Говорят, язык становится "родным" тогда, когда начинаешь впитывать поэзию на этом языке. Не просто песни, а именно - умение запоминать стихи, чувствовать тонкость языка в стихах.
Мое знакомство с поэзией на английском началось еще на лицейских уроках английского,
Robert Burns, с простого
O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
Потом я перешла на более сложные тексты, книги.
Псалмы Библии - сначала я узнала о них на английском, и только потом - на русском.
Сегодня в rusam спросили про американскую прозу, и "Остапа понесло" - стала вспоминать то, что зацепилось в памяти, осталось образами и всполохами слов.
Breathe deep the gathering gloom,
Watch lights fade from every room.
Bedsitter people look back and lament,
Another day's useless energy spent.
Impassioned lovers wrestle as one,
Lonely man cries for love and has none.
New mother picks up and suckles her son,
Senior citizens wish they were young.
Cold hearted orb that rules the night,
Removes the colours from our sight.
Red is grey and yellow white,
But we decide which is right.
And which is an illusion???
И вот, оттуда же:
Methodically smoking my cigarette
Every breath I breathe out the day
With every delicious sip
I drink away the night
Stroking my hair to
The beat of his heart
Watching a boy turn into a man
То, что я впервые у него прочитала из поэзии -
"Танец одинокой лисы"
LONE FOX DANCING
As I walked home last night
I saw a lone fox dancing
In the cold moonlight.
I stood and watched. Then
Took the low road, knowing
The night was his by right.
Sometimes, when words ring true,
I'm like a lone fox dancing
In the morning dew.
+ It isn't time that's passing by,
It is you and I....
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft star-shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
The Road Not Taken
The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
In youth, it was a way I had
To do my best to please,
And change, with every passing lad,
To suit his theories.
But now I know the things I know,
And do the things I do;
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you!
They hail you as their morning star
Because you are the way you are.
If you return the sentiment,
They'll try to make you different;
And once they have you, safe and sound,
They want to change you all around.
Your moods and ways they put a curse on;
They'd make of you another person.
They cannot let you go your gait;
They influence and educate.
They'd alter all that they admired.
They make me sick, they make me tired.
“I am addicted. I’ve collected footsteps before dawn, seen places I never knew existed, run to the moon and back, been a rabbit for the neighborhood dogs, obeyed the voice in my head, let music carry me when I couldn’t, raced against yesterday, let the world be my witness, measured myself in metres, kilometres and finally character. I’ve plugged into a higher purpose, left this world and come back changed. I am addicted.”
(c) Nke. “Run Like You’ve Never Run Before
By Rhian Gallagher
It is a room just off to the side of our lives
newly emptied. Our small clutter spills
across polished surfaces as we fill up the vacancy.
Halt of a lift, voices that come through walls like a cloud,
no-one lives here. It is a room with no country.
Our half-emptied bags wearing yesterday’s flight tags,
the room makes loud its limitation yet
holds out hours and gives us passport. Space.
All around are towers, floors of rooms, window
squares of light. The city sounds, loading, unloading.
We draw the curtains on a night that is wide as the Atlantic.
Что-то еще вспоминается иногда, от случая к случаю, но специально я не читаю, не ищу стихи на английском - просто иногда они находят меня. Иногда пишу на английском.
Поделитесь стихами на английском, какие нравятся вам?