

przekład Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. "Owce we mgle"
w temacie Popatrz na mgłę, ileż cudów ukrywa...

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it-

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?-

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

"A miracle!"
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart-
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash -
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there-

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

przekład Ewy Fiszer pt. "Lady Łazarz"
w temacie Samobójstwo w wierszach...

Lady Lazarus – recytuje Sylvia Plath

Poppies in October

Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly -

A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky

Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxide, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

dwa przekłady tego wiersza pt. "Maki w październiku":
Teresy Truszkowskiej w temacie "Okrutną zagadką jest życie"...
i Grzegorza Musiała w temacie Kalendarz poetycki na cały rok


Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.

God's lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!-The furrow

Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,

Berries cast dark
Hooks -

Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Something else

Hauls me through air -
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.

Godiva, I unpeel -
Dead hands, dead stringencies.

And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child's cry

Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,

The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red

Eye, the cauldron of morning.

z tomu "Ariel", 1965

przekład Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. "Ariel"
w temacie Jak wysłowić konia czerń...?

Ariel – recytuje Sylvia Plath

The Arrival of the Bee Box

I ordered this, clean wood box
Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift.
I would say it was the coffin of a midget
Or a square baby
Were there not such a din in it.

The box is locked, it is dangerous.
I have to live with it overnight
And I can't keep away from it.
There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there.
There is only a little grid, no exit.

I put my eye to the grid.
It is dark, dark,
With the swarmy feeling of African hands
Minute and shrunk for export,
Black on black, angrily clambering.

How can I let them out?
It is the noise that appalls me most of all,
The unintelligible syllables.
It is like a Roman mob,
Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

I lay my ear to furious Latin.
I am not a Caesar.
I have simply ordered a box of maniacs.
They can be sent back.
They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner.

I wonder how hungry they are.
I wonder if they would forget me
If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.
There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades,
And the petticoats of the cherry.

They might ignore me immediately
In my moon suit and funeral veil.
I am no source of honey
So why should they turn on me?
Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free.

The box is only temporary.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Na przybycie skrzynki
z pszczołami w temacie Owady są wszędzie...

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.

dwa przekłady tego wiersza pt. "Maki w lipcu": Gowera w temacie Krew
i Julii Hartwig w temacie Kalendarz poetycki na cały rok


The woman is perfected.
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

dwa przekłady: Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. „Krawędź” w temacie Śmierć, s. 2
i Anny Boczkowskiej pod tym samym tytułem w temacie Śmierć, s. 7

Z tomu "Crossing the Water", 1971



Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks -
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.

przekład Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. "Zbieranie jeżyn"
w temacie Poetyckie grzybobranie i inne leśne zbieranie

Im Am Vertical

But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them--
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

przekład Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. „Jestem pionowa”
w temacie Autoportret w lustrze wiersza


I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful-
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

przekład Zbigniewa Herberta pt. "Lustro"
w temacie Motyw zwierciadła, lustra i odbicia


This is not what I meant:
Stucco arches, the banked rocks sunning in rows,
Bald eyes or petrified eggs,
Grownups coffined in stockings and jackets,
Lard-pale, sipping the thin
Air like a medicine.

The stopped horse on his chromium pole
Stares through us; his hooves chew the breeze.
Your shirt of crisp linen
Bloats like a spinnaker. Hat brims
Deflect the watery dazzle; the people idle
As if in hospital.

I can smell the salt, all right.
At our feet, the weed-mustachioed sea
Exhibits its glaucous silks,
Bowing and truckling like an old-school oriental.
You're no happier than I about it.
A policeman points out a vacant cliff

Green as a pool table, where cabbage butterflies
Peel off to sea as gulls do,
And we picnic in the death-stench of a hawthorn.
The waves pulse like hearts.
Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie
Sea-sick and fever-dry.

przekład Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. "Zielone Świątki"
w temacie Ceremonie, obrzędy i święta

Love Letter

Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just tow me an inch, no--
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter--
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chisled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.

And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.

Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

przekład Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. „List miłosny”
w temacie Listy poetyckie

Sleep in the Mojave Desert

Out here there are no hearthstones,
Hot grains, simply. It is dry, dry.
And the air dangerous. Noonday acts queerly
On the mind's eye erecting a line
Of poplars in the middle distance, the only
Object beside the mad, straight road
One can remember men and houses by.
A cool wind should inhabit these leaves
And a dew collect on them, dearer than money,
In the blue hour before sunup.
Yet they recede, untouchable as tomorrow,
Or those glittery fictions of spilt water
That glide ahead of the very thirsty.

I think of the lizards airing their tongues
In the crevice of an extremely small shadow
And the toad guarding his heart's droplet.
The desert is white as a blind man's eye,
Comfortless as salt. Snake and bird
Doze behind the old maskss of fury.
We swelter like firedogs in the wind.
The sun puts its cinder out. Where we lie
The heat-cracked crickets congregate
In their black armorplate and cry.
The day-moon lights up like a sorry mother,
And the crickets come creeping into our hair
To fiddle the short night away.

przekład Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. „Sen na pustyni Mohawe”
w temacie Dla nas śpiewa pustynia...

Z tomu "Winter Trees", 1972


Childless Woman

The womb
Rattles its pod, the moon
Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.

My landscape is a hand with no lines,
The roads bunched to a knot,
The knot myself,

Myself the rose you acheive -
This body,
This ivory

Ungodly as a child's shriek.
Spiderlike, I spin mirrors,
Loyal to my image,

Uttering nothing but blood -
Taste it, dark red!
And my forest

My funeral,
And this hill and this
Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.

przekład Govera pt. "Bezdzietna kobieta"
w temacie Kobiecy portret

The Other

You come in late, wiping your lips.
What did I leave untouched on the doorstep -

White Nike,
Streaming between my walls?

Smilingly, blue lightning
Assumes, like a meathook, the burden of his parts.

The police love you, you confess everything.
Bright hair, shoe-black, old plastic,

Is my life so intriguing?
Is it for this you widen your eye-rings?

Is it for this the air motes depart?
They rae not air motes, they are corpuscles.

Open your handbag. What is that bad smell?
It is your knitting, busily

Hooking itself to itself,
It is your sticky candies.

I have your head on my wall.
Navel cords, blue-red and lucent,

Shriek from my belly like arrows, and these I ride.
O moon-glow, o sick one,

The stolen horses, the fornications
Circle a womb of marble.

Where are you going
That you suck breath like mileage?

Sulfurous adulteries grieve in a dream.
Cold glass, how you insert yourself

Between myself and myself.
I scratch like a cat.

The blood that runs is dark fruit -
An effect, a cosmetic.

You smile.
No, it is not fatal.

przekład Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. „Ta inna”
w temacie Sobowtóry w życiu i fikcji literackiej


The air is a mill of hooks -
Questions without answer,
Glittering and drunk as flies
Whose kiss stings unbearably
In the fetid wombs of black air under pines in summer.

I remember
The dead smell of sun on wood cabins,
The stiffness of sails, the long salt winding sheets.
Once one has seen God, what is the remedy?
Once one has been seized up

Without a part left over,
Not a toe, not a finger, and used,
Used utterly, in the sun’s conflagrations, the stains
That lengthen from ancient cathedrals
What is the remedy?

The pill of the Communion tablet,
The walking beside still water? Memory?
Or picking up the bright pieces
of Christ in the faces of rodents,
The tame flower- nibblers, the ones

Whose hopes are so low they are comfortable -
The humpback in his small, washed cottage
Under the spokes of the clematis.
Is there no great love, only tenderness?
Does the sea

Remember the walker upon it?
Meaning leaks from the molecules.
The chimneys of the city breathe, the window sweats,
The children leap in their cots.
The sun blooms, it is a geranium.

The heart has not stopped.

przekład Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. "Mistyczka"
w temacie W głąb siebie... ("Szaleństwo i geniusz")

Mary's Song

The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat.
The fat
Sacrifices its opacity. . . .

A window, holy gold.
The fire makes it precious,
The same fire

Melting the tallow heretics,
Ousting the Jews.
Their thick palls float

Over the cicatrix of Poland, burnt-out
They do not die.

Grey birds obsess my heart,
Mouth-ash, ash of eye.
They settle. On the high

That emptied one man into space
The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent.

It is a heart,
This holocaust I walk in,
O golden child the world will kill and eat.

przekład Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. "Pieśń Marii"
w temacie Żydzi, judaizm i kultura żydowska w poezji

Inne wiersze Sylvii Plath w tematach:
Poezja i malarstwo, W głąb siebie..., Ruiny - dosłownie i w przenośni, Owady są wszędzie, s. 1, s. 3, Ból, Szpital, Chmury i obłoki w poetyckiej wyobraźni, O rybach
i innych mieszkańcach wód
Ryszard Mierzejewski edytował(a) ten post dnia 02.12.11 o godzinie 06:16
11.07.2008, 10:33

Ryszard Mierzejewski poeta, tłumacz i
krytyk literacki,
wolny ptak

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

Robert Frost (1874-1963) – poeta amerykański, jeden z najwybitniejszych poetów XX wieku. Pochodził z rodziny angielsko-szkockiej, która wyemigrowała do Stanów Zjednoczonych. Rodzina Frosta początkowo osiadła w Nowej Anglii, potem przeniosła się do Kalifornii ze względu na pracę ojca Roberta, który był tam dziennikarzem,
po jego śmierci powróciła do Nowej Anglii. Robert studiował, bez powodzenia, najpierw w Sartmouth, potem na Uniwersytecie Harwarda. Na przeszkodzie do ukończenia studiów stanęły problemy finansowe. Zamieszkał w New Hampshire, gdzie próbował się utrzymać z pracy na roli i nauczycielskiej. Bez powodzenia próbował też wydać drukiem swoje wiersze. W 1912 roku wyjechał do Anglii, gdzie jego poezja została przyjęta z uznaniem. Tam też wydał swoje dwa pierwsze tomiki wierszy: „A Boy’s Will” (1913) i „North of Boston” (1914), który po roku został przedrukowany w Stanach Zjednoczonych , zyskując od razu uznanie krytyki. Tomik ten otworzył mu drogę do błyskotliwej kariery. Otrzymał propozycję objęcia katedry poezji na Uniwersytecie Harvarda i zaczął publikować kolejne tomy poezji: „ Mountain Interval” (1916), „New Hampshire (1923), „West-Running Brook” (1928), „The Lovely Shall Be Chooser” (1929), „Collected Poems” (1930), „The Lone Striker” (1933), “From Snow to Snow” (1936), „A Further Range” (1936), “A Witness Tree” (1942) “Come In, and Other Poems” (1943), “Steeple Bush” (1947), “Hard Not to be King” (1951), “In the Clearing” (1962). Czterokrotnie był laureatem Nagrody Pulitzera w dziedzinie poezji, doktorem honoris causa wielu amerykańskich uczelni, w tym Uniwersytetu Harvarda.
Na inauguracji prezydentury Johna F. Kennedy’ego w 1961 roku czytał swój wiersz „The Gift Outright".
Wiersze jego tłumaczyli na polski m. in. Władysław Dulęba, Leszek Elektorowicz, Stanisław Helsztyński, Aleksandr Janta, Ludmiła Marjańska, Tadeusz Rybowski, Marek Skwarnicki, Michał Sprusiński, Juliusz Żuławski, Stanisław Barańczak. Ukazały się dwa wybory jego poezji: Wiersze. Wybór i opracowanie Leszek Elektorowicz. PIW, Warszawa 1972 i 55 wierszy. Wybór, przekład i opracowanie Stanisław Barańczak. Wyd. Arka, Kraków 1992.

Mending Wall

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and make repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some are so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall
That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”


Mending Wall – recytuje: Eric Copenhaver

Dwa przekłady tego wiersza pt. "Naprawianie muru": Leszka Elektorowicza
w temacie Czynności i zajęcia, poza pisaniem wierszy i Stanisława Barańczaka
w temacie Mury, ściany, granice


When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.
But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay
As ice storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow crust---
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter of fact about the ice storm,
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows---
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father’s trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It’s when I’m weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles from the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
I’d like to get away from Earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.


Birches – recytuje: Eric Copenhaver


Kiedy widzę brzozy, którymi wiatr chwieje
Na tle rzędu ciemnego drzew wyprostowanych,
Pomnę czas, kiedy chłopiec kołysał się na nich,
Choć nie z tego powodu pochyłe zostały,
Lecz przez wichry mroźne, śnieżyce. Nieraz w słońcu
Widzisz, gdy oblodzone, po deszczu w zimowy
Poranek, uderzają o siebie z dzwonieniem,
Gdy wiatr je potrąca i barwami się mienią
Glazurą lśniąc od wichrów i mrozu spękaną.
Wkrótce w słońcu lawiną kryształowe muszle
Zsuną się i rozprysną o skorupę śniegu
Na taki stos dźwięczących lustrzanych okruchów,
Jakby to tynki z niebios świątyni opadły.
Ku paprociom podszycia przeciągnięte ciężarem
Nie łamią się jednak, nachylone tak nisko
I przez czas tak długi, już pochylone zostaną.
Ich pnie w łuki wygięte trafiają się w lesie
Przez wiele lat jeszcze z liśćmi zwieszonymi
Jak u dziewcząt klęczących z pochyloną głową,
Gdy włosy rozpuszczają, by w słońcu obeschły.
Co innego rzec miałem, górę wzięła prawda
I szczegóły o zimnie, śniegach i o mrozie,
Obraz chłopca ja wolę u zgiętej gałęzi,
Kiedy w pole wychodził wyprowadzać krowy.
Z dala mieszkał od miasta, nie znał więc gry w baseball,
Nie miał innych zabawek prócz tego, co znalazł
W polu, latem czy zimą umiał sam się bawić.
Jedno drzewo po drugim u ojca w ogrodzie
Jak wierzchowca ujeżdżał i poddawał harcom,
Dopóki nie ugięły się pod nim, nie zmiękły,
Aż wszystkie już zgarbione kłaniały się nisko
Zdobywcy. Wszystkich zmyślnych nauczył się sztuczek,
By zbyt szybko nie puszczać gałęzi ugiętej
I wierzchołka ku samej nie przychylić ziemi.
Na najwyższe gałęzie ostrożnie się wspinał
I kołysząc się lekko, gdy już był na czubie,
Jeszcze z trudem się wielkim wznosił odrobinę,
Jakby ktoś pragnął szklankę ponad brzeg napełnić.
W dół się z szumem rzucał wisząc na gałęzi
I nogami wierzgając, póki sięgnął ziemi.
I ja sam byłem niegdyś brzozy akrobatą.
Jakże pragnąłbym teraz, by czas ten powrócił,
Gdy umęczony jestem już rozmyślaniami,
A życie zbyt podobne do leśnej gęstwiny,
Gdzie twarz parzą i łechcą lepkie pajęczyny,
A oko twoje przedtem otwarte szeroko
Łzą zaszło teraz, witką smagnięte złośliwą.
Pragnąłbym odejść na czas niedługi z tej ziemi,
Potem wrócić i wszystko zacząć od początku.
Bele mnie los opacznie na złość nie wysłuchał
I spełniając część prośby, nie odciął powrotu.
Sprawiedliwym jest ziemia miłości mieszkaniem:
Nie wiem, gdzie lepsze miejsce można by wynaleźć.
Chciałbym iść coraz wyżej po drzewie brzozowym,
Jego czarnych gałęziach i pniu śnieżnobiałym,
Wciąż iść w niebios kierunku, póki drzewa stanie,
Aż czub się uchyli, by na ziemię mnie zsadzić.
Dobrze byłoby odejść i powrócić znowu.
Nie największe to z przestępstw być brzóz akrobatą.


tłum. Leszek Elektorowicz

Inny przekład, Stanisława Barańczaka,
w temacie: Cóż jest piękniejszego niż (wysokie) drzewa...

Wiersze Roberta Frosta na naszym forum w dalszej części tego wątku, a także
w tematach: A mnie jest szkoda słomianych strzech, Pierzaści bracia mniejsi,
O przemijaniu..., Treny, epitafia i inne wiersze o tematyce żałobnej,
W świecie wróżb, zaklęć i sił tajemnych, Wachlarz smaków, Cisza w poezji,
Blaski i cienie małżeństwa, Zima, Spotkania, Marynistyka, Zwierzęta w ZOO
i nie tylko tam
, Lęk, s, 1, s. 4, Co się poetom śni...? – R. M.
Ryszard Mierzejewski edytował(a) ten post dnia 13.02.10 o godzinie 10:26
17.07.2008, 10:17

konto usunięte

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

John Ashbery (ur. 1927) - jeden z najwybitniejszych współczesnych poetów amerykańskich. Urodził się w Rochester w stanie Nowy Jork, kształcił w Deerfield Academy oraz na uniwersytetach: Harvarda, Columbii i Nowojorskim. W latach 1955-1965 przebywał we Francji, gdzie współpracował z pismami "New York Herald Tribune" oraz "Art International" i współredagował periodyki "Locus Solus" (z Harrym Mathewsem) i "Art and Literature". W latach pięćdziesiątych i sześćdziesiątych był czołowym przedstawicielem nowojorskiej awangardy poetyckiej, która razem z awangardą malarską i muzyczną stanowiła ważny przełom w amerykańskim życiu artystycznym. Opublikował ponad 20 tomów wierszy, ponadto utwory dramatyczne i szkice krytyczno-literackie. Ważniejsze jego tomy poezji to: "Some Trees" (1956), "The Double Dream of Spring" (1970), "Three Poems" (1972), "Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror" (1975), "Houseboat Days" (1977), "As We Know" (1979), "Shadow Train" (1981), "A Wave" (1984), "April Galleons" (1987), "Flow Chart" (1991), "Hotel Lautréamont" (1992), "Wakefulness" (1998), "Your Name Here" (2000), "Chinese Whispers" (2002), Where Shall I Wander" (2005).
Jego wiersze tłumaczyli na polski m. in. Paweł Marcinkiewicz, Stanisław Barańczak, Grzegorz Musiał, Piotr Sommer, Andrzej Sosnowski, Jan Zieliński, Agata Preis-Smith i Bohdan Zadura. Były one publikowane na łamach "Literatury na Świecie" nr 7/1986 i 7-8/2006, w bibliofilskim tomiku "No wiesz" (1993), wydanym przez Fundację Literatury Światowej i Muzeum Papiernictwa w Dusznikach Zdroju, książce Grzegorza Musiała: Ameryka, Ameryka. Antologia poetów amerykańskich po 1940 roku. Wyd. Pomorze, Bydgoszcz 1994, książce Stanisława Barańczaka: Od Whitmana do Boba Dylana. Antologia poezji amerykańskiej. Wyd. Literackie, Kraków 1998, tomiku: Nowy Jork. Wyd. Algo, Toruń 2001 (seria "Liryki najpiękniejsze") oraz antologii Piotra Sommera: O krok od nich. Przekłady z poetów amerykańskich. Biuro Literackie, Wrocław 2006.

This Room

The room I entered was a dream of this room.
Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine.
The oval portrait
of a dog was me at an early age.
Something shimmers, something is hushed up.

We had macaroni for lunch every day
except Sunday, when a small quail was induced
to be served to us. Why do I tell you these things?
You are not even here.

przekład Pawła Marcinkiewicza pt. "Ten pokój"
w temacie Fantomy wyobraźni

What is Poetry

The medieval town, with frieze
Of boy scouts from Nagoya? The snow

That came when we wanted it to snow?
Beautiful images? Trying to avoid

Ideas, as in this poem? But we
Go back to them as to a wife, leaving

The mistress we desire? Now they
Will have to believe it

As we believed it. In school
All the thought got combed out:

What was left was like a field.
Shut your eyes, and you can feel it for miles around.

Now open them on a thin vertical path.
It might give us--what?--some flowers soon?

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Czym jest poezja"
w temacie Czym jest wiersz?

Paradoxes and Oxymorons

This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level.
Look at it talking to you. You look out a window
Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don't have it.
You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other.

This poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot.
What's a plain level? It is that and other things,
Bringing a system of them into play. Play?
Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be

A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern,
As in the division of grace these long August days
Without proof. Open-ended. And before you know
It gets lost in the steam and chatter of typewriters.

It has been played once more. I think you exist only
To tease me into doing it, on your level, and then you aren't there.
Or have adopted a different attitude. And the poem
Has set me softely down beside you. The poem is you.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Paradoksy i oksymorony"
w temacie Czym jest wiersz?

Life as a Book That Has Been Put Down

We have erased each letter
And the statement still remains vaguely,
Like an inscription over the door of a bank
With hard-to-figure-out Roman numerals
That say perhaps too much, in their way.

Weren't we being surrealists? And why
Did strangers at the bar analyze your hair
And fingernails, as though the body
Wouldn't seek and find that most comfortable position,
And your head, that strange thing,
Become more problematic each time the door was shut?

We have talked to each other,
Taken each thing only just so far,
But in the right order, so it is music,
Or something close to music, telling from afar.
We have only some knowledge,
And more than the required ambition
To shape it into a fruit made of cloud
That will protect us until it goes away.

But the juice there of is bitter,
We have not such in our gardens,
And you should go up into knowledge
With this careless sarcasm and be told there
For once, it is not here.
Only the smoke stays,
And silence, and old age
That we have come to construe as a landscape
Somehow, and the peace that breaks all records,
And singing in the land, delight
That will be and does not know us.

przekład Piotra Sommera pt. "Życie jako książka, którą ktoś
odłożył" w temacie "Okrutną zagadką jest życie"...

Inne wiersze Johna Ashbery'ego w tematach:
Autoportret w lustrze wiersza, s. 1, s. 6, Ameryka wczoraj i dziś , O przemijaniu..., Szczęście, Cóż jest piękniejszego niż (wysokie) drzewa..., Anarchia, chaos, bezład...,
W głąb siebie... ("Szaleństwo i geniusz"), Sobowtóry w życiu i fikcji literackiej, Samobójstwo w wierszach..., Pożegnania, ostatnie słowa..., Między dobrem a złem, Apokalipsa i eschatologia (motyw końca świata i sądu ostatecznego w poezji)
Krzysztof Adamczyk edytował(a) ten post dnia 01.04.13 o godzinie 08:19
28.07.2008, 00:18

Ryszard Mierzejewski poeta, tłumacz i
krytyk literacki,
wolny ptak

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

Thomas Hardy (1840 – 1928) – angielski pisarz i poeta piszący w konwencji naturalizmu, autor m. in. powieści: „Far from the Madding Crowd” (Z dala od zgiełku, 1784), „Tess of the d'Urbervilles” (Tessa d'Urberville, 1891), „Jude the Obscure” (Juda nieznany, 1985). Utwory poetyckie zaczął publikować dopiero w 58 roku swego życia. Wtedy też całkowicie zarzucił twórczość prozatorską i poświęcił się wyłącznie poezji. W latach 1998-1928 wydał osiem tomów wierszy, które zaliczane są dzisiaj do klasyki poezji światowej. Po polsku ukazały się dwa wybory jego wierszy: Poezje wybrane. Wybrał, przełożył i wstępem opatrzył Zygmunt Kubiak. PIW, Warszawa 1989 i 55 wierszy. Wybór, przekład, wstęp i opracowanie Stanisław Barańczak. Wydawnictwo "Znak", Kraków 1993.

Neutral Tones

We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod;
– They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.

Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles of years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro
On which lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing….

Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.


przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Neutralne odcienie"
w temacie Schyłek miłości...

A Broken Appointment

You did not come,
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb,—
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness’ sake
Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come.

You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty;
–I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,
Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: Once you, a woman, came
To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be
You love not me?

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Niedoszłe spotkanie"
w temacie Schyłek miłości...

Nature’s Questioning

When I look forth at dawning, pool,
Field, flock, and lonely tree,
All seem to look at me
Like chastened children sitting silent in a school;

Their faces dulled, constrained, and worn,
As though the master's ways
Through the long teaching days
Their first terrestrial zest had chilled and overborne.

And on them stirs, in lippings mere
(As if once clear in call,
But now scarce breathed at all)--
"We wonder, ever wonder, why we find us here!

"Has some Vast Imbecility,
Mighty to build and blend,
But impotent to tend,
Framed us in jest, and left us now to hazardry?

"Or come we of an Automaton
Unconscious of our pains?...
Or are we live remains
Of Godhead dying downwards, brain and eye now gone?

"Or is it that some high Plan betides,
As yet not understood,
Of Evil stormed by Good,
We the Forlorn Hope over which Achievement strides?"

Thus things around. No answerer I....
Meanwhile the winds, and rains,
And Earth's old glooms and pains
Are still the same, and gladdest Life Death neighbors nigh.

przekład Zygmunta Kubiaka pt. „Pytania Natury”
w temacie W harmonii z przyrodą


Portion of this yew
Is a man my grandsire knew
Bosomed here at its foot;
This branch may be his wife
A ruddy human life
Now turned to a green shoot.

These grasses must be made
Of her who often prayed,
Last century, for repose;
And the fair girl long ago
Whom I often tried to know
May be entering this rose.

So, they are not underground,
But as veins and nerves abound
In the growths of upper air,
And they feel the sun and rain,
And the energy again,
That made them what they were.

przekład Zygmunta Kubiaka pt. „Przemiany”
w temacie Metamorfozy

To Meet, Or Otherwise

Whether to sally and see thee, girl of my dreams,
Or whether to stay
And see thee not! How vast the difference seems
Of Yea from Nay
Just now. Yet this same sun will slant its beams
At no far day
On our two mounds, and then what will the difference weigh!

Yet I will see thee, maiden dear, and make
The most I can
Of what remains to us amid this brake Cimmerian
Through which we grope, and from whose thorns we ache,
While still we scan
Round our frail faltering progress for some path or plan.

By briefest meeting something sure is won;
It will have been:
Nor God nor Daemon can undo the done,
Unsight the seen,
Make muted music be as unbegun,
Though things terrene
Groan in their bondage till oblivion supervene.

So, to the one long-sweeping symphony
From times remote
Till now, of human tenderness, shall we
Supply one note,
Small and untraced, yet that will ever be
Somewhere afloat
Amid the spheres, as part of sick Life's antidote.

przekład Zygmunta Kubiaka pt. "Spotkać się czy nie"
w temacie Spotkania

I Found Her Out There

I found her out there
On a slope few see,
That falls westwardly
To the salt-edged air,
Where the ocean breaks
On the purple strand,
And the hurricane shakes
The solid land.

I brought her here,
And have laid her to rest
In a noiseless nest
No sea beats near.
She will never be stirred
In her loamy cell
By the waves long heard
And loved so well.

So she does not sleep
By those haunted heights
The Atlantic smites
And the blind gales sweep,
Whence she often would gaze
At Dundagel's far head,
While the dipping blaze
Dyed her face fire-red;

And would sigh at the tale
Of sunk Lyonnesse,
As a wind-tugged tress
Flapped her cheek like a flail;
Or listen at whiles
With a thought-bound brow
To the murmuring miles
She is far from now.

Yet her shade, maybe,
Will creep underground
Till it catch the sound
Of that western sea
As it swells and sobs
Where she once domiciled,
And joy in its throbs
With the heart of a child.

przekład Julisza Żuławskiego pt. "Tam ją napotkałem..."
w temacie Spotkania

Inne wiersze Thomasa Hardy'ego w tematach:
Kobiety ich życia i twórczości, W głąb siebie... ("Szaleństwo i geniusz"), Urodziny, imieniny i inne ważne dni, na okoliczność których piszemy wiersze , Samotność, Pierzaści bracia mniejsi, Poezja i muzyka, Rozstania/Poezja kolei żelaznych, Motyw twarzy, Kobiecy portret, Głosy i dźwięki, szepty i krzyki, Cmentarze, Dlaczego zabijamy? Gwiazdy, planety, kosmos w poezji, Spacery poetów, Muzea i galerie, Boże Narodzenie w poezji, Drzwi, W wynajętych pokojach/Los i przeznaczenie, W poetyckim terrarium, Milczenie, Przysiądź z poetą na ławceRyszard Mierzejewski edytował(a) ten post dnia 16.11.11 o godzinie 09:14
18.08.2008, 11:43

konto usunięte

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

John Berryman (1914 –1972) – poeta amerykański, jeden z czołowych przedstawicieli tzw. nurtu konfesyjnego. Wydał 10 tomów poezji, m. in. „The Dispossessed” (Wysiedleni, 1948), „77 Dream Songs” (77 Piosenek snu, 1964), „His Toy, His Dream His Rest: 308 Dreams Songs” (Jego zabawka, jego sen, jego wytchnienie: 308 piosenek snu, 1969), „Love and Fame” (Miłość i sława, 1970). Cierpiący przez wiele lat na depresję i stany lękowe, co znalazło odbicie w Jego twórczości, popełnił samobójstwo w wieku 58 lat.

The Traveller

They pointed me out on the highway, and they said
‘That man has a curious way of holding his head.’

They pointed me out on the beach; they said ‘That man
Will never become as we are, try as he can.’

They pointed me out at the station, and the guard
Looked at me twice, thrice, thoughtfully & hard.

I took the same train that the others took,
To the same place. Were it not for that look
And those words, we were all of us the same.
I studied merely maps. I tried to name
The effects of motion on the travellers,
I watched the couple I could see, the curse
And blessings of that couple, their destination,
The deception practised on them at the station,
Their courage. When the train stopped and they knew
The end of their journey, I descended too.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Podróżnik"
w temacie Wędrówką życie jest człowieka

The Ball Poem

What is the boy now, who has lost his ball,
What, what is he to do? I saw it go
Merrily bouncing, down the street, and then
Merrily over—there it is in the water!
No use to say 'O there are other balls':
An ultimate shaking grief fixes the boy
As he stands rigid, trembling, staring down
All his young days into the harbour where
His ball went. I would not intrude on him,
A dime, another ball, is worthless. Now
He senses first responsibility
In a world of possessions. People will take balls,
Balls will be lost always, little boy,
And no one buys a ball back. Money is external.
He is learning, well behind his desperate eyes,
The epistemology of loss, how to stand up
Knowing what every man must one day know
And most know many days, how to stand up
And gradually light returns to the street
A whistle blows, the ball is out of sight,
Soon part of me will explore the deep and dark
Floor of the harbour . . I am everywhere,
I suffer and move, my mind and my heart move
With all that move me, under the water
Or whistling, I am not a little boy.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Wiersz o piłce"
w temacie Między zyskiem a stratą

Dream Song 4

Filling her compact & delicious body
with chicken paprika, she glanced at me
Fainting with interest, I hungered back
and only the fact that her husband & four other people
kept me from springing on her

or falling at her little feet and crying
"You are the hottest one for years of night
Henry's dazed eyes
have enjoyed, Brilliance." I advanced upon
(despairing) my spumoni. -- Sir Bones: is stuffed,
de world, wif feeding girls. --
Black hair, complexion Latin, jewelled eyes
downcast... The slob beside her feasts... What wonders is
she sitting on, over there?
The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars.
Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Henry.
--Mr. Bones: there is.

przekład Piotra Sommera pt. "Piosenka snu 4 [Napychając to jędrne
i wyborne ciało...]" w temacie Pożądanie, fantazje erotyczne

Dream Song 28: Snow Line

It was wet & white & swift and where I am
we don't know. It was dark and then
it isn't.
I wish the barker would come. There seems to be eat
nothing. I am usually tired.
I'm alone too.

If only the strange one with so few legs would come,
I'd say my prayers out of my mouth, as usual.
Where are his note I loved?
There may be horribles; it's hard to tell.
The barker nips me but somehow I feel
he too is on my side.

I'm too alone. I see no end. If we could all
run, even that would be better. I am hungry.
The sun is not hot.
It's not a good position I am in.
If I had to do the whole thing over again
I wouldn't.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Piosenka snu 28:
Linia śniegu" w temacie Co się poetom śni...?

1 September 1939

The first scattering rain on the Polish cities.
That afternoon a man squat' on the shore
Tearing a square of shining cellophane.
Some easily, some in evident torment tore,
Some for a time resisted, and then burst.
All this depended on fidelity.
One was blown out and borne off by the waters,
The man was tortured by the sound ol rain.

Children were sent from London in the morning
But not the sound of children reached his ear.
He found a mangled leather by the lake,
Lost in the destructive sand this year
Like feathery independence, hope. His shadow
Lay on the sand before him, under the lake
As under the ruined library our learning.
The children play in the waves until they break.

The Bear crept under the Eagle's wing and lay
Snarling; the other animals showed fear,
Europe darkened its cities. The man wept.
Considering the light which had been there,
The leathered gull against the twilight flying.
As the little waves ate away the shore
The cellophane, dismembered, blew away.
The animals ran, the Kagle soared and dropt.

przekład Grzegorza Musiała pt. "1 września 1939 roku"
w temacie Wiersze jak kartki z pamiętnika

Of suicide

Reflexions on suicide, & on my father, possess me.
I drink too much. My wife threatens separation.
She won't 'nurse' me. She feels 'inadequate'.
We don't mix together.

It's an hour later in the East.
I could call up mother in Washington, D.C.
But could she help me?
And all this postal adulation &

A basis rock-like of love & friendship
for all this world-wide madness seems to be needed.
Epictetus is in some ways my favourite philosopher.
Happy men have died earlier.

I still plan to go to Mexico this summer.
The Olmec images! Chichén Itzá!
D. H. Lawrence has a wild dream of it.
Malcolm Lowry's book when it came out I taught to my precept at

I don't entirely resign. I may teach the Third Gospel
this afternoon. I haven't made up my mind.
It seems to me sometimes that others have easier jobs
& do them worse.

Well, we must labour & dream. Gogol was impotent,
somebody in Pittsburgh told me.
I said: At what age? They couldn't answer.
That is a damned serious matter.

Rembrandt was sober. There we differ. Sober.
Terrors came on him. To us too they come.
Of suicide I continually think.
Apparently he didn't. I'll teach Luke.

przekład Piotra Sommera pt. "O samobójstwie"
w temacie Samobójstwo w wierszach...


It seems to be DARK all the time.
I have difficulty walking.
I can remember what to say to my seminar
but I don't know that I want to.

I said in a Song once: I am unusually tired.
I repeat that & increase it.
I'm vomiting.
I broke down today in the slow movement of K. 365.

I certainly don't think I'll last much longer.
I wrote: 'There may be horribles.'
I increase that.
(I think she took her little breasts away.)

I am in love with my excellent baby.
Crackles! in darkness HOPE & disappears.
Lost arts.

Walt! We're downstairs.
Even you don't comfort me
but I join your risk my dear friend & go with you.
There are no matches

Utter, His Father, one word

przekład Piotra Sommera pt. "Rozpacz"
w temacie Łzy, płacz, rozpacz...

He resigns

Age, and the deaths, and the ghosts.
Her having gone away
in spirit from me. Hosts
of regrets come and find me empty.

I don’t feel this will change.
I don’t want anything
or person, familiar or strange.
I don’t think I will sing

anymore just now,
or ever. I must start
to sit with a blind brow
above an empty heart.

przekład Piotra Sommera pt. "On się poddaje"
w temacie W nigdzie nic..., czyli o pustce w poezji

Inne wiersze Johna Berrymana w tematach: Nililizm (papierosy i wódka, zło i brzydota), W głąb siebie... („Szaleństwo i geniusz”), Ból, Nudzę się, nudzę piekielnie..., Buddyzm
i kultura Dalekiego Wschodu
, Nauczyciele - w szkole i w życiu, Być poetą..., Między sacrum a profanum..., Miłości sprzed lat, Pożądanie, fantazje erotyczne, S. O. S. dla naszej planety..., Świat chwiejnych cieni
Krzysztof Adamczyk edytował(a) ten post dnia 19.05.11 o godzinie 07:33
30.08.2008, 21:22

Ryszard Mierzejewski poeta, tłumacz i
krytyk literacki,
wolny ptak

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

Robert Lowell (1917 – 1977) – jeden z najbardziej wpływowych poetów amerykańskich XX wieku, zaliczany do tzw. poetów konfesyjnych, znany również ze swoich poglądów
i działań pacyfistycznych, za które w czasie II wojny światowej trafił nawet do więzienia. Pochodził z jednej z najstarszych i szanowanych rodzin w Bostonie, do której należała też znana poetka Amy Lowell. Po ukończeniu szkoły prywatnej studiował na Uniwersytecie Harwarda, ale szybko przeniósł się Kenyon College w w Gambier w stanie Ohio, gdzie studiował pod kierunkiem wybitnego krytyka literackiego Johna Crowe Ransoma.
Przez wiele lat cierpiał na depresję i inne zaburzenia psychiczne, tego powodu był wielokrotnie hospitalizowany. Trzykrotnie żonaty z pisarkami Jean Stafford, Elizabeth Hardwick i Caroline Blackwood. Zmarł nagle, na atak serca, w nowojorskiej taksówce,
w wieku 60 lat. Autor tomów poezji: "Land of Unlikeness" (1944), "Lord Weary's Castle" (1946, Nagroda Pulitzera w dziedzinie poezji), "The Mills of The Kavanaughs" (1951), "Life Studies" (1959), "Phaedra (1961), "For the Union Dead" (1964), "The Old Glory" (1965), "Near the Ocean" (1967), "The Voyage & other versions of poems of Baudelaire" (1969), "Prometheus Bound" (1969), "Notebooks 1967-1968" (1969, "For Lizzie and Harriet" (1973), "History" (1973), "The Dolphin" (1973, Nagroda Pulitzera w dziedzinie poezji), "Selected Poems" (1976), "Day by Day" (1977), "Last Poems" (1977).
Po polsku ukazały się: Wiersze. Wybór, wstęp i przekład A. Słomianowski. PIW, Warszawa 1973; Chwała sztandaru. Tryptyk sceniczny. przeł. J. Żuławski. Wydawnictwo Literackie, Kraków 1974; Poezje. Wybór i posłowie B. Taborski, przeł. St. Barańczak, P. Sommer, M. Sprusiński, B. Taborski. Wydawnictwo Literackie, Kraków 1986.

The Quaker Graveyard in Nantucket

For Warren Winslow, Dead At Sea

Let man have dominion over the fishes of the sea and
the fowls of the air and the beasts and the whole earth,
and every creeping creature that moveth upon the earth.


A brackish reach of shoal off Madaket--
The sea was still breaking violently and night
Had steamed into our North Atlantic Fleet,
When the drowned sailor clutched the drag-net. Light
Flashed from his matted head and marble feet,
He grappled at the net
With the coiled, hurdling muscles of his thighs:
The corpse was bloodless, a botch of reds and whites,
Its open, staring eyes
Were lustreless dead-lights
Or cabin-windows on a stranded hulk
Heavy with sand. We weight the body, close
Its eyes and heave it seaward whence it came,
Where the heel-headed dogfish barks it nose
On Ahab's void and forehead; and the name
Is blocked in yellow chalk.
Sailors, who pitch this portent at the sea
Where dreadnaughts shall confess
Its heel-bent deity,
When you are powerless
To sand-bag this Atlantic bulwark, faced
By the earth-shaker, green, unwearied, chaste
In his steel scales: ask for no Orphean lute
To pluck life back. The guns of the steeled fleet
Recoil and then repeat
The hoarse salute.


Whenever winds are moving and their breath
Heaves at the roped-in bulwarks of this pier,
The terns and sea-gulls tremble at your death
In these home waters. Sailor, can you hear
The Pequod's sea wings, beating landward, fall
Headlong and break on our Atlantic wall
Off 'Sconset, where the yawing S-boats splash
The bellbuoy, with ballooning spinnakers,
As the entangled, screeching mainsheet clears
The blocks: off Madaket, where lubbers lash
The heavy surf and throw their long lead squids
For blue-fish? Sea-gulls blink their heavy lids
Seaward. The winds' wings beat upon the stones,
Cousin, and scream for you and the claws rush
At the sea's throat and wring it in the slush
Of this old Quaker graveyard where the bones
Cry out in the long night for the hurt beast
Bobbing by Ahab's whaleboats in the East.


All you recovered from Poseidon died
With you, my cousin, and the harrowed brine
Is fruitless on the blue beard of the god,
Stretching beyond us to the castles in Spain,
Nantucket's westward haven. To Cape Cod
Guns, cradled on the tide,
Blast the eelgrass about a waterclock
Of bilge and backwash, roil the salt and sand
Lashing earth's scaffold, rock
Our warships in the hand
Of the great God, where time's contrition blues
Whatever it was these Quaker sailors lost
In the mad scramble of their lives. They died
When time was open-eyed,
Wooden and childish; only bones abide
There, in the nowhere, where their boats were tossed
Sky-high, where mariners had fabled news
Of IS, the whited monster. What it cost
Them is their secret. In the sperm-whale's slick
I see the Quakers drown and hear their cry:
"If God himself had not been on our side,
If God himself had not been on our side,
When the Atlantic rose against us, why,
Then it had swallowed us up quick."


This is the end of the whaleroad and the whale
Who spewed Nantucket bones on the thrashed swell
And stirred the troubled waters to whirlpools
To send the Pequod packing off to hell:
This is the end of them, three-quarters fools,
Snatching at straws to sail
Seaward and seaward on the turntail whale,
Spouting out blood and water as it rolls,
Sick as a dog to these Atlantic shoals:
Clamavimus, O depths. Let the sea-gulls wail

For water, for the deep where the high tide
Mutters to its hurt self, mutters and ebbs.
Waves wallow in their wash, go out and out,
Leave only the death-rattle of the crabs,
The beach increasing, its enormous snout
Sucking the ocean's side.
This is the end of running on the waves;
We are poured out like water. Who will dance
The mast-lashed master of Leviathans
Up from this field of Quakers in their unstoned graves?


When the whale's viscera go and the roll
Of its corruption overruns this world
Beyond tree-swept Nantucket and Wood's Hole
And Martha's Vineyard, Sailor, will your sword
Whistle and fall and sink into the fat?
In the great ash-pit of Jehoshaphat
The bones cry for the blood of the white whale,
The fat flukes arch and whack about its ears,
The death-lance churns into the sanctuary, tears
The gun-blue swingle, heaving like a flail,
And hacks the coiling life out: it works and drags
And rips the sperm-whale's midriff into rags,
Gobbets of blubber spill to wind and weather,
Sailor, and gulls go round the stoven timbers
Where the morning stars sing out together
And thunder shakes the white surf and dismembers
The red flag hammered in the mast-head. Hide,
Our steel, Jonas Messias, in Thy side.



There once the penitents took off their shoes
And then walked barefoot the remaining mile;
And the small trees, a stream and hedgerows file
Slowly along the munching English lane,
Like cows to the old shrine, until you lose
Track of your dragging pain.
The stream flows down under the druid tree,
Shiloah's whirlpools gurgle and make glad
The castle of God. Sailor, you were glad
And whistled Sion by that stream. But see:

Our Lady, too small for her canopy,
Sits near the altar. There's no comeliness
at all or charm in that expressionless
Face with its heavy eyelids. As before,
This face, for centuries a memory,
Non est species, neque decor,
Expressionless, expresses God: it goes
Past castled Sion. She knows what God knows,
Not Calvary's Cross nor crib at Bethlehem
Now, and the world shall come to Walsingham.


The empty winds are creaking and the oak
splatters and splatters on the cenotaph,
The boughs are trembling and a gaff
Bobs on the untimely stroke
Of the greased wash exploding on a shoal-bell
In the old mouth of the Atlantic. It's well;
Atlantic, you are fouled with the blue sailors,
sea-monsters, upward angel, downward fish:
Unmarried and corroding, spare of flesh
Mart once of supercilious, wing'd clippers,
Atlantic, where your bell-trap guts its spoil
You could cut the brackish winds with a knife
Here in Nantucket, and cast up the time
When the Lord God formed man from the sea's slime
And breathed into his face the breath of life,
And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.
The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.

z tomu "Lord Weary's Castle", 1946

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Cmentarz kwakierski
w Nantucket" w temacie Marynistyka

„To Speak of the Woe that Is in Marriage”

„It is the future generation that presses
into being by means of these exuberant feelings
and supersensible soap bubbles of ours.”


„The hot night makes us keep our bedroom windows open.
Our magnolia blossoms. Life begins to happen.
My hopped up husband drops his home disputes,
and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes,
free-lancing out along the razor's edge.
This screwball might kill his wife, then take the pledge.
Oh the monotonous meanness of his lust. . .
It's the injustice . . . he is so unjust--
whiskey-blind, swaggering home at five.
My only thought is how to keep alive.
What makes him tick? Each night now I tie
ten dollars and his car key to my thigh. . . .
Gored by the climacteric of his want,
he stalls above me like an elephant.”

z tomu "The Mills of the Kavanaughs", 1951

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Mówić o tej niedoli,
jaką jest małżeństwo" w temacie Blaski i cienie małżeństwa

Man and Wife

Tamed by Miltown, we lie on Mother's bed;
the rising sun in war paint dyes us red;
in broad daylight her gilded bed-posts shine,
abandoned, almost Dionysian.
At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street,
blossoms on our magnolia ignite
the morning with their murderous five day's white.
All night I've held your hand,
as if you had
a fourth time faced the kingdom of the mad -
its hackneyed speech, its homicidal eye -
and dragged me home alive. . . . Oh my Petite,
clearest of all God's creatures, still all air and nerve:
you were in your twenties, and I,
once hand on glass
and heart in mouth,
outdrank the Rahvs in the heat
of Greenwich Village, fainting at your feet -
too boiled and shy
and poker-faced to make a pass,
while the shrill verve
of your invective scorched the traditional South.

Now twelve years later, you turn your back.
Sleepless, you hold
your pillow to your hollows like a child,
your old-fashioned tirade -
loving, rapid, merciless -
breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head.

z tomu "The Mills of the Kavanaughs", 1951

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Mąż i żona"
w temacie Blaski i cienie małżeństwa

Skunk Hour

for Elizabeth Bishop

Nautilus Island's hermit
heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage;
her sheep still graze above the sea.
Her son's a bishop. Her farmer is first selectman in our village;
she's in her dotage.

Thirsting for
the hierarchic privacy
of Queen Victoria's century
she buys up all
the eyesores facing her shore,
and lets them fall.

The season's ill--
we've lost our summer millionaire,
who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean
catalogue. His nine-knot yawl
was auctioned off to lobstermen.
A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.

And now our fairy
decorator brightens his shop for fall;
his fishnet's filled with orange cork,
orange, his cobbler's bench and awl;
there is no money in his work,
he'd rather marry.

One dark night,
my Tudor Ford climbed the hill's skull;
I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down,
they lay together, hull to hull,
where the graveyard shelves on the town....
My mind's not right.

A car radio bleats,
"Love, O careless Love...." I hear
my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell,
as if my hand were at its throat...
I myself am hell;
nobody's here--

only skunks, that search
in the moonlight for a bite to eat.
They march on their solves up Main Street:
white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire
under the chalk-dry and spar spire
of the Trinitarian Church.

I stand on top
of our back steps and breathe the rich air--
a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail.
She jabs her wedge-head in a cup
of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail,
and will not scare.

z tomu "The Mills of the Kavanaughs", 1951

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Godzina skunksów"
w temacie Poeci poetom


History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had--
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
Abel was finished; death is not remote,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire,
his baby crying all night like a new machine.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the beautiful, mist-drunken hunter's moon ascends--
a child could give it a face: two holes, two holes,
my eyes, my mouth, between them a skull's no-nose--
O there's a terrifying innocence in my face
drenched with the silver salvage of the mornfrost.

z tomu "History", 1973

przekład Bolesława Taborskiego pt. "Historia"
w temacie Wędrówki po śladach historii

Inne wiersze Roberta Lowella w tematach: Poeci poetom, Samobójstwo w wierszach...,
W świecie wróżb, zaklęć i sił tajemnych, Dom, Motyw ojca, "Niebo jest u stóp matki", "Okrutną zagadką jest życie"..., Szpital, Szukanie lata, Owady są wszędzie..., Wiersz
na taki dzień, jak dzisiaj
, W poetyckim terrarium, Starość / Przodkowie - bliżsi i dalsi, Świat chwiejnych cieni, W głąb siebie... ("Szaleństwo i geniusz")/Sobowtóry w życiu
i fikcji literackiej
Ryszard Mierzejewski edytował(a) ten post dnia 21.07.11 o godzinie 16:16
30.08.2008, 21:50

Ryszard Mierzejewski poeta, tłumacz i
krytyk literacki,
wolny ptak

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

David Glimour

Learning to Fly

Into the distance, a ribbon of black
Stretched to the point of no turning back
A flight of fancy on a windswept field
Standing alone my senses reeled
A fatal attraction holding me fast, how
Can I escape this irresistible grasp?

Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted Just an earth-bound misfit, I

Ice is forming on the tips of my wings
Unheeded warnings, I thought I thought of everything
No navigator to guide my way home
Unladened, empty and turned to stone

A soul in tension that's learning to fly
Condition grounded but determined to try
Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I

Above the planet on a wing and a prayer,
My grubby halo, a vapour trail in the empty air,
Across the clouds I see my shadow fly
Out of the corner of my watering eye
A dream unthreatened by the morning light
Could blow this soul right through the roof of the night

There's no sensation to compare with this
Suspended animation, A state of bliss
Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies
Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I

Polski przekład tej piosenki zespołu „Pink Floyd”, pochodzący z albumu
„A Momentary Lapse of Reason” (1987), wraz z linkiem dźwiękowym
znajduje się w temacie Lot nasz podniebny... – R. M.
Ryszard Mierzejewski edytował(a) ten post dnia 15.05.10 o godzinie 08:47
16.09.2008, 22:24

konto usunięte

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

Elizabeth Bishop (1911 – 1979) – amerykańska poetka, pisarka i tłumaczka,
w ostatnich latach uważana za jedną z najwybitniejszych autorek literatury anglojęzycznej w XX wieku. Laureatka nagrody Pulitzera oraz wielu innych prestiżowych nagród literackich, m. in. amerykańskiej National Book Award.
W swoim życiu wiele podróżowała, mieszkała m. in. we Francji, Meksyku i Brazylii. Pisała również książki dla dzieci i zajmowała się malarstwem. W Polsce znana
głównie z przekładów Ludmiły Marjańskiej i Stanisława Barańczaka.


For a Child of 1918

My grandfather said to me
as we sat on the wagon seat,
"Be sure to remember to always
speak to everyone you meet."

We met a stranger on foot.
My grandfather's whip tapped his hat.
"Good day, sir. Good day. A fine day."
And I said it and bowed where I sat.

Then we overtook a boy we knew
with his big pet crow on his shoulder.
"Always offer everyone a ride;
don't forget that when you get older,"

my grandfather said. So Willy
climbed up with us, but the crow
gave a "Caw!" and flew off. I was worried.
How would he know where to go?

But he flew a little way at a time
from fence post to fence post, ahead;
and when Willy whistled he answered.
"A fine bird," my grandfather said,

"and he's well brought up. See, he answers
nicely when he's spoken to.
Man or beast, that's good manners.
Be sure that you both always do."

When automobiles went by,
the dust hid the people's faces,
but we shouted "Good day! Good day!
Fine day!" at the top of our voices.

When we came to Hustler Hill,
he said that the mare was tired,
so we all got down and walked,
as our good manners required.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Maniery"
w temacie Powozy, bryczki, dorożki

The Map

Land lies in water; it is shadowed green.
Shadows, or are they shallows, at its edges
showing the line of long sea-weeded ledges
where weeds hang to the simple blue from green.
Or does the land lean down to lift the sea from under,
drawing it unperturbed around itself?
Along the fine tan sandy shelf
is the land tugging at the sea from under?

The shadow of Newfoundland lies flat and still.
Labrador's yellow, where the moony Eskimo
has oiled it. We can stroke these lovely bays,
under a glass as if they were expected to blossom,
or as if to provide a clean cage for invisible fish.
The names of seashore towns run out to sea,
the names of cities cross the neighboring mountains
-the printer here experiencing the same excitement
as when emotion too far exceeds its cause.
These peninsulas take the water between thumb and finger
like women feeling for the smoothness of yard-goods.

Mapped waters are more quiet than the land is,
lending the land their waves' own conformation:
and Norway's hare runs south in agitation,
profiles investigate the sea, where land is.
Are they assigned, or can the countries pick their colors?
-What suits the character or the native waters best.
Topography displays no favorites; North's as near as West.
More delicate than the historians' are the map-makers' colors.


przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Mapa"
w temacie Lekcja geografii: mapy, atlasy, globusy w poezji

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Ta jedna sztuka"
w temacie Między zyskiem a stratą

Inne wiersze Elizabeth Bishop w tematach: Poeci poetom, Poetycka garderoba..., Listy poetyckie, Noce bezsenne..., Portret (super) męski, Co się poetom śni...?, Potrawy i napoje/Wiersze na przebudzenie, Homo automobilus, czyli jadę samochodem..., Powozy, bryczki, dorożki, Na miejskich ulicach i w dalszej części tego tematu - M. K.Marta K. edytował(a) ten post dnia 12.06.10 o godzinie 18:38
1.10.2008, 14:04

Ryszard Mierzejewski poeta, tłumacz i
krytyk literacki,
wolny ptak

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

Ezra Pound (1885 –1972) – amerykański poeta, tłumacz i krytyk literacki, twórca imagizmu – kierunku w poezji anglosaskiej, niezwykle popularnego w pierwszym dwudziestoleciu XX w., który akcentował rolę jasnego i dokładnego w detalach, opartego na metaforze, obrazu poetyckiego. Imaginiści przeciwstawiali się zarówno tradycyjnej poetyce romantycznej, jak
i współczesnym kierunkom awangardy artystycznej, często czerpali inspiracje z poezji dalekowschodniej (chińskiej i japońskiej).
Pound większość swego życia spędził w Europie, m. in. w Anglii, gdzie był osobistym sekretarzem Thomasa S. Eliota oraz we Włoszech. Od lat 20-tych pozostawał pod urokiem Mussoliniego i głosił poglądy antysemickie, za co został aresztowany przez wojska amerykańskie po ich wkroczeniu do Włoch w 1945 r., oskarżony o kolaborację i osadzony w obozie jenieckim
w Genui. Uznany za psychicznie chorego, po 25 dniach został uwolniony i skierowany na leczenie do Stanów Zjednoczonych. W 1958 roku powrócił do Włoch, gdzie mieszkał aż do śmierci. W 1967 roku w jednym z wywiadów prasowych odciął się od wyznawanego wcześniej światopoglądu antysemickiego.
Utwory poetyckie Ezry Pounda tłumaczyli na polski m. in.: Jerzy Niemojowski, Krzysztof Boczkowski, Andrzej Sosnowski, Kuba Kozioł, Andrzej Szuba, Borys Awdiejew, Michał Popławski, Stanisław Barańczak i Leszek Engelking. Ważniejsze publikacje w języku polskim: Poezje wybrane. Przeł. Leszek Engelking. LSW, Warszawa 1989; Pieśni. Przeł. Leszek Engelking, Kuba Kozioł, Andrzej Szuba i Andrzej Sosnowski. PIW, Warszawa 1996; Liryki najpiękniejsze. Przeł. Leszek Engelking, Jerzy Niemojowski. Algo, Toruń 2000; Wiersze, poematy i pieśni. Przeł. Leszek Engelking. Biuro Literackie, Wrocław 2012.

The Tree

I stood still and was a tree amid the wood,
Knowing the truth of things unseen before;
Of Daphne and the laurel bow
And that god-feasting couple old
that grew elm-oak amid the wold.
Twas not until the gods had been
Kindly entreated, and been brought within
Unto the hearth of their heart's home
That they might do this wonder thing;
Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood
And many a new thing understood
That was rank folly to my head before

przekład Leszka Engelkinga pt. „Drzewo”
w temacie Metamorfozy

Paracelsus in excelsis

„Being no longer human, why should I
Pretend humanity or don the frail attire?
Men have I known and men, but never one
Was grown so free an essence, or become
So simply element as what I am.
The mist goes from the mirror and I see.
Behold! the world of forms is swept beneath-
Turmoil grown visible beneath our peace,
And we that are grown formless, rise above-
Fluids intangible that have been men,
We seem as statues round whose high-risen base
Some overflowing river is run mad,
In us alone the element of calm.”

przekład Leszka Engelkinga pt. „Paracelsus in excelsis”
w temacie Metamorfozy

On His Own Face in a Glass

O strange face there in the glass!
O ribald company, O saintly host,
O sorrow-swept my fool,
What answer? O ye myriad
That strive? and play and pass,
Jest, challenge, counterlie!
I? I? I?
                   And ye?

przekład Leszka Engelkinga pt. „Na swoją twarz odbitą w lustrze”
w tematach: Motyw twarzy oraz Motyw zwierciadła, lustra i odbicia

The House of Splendour

Tis Evanoe's,
A house not made with hands,
But out somewhere beyond the worldly ways
Her gold is spread, above, around, inwoven;
Strange ways and walls are fashioned out of it.

And I have seen my Lady in the sun,
Her hair was spread about, a sheaf of wings,
And red the sunlight was, behind it all.

And I have seen her there within her house,
With six great sapphires hung along the wall,
Low, panel-shaped, a-level with her knees,
All her robe was woven of pale gold.

There are there many rooms and all of gold,
Of woven walls deep patterned, of email,
Of beaten work; and through the claret stone,
Set to some weaving, comes the aureate light.

Here am I come perforce my love of her,
Behold mine adoration
Maketh me clear, and there are powers in this
Which, played on by the virtues of her soul,
Break down the four-square walls of standing time.

przekład Leszka Engelkinga pt. „The House
of Splendour” w temacie Dom

The Gypsy
     Est-ce que vous avez vu des autres -
     des camarades – abec des singes ou des ours?

                                  A Stray Gipsy – A. D. 1912

That was the top of the walk, when he said:
„Have you seen any others, any of our lot,
With apes or bears?”
         - A brown upstanding fellow
Not like the half-castes,
        up on the wet road near Clermont.
The wind came, and the rain,
And mist clotted about the trees in the valley,
And I'd the long ways behind me,
        gray Arles and Biaucaire,
And he said, "Have you seen any of our lot?"
I'd seen a lot of his lot ...
        ever since Rhodez,
Coming down from the fair
        of St. John,
With caravans, but never an ape or a bear.

przekład Leszka Engelkinga pt. „Cygan”
w temacie Cyganie i ich kultura

The Game of Chess
Dogmatic Statement Concerning the Game of Chess:
Theme for a Series of Pictures

Red knights, brown bishops, bright queens,
Striking the board, falling in strong "L"s of colour.
Reaching and striking in angles,
holding lines in one colour.
This board is alive with light;
these pieces are living in form,
Their moves break and reform the pattern:
luminous green from the rooks,
Clashing with "X"s of queens,
looped with the knight-leaps.

"Y" pawns, cleaving, embanking!
Whirl! Centripetal! Mate! King down in the vortex,
Clash, leaping of bands, straight strips of hard colour,
Blocked lights working in. Escapes. Renewal of contest.

przekład Leszka Engelkinga pt. „Partia szachów”
w temacie Gry: towarzyskie, sportowe, hazardowe i inne


As cool as the pale wet leaves
of lily-of-the-valley
She lay beside me in the dawn.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. „Alba”
w temacie Miniatury poetyckie


O my songs,
Why do you look so eagerly and so curiously
into people's faces,
Will you find your lost dead among them?

przekład Borysa Awdiejewa pt. „Coda”
w temacie Miniatury poetyckie

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

przekład Borysa Awdiejewa pt. „Na stacji metro”
w temacie Miniatury poetyckie

Ancient Wisdom, Rather Cosmic

So-shu dreamed,
And having dreamed that the was a bird, a bee, and a butterfly,
He was uncertain why he should try to feel like anything else.
Hence his contentment.

przekład Borysa Awdiejewa. „Starożytna mądrość, raczej kosmiczna”
w temacie Miniatury poetyckie

Inne wiersze Ezry Pounda w tematach:
Poezja i taniec, Ogród przedziwny, Powroty, Modlitwa, Być poetą...,
W głąb siebie... ("Szaleństwo i geniusz")
Ryszard Mierzejewski edytował(a) ten post dnia 04.02.12 o godzinie 12:56
2.10.2008, 20:29

konto usunięte

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna


William Carlos Williams

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends

a red wheel

glazed with rain

beside the white

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Czerwone taczki"
w temacie Poezjomalowanie. Poezja kolorów - kolory poezji

The Great Figure

Among the rain
and lights
I saw the figure 5
in gold
on a red
to gong clangs
siren howls
and wheels rumbling
through the dark city

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Wielka cyfra"
w temacie Poezja liczb

To A Poor Old Woman

munching a plum on
the street a paper bag
of them in her hand

They taste good to her
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her

You can see it by
the way she gives herself
to the one half
sucked out in her hand

a solace of ripe plums
seeming to fill the air
They taste good to her

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Ubogiej staruszce"
w temacie Starość

The Young Housewife

At ten AM the young housewife
moves about in negligee behind
the wooden walls of her husband’s house.
I pass solitary in my car.

Then again she comes to the curb
to call the ice-man, fish-man, and stands
shy, uncorseted, tucking in
stray ends of hair, and I compare her
to a fallen leaf.

The noiseless wheels of my car
rush with a crackling sound over
dried leaves as I bow and pass smiling.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Młoda mężatka"
w temacie Kobiecy portret

The Crowd At The Ball Game

The crowd at the ball game
is moved uniformly

by a spirit of uselessness
which delights them—

all the exciting detail
of the chase

and the escape, the error
the flash of genius—

all to no end save beauty
the eternal—

So in detail they, the crowd,
are beautiful

for this
to be warned against

saluted and defied—
It is alive, venomous

it smiles grimly
its words cut—

The flashy female with her
mother, gets it—

The Jew gets it straight— it
is deadly, terrifying—

It is the Inquisition, the

It is beauty itself
that lives

day by day in them

This is
the power of their faces

It is summer, it is the solstice
the crowd is

cheering, the crowd is laughing
in detail

permanently, seriously
without thought

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Na meczu baseballowym"
w temacie Sport w poezji – poezja w sporcie

Willow Poem

It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.
The leaves cling and grow paler,

swing and grow paler
over the swirling waters of the river
as if loth to let go,
they are so cool, so drunk with
the swirl of the wind and of the river --
oblivious to winter,
the last to let go and fall
into the water and on the ground.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Wiersz z wierzbą"
w temacie Cóż jest piękniejszego niż (wysokie) drzewa...

The Drunkard

You drunken

by Christ
in spite of all
your filth

and sordidness
I envy

It is the very face
of love

in that powerless

to despair

przekład Julii Hartwig pt. „Pijak” w temacie
Nihilzm (papierosy i wódka, zło i brzydota)

Notka o autorze, inne jego wiersze i linki do polskich przekładów
dalej w tym temacie
Marek F. edytował(a) ten post dnia 30.12.11 o godzinie 13:27
6.10.2008, 11:22

konto usunięte

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) – poeta i dramaturg irlandzki, piszący w języku angielskim, jeden z najwybitniejszych twórców XX wieku, laureat Nagrody Nobla
w dziedzinie literatury za 1923 rok, autor m. in. tomów poetyckich: „Crossways” (Rozstaje, 1889), „The Rose” (Róża, 1893), „The Wind among the Reeds” (Wiatr pośród trzcin, 1899),
“In the seven Woods” (W siódmym lesie, 1904), “The green Helmet and other Poems” (Zielony hełm i inne wiersze, 1910), “Responsibilities” (Obowiązki, 1914), “The wild Swans at Coole” (Dzikie łąbędzie w Coole, 1919), “Michael Robartes and the Dancer” (Michael Robartes i tancerka, 1921), “The Tower” (Wieża, 1928), ”The winding Stair and other Poems” (Kręte schody i inne wiersze, 1933), ”From a Full Moon in March” (Pełnia Księżyca w marcu, 1935), “New Poems” (Nowe wiersze, 1938), „Last poems” (Wiersze ostatnie, 1939).

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the mourning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

dwa przekłady pt. „Innisfree, wyspa na jeziorze”: Leszka Elektorowicza
w temacie W harmonii z przyrodą i Jarosława Marka Rymkiewicza
w temacie Motyw wyspy

The Lover Tells of the Rose in His Heart

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,
With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

przekład Ewy Życieńskiej pt. „Zakochany mówi o róży w swoim sercu”
w temacie Miej serce i patrzaj w serce

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

przekład Leszka Engelkinga pt. „Poeta pragnie
szaty niebios” w temacie Być poetą...

He remembers forgotten Beauty

When my arms wrap you round I press
My heart upon the loveliness
That has long faded from the world;
The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled
In shadowy pools, when armies fled;
The love-tales wrought with silken thread
By dreaming ladies upon cloth
That has made fat the murderous moth;
The roses that of old time were
Woven by ladies in their hair,
The dew-cold lilies ladies bore
Through many a sacred corridor
Where such grey clouds of incense rose
That only God's eyes did not close:
For that pale breast and lingering hand
Come from a more dream-heavy land,
A more dream-heavy hour than this;
And when you sigh from kiss to kiss
I hear white Beauty sighing, too,
For hours when all must fade like dew.
But flame on flame, and deep on deep,
Throne over throne where in half sleep,
Their swords upon their iron knees,
Brood her high lonely mysteries.

przekład Ludmiły Marjańskiej pt. "Poeta wspomina
zapomniane piękno" w temacie Piękno

The Curse of Cromwell

You ask what - I have found, and far and wide I go:
Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's murderous crew,
The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay,
And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen, where are they?
And there is an old beggar wandering in his pride -
His fathers served their fathers before Christ was crucified.

O what of that, O what of that,
What is there left to say?

All neighbourly content and easy talk are gone,
But there's no good complaining, for money's rant is on.
He that's mounting up must on his neighbour mount,
And we and all the Muses are things of no account.
They have schooling of their own, but I pass their schooling by,
What can they know that we know that know the time to die?

O what of that, O what of that,
What is there left to say?

But there's another knowledge that my heart destroys,
As the fox in the old fable destroyed the Spartan boy's
Because it proves that things both can and cannot be;
That the swordsmen and the ladies can still keep company,
Can pay the poet for a verse and hear the fiddle sound,
That I am still their setvant though all are underground.

O what of that, O what of that,
What is there left to say?

I came on a great house in the middle of the night,
Its open lighted doorway and its windows all alight,
And all my friends were there and made me welcome too;
But I woke in an old ruin that the winds howled through;
And when I pay attention I must out and walk
Among the dogs and horses that understand my talk.

O what of that, O what of that,
What is there left to say?

przekład Ludmiły Marjańskiej pt. „Klątwa Cromwella”
w temacie Motyw klątwy w poezji

Long-Legged Fly

That civilisation may not sink,
Its great battle lost,
Quiet the dog, tether the pony
To a distant post;
Our master Caesar is in the tent
Where the maps ate spread,
His eyes fixed upon nothing,
A hand under his head.

Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.

That the topless towers be burnt
And men recall that face,
Move most gently if move you must
In this lonely place.
She thinks, part woman, three parts a child,
That nobody looks; her feet
Practise a tinker shuffle
Picked up on a street.

Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.

That girls at puberty may find
The first Adam in their thought,
Shut the door of the Pope's chapel,
Keep those children out.
There on that scaffolding reclines
Michael Angelo.
With no more sound than the mice make
His hand moves to and fro.

Like a long-legged fly upon the stream
His mind moves upon silence.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. „Długonogi owad”
w temacie Umysł i potęga myśli

To a Shade

If you have revisited the town, thin Shade,
Whether to look upon your monument
(I wonder if the builder has been paid)
Or happier-thoughted when the day is spent
To drink of that salt breath out of the sea
When grey gulls flit about instead of men,
And the gaunt houses put on majesty:
Let these content you and be gone again;
For they are at their old tricks yet.
                                            A man
Of your own passionate serving kind who had brought
In his full hands what, had they only known,
Had given their children's children loftier thought,
Sweeter emotion, working in their veins
Like gentle blood, has been driven from the place,
And insult heaped upon him for his pains,
And for his open-handedness, disgrace;
Your enemy, an old foul mouth, had set
The pack upon him.
                                            Go, unquiet wanderer,
And gather the Glasnevin coverlet
About your head till the dust stops your ear,
The time for you to taste of that salt breath
And listen at the corners has not come;
You had enough of sorrow before death--
Away, away! You are safer in the tomb.

September 29, 1913

przekład Jarosława Marka Rymkiewicza pt. „Do cienia”
w temacie Świat chwiejnych cieni

The Dawn

I would be ignorant as the dawn
That has looked down
On that old queen measuring a town
With the pin of a brooch,
Or on the withered men that saw
From their pedantic Babylon
The careless planets in their courses,
The stars fade out where the moon comes.
And took their tablets and did sums;
I would be ignorant as the dawn
That merely stood, rocking the glittering coach
Above the cloudy shoulders of the horses;
I would be - for no knowledge is worth a straw -
Ignorant and wanton as the dawn.

dwa przekłady: Ludmiły Marjańskiej pt. „Brzask”
i Ewy Życieńskiej pt. „Świt” w temacie
Wiersze na różne pory dnia

The Pity of Love

A pity beyond all telling
Is hid in the heart of love:
The folk who are buying and selling,
The clouds on their journey above,
The cold wet winds ever blowing,
And the shadowy hazel grove
Where mouse-grey waters are flowing,
Threaten the head that I love.

przekład Zygmunta Kubiaka pt. „Żałość miłości”
w temacie Miłość

Inne wiersze W. B. Yeatsa w tematach:
Nobliści, Antyczne korzenie cywilizacji, s. 1, s. 2, Ogród przedziwny, Motyw zwierciadła, lustra i odbicia, Niebo jest u stóp matki, Kobiety ich życia i twórczości, Modlitwa, Kołysanki, nie tylko dla dzieci, Dziecko jest cudem wyjątkowym... Turpizm, Zaśpiewam ci pieśń, s. 2, s. 3, Pożądanie, fantazje erotyczne..., Trzej Królowie przychodzą z darami.../Poezja i malarswtoKrzysztof Adamczyk edytował(a) ten post dnia 21.01.12 o godzinie 15:31
19.10.2008, 22:06

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Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna


Marianne Moore (1887 – 1972) – jedna z najwybitniejszych poetek amerykańskich XX w., mecenas sztuki i promotorka młodych poetów, m. in. Elizaepth Bishop i Allena Ginsberga, laureatka wielu prestiżowych nagród literackich, m. in. Pulitzer Prize, National Book Award
i Bollinger Prize.


My father used to say,
"Superior people never make long visits,
have to be shown Longfellow's grave
nor the glass flowers at Harvard.
Self reliant like the cat --
that takes its prey to privacy,
the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth --
they sometimes enjoy solitude,
and can be robbed of speech
by speech which has delighted them.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint."
Nor was he insincere in saying, "`Make my house your inn'."
Inns are not residences.

przekład Julii Hartwig pt. "Milczenie" w temacie Milczenie

What are Years?

What is our innocence,
what is our guilt? All are
naked, none is safe. And whence
is courage: the unanswered question,
the resolute doubt, -
dumbly calling, deafly listening-that
in misfortune, even death,
encourage others
and in it's defeat, stirs

the soul to be strong? He
sees deep and is glad, who
accededs to mortality
and in his imprisonment rises
upon himself as
the sea in a chasm, struggling to be
free and unable to be,
in its surrendering
finds its continuing.

So he who strongly feels,
behaves. The very bird,
grown taller as he sings, steels
his form straight up. Though he is captive,
his mighty singing
says, satisfaction is a lowly
thing, how pure a thing is joy.
This is mortality,
this is eternity.

przekład Julii Hartwig pt. "Czym są lata?"
w temacie O przemijaniu...

No Swan So Fine

"No water so still as the
dead fountains of Versailles." No swan,
with swart blind look askance
and gondoliering legs, so fine
as the chinz china one with fawn-
brown eyes and toothed gold
collar on to show whose bird it was.

Lodged in the Louis Fifteenth
candelabrum-tree of cockscomb-
tinted buttons, dahlias,
sea-urchins, and everlastings,
it perches on the branching foam
of polished sculptured
flowers--at ease and tall. The king is dead.

przekład Ludmiły Marjańskiej pt. "Żaden łabędź tak czysty"
w temacie Pierzaści bracia mniejsi

The Past is the Present

If external action is effete
and rhyme is outmoded,
I shall revert to you,
Habakkuk, as when in a Bible class
the teacher was speaking of unrhymed verse.
He said - and I think I repeat his exact words -
"Hebrew poetry is prose
with a sort of heightened consciousness." Ecstasy affords
the occasion and expediency determines the form.

dwa przekłady: Ludmiły Marjańskiej pt. "Przeszłość to teraźniejszość"
i Julii Hartwig pt. "Przeszłość jest teraźniejszością" w temacie
Czym jest wiersz?


I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it
after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are useful. When they become so derivative as to become unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless wolf
under a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse that feels a flea, the base-ball fan, the statistician--
nor is it valid
to discriminate against 'business documents
and school-books'; all these phenomena are important. One must make
a distinction however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the result is not poetry, nor till the poets among us can be
'literalists of
the imagination'--above
insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, 'imaginary gardens with real toads in them',
shall we have it.
In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry
in all its rawness
and that which is on the other hand genuine,
you are interested in poetry.

trzy przekłady pt. "Poezja": Julii Hatrwig, Stanisława Barańczaka
i Franka Wygody w temacie Być poetą...

Critics and Connoisseurs

There is a great amount of poetry in unconscious
fastidiousness. Certain Ming
products, imperial floor coverings of coach—
wheel yellow, are well enough in their way but I have seen something
that I like better—a
mere childish attempt to make an imperfectly ballasted animal stand up
similar determination to make a pup
eat his meat from the plate.

I remember a swan under the willows in Oxford,
with flamingo-colored, maple—
leaflike feet. It reconnoitered like a battle
ship. Disbelief and conscious fastidiousness were
ingredients in its
disinclination to move. Finally its hardihood was not proof against its
proclivity to more fully appraise such bits
of food as the stream

bore counter to it; made away with what I gave it
to eat. I have seen this swan and
I have seen you; I have seen ambition without
understanding in a variety of forms. Happening to stand
by an ant-hill, I have
seen a fastidious ant carrying a stick north, south, east, west, till it turned on
itself, struck out from the flower bed into the lawn,
and returned to the point

from which it had started. Then abandoning the stick as
useless and overtaxing its
jaws with a particle of whitewash pill-like but
heavy, it again went through the same course of procedure. What is
there in being able
to say that one has dominated the stream in an attitude of self-defense,
in proving that one has had the experience
of carrying a stick?

przekład Julii Hartwig pt. "Krytycy i znawcy" w temacie
Oślepiony błyskiem, czyli o tym, co się mowie wymyka

When I Buy Pictures

or what is closer to the truth,
when I look at that of which I may regard myself as the imaginary possessor,
I fix upon what would give me pleasure in my average moments:
the satire upon curiousity in which no more is discernible
than the intensity of the mood;
or quite the opposite—the old thing, the medieval decorated hat-box,
in which there are hounds with waists diminishing like the waist of the hour-glass,
and deer and birds and seated people;
it may be no more than a square of parquetry; the literal biography perhaps,
in letters standing well apart upon a parchment-like expanse;
an artichoke in six varieties of blue; the snipe-legged hieroglyphic in three parts;
the silver fence protecting Adam's grave, or Michael taking Adam by the wrist.
Too stern an intellectual emphasis upon this quality or that detracts from one's enjoyment.
It must not wish to disarm anything; nor may the approved triumph easily be honored—
that which is great because something else is small.
It comes to this: of whatever sort it is,
it must be "lit with piercing glances into the life of things";
it must acknowledge the spiritual forces which have made it.

przekład Ludmiły Marjańskiej pt. "Kiedy kupuję obrazy" w temacie
Pamiątki i ślady przeszłości

A Grave

Man looking into the sea,
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have to it yourself,
it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,
but you cannot stand in the middle of this;
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey-foot at the top,
reserved as their contours, saying nothing;
repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea;
the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others besides you who have worn that look --
whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate them
for their bones have not lasted:
men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave,
and row quickly away -- the blades of the oars
moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such thing as death.
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx -- beautiful under networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed;
the birds swim throught the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as heretofore --
the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath them;
and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of bell-buoys,
advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped things are bound to sink --
in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor consciousness.

przekład Julii Hartwig pt. "Grób" w temacie Marynistyka

Inne wiersze Marianne Moore w tematach: Angelologia i dal..., Motyw twarzy,
W poetyckim terrarium, Blaski i cienie małżeństwa, Pierzaści bracia mniejsi,
Miłość, O smokach i innych potworach
Marta K. edytował(a) ten post dnia 28.03.11 o godzinie 06:07
22.10.2008, 22:45

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Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna


Hilda Doolittle (1886-1961), znana też jako H. D. – poetka amerykańska,
uważana za najwybitniejszą przedstawicielkę imagizmu – kierunku eksponującego plastyczne obrazowanie jsko istotę opisu poetyckiego. Imagiści postulowali zwięzłość
i precyzję języka, stosowanie kolokwializmów, unikalną metaforę oraz wiersz wolny. Poetka zafascynowana psychoanalizą i prądami feministycznym z czasem odeszła
od imagizmu. Za najważniejsze jej dzieło uchodzi „The Walls Do Not Fall” (1944).


Whirl up, sea -
whirl your pointed pines.
splash your great pines
on our rocks,
hurl your green over us,
cover us with your pools of fir.


Wiruj, wiruj morze,
wiruj barwą twych smukłych sosen,
bryzgaj ich skłębioną masą
na nasze skały,
ciskaj w nas twoją zielenią,
zatop nas w kałuży twoich jodeł.

przeł. Michał Popławski


Nor skin nor hide nor fleece
Shall cover you,
Nor curtain of crimson nor fine
Shelter of cedar-wood be over you,
Nor the fir-tree
Nor the pine.

Nor sight of whin nor gorse
Nor river-yew,
Nor fragrance of flowering bush,
Nor wailing of reed-bird to waken you,
Nor of linnet,
Nor of thrush.

Nor word nor touch nor sight
Of lover, you
Shall long through the night but for this:
The roll of the full tide to cover you
Without question,
Without kiss.


Ani ciała, ani skóry, ani runa,
które cię pokrywa,
Ani purpurowej kurtyny, ani kryjówki
cedrowych lasów, które roztaczają się wokół ciebie,
Ani jodły,
Ani sosny.

Ani widoku kolcolista, ani janowca,
Ani rzeki cisów,
Ani zapachu kwiecistego buszu,
Ani budzącego cię lamentu trzcinnika,
Ani makolągwy,
Ani drozda.

Ani słowa, ani dotyku, ani widoku
kochanków - ty ciężko musisz przedzierać się przez
noc, ale twoja nagroda jest oczywista: porwie cię strzęp
pełnych prądów,
a wszystko to bez pytań
i bez pocałunków.

przeł. Michał Popławski

Inny przekład Leszka Elektorowicza
na wątku Antyczne korzenie cywilizacji


You are as gold
as the half-ripe grain
that merges to gold again,
as white as the white rain
that beats through
the half-opened flowers
of the great flower tufts
thick on the black limbs
of an Illyrian apple bough.

Can honey distill such fragrance
as your bright hair--
for your face is as fair as rain,
yet as rain that lies clear
on white honey-comb,
lends radiance to the white wax,
so your hair on your brow
casts light for a shadow.

Przekład tego wiersza na wątku Zaśpiewam ci pieśń.

Pear Tree

Silver dust
lifted from the earth,
higher than my arms reach,
you have mounted,
O silver,
higher than my arms reach
you front us with great mass;

no flower ever opened
so staunch a white leaf,
no flower ever parted silver
from such rare silver;

O white pear,
your flower tufts,
thick on the branch,
bring summer and ripe fruits
in their purple hearts.

Przekład tego wiersza na wątku Cóż jest piękniejszego niż (wysokie) drzewa....

Inne wiersze Hildy Doolittle na wątkach:
Modlitwa, Gwiazdy, planety, kosmos w poezji..., Kwiaty, Ogród przedziwny,
Marynistyka, Pierzaści bracia mniejsi, ”Okrutną zagadką jest życie...,
Zaśpiewam ci pieśń – M. F.
Marek Filipowicz edytował(a) ten post dnia 02.06.09 o godzinie 22:08
29.10.2008, 09:46

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Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

Robert Graves (1895-1985) – angielski poeta i pisarz irlandzkiego pochodzenia,
jeden z najwybitniejszych twórców literackich w XX wieku, znany z ogromnej erudycji
oraz pracowitości. Wydał za życia przeszło 30 tomów poezji, prawie tyle samo powieści
oraz wiele książek z krytyki literackiej, historii i teorii literatury, a także filozofii, religioznawstwa i historii kultury. W Polsce wydano m. in. „Córka Homera” (1958), „Mity greckie” (1967), „Wiersze” (1968), „Opowiadania” (1975), „Poezje wybrane” (1977), „Ja, Klaudiusz” (1996), „Klaudiusz i Messalina” (2001).

The Cool Web

Children are dumb to say how hot the day is,
How hot the scent is of the summer rose,
How dreadful the black wastes of evening sky,
How dreadful the tall soldiers drumming by.

But we have speech, to chill the angry day,
And speech, to dull the rose's cruel scent.
We spell away the overhanging night,
We spell away the soldiers and the fright.

There's a cool web of language winds us in,
Retreat from too much joy or too much fear:
We grow sea-green at last and coldly die
In brininess and volubility.

But if we let our tongues lose self-possession,
Throwing off language and its watery clasp
Before our death, instead of when death comes,
Facing the wide glare of the children's day,
Facing the rose, the dark sky and the drums,
We shall go mad no doubt and die that way.

Chłodna sieć

Dzieci nieme są, nie powiedzą, jak gorący dzień,
Jak gorący jest zapach letnie róży,
Jak straszne czarne pustynie wieczornego nieba
Jak straszni duzi żołnierze idący w takt werbli.

Lecz my mamy mowę, by ochłodzić gniewny dzień,
I mowę, by stępić okrutny zapach róży,
Odganiamy zaklęciem wiszącą nad nami noc,
Odganiamy zaklęciem żołnierzy i strach.

Jest chłodna sieć języka, która nas owija,
Odwrót od zbyt wielkiej radości lub zbyt wielkiego strachu:
W końcu morską obrastamy zielenią i zimno umieramy
W słoności i potoczystości.

Lecz jeśli nad językami stracimy władanie,
Jeśli odrzucimy mowę i jej wodnisty uścisk
Przed śmiercią zamiast w chwili śmierci,
Twarz obracając na blask dziecięcego dnia,
Na róże, na niebo ciemne i na werble,
To oszalejemy niechybnie i tak pomrzemy.

przeł. Bolesław Taborski

Symptoms of Love

Love is universal migraine,
A bright stain on the vision
Blotting out reason.

Symptoms of true love
Are leanness, jealousy,
Laggard dawns;

Are omens and nightmares -
Listening for a knock,
Waiting for a sign:

For a touch of her fingers
In a darkened room,
For a searching look.

Take courage, lover!
Could you endure such pain
At any hand but hers?

Przekład tego wiersza w temacie Miłość

Warning to Children

Children, if you dare to think
Of the greatness, rareness, muchness
Fewness of this precious only
Endless world in which you say
You live, you think of things like this:
Blocks of slate enclosing dappled
Red and green, enclosing tawny
Yellow nets, enclosing white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where a neat brown paper parcel
Tempts you to untie the string.
In the parcel a small island,
On the island a large tree,
On the tree a husky fruit.
Strip the husk and pare the rind off:
In the kernel you will see
Blocks of slate enclosed by dappled
Red and green, enclosed by tawny
Yellow nets, enclosed by white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where the same brown paper parcel -
Children, leave the string alone!
For who dares undo the parcel
Finds himself at once inside it,
On the island, in the fruit,
Blocks of slate about his head,
Finds himself enclosed by dappled
Green and red, enclosed by yellow
Tawny nets, enclosed by black
And white acres of dominoes,
With the same brown paper parcel
Still untied upon his knee.
And, if he then should dare to think
Of the fewness, muchness, rareness,
Greatness of this endless only
Precious world in which he says
he lives - he then unties the string.

Przekład tego wiersza w temacie Dziecko jest chodzącym cudem...

Inne wiersze Roberta Gravesa w w/w tematach, a także:
Marynistyka, Wiersze na Święto Zmarłych, Kwiaty, Motyw zwierciadła, lustra
i odbicia,
Drogie kamienie w poezji, W świecie wróżb, zaklęć i sił tajemnych,
W głąb siebie... („Szaleństwo i geniusz”), ”Okrutną zagadką jest życie”...
Wiersze na przebudzenie..., Owady są wszędzie, Blaski i cienie małżeństwa,
DrzwiM. F.
Marek F. edytował(a) ten post dnia 22.01.11 o godzinie 10:47
3.11.2008, 14:31

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Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

Charles Bukowski (1920–1994) – amerykański poeta, powieściopisarz
i nowelista niemieckiego pochodzenia, zaliczany do awangardowego ruchu artystycznego Beat Generation, chociaż sam się z nim nigdy nie identyfikował. Autor ok. 50 książek poetyckich i prozatorskich, których tematem jest znany mu z autopsji styl życia marginesu społecznego: biedoty, bezdomnych i alkoholików. Zmarł na białaczkę w wieku 74 lat. Po polsku ukazały się następujące wybory jego wierszy: Miłość to piekielny pies. Wiersze z lat 1974-1977. Przekład Leszek Engelking. Noir Sur Blanc, Warszawa 2003; Płonąc w ogniu, tonąc w wodzie. Wiersze z lat 1955-1973. Przekład Piotr Madej. Noir Sur Blanc, Warszawa 2004 i Z obłędu odsiać słowo, wers, drogę. Przekład Michał Kłobukowski. Noir Sur Blanc, Warszawa 2005.


there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
you want to blow my book sales in

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be

then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
and we sleep together like
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do

Niebieski ptaszek

jest niebieski ptaszek w moim sercu który
chce się wyrwać
ale krótko go trzymam -
mówię, siedź tam, nie mam zamiaru
pokazywać cię

jest niebieski ptaszek w moim sercu który
chce się wyrwać
ale zalewam się wiskaczem i zaciągam
i kurwy i barmani
i sprzedawcy
nic nie wiedzą
o jego

jest niebieski ptaszek w moim sercu który
chce się wyrwać
ale krótko go trzymam -
daj spokój, chcesz żebym
chcesz żebym pisał
od rzeczy?
chcesz żeby spadły nakłady moich książek w

jest niebieski ptaszek w moim sercu który
chce się wyrwać
ale jestem kumaty, wypuszczam go jedynie
w nocy, czasem
gdy wszyscy śpią.
mówię, wiem, że tam jesteś
więc nie smuć

potem łapię go z powrotem
ale on wciąż śpiewa cicho
wewnątrz, nie uśmierciłem go
i śpimy razem w ten
wraz z naszym
tajemnym paktem
i to na tyle poruszające aby
człowiek się
rozpłakał, ale ja
nie płaczę, a

przełożył Jacek Szafranowicz

Raw with Love

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
I won't blame
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won't blame you,
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won't use it

Surowy w miłości

drobna ciemna dziewczyno której
tak dobrze patrzy z oczu
kiedy przyjdzie czas aby
użyć noża
nie wzdrygnę się ani
nie będę cię
kiedy jadę wzdłuż wybrzeża
kiedy palmy powiewają
brzydkie potężne palmy
kiedy żywe nie przychodzi,
kiedy martwe nie odchodzi
winić cię,
będę pamiętał te pocałunki
nasze usta surowe w miłości
i to jak dałaś mi
wszystko co miałaś
i jak ja
ofiarowałem ci to co ze mnie
i będę pamiętał twój mały pokoik
twoją obecność
światło przy oknie
twoje płyty
twoje książki
naszą poranną kawę
nasze dni nasze noce
nasze ciała złączone razem
krótkie upływające chwile
najlepsze i wieczne
twoja noga moja noga
twoja ręka moja ręka
twój uśmiech i twoje
co sprawiło, że znów się
drobna ciemna dziewczyno której tak dobrze patrzy z oczu
ty nie masz
noża. nóż jest
mój i na razie go nie

przełożył Jacek Szafranowicz

Young in New Orleans

starving there, sitting around the bars,
and at night walking the streets for
the moonlight always seemed fake
to me, maybe it was,
and in the French Quarter I watched
the horses and buggies going by,
everybody sitting high in the open
carriages, the black driver, and in
back the man and the woman,
usually young and always white.
and I was always white.
and hardly charmed by the
New Orleans was a place to
I could piss away my life,
except for the rats.
the rats in my dark small room
very much resented sharing it
with me.
they were large and fearless
and stared at me with eyes
that spoke
an unblinking

women were beyond me.
they saw something
there was one waitress
a little older than
I, she rather smiled,
lingered when she
brought my

that was plenty for
me, that was

there was something about
that city, though
it didn't let me feel guilty
that I had no feeling for the
things so many others
it let me alone.

sitting up in my bed
the lights out,
hearing the outside
lifting my cheap
bottle of wine,
letting the warmth of
the grape
as I heard the rats
moving about the
I preferred them

being lost,
being crazy maybe
is not so bad
if you can be
that way

New Orleans gave me
nobody ever called
my name.

no telephone,
no car,
no job,

me and the
and my youth,
one time,
that time
I knew
even through the
it was a
of something not to
but only

przekład Jacka Szafranowicza pt. "Młody w Nowym Orleanie"
w temacie Między bogactwem a ubóstwem

Inne wiersze Charlesa Bukowskiego w tematach:
Nihilizm (papierosy i wódka, zło i brzydota), Samotność, Erotyka, Kobiecy portret,
W głąb siebie..., s. 2
, s. 5, s. 6 , Łzy, płacz, rozpacz..., Marzenia, Być poetą, s. 2, s. 10, Portret (super) męski, Ból, Między bogactwem a ubóstwem, Poezja codzienności,
s, 2
, s. 5, Ciało mojego ciała, Nierząd i prostytucja, Blaski i cienie małżeństwa, Muzea
i galerie
, Noce bezsenne..., Nauczyciele - w szkole i w życiu, Motyw ojca, Głód, Śmiech/Zawody i profesje widziane okiem poety/Śmierć/O głupkach, durniach, kretynach i im podobnych, Między sacrum a profanum..., To (nie) jest rozmowa na telefon..., s. 2, s. 4, Pożądanie, fantazje erotyczne, Ucieczki, Miłości sprzed lat, "Okrutną zagadką jest życie"..., s. 5 , s. 10/Sport w poezji - poezja w sporcie, Homo automobilus, czyli jadę samochodem/Ameryka wczoraj i dziś, Na falach eteru, czyli poezja i radio, Motyw bezdomności w poezji
.Krzysztof Adamczyk edytował(a) ten post dnia 10.03.12 o godzinie 21:07
13.11.2008, 10:39

konto usunięte

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

John Donne (1572 – 1631) – ang. poeta i kaznodzieja; zmiana wyznania (z katolicyzmu na anglikanizm) umożliwiła mu karierę duchowną: był doktorem uniw. w Oksfordzie i Cambridge, wykładowcą teologii w Lincoln's Inn w Londynie, dziekanem katedry Św. Pawła, gdzie zasłynął kazaniami (wyd. pośmiertne 1640–60); twórca i czołowy przedstawiciel barok. szkoły poetów metafizycznych; w liryce, początkowo miłosnej, później rel.-filoz., posługiwał się językiem surowym, niemal potocznym, o wielkiej sile obrazowania, łącząc precyzję intelektualną z intensywnym napięciem uczuciowym (Songs and Sonnets, Elegies, Holy Sonnets, 2 Anniversaries); pol. przekłady w antologiach: Śmierć i miłość (1963), Poeci języka angielskiego (t. 1 1964) i S. Barańczaka: Antologii angielskiej poezji metafizycznej XVII stulecia (wyd. 2 rozszerzone 1991) - www.poema.art.pl
Najpełniejsze wydanie: John Donne: Wiersze wybrane. Wybór, przekład i opracowanie Stanisław Barańczak. Wydawnictwo Literackie, Kraków-Wrocław 1984. - M. K.

Love’s Alchemy

Some that have deeper digg'd love's mine than I,
Say, where his centric happiness doth lie;
I have lov'd, and got, and told,
But should I love, get, tell, till I were old,
I should not find that hidden mystery.
Oh, 'tis imposture all!
And as no chemic yet th'elixir got,
But glorifies his pregnant pot
If by the way to him befall
Some odoriferous thing, or medicinal,
So, lovers dream a rich and long delight,
But get a winter-seeming summer's night.

Our ease, our thrift, our honour, and our day,
Shall we for this vain bubble's shadow pay?
Ends love in this, that my man
Can be as happy'as I can, if he can
Endure the short scorn of a bridegroom's play?
That loving wretch that swears
'Tis not the bodies marry, but the minds,
Which he in her angelic finds,
Would swear as justly that he hears,
In that day's rude hoarse minstrelsy, the spheres.
Hope not for mind in women; at their best
Sweetness and wit, they'are but mummy, possess'd.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Alchemia miłości"
w temacie Miłość

Good Morrow

I wonder, by my truth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved; were we not weaned till then,
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den?
'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room, an everywhere.
Let sead discoveries to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to others, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess our world; each hath one and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp North, without declining West?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one; or thou and I
Love so alike that none do slacken, none can die.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Dzień dobry"
w temacie Miłość

Air and Angels

Twice or thrice had I loved thee,
Before I knew thy face or name;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame,
Angels affect us oft, and worshipped be;
Still when, to where thou wert, I came,
Some lovely glorious nothing I did see.
But since my soul, whose child love is,
Takes limbs of flesh, and else could nothing do,
More subtle than the parent is,
Love must not be, but take a body too;
And therefore what thou wert, and who,
I bid love ask, and now
That it assume thy body I allow,
And fix itself to thy lip, eye, and brow.

Whilst thus to ballast love I thought,
And so more steadily to have gone,
With wares which would sink admiration,
I saw I had love's pinnace overfraught
Every thy hair for love to work upon
Is much too much, some fitter must be sought;
For, nor in nothing, nor in things
Extreme and scatt'ring bright, can love inhere.
Then as an angel, face and wings
Of air, not pure as it, yet pure doth wear,
So thy love may be my love's sphere.
Just such disparity
As is 'twixt air and angel's purity,
'Twixt women's love and men's will ever be.

przekład Stanisława Barańczaka pt. "Powietrze i anioły"
w temacie Miłość

Inne utwory Johna Donne'a w tematach: Ogród przedziwny, Erotyka, Rozstania,
Trudne pytania, Sonet, Elegia, Owady są wszędzie..., Świat chwiejnych cieni,
Testament w poezji, Złote myśli (aforyzmy), Trochę o duszy
Ten post został edytowany przez Autora dnia 10.07.13 o godzinie 13:10
19.11.2008, 08:18

Jolanta Chrostowska-Sufa Redakcja, korekta,
adiustacja, zlecone
teksty autorskie,

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

Ogden Nash

Very Like a Whale

One thing that literature would be greatly the better for

Would be a more restricted employment by the authors of simile and

Authors of all races, be they Greeks, Romans, Teutons or Celts,

Can't seem just to say that anything is the thing it is but have to
go out of their way to say that it is like something else.

What does it mean when we are told
That that Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold?

In the first place, George Gordon Byron had enough experience
To know that it probably wasn't just one Assyrian, it was a lot of

However, as too many arguments are apt to induce apoplexy and
thus hinder longevity.

We'll let it pass as one Assyrian for the sake of brevity.

Now then, this particular Assyrian, the one whose cohorts were
gleaming in purple and gold,

Just what does the poet mean when he says he came down like a
wold on the fold?

In heaven and earth more than is dreamed of in our philosophy
there are great many things.

But I don't imagine that among them there is a wolf with purple
and gold cohorts or purple and gold anythings.

No, no, Lord Byron, before I'll believe that this Assyrian was
actually like a wolf I must have some kind of proof;

Did he run on all fours and did he have a hairy tail and a big red
mouth and big white teeth and did he say Woof Woof?

Frankly I think it is very unlikely, and all you were entitled to say,
at the very most,

Was that the Assyrian cohorts came down like a lot of Assyrian
cohorts about to destroy the Hebrew host.

But that wasn't fancy enough for Lord Byron, oh dear me no, he
had to invent a lot of figures of speech and then interpolate them,

With the result that whenever you mention Old Testament soldiers
to people they say Oh yes, they're the ones that a lot of
wolves dressed up in gold and purple ate them.

That's the kind of thing that's being done all the time by poets,
from Homer to Tennyson;

They're always comparing ladies to lilies and veal to venison,

And they always say things like that the snow is a white blanket
after a winter storm.

Oh it is, is it, all right then, you sleep under a six-inch blanket of
snow and I'll sleep under a half-inch blanket of unpoetical
blanket material and we'll see which one keeps warm,

And after that maybe you'll begin to comprehend dimly

What I mean by too much metaphor and simile.

Zupełny wieloryb

Uważam, że wyszłoby na dobre wszystkim bez wyjątku literackim utworom,

Gdyby ich autorzy trochę się pohamowali w szastaniu porównaniem i metaforą.

Pisarze wszelkich ras i tworzący we wszystkich językach, poczynając
od argentyńskiego i australijskiego, a kończąc na łacinie, grece
oraz ki – swahili,

Nie potrafią jakoś powiedzieć po prostu, że coś jest tym, czym jest,
natomiast wyłażą ze skóry, aby nam wmówić, że to coś jest jak coś
innego lub wręcz jest tym czymś innym – dlaczego? Bo oni sobie
tak tę rzecz „uzmysłowili”.

Co faktycznie chce nam powiedzieć poeta, kiedy, w szale twórczym rwąc włosy z brody,

Komponuje tę np. linijkę: "Asyryjczyk tak runął, jak wilk spada na trzody”?

Przede wszystkim, George Gordon Byron nie był dzieckiem, znał jako tako życie
i dawno już nabrał był odpowiednich myślowych nawyków,

Aby wiedzieć, że w sytuacji tego rodzaju najprawdopodobniej chodziło
nie o jednego Asyryjczyka, ale o całą masę Asyryjczyków.

Ale dobrze, nie będziemy się przecież wykłócać o szczegóły, zwłaszcza
że groziłoby to apopleksją w jakimś sporu szczytowym momencie:

Zgódźmy się dla świętego spokoju, że to pojedynczy Asyryjczyk wykonał
wspomniane runięcie.

Idźmy jednakowoż dalej: mamy tego konkretnego Asyryjczyka i teraz w następnej
linijce czytamy o nim, że „złotem i purpurą kohort parł i miażdżył

No i co właściwie poeta chce nam przekazać, skoro sam przecież powiedział
przed chwilą, że tenże Asyryjczyk runął, jak wilk spada na trzody?

Że więcej jest dziwów w niebie i na ziemi, niż to się marzy naszym filozofom,
wiadomo nam od dość dawna i zaskoczeni tym faktem nie będziem,

Ale nie wyobrażam sobie, żeby nawet wśród tych dziwów mógł się znaleźć wilk
miażdżący przeszkody złotymi i purpurowymi kohortami, czy w ogóle wilk
miażdżący cokolwiek bądź jakimkolwiek bądź złotym i purpurowym narzędziem.

Nie, nie, drogi lordzie B.: w to, że ten cały Asyryjczyk miał w sobie coś z wilka,
mógłbym uwierzyć dopiero, gdyby on sam w wilczej postaci pod nos mi się pchał;

Chce pan powiedzieć, że co – że Asyryjczyk rzeczywiście miał cztery nogi i kudłaty
ogon, i duży czerwony pysk, i duże białe kły, i robił hau, hau?

Szczerze mówiąc, nie wydaje mi się to bardzo prawdopodobne i uważam, że miał
pan prawo powiedzieć co najwyżej coś w ścisłym i rzeczowym stylu:

Np. że kohorty runęły jak cała kupa kohort asyryjskich na wojowników
hebrajskich, których było tylu a tylu.

Ale nie, to nie brzmiało dość finezyjnie w uszach naszego lorda, skądże znowu,
on musiał sporządzić sobie zapasik wymyślnych figur mowy i jeszcze
przeprowadzić ich interpolację,

Czego skutki są takie, że nie można dzisiaj powiedzieć słowa w towarzystwie
na temat wojowników ze Starego Testamentu, żeby się ktoś nie odezwał, Aha, to ci, co to na nich spadały całe sfory wilków, tłukły ich złotymi i purpurowymi kohortami i przyrządzały sobie z nieszczęśników kolację.

Takie właśnie rzeczy wyprawiają bezustannie poeci, od Homera aż po Tennysona:

Przyrównują dziewiczy rumieniec do róży, a cielęcinę do Desdemony (że niby
też młoda i też duszona),

I powiadają zawsze, że po nocnej zamieci śnieg zasłał pola jak biały, puszysty koc,

Na co ja powiadam, A doprawdy? ślicznie, w takim razie kładź się pan
pod sześciocalowej grubości koc śniegu, a ja się przykryję półcalowym
kocykiem z niepoetycznego materiału, z którego wyrabia się koce,
i zobaczymy, kto lepiej prześpi noc,

I może wtedy wreszcie, poeto, w mózgu dźwignie ci się zrozumienia semafor

I pozwoli ci pojąć, czemu źle jest nadużywać metafor.

tłum. Stanisław BarańczakJolanta Chrostowska-Sufa edytował(a) ten post dnia 02.12.08 o godzinie 22:22
2.12.2008, 22:22

Jolanta Chrostowska-Sufa Redakcja, korekta,
adiustacja, zlecone
teksty autorskie,

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

Lewis Caroll


'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!’

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with his head
He went galumphing back.

‘And has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay!’
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

„Alicja po drugiej stronie zwierciadła”


Stanisław Barańczak

Brzdęśniało już; ślimonne prztowie
Wyrło i warło się w gulbieży;
Zmimszałe ćwiły borogowie
I rcie grdypały z mrzerzy.

„O strzeż się, synu, Dziaberłaka!
Łap pazurzastych, zębnej paszczy!
Omiń Dziupdziupa, złego ptaka,
Z którym się Brutwiel piastrzy!”

A on jął w garść worpalny miecz:
Nim wroga wdepcze w grzębrną krumać,
Chce tu, gdzie szum, wśród drzew Tumtum
stać parę chwil i dumać.

Lecz gdy tak tonie w dumań gląpie,
Dziaberłak płomienistooki
Z dala przez gąszcze tulżyc tąpie,
Brdli, bierze się pod boki!

Ba-bach! Ba-bach! I rach, i ciach
Worpalny brzeszczot cielsko ciachnął!
A on wziął łeb i poprzez step
W powrotny szlak się szlachnął.

„Tyżeś więc ubił Dziaberłaka?
Pójdź, chłopcze, chlubo jazd i piechot,
Objąć się daj! Ho-hej! Ha-haj!”,
Rżał rupertyczny rechot.

Brzdęśniało już; ślimonne prztowie
Wyrło i warło się w gulbieży;
Zmimszałe ćwiły borogovie
I rcie grdypały z mrzerzy.


Janusz Korwin-Mikke

Błyszniało – szlisgich hopuch świr
Tęczując w kałdach świtrzem wre,
Mizgłupny był borolągw hyr,
Chrząszczury wlizły młe.

„Żabrołak kąsa chwytem szczęk
– mój synu – szponów cięć się strzeż!
Dziabdziaba bój się! Budzi lęk
Bandaper, skroźny zwierz!”

Żarłacny miecz wziął w dłoń i wciąż
Człowroga tropem dążył wraz
Aż skrywszy się, gdzie Tumtumu pnie,
Zadumał jakiś czas.

Wtem jak w uffnieniu myśli wstał:
Żabrołak z płogniem w oku wżdy
Przez tłuszczy gwiszcząc drze się zwał,
Burklotem idąc grzmi!

Raz-dwa! Raz-dwa! Na wskroś! Na wskroś!
Żarłacny miecz tnie ściachu-ciach!
Gdy ścierwem legł, wziął jego łeb
W dom galopyszniąc gna!

„Tyś żabrołaka zrąbł! Pójdź zaś
W ramiona me promieńcze cny!
O chwielbny dniu! Hej-ho! Hej-lu!”
Chichrypiał rad przez łzy.

Błyszniało – szlisgich hopuch świr
Tęczując w kałdach świtrzem wre,
Mizgłupny był borolągw hyr,
Chrząszczury wlizły młe.


Jolanta Kozak

Bzdrężyło. Szłapy maślizgajne
Bujowierciły w gargazonach
Tubylerczykom spełły fajle,
Humpel wyświchnął ponad.

„Dziaberlak tuż, więc trwóż się, trwóż!
I szykuj, synu, długi nóż!
Z nim ptak Dzióbdziób i słychać tup
Pazurnych Kociłapów stóp!”

On ujał w dłoń zadzierżny miecz.
Chłystnego wroga ścigał precz,
Aż utrudzony zdysznie siadł
Pod wielkim drzewem Dziaodziad.

A gdy w przcupie zmyślnym trwał,
Od chąszczwy lasu pędzi w cwał,
Garumfifując, smocząc skry,
Dziaberlak arcydzicznie zły!

I raz! I dwa! I cup! I łup!
Zadzierżny miecz – bezłebski trup!
Lecz furda trup, gdy trupem łeb!
Więc łaps za łeb! I galump w step!

„Dziaberlak zgłowion? Strupion? Padł?
Pójdź w me ramiona, boś ty chwat!
O, świętny dzień! Hurra! Hip hip!
Tralala bum cyk cyk!”

Bzdrężyło. Szłapy maślizgajne
Bujowierciły w gargazonach
Tubylerczykom spełły fajle,
Humpel wyświchnął ponad.Jolanta Chrostowska-Sufa edytował(a) ten post dnia 03.12.08 o godzinie 09:12
3.12.2008, 09:11

Jolanta Chrostowska-Sufa Redakcja, korekta,
adiustacja, zlecone
teksty autorskie,

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna


Anne Sexton (9 listopada 1928 – 4 października 1974, urodzona jako Anne Gray Harvey) była amerykańską poetką i pisarką. Cierpiała przez większą część życia na depresję; pisanie poezji zostało jej zalecone przez psychiatrę w ramach terapii. W tym celu zapisała się na kurs tworzenia poezji (gdzie poznała poetkę Sylvię Plath). Sexton przetarła szlaki nie tylko dla kobiet poetek, ale również dla tematów kobiecych w poezji: menstruacji, aborcji, masturbacji czy zdrady; tematy te były w poezji uważane za tabu. Intymny, prywatny charakter jej twórczości każe zaliczyć Sexton do kręgu poetów konfesjonalnych. W 1967 r. otrzymała Nagrodę Pulitzera za zbiór Live or Die.
Anne Sexton zmarła śmiercią samobójczą w 1974 roku.


I am not lazy.
I am on the amphetamine of the soul.
I am, each day,
typing out the God
my typewriter believes in.
Very quick. Very intense,
like a wolf at a live heart.
Not lazy.
When a lazy man, they say,
looks toward heaven,
the angels close the windows.

Oh angels,
keep the windows open
so that I may reach in
and steal each object,
objects that tell me the sea is not dying,
objects that tell me the dirt has a life-wish,
that the Christ who walked for me,
walked on true ground
and that this frenzy,
like bees stinging the heart all morning,
will keep the angels
with their windows open,
wide as an English bathtub.

Przekład wiersza w tłumaczeniu Marii Korusiewicz w temacie W głąb siebie... („Szaleństwo i geniusz”).Jolanta Chrostowska-Sufa edytował(a) ten post dnia 18.12.08 o godzinie 21:05
18.12.2008, 20:50

Ryszard Mierzejewski poeta, tłumacz i
krytyk literacki,
wolny ptak

Temat: Poezja anglojęzyczna

Anne Sexton


Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.

Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.

Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren't good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.

But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.

przekład Moniki J. Sujczyńskiej pt. "Słowa"
w temacie W zamieci słowa...

The Kiss

My mouth blooms like a cut.
I've been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby, you fool!

Before today my body was useless.
Now it's tearing at its square corners.
It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot
and see - Now it's shot full of these electric bolts.
Zing! A resurrection!

Once it was a boat, quite wooden
and with no business, no salt water under it
and in need of some paint. It was no more
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.
She's been elected.

My nerves are turned on. I hear them like
musical instruments. Where there was silence
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire.

przekład Teresy Truszkowskiej pt. "Pocałunek"
w temacie Pocałunki

The Touch

For months my hand was sealed off
in a tin box. Nothing was there but the subway railings.
Perhaps it is bruised, I thought,
and that is why they have locked it up.
You could tell time by this, I thought,
like a clock, by its five knuckles
and the thin underground veins.
It lay there like an unconscious woman
fed by tubes she knew not of.

The hand had collapse,
a small wood pigeon
that had gone into seclusion.
I turned it over and the palm was old,
its lines traced like fine needlepoint
and stitched up into fingers.
It was fat and soft and blind in places.
Nothing but vulnerable.

And all this is metaphor.
An ordinary hand -- just lonely
for something to touch
that touches back.
The dog won't do it.
Her tail wags in the swamp for a frog.
I'm no better than a case of dog food.
She owns her own hunger.
My sisters won't do it.
They live in school except for buttons
and tears running down like lemonade.
My father won't do it.
He comes in the house and even at night
he lives in a machine made by my mother
and well oiled by his job, his job.

The trouble is
that I'd let my gestures freeze.
The trouble was not
in the kitchen or the tulips
but only in my head, my head.

Then all this became history.
Your hand found mine.
Life rushed to my fingers like a blood clot.
Oh, my carpenter,
the fingers are rebuilt.
They dance with yours.
They dance in the attic and in Vienna.
My hand is alive all over America.
Not even death will stop it,
death shedding her blood.
Nothing will stop it, for this is the kingdom
and the kingdom come.

przekład Beaty Pusłowskeij pt. "Dotknięcie"
w temacie Dotknij mnie...- R. M.
Ryszard Mierzejewski edytował(a) ten post dnia 20.03.09 o godzinie 11:42
18.12.2008, 21:58

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