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Mosaic/Mosaik/Mosaïque/Mosaico/Mosáico Other languages... Раздел для общения на языках, отличных от русского, а так же для обсуждения межъязыковой психологии с использованием нескольких языков одновременно. |
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Опции темы |
20.12.2007, 05:38 | #1 |
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Poetry
Though we travel
the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we will find it not. R.W.Emerson |
17.04.2015, 09:24 | #2 | |
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Цитата:
They talk in the shaken pine, And they fill the reach of the old seashore With dialoge divine; And the poet who overhears One random word they say Is the fated man of men Whom the ages must obey... Emerson |
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17.04.2015, 18:34 | #3 |
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I do not know much about gods;
... For most of us, there is only the unattended Moment, the moment in and out of time, The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight, The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply That it is not heard at all, but you are the music While the music lasts. T.S. Eliot |
21.05.2015, 21:15 | #4 |
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В оригинале, по-английски и по-русски
"Song of Childhood" by Peter Handke Lied Vom Kindsein – Peter Handke Als das Kind Kind war, ging es mit hängenden Armen, wollte der Bach sei ein Fluß, der Fluß sei ein Strom, und diese Pfütze das Meer. Als das Kind Kind war, wußte es nicht, daß es Kind war, alles war ihm beseelt, und alle Seelen waren eins. Als das Kind Kind war, hatte es von nichts eine Meinung, hatte keine Gewohnheit, saß oft im Schneidersitz, lief aus dem Stand, hatte einen Wirbel im Haar und machte kein Gesicht beim fotografieren. Als das Kind Kind war, war es die Zeit der folgenden Fragen: Warum bin ich ich und warum nicht du? Warum bin ich hier und warum nicht dort? Wann begann die Zeit und wo endet der Raum? Ist das Leben unter der Sonne nicht bloß ein Traum? Ist was ich sehe und höre und rieche nicht bloß der Schein einer Welt vor der Welt? Gibt es tatsächlich das Böse und Leute, die wirklich die Bösen sind? Wie kann es sein, daß ich, der ich bin, bevor ich wurde, nicht war, und daß einmal ich, der ich bin, nicht mehr der ich bin, sein werde? Als das Kind Kind war, würgte es am Spinat, an den Erbsen, am Milchreis, und am gedünsteten Blumenkohl. und ißt jetzt das alles und nicht nur zur Not. Als das Kind Kind war, erwachte es einmal in einem fremden Bett und jetzt immer wieder, erschienen ihm viele Menschen schön und jetzt nur noch im Glücksfall, stellte es sich klar ein Paradies vor und kann es jetzt höchstens ahnen, konnte es sich Nichts nicht denken und schaudert heute davor. Als das Kind Kind war, spielte es mit Begeisterung und jetzt, so ganz bei der Sache wie damals, nur noch, wenn diese Sache seine Arbeit ist. Als das Kind Kind war, genügten ihm als Nahrung Apfel, Brot, und so ist es immer noch. Als das Kind Kind war, fielen ihm die Beeren wie nur Beeren in die Hand und jetzt immer noch, machten ihm die frischen Walnüsse eine rauhe Zunge und jetzt immer noch, hatte es auf jedem Berg die Sehnsucht nach dem immer höheren Berg, und in jeder Stadt die Sehnsucht nach der noch größeren Stadt, und das ist immer noch so, griff im Wipfel eines Baums nach dem Kirschen in einemHochgefühl wie auch heute noch, eine Scheu vor jedem Fremden und hat sie immer noch, wartete es auf den ersten Schnee, und wartet so immer noch. Als das Kind Kind war, warf es einen Stock als Lanze gegen den Baum, und sie zittert da heute noch. Song of Childhood – Peter Handke When the child was a child It walked with its arms swinging, wanted the brook to be a river, the river to be a torrent, and this puddle to be the sea. When the child was a child, it didn’t know that it was a child, everything was soulful, and all souls were one. When the child was a child, it had no opinion about anything, had no habits, it often sat cross-legged, took off running, had a cowlick in its hair, and made no faces when photographed. When the child was a child, It was the time for these questions: Why am I me, and why not you? Why am I here, and why not there? When did time begin, and where does space end? Is life under the sun not just a dream? Is what I see and hear and smell not just an illusion of a world before the world? Given the facts of evil and people. does evil really exist? How can it be that I, who I am, didn’t exist before I came to be, and that, someday, I, who I am, will no longer be who I am? When the child was a child, It choked on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding, and on steamed cauliflower, and eats all of those now, and not just because it has to. When the child was a child, it awoke once in a strange bed, and now does so again and again. Many people, then, seemed beautiful, and now only a few do, by sheer luck. It had visualized a clear image of Paradise, and now can at most guess, could not conceive of nothingness, and shudders today at the thought. When the child was a child, It played with enthusiasm, and, now, has just as much excitement as then, but only when it concerns its work. When the child was a child, It was enough for it to eat an apple, … bread, And so it is even now. When the child was a child, Berries filled its hand as only berries do, and do even now, Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw, and do even now, it had, on every mountaintop, the longing for a higher mountain yet, and in every city, the longing for an even greater city, and that is still so, It reached for cherries in topmost branches of trees with an elation it still has today, has a shyness in front of strangers, and has that even now. It awaited the first snow, And waits that way even now. When the child was a child, It threw a stick like a lance against a tree, And it quivers there still today. Песня детства - Петер Хандке
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22.05.2015, 12:29 | #5 |
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A Song of Opposites by John Keats
"Under the flag Of each his faction, they to battle bring Their embryon atoms." - Milton Welcome joy, and welcome sorrow, Lethe's weed and Hermes' feather; Come to-day, and come to-morrow, I do love you both together! I love to mark sad faces in fair weather; And hear a merry laugh amid the thunder; Fair and foul I love together. Meadows sweet where flames are under, And a giggle at a wonder; Visage sage at pantomine; Funeral, and steeple-chime; Infant playing with a skull; Morning fair, and shipwreck'd hull; Nightshade with the woodbine kissing; Serpents in red roses hissing; Cleopatra regal-dress'd With the aspic at her breast; Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad; Muses bright and muses pale; Sombre Saturn, Momus hale; - Laugh and sigh, and laugh again; Oh the sweetness of the pain! Muses bright, and muses pale, Bare your faces of the veil; Let me see; and let me write Of the day, and of the night - Both together: - let me slake All my thirst for sweet heart-ache! Let my bower be of yew, Interwreath'd with myrtles new; Pines and lime-trees full in bloom, And my couch a low grass-tomb. ↓↓ Песня противоположностей |
22.05.2015, 20:23 | #6 |
Пользуясь случаем, хочу..
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For years this short verse is my favourite:
Remember me is all I ask, But if remembrance proves a task - Forget! Byron
__________________
у вас ещё не всё так плохо и в целом даже хорошо сказал психолог и заплакав ушел (с) |
30.05.2015, 07:42 | #7 |
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We and They
FATHER, Mother, and Me Sister and Auntie say All the people like us are We, And every one else is They. And They live over the sea, While We live over the way, But - would you believe it? - They look upon We As only a sort of They ! We eat pork and beef With cow-horn-handled knives. They who gobble Their rice off a leaf, Are horrified out of Their lives; And They who live up a tree, And feast on grubs and clay, (Isn't it scandalous?) look upon We As a simply disgusting They! We shoot birds with a gun. They stick lions with spears. Their full-dress is un-. We dress up to Our ears. They like Their friends for tea. We like Our friends to stay; And, after all that, They look upon We As an utterly ignorant They! We eat kitcheny food. We have doors that latch. They drink milk or blood, Under an open thatch. We have Doctors to fee. They have Wizards to pay. And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We As a quite impossible They! All good people agree, And all good people say, All nice people, like Us, are We And every one else is They: But if you cross over the sea, Instead of over the way, You may end by (think of it!) looking on We As only a sort of They ! Rudyard Kipling На русском МЫ и ОНИ Мама, папа и сам я не раз повторяли: вовек, искони МЫ- это те, кто похожи на нас А все остальные - ОНИ Далеко за морями ОНИ живут, наших улиц близко огни Но (можешь поверить?) ОНИ нас зовут Какие-то эти ОНИ МЫ мясо, которым смогли запастись, Вилкой едим и ножом ОНИ с листьев в вечном страхе за жизнь Рис глотают нечищенным ртом Поглoщая личинок в глине запас, Проводя на деревьях дни Какая наглость! ОНИ зовут нас Омерзительные ОНИ. МЫ стреляем из ружей в птиц, ОНИ целятся копьями в львов Степень их наготы не имеет границ, МЫ одеты с ног до голов МЫ ценим за чаем друга рассказ. ОНИ ценят друзей, как гарнир И после всего ОНИ зовут нас Невежественные ОНИ! МЫ на кухнях еду готовим легко, И надежен замков наших плен ОНИ кровь сырую, как молоко, Лакают в лачугах без стен. Для нас докторов спасающий труд Почетней шамана возни Но дерзкие варавары нас зовут Возмутительные ОНИ. Все добрые люди, их - много, их-тьмы Согласны - кого ни возьми Хорошие люди, как МЫ - это МЫ, А все остальные ОНИ Но, подумай, увидев море с кормы, А не соседей плетни Может, и вправду, случится, что МЫ Для тебя превратятся в ОНИ |
30.05.2015, 10:01 | #8 |
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the soul is built to cruise..
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02.06.2015, 21:48 | #9 |
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[love is more thicker than forget]
by E. E. Cummings
love is more thicker than forget more thinner than recall more seldom than a wave is wet more frequent than to fail it is most mad and moonly and less it shall unbe than all the sea which only is deeper than the sea love is less always than to win less never than alive less bigger than the least begin less littler than forgive it is most sane and sunly and more it cannot die than all the sky which only is higher than the sky ↓↓ Перевод Леонида Черткова |
07.08.2015, 20:26 | #10 |
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The Song of Wandering Aengus
W. B. Yeats, 1865 - 1939 I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air. Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun. Песня скитальца Энгуса (перевод Г.М.Кружков) Я вышел в мглистый лес ночной, Чтоб лоб горящий остудить, Орешниковый срезал прут, Содрал кору, приладил нить. И в час, когда светлела мгла И гасли звезды-мотыльки, Я серебристую форель Поймал на быстрине реки. Я положил ее в траву И стал раскладывать костер, Как вдруг услышал чей-то смех, Невнятный тихий разговор. Предстала дева предо мной, Светясь, как яблоневый цвет, Окликнула — и скрылась прочь, В прозрачный канула рассвет. Пускай я стар, пускай устал От косогоров и холмов, Но чтоб ее поцеловать, Я снова мир пройти готов, И травы мять, и с неба рвать, Плоды земные разлюбив, Серебряный налив луны И солнца золотой налив. |
09.08.2015, 10:29 | #11 |
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Who are you really, wanderer?
A Story That Could Be True
If you were exchanged in the cradle and your real mother died without ever telling the story then no one knows your name, and somewhere in the world your father is lost and needs you but you are far away. He can never find how true you are, how ready. When the great wind comes and the robberies of the rain you stand on the corner shivering. The people who go by – you wonder at their calm. They miss the whisper that runs any day in your mind, “Who are you really, wanderer?”— and the answer you have to give no matter how dark and cold the world around you is: “Maybe I'm a king.” Yes It could happen any time, tornado, earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen. Or sunshine, love, salvation. It could, you know. That's why we wake and look out – no guarantees in this life. But some bonuses, like morning, like right now, like noon, like evening. The Little Ways That Encourage Good Fortune Wisdom is having things right in your life and knowing why. If you do not have things right in your life you will by overwhelmed: you may be heroic, but you will not be wise. If you have things right in your life but do not know why, You are just lucky, and you will not move in the little ways that encourage good fortune. The saddest are those not right in their lives who are acting to make things right for others: they act only from the self – and that self will never be right: no luck, no help, no wisdom. William Stafford |
22.09.2015, 07:39 | #12 |
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The Gypsy Trail
THE white moth to the closing bine, The bee to the opened clover, And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood Ever the wide world over. Ever the wide world over, lass, Ever the trail held true, Over the world and under the world, And back at the last to you. Out of the dark of the gorgio camp, Out of the grime and the gray (Morning waits at the end of the world), Gipsy, come away! The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp The red crane to her reed, And the Romany lass to the Romany lad, By the tie of a roving breed. The pied snake to the rifted rock, The buck to the stony plain, And the Romany lass to the Romany lad, And both to the road again. Both to the road again, again! Out on a clean sea-track -- Follow the cross of the gipsy trail Over the world and back! Follow the Romany patteran North where the blue bergs sail, And the bows are grey with the frozen spray, And the masts are shod with mail. Follow the Romany patteran Sheer to the Austral Light, Where the besom of God is the wild South wind, Sweeping the sea-floors white. Follow the Romany patteran West to the sinking sun, Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift. And the east and west are one. Follow the Romany patteran East where the silence broods By a purple wave on an opal beach In the hush of the Mahim woods. "The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, The deer to the wholesome wold, And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, As it was in the days of old." The heart of a man to the heart of a maid -- Light of my tents, be fleet. Morning waits at the end of the world, And the world is all at our feet! Rudyard Kipling |
22.09.2015, 21:15 | #13 |
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Meg Merrilies (John Keats)
Old Meg she was a gipsy; And liv'd upon the moors: Her bed it was the brown heath turf, And her house was out of doors. Her apples were swart blackberries, Her currants, pods o' broom; Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, Her book a church-yard tomb. Her brothers were the craggy hills, Her sisters larchen trees; Alone with her great family She liv'd as she did please. No breakfast had she many a morn, No dinner many a noon, And 'stead of supper she would stare Full hard against the moon. But every morn, of woodbine fresh She made her garlanding, And every night the dark glen yew She wove, and she would sing. And with her fingers old and brown She plaited mats o' rushes, And gave them to the cottagers She met among the bushes. Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen, And tall as Amazon: An old red blanket cloak she wore, A chip hat had she on. God rest her aged bones somewhere-- She died full long agone! ↓↓ Мэг Меррилиз |
29.09.2015, 08:09 | #14 |
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I met a ghost, but he didn’t want my head,
He only wanted to know the way to Denver. I met a devil, but he didn’t want my soul, He only wanted to borrow my bike awhile. I met a vampire, but he didn’t want my blood, He only wanted two nickels for a dime. I keep meeting all the right people— At all the wrong times. Shel Silverstein |
29.09.2015, 08:13 | #15 |
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THE PLANET OF MARS
On the planet of Mars They have clothes just like ours, And they have the same shoes and same laces, And they have the same charms and same graces, And they have the same heads and same faces… But not in the Very same Places. Shel Silverstein |
10.10.2015, 18:18 | #16 |
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***
Among twenty snowy mountains, The only moving thing Was the eye of the blackbird. *** I was of three minds, Like a tree In which there are three blackbirds. *** The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying. (from Wallace Stevens. "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird") |
28.10.2015, 19:48 | #17 |
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Wallace Stevens
Six Significant Landscapes I An old man sits In the shadow of a pine tree In China. He sees larkspur, Blue and white, At the edge of the shadow, Move in the wind. His beard moves in the wind. The pine tree moves in the wind. Thus water flows Over weeds. II The night is of the colour Of a woman's arm: Night, the female, Obscure, Fragrant and supple, Conceals herself. A pool shines, Like a bracelet Shaken in a dance. III I measure myself Against a tall tree. I find that I am much taller, For I reach right up to the sun, With my eye; And I reach to the shore of the sea With my ear. Nevertheless, I dislike The way ants crawl In and out of my shadow. IV When my dream was near the moon, The white folds of its gown Filled with yellow light. The soles of its feet Grew red. Its hair filled With certain blue crystallizations From stars, Not far off. V Not all the knives of the lamp-posts, Nor the chisels of the long streets, Nor the mallets of the domes And high towers, Can carve What one star can carve, Shining through the grape-leaves. VI Rationalists, wearing square hats, Think, in square rooms, Looking at the floor, Looking at the ceiling. They confine themselves To right-angled triangles. If they tried rhomboids, Cones, waving lines, ellipses -- As, for example, the ellipse of the half-moon -- Rationalists would wear sombreros. Gray Room Although you sit in a room that is gray, Except for the silver Of the straw-paper, And pick At your pale white gown; Or lift one of the green beads Of your necklace, To let it fall; Or gaze at your green fan Printed with the red branches of a red willow; Or, with one finger, Move the leaf in the bowl-- The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia Beside you... What is all this? I know how furiously your heart is beating. |
03.12.2015, 03:48 | #18 |
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Robert Graves. Fairies and Fusiliers
I NEVER dreamed we’d meet that day In our old haunts down Fricourt way, Plotting such marvellous journeys there For jolly old “Après-la-guerre.” Well, when it’s over, first we’ll meet 5 At Gweithdy Bach, my country seat In Wales, a curious little shop With two rooms and a roof on top, A sort of Morlancourt-ish billet That never needs a crowd to fill it. 10 But oh, the country round about! The sort of view that makes you shout For want of any better way Of praising God: there’s a blue bay Shining in front, and on the right 15 Snowden and Hebog capped with white, And lots of other jolly peaks That you could wonder at for weeks, With jag and spur and hump and cleft. There’s a grey castle on the left, 20 And back in the high Hinterland You’ll see the grave of Shawn Knarlbrand, Who slew the savage Buffaloon By the Nant-col one night in June, And won his surname from the horn 25 Of this prodigious unicorn. Beyond, where the two Rhinogs tower, Rhinog Fach and Rhinog Fawr, Close there after a four years’ chase From Thessaly and the woods of Thrace, 30 The beaten Dog-cat stood at bay And growled and fought and passed away. You’ll see where mountain conies grapple With prayer and creed in their rock chapel Which Ben and Claire once built for them; 35 They call it Söar Bethlehem. You’ll see where in old Roman days, Before Revivals changed our ways, The Virgin ’scaped the Devil’s grab, Printing her foot on a stone slab 40 With five clear toe-marks; and you’ll find The fiendish thumbprint close behind. You’ll see where Math, Mathonwy’s son, Spoke with the wizard Gwydion And bad him from South Wales set out 45 To steal that creature with the snout, That new-discovered grunting beast Divinely flavoured for the feast. No traveller yet has hit upon A wilder land than Meirion, 50 For desolate hills and tumbling stones, Bogland and melody and old bones. Fairies and ghosts are here galore, And poetry most splendid, more Than can be written with the pen 55 Or understood by common men. In Gweithdy Bach we’ll rest awhile, We’ll dress our wounds and learn to smile With easier lips; we’ll stretch our legs, And live on bilberry tart and eggs, 60 And store up solar energy, Basking in sunshine by the sea, Until we feel a match once more For anything but another war. So then we’ll kiss our families, 65 And sail across the seas (The God of Song protecting us) To the great hills of Caucasus. Robert will learn the local bat For billeting and things like that, 70 If Siegfried learns the piccolo To charm the people as we go. The jolly peasants clad in furs Will greet the Welch-ski officers With open arms, and ere we pass 75 Will make us vocal with Kavasse. In old Bagdad we’ll call a halt At the Sâshuns’ ancestral vault; We’ll catch the Persian rose-flowers’ scent, And understand what Omar meant. 80 Bitlis and Mush will know our faces, Tiflis and Tomsk, and all such places. Perhaps eventually we’ll get Among the Tartars of Thibet. Hobnobbing with the Chungs and Mings, 85 And doing wild, tremendous things In free adventure, quest and fight, And God! what poetry we’ll write! |
15.12.2015, 06:42 | #19 |
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Gift
You tell me that silence is nearer to peace than poems but if for my gift I brought you silence (for I know silence) you would say This is not silence this is another poem and you would hand it back to me Leonard Cohen |
18.08.2016, 18:53 | #20 |
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Tell Me
Shel Silverstein Tell me I'm clever, Tell me I'm kind, Tell me I'm talented, Tell me I'm cute, Tell me I'm sensitive, Graceful and wise, Tell me I'm perfect - But tell me the truth. |
13.12.2018, 17:59 | #21 |
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Гертруда Стайн написала портрет Пикассо в стихах. Стих необычный, но если читать вслух, то воспринимается как стих. И в конце там (спойлер) появляется смысл. Пикассо тоже написал портрет Гертруды Стайн
If I Told Him, A Completed Portrait of Picasso If I told him would he like it. Would he like it if I told him. Would he like it would Napoleon would Napoleon would would he like it. If Napoleon if I told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if I told him if I told him if Napoleon. Would he like it if Napoleon if Napoleon if I told him. If I told him if Napoleon if Napoleon if I told him. If I told him would he like it would he like it if I told him. Now. Not now. And now. Now. Exactly as as kings. Feeling full for it. Exactitude as kings. So to beseech you as full as for it. Exactly or as kings. Shutters shut and open so do queens. Shutters shut and shutters and so shutters shut and shutters and so and so shutters and so shutters shut and so shutters shut and shutters and so. And so shutters shut and so and also. And also and so and so and also. Exact resemblance. To exact resemblance the exact resemblance as exact as a resemblance, exactly as resembling, exactly resembling, exactly in resemblance exactly a resemblance, exactly and resemblance. For this is so. Because. Now actively repeat at all, now actively repeat at all, now actively repeat at all. Have hold and hear, actively repeat at all. I judge judge. As a resemblance to him. Who comes first. Napoleon the first. Who comes too coming coming too, who goes there, as they go they share, who shares all, all is as all as as yet or as yet. Now to date now to date. Now and now and date and the date. Who came first. Napoleon at first. Who came first Napoleon the first. Who came first, Napoleon first. Presently. Exactly do they do. First exactly. Exactly do they do too. First exactly. And first exactly. Exactly do they do. And first exactly and exactly. And do they do. At first exactly and first exactly and do they do. The first exactly. And do they do. The first exactly. At first exactly. First as exactly. As first as exactly. Presently As presently. As as presently. He he he he and he and he and and he and he and he and and as and as he and as he and he. He is and as he is, and as he is and he is, he is and as he and he and as he is and he and he and and he and he. Can curls rob can curls quote, quotable. As presently. As exactitude. As trains Has trains. Has trains. As trains. As trains. Presently. Proportions. Presently. As proportions as presently. Father and farther. Was the king or room. Farther and whether. Was there was there was there what was there was there what was there was there there was there. Whether and in there. As even say so. One. I land. Two. I land. Three. The land. Three The land. Three The land. Two I land. Two I land. One I land. Two I land. As a so. They cannot. A note. They cannot. A float. They cannot. They dote. They cannot. They as denote. Miracles play. Play fairly. Play fairly well. A well. As well. As or as presently. Let me recite what history teaches. History teaches. |
17.12.2018, 22:05 | #22 |
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Вчера ходила на встречу книжного клуба. Все читали свои любимые стихи. Я читала "Цыганы" (начало) Пушкина, естественно в переводе.
Одна женщина(родом из Индии) читала стихи Рабиндраната Тагора (мне понравились) еще одна читала Оду Вязаным Носкам (https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/ode-my-socks) Пабло Неруды. Потом по памяти декламировали Одна женщина поделилась шедевром See the happy moron, He doesn’t give a damn, I wish I were a moron, My God! perhaps I am! |
08.02.2019, 19:12 | #23 |
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The Tyger
By William Blake (он также был художноком, и картины его похожи на эти стихи) Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, & what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? & what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp! When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? |