To whom can I speak today?
Brothers are evil
And the friends of today unlovable.
To whom can I speak today?
Hearts are rapacious
And everyone takes his neighbour's goods. [To whom can I speak today?]
Gentleness has perished
And the violent man has come down on everyone.
To whom can I speak today?
Men are contented with evil
And goodness is neglected everywhere.
To whom can I speak today?
He who should enrage a man by his ill deeds,
he makes everyone laugh (by) his wicked wrongdoing.
To whom can I speak today?
Men plunder
And every man robs his neighbour.
To whom can I speak today?
The wrongdoer is an intimate friend
And the brother with whom one used to act is become an enemy.
To whom can I speak today?
None remember the past,
And no one now helps him who used to do (good).
To whom can I speak today?
Brothers are evil,
And men have recourse to strangers for affection.
To whom can I speak today?
Faces are averted,
And every man looks askance at his brethren.
To whom can I speak today?
Hearts are rapacious
And there is no man's heart in which one can trust.
To whom can I speak today?
There are no just persons
And the land is left over to the doers of wrong.
To whom can I speak today?
There is a lack of an intimate friend
And men have recourse to someone unknown in order to complain to him.
-the violent man has come down on everyone

To whom can I speak today?
There is no contented man,
And that person who once walked with him no longer exists.
To whom can I speak today?
I am heavy-laden with trouble
Through lack of an intimate friend.
To whom can I speak today?
The wrong which roams the earth,
There is no end to it

America

Nov. 9th, 2016 05:36 pm
Let America Be America Again
Langston Hughes, 1902 - 1967

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That’s made America the land it has become.
O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home—
For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
To build a “homeland of the free.”

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
And all the songs we’ve sung
And all the hopes we’ve held
And all the flags we’ve hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay—
Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

O, let America be America again—
The land that never has been yet—
And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath—
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain—
All, all the stretch of these great green states—
And make America again!

Стихи

Oct. 11th, 2016 10:39 pm
Вот тут можно купить стихи. Хорошие. Ну или просто почитать, хотя купить, конечно, лучше.

http://amarinn.livejournal.com/763816.html
Я рос. Меня, как Ганимеда,
Несли ненастья, сны несли.
Как крылья, отрастали беды
И отделяли от земли.

Я рос. И повечерий тканых
Меня фата обволокла.
Напутствуем вином в стаканах,
Игрой печальною стекла,

Я рос, и вот уж жар предплечий
Студит объятие орла.
Дни далеко, когда предтечей,
Любовь, ты надо мной плыла.

Но разве мы не в том же небе!
На то и прелесть высоты,
Что, как себя отпевший лебедь,
С орлом плечо к плечу и ты.
Iseult of Brittany

So delicate my hands, and long,
They might have been my pride.
And there were those to make them song
Who for their touch had died.

Too frail to cup a heart within,
Too soft to hold the free-
How long these lovely hands have been
A bitterness to me!
O WESTERN wind, when wilt thou blow
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!
Catherine Faber


She is Gone

Melody and lyrics © 1994 by Catherine Faber

She is dressed for sin, in a blouse so thin, with her hair like sunlit flame,
Fifteen years old, looking scared and cold, and Candy is her name.
Now a man drives by with a hungry eye and a fifty dollar note.
And he drives her out down a country route with a jacknife in his coat.

She is gone, she is gone, and the earth closed over her head.
Like the ones before, just a worthless whore,
Selling sin to buy her bread.

So intent is he that he does not see that his quarry's fear has passed;
A fresh grave waits by the junkyard gates, the seventh, and the last.
Now he lays her down on the cold damp ground, with the moss to make her bed.
Where the willow grieves, with its rustling leaves, like the voices of the dead.

Now he stills her shout as the knife comes out, and he puts his face to hers:
"Six lives I fear I have taken here, the seventh shall be yours."
But the small cold fist that grips his wrist has all his strength and more.
"Oh no," says she, "that shall not be -- for I've been here before."

"There are five," she sighs, "who stretch and rise, to pay you for your tricks.
Beneath the firs where the grave-dirt stirs, for I was number six.
Chill and dumb from their graves they come, to serve you in my stead.
And more besides -- they shall be your brides, to grace your wedding bed."
http://bububird.livejournal.com/1022386.html

Вот тут замечательный автор раздает красиво иллюстрированную книгу своих стихов.

Стихи

May. 18th, 2016 10:29 am
Цикл Антрекота Экспедиция
http://el-d.livejournal.com/tag/%D1%8D%D0%BA%D1%81%D0%BF%D0%B5%D0%B4%D0%B8%D1%86%D0%B8%D1%8F

Если вы это еще не читаете, то вы сами себе злобные буратины.
Вот паутинка
В небе-
Ухватись и лети.

И далее много прекрасного http://www.proza.ru/2013/04/15/952
I want to but I

Cannot change your diaper.

She complains; I am

Shipwrecked, despite her.

You brandish about

With curious eyes,

The priest demurs when

We ask to baptize.

Father does not come

From East Tennessee;

Outside the hospital,

Fast cars seem so free.

White coats and pamphlets,

They leave us to choose:

Walls are not painted

In sage or chartreuse.

But how you fit in my arms

And sleep when I hum!

You are halcyon seas;

We are the drums
Бог был вокалистом.Read more... )
Светлана aka Тари
http://aldanare.dreamwidth.org/
Сегодня томная луна,
Как пленная царевна,
Грустна, задумчива, бледна
И безнадежно влюблена.
Read more... )
В тапочки
Обуется
И Луной любуется.
А Луна-Луна-Луна,
Как жемчужина бледна,
Игнорируя округу,
Смотрит
только
на слона.
Read more... )

Бунин

Nov. 1st, 2015 10:41 pm
И цветы, и шмели, и трава, и колосья,
И лазурь, и полуденный зной...
Срок настанет — Господь сына блудного спросит:
«Был ли счастлив ты в жизни земной?»

И забуду я все — вспомню только вот эти
Полевые пути меж колосьев и трав —
И от сладостных слез не успею ответить,
К милосердным коленам припав.

Калифорнийские холмы мне регулярно напоминают об этом стихотворении, а вот год написания (1918) до меня дошел только что.
Не матерью, но тульскою крестьянкой
Еленой Кузиной я выкормлен. Она
Свивальники мне грела над лежанкой,
Крестила на ночь от дурного сна.

Она не знала сказок и не пела,
Зато всегда хранила для меня
В заветном сундуке, обитом жестью белой,
То пряник вяземский, то мятного коня.

Она меня молитвам не учила,
Но отдала мне безраздельно все:
И материнство горькое свое,
И просто все, что дорого ей было.

Лишь раз, когда упал я из окна,
Но встал живой (как помню этот день я!),
Грошовую свечу за чудное спасенье
У Иверской поставила она.

И вот, Россия, «громкая держава»,
Ее сосцы губами теребя,
Я высосал мучительное право
Тебя любить и проклинать тебя.

В том честном подвиге, в том счастьи песнопений,
Которому служу я в каждый миг,
Учитель мой - твой чудотворный гений,
И поприще - волшебный твой язык.

И пред твоими слабыми сынами
Еще порой гордиться я могу,
Что сей язык, завещанный веками,
Любовней и ревнивей берегу...

Года бегут. Грядущего не надо,
Минувшее в душе пережжено,
Но тайная жива еще отрада,
Что есть и мне прибежище одно:

Там, где на сердце, съеденном червями,
Любовь ко мне нетленно затая,
Спит рядом с царскими, ходынскими гостями
Елена Кузина, кормилица моя.
Буду сидеть
У тебя на руках,
Сутками
С них
Не слезая.
Так и останемся - песней в веках:
Мама
И мамина
Зая.

Ведь прекрасно же!!!
Я по снам по твоим не ходил
и в толпе не казался,
не мерещился в сквере, где лил
дождь, верней - начинался
дождь (я вытяну эту строку,
а другой не замечу),
это блазнилось мне, дураку,
что вот-вот тебя встречу,
это ты мне являлась во сне,
и меня заполняло
тихой нежностью, волосы мне
на висках поправляла.
В эту осень мне даже стихи
удавались отчасти
(но всегда не хватало строки
или рифмы - для счастья).
http://magazines.russ.ru/zvezda/2001/7/ryzhij.html
For some reason this poem regularly makes me think about [profile] kiowa_mike

The King sits in Dunferline toun,
Drinkin the blude-reid wine
'O whaur will A get a skeely skipper
Tae sail this new ship o mine?'

O up and spak an eldern knight,
Sat at the king's richt knee;
'Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailt the sea.'

Our king has written a braid letter
And sealed it wi his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Wis walkin on the strand.

'Tae Noroway, to Noroway,
Tae Noroway ower the faem;
The King's dauchter o Noroway,
Tis thou maun bring her hame.'

The first word that Sir Partick read
Sae loud, loud laucht he;
The neist word that Sir Patrick read
The tear blindit his ee.

'O wha is this has duin this deed
An tauld the king o me,
Tae send us out, at this time o year,
Tae sail abuin the sea?

'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship maun sail the faem;
The King's dauchter o Noroway,
Tis we maun fetch her hame.'

They hoystit their sails on Monenday morn,
Wi aw the speed they may;
They hae landit in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday.

'Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men aw!
Our gude ship sails the morn.'
'Nou eer alack, ma maister dear,
I fear a deadly storm.'

'A saw the new muin late yestreen
Wi the auld muin in her airm
And gif we gang tae sea, maister,
A fear we'll cam tae hairm.'

They hadnae sailt a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, an the wind blew loud
An gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, an the topmaist lap,
It was sic a deadly storm.
An the waves cam ower the broken ship
Til aw her sides were torn.

'Go fetch a web o silken claith,
Anither o the twine,
An wap them into our ship's side,
An let nae the sea cam in.'

They fetcht a web o the silken claith,
Anither O the twine,
An they wappp'd them roun that gude ship's side,
But still the sea cam in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords
Tae weet their cork-heelt shuin;
But lang or aw the play wis playd
They wat their hats abuin.

And mony wis the feather bed
That flattert on the faem;
And mony wis the gude lord's son
That never mair cam hame.

O lang, lang may the ladies sit,
Wi their fans intae their hand,
Afore they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailin tae the strand!

And lang, lang may the maidens sit
Wi their gowd kames in their hair,
A-waitin for their ane dear loes!
For them they'll see nae mair.

Half-ower, half-ower to Aberdour,
Tis fifty fathoms deep;
An there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi the Scots lords at his feet!
Days to come stand in front of us
like a row of lighted candles—
golden, warm, and vivid candles.

Days gone by fall behind us,
a gloomy line of snuffed-out candles;
the nearest are smoking still,
cold, melted, and bent.

I don’t want to look at them: their shape saddens me,
and it saddens me to remember their original light.
I look ahead at my lighted candles.

I don’t want to turn for fear of seeing, terrified,
how quickly that dark line gets longer,
how quickly the snuffed-out candles proliferate.
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