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d'Este

  • 11th Dec, 2001 at 11:17 PM
grafiti
Несколько стихотворений поэтессы итальянского происхождения Jessica d'Este, которая ныне живет в Англии и является одним из моих близких друзей здесь. Если кому "этот сорт вещей" интересен, оставьте записку в комментах - я еще ее стихов набью. Пока выбрал самое любимое.



Jessica d'Este

from the book "WINE, WOMAN AND SONG"
IMPRESS: LONDON & NETER WESTCOTE 1998




* * *

EPILOGUE

Oh Life!
Exciting, strange
Think the same
Of Death.




* * *

ELEGY
for Elizabeth Lyons

Side by side
We attend Elizabeth
And feel her presence
Spared a grievance
She's not been spared
Since before the illness

Except when painting
When more of her surfaced
More of her survived impatience
Turbulence, strife
The toll-taking, soul-searching
Acts of creating
That alight darkness
Change life.

If a right to redemption exists
She's saint who did it
With paint - vital and vivid!
Never easy, never less
Than uncompromised - yet she rests
Her face without bitterness
Looking ancient and wise
Composed like a painting:

Serenity in it
Accord we can see - mind and spirit
She's forgiven life its limit!
If only to leave in behind
Understood last minute
Finally carefree
Good for eternity.




* * *

AFTER EDEN

This
compensates us
for death: from Adam

Eve gets tenderness, lodged
with his flesh
as her cradling thigh, redressed
since Eden, blooms yet

in disguis. Now we've met, why not
flourish? even as flesh colours, suffusing
with blood when we bruise, as it was
after falling; I've loved

since to jettison dying
you clutched me; unhidl surprised when
I did

I do not please to be wise, just good -
poised in this creation of pairs by design
to be better misused, even misunderstood
than denied.




* * *

PLENTY

Now, months later
the taste of plums, peaches
the gum of red oranges
brings a brief flavour
of the shop in Siena
where, when both of us
lunched on its fruit
it struck you like Christmas
how best
with the last of your freedom unspent
to take plenty back
at once, fresh
and, for once, aslo
abundant.




* * *

HIS DREAM

In his dream of love
He dreams of
Singing to her
Above top C, beyond
A sea of faces looking on
Charmed as she is charmed
By clarity
And escalades of tone
That carry the tune and tempo
Of a Renoir afternoon
Into tremulous song;

Mid rise of talent
For her alone:
Sound and power beyond him - known
Like a sweet trumpet at Resurrection draws
Or claps of thunder
Or applause.


Comments

( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
ratatawi wrote:
12th Dec, 2001 06:00 (UTC)
Перечитала трижды.

Первый раз не понравилось.
Второй раз подумалось, что все пропало: мой английский объявил себя пассивным запасом.
Третий раз захотелось еще чего-нибудь of the sort.
Присылайте? ::)

Тож хочу прислать один стих на аглицком. Не забыть.
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )