alsit25: (alsit)

I saw that nightfall as was going awry,

How blazed in havens the fringe of the sky.


Clouds’ tapestry reddened ready to move,

Somewhere rather pinky, somewhere mauve.


And I saw a glow of passions that night

In myriads threads flowed down alight.


Toward that incandesce ascended а sward

With the hallow smile, as always ill-stared.


Тhus arundinaceous yarn of the lake

Wove in an arras cherubic at stake.


And there the lettering ornament’s scent

To a vastness seraphic fluttering went.


The spindle inspired me again and again

That immortality has been regained.


And leas, fraternized with cerulean blest

Chording swelter and spell afore the tempest.


Hence a plot evangelical, eternal at last

Was praised by the evening unthinkable lustre.




Оригинал: http://margovsky.livejournal.com/157293.html

alsit25: (alsit)

From nowhere with love as of - teen  Octomarch

just to whom it may or may be to an other,

doesn’t matter who ‘cause the face as such

frankly forgotten , not yours, though neither

somebodies friend says hello from the one

of five continents which is held by cowboys;

I was fond of you more than of Him and Son,

therefore removed far from you as much these two both;

in the night in the valley by slumber retained

where the small town is covered up to doorknobs by snow

in the night on the sheets being twisted with pain -

and at least it wouldn’t be mentioned below -

I am whipping the pillow by bellowing “yooo”

many seas away with the luck of pity

in the darkness your features with my flesh anew

like a delirious mirror repeating.

alsit25: (alsit)

That gift, my body, what to do with it,

So single, so mine, impossible to split?


For quiet joy to breathe, for life and happiness.

Who should I, tell me, all my thanks address?


The gardener, the flower, I’m all in one

In а dungeon of the world never alone.


My warmth, my breath, all that is not in vain,

Upon the glass of being it was lain.


On it my dear patterns will be laid,  

Which were unrecognizable of late.

May slime of trice not to be washed away -
Forever lovely patterns should to stay.

alsit25: (alsit)





I’ve learned the lore of separation

In bareheaded longing night’s complaint.

The oxen chew, and waiting is vexation -

It is the time of city’ vigils running late.

These rooster’s night rites I revere, that instant

When, hauling up a load of grief, the throng’s

Tear-stained eyes are peering at the distance

And women’s weeping was the Muse’s songs.


Who can predict, when one says “separation” ,

What kind of parting would it be and what

Should than it mean to us - that rooster’s exclamation,

When light on the Acropolis is burned

And at the dawn, some new existence prior

When oxen lazily chew roughage at the stall,

Why does the rooster, new life’s town crier,                                

Flaps wings uneasily atop the city wall?


I love the artless yarn to be in habit:

The shuttle scurries and the spindle hums.

Lo, like a down of swans - go on and try to dab it -            

Barefooted Delia flies straight into your arms!

Oh, our life’s scant fabric! It’s much lower

This tongue of joy of ours, indeed:

What was before, will be repeated over,

Only the strike of recognition is still sweet.


Thus let it be: the figure, small, transparent,

Spreads like a squirrel pelt upon a clean clay plate,

And bending over wax, a maiden makes apparent

What’s given to perceive about night and fate.

In battles men draw lots - to them that right is given.

For women, wax is what for men is brass.

Not men to ask of Erebus. But women

Have privilege to die while telling fate for us.
alsit25: (alsit)
Protending limbs the trunks clamour and tremble,
And spilling stellar silver as to make
The tree akin to hueless roulette gambler,
Who put all on the placid zero- lake.
Those throngs would not concede the acres,
And jib, cursing the neighbors, all who err,
‘Till they themselves would slump to their fiacres,
Offended by the swift noctule croupier…
Here Walden takes his steed by the bridle!
Tossing a slag to a playboy, though soon
He’ll prove the grace of over- soul idle,
A silk of web enweaving in the noon.
He does not need to use a millstone, either
To grind a purest monad of his Being
He needs no bellows, no forges, ether
Of his divine accomplishment trilling.
His leuds are an otter and an owl ,
And dragon –flies dispassionately gave forth -
He craves to dye by violets of his soul
Green cloth of saturated mother earth…
And you’re Its loyal servant, Henry Thoreau!
We came to testify – you’re here as a whole
Not for a shop, an office in the borough,
But for a debtors cell in some dank hole.
You ‘re wittier than others and more drastic,
Be Gardener, be Carpenter, but see -
If you deny the caste ecclesiastic,
Sinai is barred for a visionary.
A vagabond encompassed by his karma,
Roam amid the trees, not knowing any ranks,
Deprived of terracotta balky army,
Deprived of lightwinged angel fighting gangs.
The Nature, bathed with kundalini flow,
Suffers alone as well as white grape vine
Somewhere in the valley high and low,
Alone as a black elm, and a red pine.

оригинал:
http://alsit25.livejournal.com/111373.html
alsit25: (анакреон)

       Two Songs

To one, whose craft is parting, fire

Simmering down- at naught! A wave

Would surge upon you to aspire,

Another one – would sweep away.

.

With servile ire I would not bother

On all four crawl behind you, dear,

Me - being enwombed not by a mother,

But in the belly of the sea.

You bite the Earth, my chummy clever

Just as an apple, bite it, please!                                    

With me you reason yet and ever,

When reas'ning with the sea abyss!

Unlike an earthborn maid I’d rather

Not cross my hands, for I am free -

Me – being enwombed not by a mother

But in the belly of the sea.

No, our gals ain’t weepy, wishing

For tidings, trying pals with mail!       

No. Once again I’ll go fishing

Without seines and I won’t fail.

My strains have power over others -

All know that it is strong - but me,

Me – being enwombed not by a mother,

But in the belly of the sea.

And that is my possession: which is -

To give away – there is still more!

When crashing rocks at seashore beaches,                  

My own chest I shatter though!

The Queen to judge – the court will gather.

What shell I tell? – Come in and see!

Me – being enwombed not by a mother,

But in the belly of the sea.

       2

Just yesterday - my eyes - he sought,

Today he shifts his eyes - like cravens,

Till morning birds he stayed a lot,

But nowadays all larks are ravens.

I’m silly, and you’re very wise!

You’re so alive, I stop dead; wandering

Through times the women’s wail arise,

“What have I done to you, my darling?!”

The tears are - water, as her blood.

With tears, with blood she laves when no one sees.

Like a stepmother, Love is hard.

Don’t count on – jadging with clemency.

Ships take away all darlings. Those -

Who choose the white way, the way darkling.

And groans ascend along the earth,

“What have I done to you, my darling?”

Just yesterday - he hold me, lied,

“I won’t exchange you for a crown!”

When he unclasped his hands –my life,

A kopek like, at once fell down.

The murderer of my own child

I stand before a court. But dying,

Even in Hell, I’ll ask you wild,

“What have I done to you, my darling?”

Read more... )

alsit25: (alsit)

Forswear the duels. Grasp an inspiration,

Emblazing us by salvatory spark.

And leave a genius upon some calculation,

With all his sweat, remaining in the dark.


Then drawing all your axes on your mission,

As th’ axis of the foil crossing another one  

Have only pure dreams to twist cognition -

All other let decisively be gone!


Though with the years when growing more submissive

You will assert: as stars unnumbered are

Thus chances of epiphanies increase if

Conditions change and Time became bizarre.


Back to your sheath, the blade! And let the Hero,

Not slashing anymore, to slam his data list.

All versions of that Being are close to zero

Comparing with the chance not to exist.



Оригинал здесь :http://wikilivres.ca/wiki/%D0%98%D0%B7%D0%BE%D0%B1%D1%80%D0%B5%D1%82%D0%B0%D1%82%D0%B5%D0%BB%D1%8C_(%D0%9C%D0%B0%D1%80%D0%B3%D0%BE%D0%B2%D1%81%D0%BA%D0%B8%D0%B9)

alsit25: (анакреон)

I’ll praise Тhee, Shepherd, I’ll foretell
From chromosomes of Thy lamb humble
By Thee depastured, all Thy ample
Cosmogony, behold as well
The spheres’ temptation, and the ways
Of atoms crashed and kerns’ austere,
While Jupiter , aloft grape’s cluster,
In Venus gardens still bewails.
When the aestival royal cope
Turns black in the pavana’s tempest
With leaves recumbence upon endless
Life‘s crimson fruit will never drop.

Thee, Shepherd, Thee! Thy universe
Thy nimble world, one wouldn’t count,
Which had unfolded as a wound
To Greeks or Persians, came across
For those three hundreds at the chine
Who had stopped Xerxes, with a vision
That а heart’s chalice sacrificial
Tristan would fill with notes divine.
Scrawled over are villatic tiles
With chirp of fowls of the air,
And heavy cuirass of jongleur
Guards not him writing with light style.
On each of rune , on every whorl
Despair glistens as an omen.
Though tenderness is much more solemn.
Though truth is definitely sole.

A bond consensual ascends -
It was the gift to me from Verses
Which following the night–flies’ courses
In tulip tree twining so tense.
And I’ll forget the air filled up
With bitterness, smell from the gully,
When sooty hordes of vermin bully
To desolate New York, the crap
In which one daily cuts in vain
His throat with plastic scarcely vital
Behind quick living suicidal
Not feeling drops of slanting rain.
And then the ocean –mason once
Will open wide the lodge’s entry -
And I would not perturb Thee gently,
Thy, sweetest tears, if I‘ll get chance.

Оригинал здесь
http://www.poezia.ru/article.php?sid=91724

alsit25: (Default)

The Boston Tea Party     

Ocean, don't be lax,
Foam o'er, seethe, awake, hence
Forever tea is taxed
Ungodly with those threepence!
5 'Twas duty — free merchandise
In the hold rotting, I guess,
Shrinking in spells and size,
Being goes cheerless.

Any sorts we have earned
10 For our pauper gang —
The point of no return
Is indistinct if you are banged.
On the stern staying, one cries
With buzzing of towropes:
15 He'd used to pen Bouts rhymes,
But now a thinker arose.

Last packs you may rip off,
Of that tea brewing — to gorge,
For your seasickness you owe
20Not to that nauseous ocean surge.
It is gall and wormwood
To say o'er, refrains make you sick,
By waves washed out — not good,
And to put off — you are weak.

25 Yep, your ship with its tops
Would be hard to fit in the slip,
Just a puff pastry 's gobs,
Running after the cognac sip —
That is your palimpsest,
30 With its dough, multi-layered still.
Bored to chew? Do your best —
To Slavicists you'd appeal.

Though, establish a link,
If possible, broad and odd.
35 For distinct is the brink
Between presence in that world
And your life after death —
Holography of kerns, where
A fantasy slice, God bless,
40 Won't cram us up, the Piper!

The Boston tea party
Was served not for you, my mate,
For it's not real tea —
That our dreams' surrogate
45 To feed your impatient Ghost
Simply for the fuse's sake,
Suggesting to fuck at most
Grocery shops as a take.

And you drift, a wormling ,
50 Through the port, going along
White horses surviving
The Gulf Stream's oppression.
Passing the doggy crap
Passing the dopey unloading dock,
55 An angler who is belt up,
Like a sketch on the silent rock.

And when passing the rest —
Warehouses, dives lame,
And the surfers whose mores
60 Only the naiads can tame
Passing the gilly tent
And two tramps with the sun scorched,
At once you'd recall that…
Neath Moscow, on the porch...

Оригинал здесь 
http://wikilivres.info/wiki/%D0%91%D0%BE%D1%81%D1%82%D0%BE%D0%BD%D1%81%D0%BA%D0%BE%D0%B5_%D1%87%D0%B0%D0%B5%D0%BF%D0%B8%D1%82%D0%B8%D0%B5_%28%D0%9C%D0%B0%D1%80%D0%B3%D0%BE%D0%B2%D1%81%D0%BA%D0%B8%D0%B9%29

alsit25: (Default)

В связи с идущей в сети травлей поэта, инспирированной  графоманами В.Т-м и А. К-м  и примкнувшими к ним дебилами (travellersjoy, [info]invidioso1960  , [info]guignol_magor и др.. возможно,  едины в  трех мордах.)   

 

                                       автору оригинала с благодарностью 

 

made out of architecture a city landscape lies
castle columns or merlons of a fortress wall grow
certainly there are lies in newspapers but so pure lies
there is only one row at the market but that is a butcher’s row

as for fish and vegetables nobody does eat it well
unless one gets hungry in the woods by the dark blest
here the man alone does nestle but then like a pestle
pecks and pecks in the mortar as if in the nest

everyone pounds his dot but can drew no lone
straight line neither curved nor a plane against all that
knowing by heart axioms of his soil forlorn
all wood spirits all mermaids at the river bed

all monsters messing about in a childish darkness such
as round the cradle waiting when coiling himself into a ball
a child sinks into a sleep and his fear begins to scratch
as a beetle caged in a matchbox or an escaping soul.



Борис Херсонский

городской пейзаж состоящий из архитектуры сплошь
то колонны дворца то зубцы стены крепостной
в газетах конечно ложь но какая чистая ложь
на рынке ряд один но зато мясной

потому что рыбы и овощей тут никто не ест
разве только в темном лесу нагулять аппетит
человек тут один как перст но зато как пест
в медной ступке словно в гнезде долбит и долбит

каждый в точку свою через которую не проведешь ни одной
ни прямой ни кривой ни плоскости вопреки
всем заученным аксиомам земли родной
всем лешим в лесах всем русалкам на дне реки

всем чудовищам копошащимся в детской тьме вокруг
колыбели только и ждущим когда свернувшись в клубок
малыш провалится в сон и в нем заскребется испуг
как жук посаженный в спичечный коробок

alsit25: (alsit)

Shakespeare

A carrier’s yard; in the ledges, afloat
Felonious Tower rises. Then, clear -
The tinkling of the horseshoes, the mournful and cold
Hoarse chimes of Westminster emerge from the air.

The tight streets; the walls that store up their stale

Damp smell like the hop sprouts that dwell on the porches.
Like soot they are sullen and revel like ale,
Like London they are chilled, like a pace they are tortuous

The snow had sluggishly fallen and bent.
The doors were locked up when it, sleepy and flabby,
Like a slipped-down band from an abdomen, went
To fall down heavily to fill up an abbey.

The window is framed by the leaden thin rims
With the grains of blue mica -”It depends on the weather.
However...However let’s nap, being free.
However - cash down! Bring water, hairdresser!”

Read more... )

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