Тумас Транстремер "Вермеер"

Крыши у мира нет. Есть – стена, сделай шаг –
и начинается шум, таверна
со смехом и руганью, бой часов и битье по зубам, свояк
с поехавшей крышей, пред коим дрожат безмерно.

Дикий взрыв и топот опоздавших спасателей. Корабли,
надутые ветром и важностью. Деньги, стремящиеся в основе
своей не к тем людям. Претензии, что легли
на претензии. Тюльпаны в поту от предчувствий соцветной крови.

С этого места, сквозь стену – прямехонько в мастерскую,
в мгновенье, живущее дальше само
собой. "Урок музыки" и (я рискую
ошибиться) "Женщина в голубом, читающая письмо" –
она на восьмом месяце, у нее два сердца, но вера
одна. Позади нее карта какой-то Terra

Incognita... Дыхание замирает... Неизвестная голубая
драпировка сливается с креслами. Золотые
гвозди врываются в комнату, застывая
в воздухе, как не забитые, а – влитые.

Уши заложены от глубины и высоты одновременно.
Это – давленье на стену с другой ее стороны.
Оно заставляет явленья парить. А стены
делают кисть устойчивей. Наличие же стены

рано иль поздно толкает на
прохождение сквозь... Это – нужно, хоть после – нужна аптека...
Мир – один, ну а стен... Стена
есть, по сути, часть человека,
ибо знает он или не знает, а это – ген
взрослых... Лишь для детей не существует стен.

Где кончаются стены, там
начинается небо. Как молитва стен пустоте.
И та
лицо обращает и шепчет нам:
"Я – открыта. Я – не пуста".

(пер. И.Кутика).

Перевод Роберта Блая: 

It’s not a sheltered world. The noise begins over there, on the other side of the wall
where the alehouse is
with its laughter and quarrels, its rows of teeth, its tears, its chiming of clocks,
and the psychotic brother-in-law, the murderer, in whose presence
everyone feels fear.

The huge explosion and the emergency crew arriving late,
boats showing off on the canals, money slipping down into pockets
– the wrong man’s –
ultimatum piled on the ultimatum,
widemouthed red flowers who sweat reminds us of approaching war.

And then straight through the wall — from there — straight into the airy studio
in the seconds that have got permission to live for centuries.
Paintings that choose the name: “The Music Lesson”
or ” A Woman in Blue Reading a Letter.”
She is eight months pregnant, two hearts beating inside her.
The wall behind her holds a crinkly map of Terra Incognita.

Just breathe. An unidentifiable blue fabric has been tacked to the chairs.
Gold-headed tacks flew in with astronomical speed
and stopped smack there
as if there had always been stillness and nothing else.

The ears experience a buzz, perhaps it’s depth or perhaps height.
It’s the pressure from the other side of the wall,
the pressure that makes each fact float
and makes the brushstroke firm.

Passing through walls hurts human beings, they get sick from it,
but we have no choice.
It’s all one world. Now to the walls.
The walls are a part of you.
One either knows that, or one doesn’t; but it’s the same for everyone
except for small children. There aren’t any walls for them.

The airy sky has taken its place leaning against the wall.
It is like a prayer to what is empty.
And what is empty turns its face to us
and whispers:
“I am not empty, I am open.”

Julius Caesar

CALPHURNIA
When beggars die there are no comets seen.
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.

CAESAR
Cowards die many times before their deaths.
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear,
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.

***

-Modern text-

CALPHURNIA

When beggars die there are no comets in the sky. 
The heavens only announce the deaths of princes.

CAESAR

Cowards die many times before their deaths. 
The brave experience death only once. 
Of all the strange things I’ve ever heard, 
It seems most strange to me that men fear death, 
Given that death, which can’t be avoided, will come whenever it wants.

G K Chesterton, from The Flying Inn

In the city set upon slime and loam
They cry in their parliament 'Who goes home?'
And there is no answer in arch or dome,
For none in the city of graves goes home.
Yet these shall perish and understand,
For God has pity on this great land.
Men that are men again; who goes home?
Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home?
For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam,
And blood on the body when man goes home.
And a voice valedictory—Who is for Victory?
Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?

Emilie Dickinson

Let down the bars, O Death!
The tired flocks come in
Whose bleating ceases to repeat,
Whose wandering is done.

Thine is the stillest night,
Thine the securest fold;
Too near thou art for seeking thee,
Too tender to be told.

***

Смерть, отопри врата –
Впусти своих овец! 
Скитаньям положи предел,
Усталости – конец.

Твоя овчарня – ночь,
Озноб и тишина – 
Невыносимо Ты близка –
Немыслимо нежна.

(Перевод Григория Кружкова).

Miyazawa Kenji, Ame ni mo makezu

Есть важное для японской культуры стихотворение Кэндзи Миядзавы 'Ame ni mo makezu'. Оно входит в любой западный альманах японской поэзии, дети учат его в школе и т.д. И, как это часто бывает с переводами поэзии, необходимо прочитать несколько вариантов, чтобы сложилась ясная картина. Я прочла как минимум полдюжины, и всем неуловимо чего-то не хватало. Мне нравится стихотворение, хотя его этическое послание мне не совсем близко. Заметьте также, как сильно отличается работа японского переводчика от остальных. Где-то в сети есть также перевод на русский.

bending neither to the rain
nor to the wind
nor to the snow nor summer heat
firm in body, yet
unfettered by desire
never losing one’s temper
and always quietly smiling
eating four cups of brown rice
with miso soup and a few vegetables each day
in all maters
putting oneself last
watching and listening, and understanding
and never forgetting
in the shade of a pine grove
living in a small thatch hut
if there is a sick child in the east
he goes and tends him
if there is a tired mother in the west
he goes and shoulders her load
if someone is dying in the south,
he goes and calms their fears
if there is a quarrel to the north,
he goes and demands they put an end to their pettiness
during times of drought, he sheds tears
in cool summers, fearing for the harvest, he walks nervously
considered a fool by all
neither praised
nor blamed
such a person
I long to be

Translation by Geoffrey Bownas and Anthony Thwaite.

***

neither yielding to rain
nor yielding to wind
yielding neither to
snow nor to summer heat
with a stout body
like that
without greed
never getting angry
always smiling quietly
eating one and a half pints of brown rice
and bean paste and a bit of
vegetables a day
in everything
not taking oneself
into account
looking listening understanding well
and not forgetting
living in the shadow of pine trees in a Weld
in a small
hut thatched with miscanthus
if in the east there’s a
sick child
going and nursing
him
if in the west there’s a tired mother
going and carrying
for her
bundles of rice
if in the south
there’s someone
dying
going
and saying
you don’t have to be
afraid
if in the north
there’s a quarrel
or a lawsuit
saying it’s not worth it
stop it
in a drought
shedding tears
in a cold summer
pacing back and forth lost
called
a good-for-nothing
by everyone
neither praised
nor thought a pain
someone
like that
is what I want
to be

Translation by Hiroaki Sato.

***

Be not defeated by the rain, Nor let the wind prove your better.
Succumb not to the snows of winter. Nor be bested by the heat of summer.
Be strong in body. Unfettered by desire. Not enticed to anger. Cultivate a quiet joy.
Count yourself last in everything. Put others before you.
Watch well and listen closely. Hold the learned lessons dear.
A thatch-roof house, in a meadow, nestled in a pine grove's shade.
A handful of rice, some miso, and a few vegetables to suffice for the day.
If, to the East, a child lies sick: Go forth and nurse him to health.
If, to the West, an old lady stands exhausted: Go forth, and relieve her of burden.
If, to the South, a man lies dying: Go forth with words of courage to dispel his fear.
If, to the North, an argument or fight ensues:
Go forth and beg them stop such a waste of effort and of spirit.
In times of drought, shed tears of sympathy.
In summers cold, walk in concern and empathy.
Stand aloof of the unknowing masses:
Better dismissed as useless than flattered as a "Great Man".
This is my goal, the person I strive to become.

Translation by David Sulz.

The Rolling English Road, G.K. Chesterton

Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.

I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.

His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.

My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.

'Envoi' by Octavio Paz

Imprisoned by four walls
(to the North, the crystal of non-knowledge
a landscape to be invented
to the South, reflective memory
to the East, the mirror
to the West, stone and the song of silence)
I wrote messages, but received no reply.