avatarakali (avatarakali) wrote,

Поэзия бега -3: бего- и триатлоно-стихи на английском

Прошлый вечер поэзии на английском удался - по ссылке собраны мои любимые вирши на английском, например, Мoody Blues
Late Lament

Сегодня у нас - поэзия про бег. На самом деле, я хотела очередной выпуск country сделать, но, о чем, буквально, болит, как говорится... =) Кантри, значит, следующим выпуском пойдет.

Когда у меня стали складываться слова про бег, подумала - а ведь наверняка уже люди много написали в этом плане. Оказывается, да.

This beast can be gentle
It purrs and rolls
You know it when
You run long miles
and then
It gives out smooth beeline dash

It also can be rough and stubborn
And cranky. It gasps
for freedom. For loosening up
So - let it fly.

Take it for a run
Call of the wild
It will thank you back
Step over it's limits, learn what's beyond them
Tenacious, mighty, yet so - fragile
When you get to know it - you think and hope that you'll never die.
(c) avatarakali

+3 стихотворения про бег -
  • Марафон,
  • Бег по пляжу и
  • Бег по беговой дорожке!!!


    it’s a strange time which finds me jogging
    in early morning
    the deadness of sleep alive in this world
    the empty parks filled with unloved strangers
    buildings grey with solitude
    now near the end of another decade
    i am witness to the loss of my twenties
    a promise invisible
    i run without purpose
    far from the north star
    i run with the sound of barking dogs closing in
    i have lost count of the miles
    i am older and nothing much matters
    or has changed
    Ethelbert Miller, “Marathon” from First Light: New and Selected Poems. Copyright © 1994 by Ethelbert Miller. Reprinted by permission of Black Classic Press.

    by Crystal Elizabeth Webb
    Created on: August 03, 2008


    Sea birds soar,
    Sweet-white grains of sand
    submit beneath my feet,
    Monsterous waves roll in,
    Methodically, massaging the beach;
    Sea shells, star-fish, shark's teeth
    are all washing up with the tide.
    In the darkest depths of the Ocean;
    so many creatures are in motion,
    So many strange things are alive!

    Salt-water splashes;
    The day quickly passes.
    as I run along the beach-
    My feet slap wet sand;
    at the edge of the land.
    In the distance, I hear a band-
    Rockin' rythms of Jimmy Buffet.
    I run until I reach the Pier,
    then I stop and buy myself a beer.
    The time for Sunset has drawn near,
    a welcome relief from the heat-
    the Sun's sensational show
    is about to begin
    and I've got a front-row seat!

    God on the Treadmill

    Sometimes it takes miles to give up resistance,
    though the mirror shows a body unresisting, shows
    perhaps something to admire. Others may.
    A body without difficulty loosening, breaking
    its own willfulness, cracking itself
    like a rusted bolt that finally begins to turn.
    A body that turns. Toward openness, fantasy,
    those desires of and not of the body. Sometimes
    I notice a powerful man engaged steadily
    repeating difficult action: folding himself, his tight
    skin, over and over, lifting a declined torso
    or pulling up a suspended trunk, and think,
    how neat, how controlled to be inside that body.
    I struggle not to stare, grip myself not to lose myself
    inside the thought of being inside that body.
    I can never get there I know because it is
    the image I want, the veneer of muscle
    having taken primacy from mind, now first
    among equals: bicep, abdominal, quadricep,
    the launch after launch of a perpetual run.
    I want the image even when I am it, or nearly it—
    because even then, I am also that other thing,
    self-conscious, burdened, struggling for movement.

    If there is a link between God and animals—
    the way He identifies with the so much
    that isn’t us, as He had to have, to have made them—
    it must be in the body enacting will immediate
    through movement, as if with a word
    creating a world (enacting creation immediate
    through speech). Which is to say, this is my time
    of prayer, my only time: miles in, as long
    as it takes for the body to relinquish resistance.
    Bright, public, surrounded by others who move
    toward better movement. And all the while seeing
    in a wall of mirrors that image of myself, deer,
    horse, running close kin to breathing, motion
    necessary to survival, perfect image of a man
    that I’m merely a self-conscious copy of.
    I pray for things, of course, for myself
    and for those whose pain touches me, selfish
    and unselfish prayers for intimates and strangers.
    I pray for the runner in the mirror, too, sleek, easy
    animal, unselfconscious and present, and absent
    as a god, the man who could almost be me,
    who I do my best to rush toward. I pray that
    one day, by His grace, we may meet.
    Benjamin S. Grossberg, “God on the Treadmill” from Sweet Core Orchard. ©

    А еще, оказывается, народ триатлоно-стихи пишет! =)
    by Olivier Blanchard
    Greenville, SC

    Tri-mantra (to be hissed or groaned at any unfriendly hill)

    In my world,
    The water is cold,
    The wind is hard,
    And the road never ends.

    In my world,
    There are no losers.
    Only competitors
    still on their way,
    And spectators
    waiting to be inspired.

    In my world,
    Victory is not weighed in gold,
    But in determination and courage.

    In my world,
    There are no boundaries,
    No limits,
    There is no end.
    Every day is the last day of my life,
    And the first.

    In my world,
    The word "can't" does not exist,
    And nothing is impossible.
  • Tags: i am addicted, poetry, running, tri
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