Варкалось...
Mar. 26th, 2011 08:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mckuroskeИ я наконец-то прослушала целиком дивный аудиоальбом английской поэзии. Мерил Стрип, Хелена Боннем-Картер и - та-дам! - Бенедикт свет Тимофеевич. Ну, и ещё другие.
Некоторые вещи явно написаны белым стихом и довольно сложно воспринимаются на слух. Зато теперь я полностью знаю цитату про оленей, которая постоянно где-то всплывает:
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
Прелестное стихотворение The Fairies, которое чудесно читает Дервла Кирван.
The Fairies
by
William Allingham
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
И совершенно покорило меня стихотворение Оскара нашего Уайльда Roses and Rue. В исполнении Руперта Пенри Джонса звучит потрясающе.
(To L. L.)
Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,
Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love's song,
We are parted too long.
Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead,
Could we live it all over again,
Were it worth the pain!
I remember we used to meet
By an ivied seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
With the air of a bird;
And your voice had a quaver in it,
Just like a linnet,
And shook, as the blackbird's throat
With its last big note;
And your eyes, they were green and grey
Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed;
And your mouth, it would never smile
For a long, long while,
Then it rippled all over with laughter
Five minutes after.
You were always afraid of a shower,
Just like a flower:
I remember you started and ran
When the rain began.
I remember I never could catch you,
For no one could match you,
You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,
Little wings to your feet.
I remember your hair - did I tie it?
For it always ran riot -
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:
These things are old.
I remember so well the room,
And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
In the warm June rain;
And the colour of your gown,
It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
From your shoulders rose.
And the handkerchief of French lace
Which you held to your face -
Had a small tear left a stain?
Or was it the rain?
On your hand as it waved adieu
There were veins of blue;
In your voice as it said good-bye
Was a petulant cry,
'You have only wasted your life.'
(Ah, that was the knife!)
When I rushed through the garden gate
It was all too late.
Could we live it over again,
Were it worth the pain,
Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead!
Well, if my heart must break,
Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know,
Poets' hearts break so.
But strange that I was not told
That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
God's heaven and hell.
Некоторые вещи явно написаны белым стихом и довольно сложно воспринимаются на слух. Зато теперь я полностью знаю цитату про оленей, которая постоянно где-то всплывает:
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
Прелестное стихотворение The Fairies, которое чудесно читает Дервла Кирван.
The Fairies
by
William Allingham
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He's nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n't go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl's feather.
И совершенно покорило меня стихотворение Оскара нашего Уайльда Roses and Rue. В исполнении Руперта Пенри Джонса звучит потрясающе.
(To L. L.)
Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,
Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love's song,
We are parted too long.
Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead,
Could we live it all over again,
Were it worth the pain!
I remember we used to meet
By an ivied seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
With the air of a bird;
And your voice had a quaver in it,
Just like a linnet,
And shook, as the blackbird's throat
With its last big note;
And your eyes, they were green and grey
Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed;
And your mouth, it would never smile
For a long, long while,
Then it rippled all over with laughter
Five minutes after.
You were always afraid of a shower,
Just like a flower:
I remember you started and ran
When the rain began.
I remember I never could catch you,
For no one could match you,
You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,
Little wings to your feet.
I remember your hair - did I tie it?
For it always ran riot -
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:
These things are old.
I remember so well the room,
And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
In the warm June rain;
And the colour of your gown,
It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
From your shoulders rose.
And the handkerchief of French lace
Which you held to your face -
Had a small tear left a stain?
Or was it the rain?
On your hand as it waved adieu
There were veins of blue;
In your voice as it said good-bye
Was a petulant cry,
'You have only wasted your life.'
(Ah, that was the knife!)
When I rushed through the garden gate
It was all too late.
Could we live it over again,
Were it worth the pain,
Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead!
Well, if my heart must break,
Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know,
Poets' hearts break so.
But strange that I was not told
That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
God's heaven and hell.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-03-26 07:01 am (UTC)Это ведь ночь перед Рождеством? Я его тоже очень люблю, и недавно вышедший перевод (Яснова, кажется) понравился - удачно сохранен ритм стиха.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-26 09:05 am (UTC)Если надо, могу рассказать, где брать. Или даже прислать. Я не там брала, где ты думаешь (хотя я не знаю, что ты думаешь).
no subject
Date: 2011-03-26 10:51 am (UTC)Недавно вышло на русском:
http://community.livejournal.com/5razvorotov/905293.html
no subject
Date: 2011-03-26 01:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-26 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-26 02:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-26 10:51 am (UTC)Если ты в другом, то пришли :) Хочу!
no subject
Date: 2011-03-26 09:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-27 04:53 am (UTC)Удачи :)
no subject
Date: 2011-03-27 05:30 am (UTC)Я вот фильмы побаиваюсь смотреть совсем без перевода (хотя, возможно, и зря): все-таки, много нюансов - разговорный язык, акценты и т.п. А если субтитры, то я отвлекаюсь на них. Аудиокниги и радиопостановки лучше идут, ничто не отвлекает. Ну, и очень хорошо слушать аудиокнигу, следя глазами по тексту.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-27 08:45 am (UTC)Вы предпочитаете аудиокниги, аудиопостановки, следуя по тексту, я фильмы с субтитрами. Интересно, какие мы разные.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-27 04:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-27 06:30 pm (UTC)Ой, как интересно. А не подскажете, где взять? (Понимаю, что запись старая, но вдруг вы помните).
no subject
Date: 2012-07-28 12:45 am (UTC)