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Литературные практики по теме Английский сонет Елизаветинской эпохи (перевод) будут проходить (ориентировочно) до середины января 2022 года.
Авторам предлагается совершить литературную интернет экспедицию став современниками Потрясающего копьем (Шекспира) и попробовать свои силы в переводе английского сонета, в поиске малоизвестных в России авторов и текстов того времени и создать свои тематические авторские сборники.
На данной странице будут размещаться, по мере работы практик, сонеты английских авторов (по 12-ть текстов), задача:
- сделать художественный перевод одного или всех сонетов;
- найти историю написания сонета и написать рассказ о сонете;
- выбрать одного автора, его сонеты и создать по ним цикл (12);
- создать тематический цикл сонетов нескольких авторов, посвященный теме, связанный с историческими событиями, личностями, мировоззрением той эпохи;
- в средние века была модна тайнопись, создать цикл сонетов с криптами;
- предложить свои идеи и варианты работы по данной теме.
ПРИМЕР рассказа о сонете и его перевода можно посмотреть: http://stihi.ru/2021/11/13/6242
Просьба: придерживаться 5-ти стопного ямба с чередованием мужской и женской рифмы.
Первая подборка практик:
(принять участие в работе приглашаются все желающие)
ГНЕЗДО ПЕВЧИХ ПТИЦ I
Содержание:
- Like truthless dreams, so are my joys expir'd / Walter Raleigh (1552-1618)
- Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part / Michael Drayton (1563-1631)
- In tyme the strong and statelie turrets fall / Giles Fletcher the Elder (1549-1611)
- Where I was base as is the lowly plain / Joshua Sylvester (1563-1618)
- These royall kinges, that reare up to the skye / Thomas Sackville (1536-1608)
- A blast of wind, a momentary breath / Barnabe Barnes (1569-1609)
- Muses that sing love's sensual empery / George Chapman (1559-1634)
- When men shall finde thy flower, the glory passe / Samuel Daniel (1562-1619)
- When other creatures all, each in their kind / Robert Sidney (1563-1626)
- Fie, foolish earth, think you the heaven wants glory / Fulke Greville Brooke (1554–1628)
- I that have been a lover, and could show it / Ben Jonson (1572-1637)
- TO plead my faith where faith had no reward / Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex (1567-1601)
*** Walter Raleigh (1552 -1618)
Farewell to the Court
Like truthless dreams, so are my joys expir'd,
And past return are all my dandled days;
My love misled, and fancy quite retir'd—
Of all which pass'd the sorrow only stays.
My lost delights, now clean from sight of land,
Have left me all alone in unknown ways;
My mind to woe, my life in fortune's hand—
Of all which pass'd the sorrow only stays.
As in a country strange, without companion,
I only wail the wrong of death's delays,
Whose sweet spring spent, whose summer well-nigh done—
Of all which pass'd only the sorrow stays.
Whom care forewarns, ere age and winter cold,
To haste me hence to find my fortune's fold.
*** Michael Drayton (1563–1631)
Sonnet 61. From “Idea”
Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part!
Nay, I have done. You get no more of me!
And I am glad, yea, glad, with all my heart,
That thus so cleanly, I my self can free.
Shake hands for ever! Cancel all our vows!
And when we meet at any time again,
Be it not seen in either of our brows,
That we one jot of former love retain!
Now at the last gasp of LOVE’s latest breath.
When his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies;
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,
And Innocence is closing up his eyes:
Now, if thou wouldst! when all have given him over,
From death to life, thou might’st him yet recover!
*** Giles Fletcher the Elder (1549 – 1611)
Sonnet 28 (From«Licia, or Poems of Love»)
In tyme the strong and statelie turrets fall,
In tyme the Rose, and silver Lillies die,
In tyme the Monarchs captives are and thrall,
In tyme the sea, and rivers are made drie:
The hardest flint in tyme doth melt asunder,
Still-living fame in tyme doth fade away,
The mountaines proud, we see in tyme come under,
And earth for age, we see in tyme decay:
The sunne in tyme forgets for to retire
From out the east, where he was woont to rise
The basest thoughtes, we see in tyme aspire,
And greedie minds in tyme do wealth dispice.
Thus all (sweet faire) in tyme must have an end,
Except thy beautie, vertues, and thy friend
*** Joshua Sylvester (1563-1618)
Where I was base as is the lowly plain,
And you, my Love, as high as heaven above,
Yet should the thoughts of me your humble swain
Ascend to heaven, in honour of my Love.
Where I as high as heaven above the plain,
And you, my Love, as humble and as low
As are the deepest bottoms of the main,
Whereso'er you were, with you my love should go.
Were you the earth, dear Love, and I the skies,
My love should shine on you like to the sun,
And look upon you with thousand eyes
Till heaven wax'd blind, and till the world were done.
Whereso'er I am, below, or else above you,
Whereso'er you are, my heart shall truly love you.
*** Thomas Sackville (1536-1608)
in commendation of the worke.
To the Reader.
These royall kinges, that reare up to the skye
Their Palaice tops, and decke them all with gold:
With rare and curious woorkes they feed the eye:
And showe what riches here great Princes hold.
A rarer work and richer far in worth,
Castilios hand presenteth here to the,
No proud ne golden Court doth he set furth
But what in Court a Courtier ought to be.
The Prince he raiseth houge and mightie walles,
Castilio frames a wight of noble fame:
The kinge with gorgeous Tyssue claddes his halles,
The Count with golden vertue deckes the same,
Whos passing skill lo Hobbies pen displaise
To Brittain folk, a work of worthy praise.
*** Barnabe Barnes (1569-1609)
Sonnet
A blast of wind, a momentary breath,
A wat'ry bubble symbolized with air,
A sun-blown rose, but for a season fair,
A ghostly glance, a skeleton of death;
A morning dew, pearling the grass beneath,
Whose moisture sun's appearance doth impair;
A lightning glimpse, a muse of thought and care,
A planet's shot, a shade which followeth,
A voice which vanisheth so soon as heard,
The thriftless heir of time, a rolling wave,
A show, no more in action than regard,
A mass of dust, world's momentary slave,
Is man, in state of our old Adam made,
Soon born to die, soon flourishing to fade.
*** George Chapman (1559-1634)
A CORONET FOR HIS MISTRESS, PHILOSOPHY
Muses that sing love's sensual empery,
And lovers kindling your enraged fires
At Cupid's bonfires burning in the eye,
Blown with the empty breath of vain desires;
You that prefer the painted cabinet
Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye,
That all your joys in dying figures set,
And stain the living substance of your glory;
Abjure those joys, abhor their memory,
And let my love the honour'd subject be
Of love, and honour's complete history.
Your eyes were never yet let in to see
The majesty and riches of the mind,
But dwell in darkness; for your god is blind.
*** Samuel Daniel (1562-1619)
Sonnet 36 (from “DELIA”)
When men shall finde thy flower, the glory passe,
And thou with carefull brow sitting alone
Received hast this message from thy glasse,
That tells the truth, and saies that all is gone;
Fresh shalt thou see in mee the wounds thou madest,
Though spent thy flame, in mee the heate remaining:
I that have lov'd thee thus before thou fadest,
My faith shall waxe, when thou art in thy waining.
The world shall finde this myracle in mee,
That fire can burne, when all the matter's spent:
Then what my faith hath beene thy selfe shalt see,
And that thou wast unkind thou maist repent.
Thou maist repent that thou hast scorn'd my tears,
When winter snowest upon thy golden haires.
*** Robert Sidney (1563-1626)
Sonnet 19.
When other creatures all, each in their kind,
Comfort of light, quiet from darkness fetch,
Of wretched monsters, I most monstrous wretch
Nor day from pains, nor night with rest can find;
But as a slave, whom storm or sun or wind
All day doth beat, in whose side bloody breach
The scourge doth leave, who on the oar doth stretch
His limbs all day, all night his wounds doth find,
Chained in those beauties whence I cannot fly
I know no day so long, wherein each hour
Shows not new labours lost, and wherein I
Take not new wounds from their unsparing power:
Nor longest night is long enough for me
To tell my wounds, which restless bleeding be.
*** Fulke Greville Brooke (1554–1628)
Fie, foolish Earth, think you the heaven wants glory,
Because your shadows do yourself benight?
All's dark unto the blind, let them be sorry;
The heavens in themselves are ever bright.
Fie fond Desire, think you that Love wants glory,
Because your shadows do yourself benight?
The hopes and fears of lust, may make men sorry,
But Love still in herself finds her delight.
Then Earth stand fast, the sky that you benight,
Will turn again, and so restore your glory;
Desire be steady, hope is your delight,
An orb wherein no creature can be sorry;
Love being plac'd above these middle regions,
Where every passion wars itself with legions.
*** Ben Jonson (1572–1637)
A Sonnet to the Noble Lady, the Lady Mary Wroth
I that have been a lover, and could show it,
Though not in these, in rhythms not wholly dumb,
Since I inscribe your sonnets, am become
A better lover, and much better poet.
Nor is my Muse or I ashamed to owe it
To those true numerous graces, whereof some
But charm the senses, others overcome
Both brains and hearts; and mine now best do know it:
For in your verse all Cupid’s armory,
His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow,
His very eyes are yours to overthrow.
But then his mother’s sweets you so apply,
Her joys, her smiles, her loves, as readers take
For Venus’ ceston every line you make.
*** Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex (1567-1601)
TO plead my faith where faith had no reward,
To move remorse where favor is not borne,
To heap complaints where she doth not regard, --
Were fruitless, bootless, vain, and yield but scorn.
I lovЁ¦d her whom all the world admired,
I was refused of her that can love none;
And my vain hopes, which far too high aspired,
Is dead, and buried, and for ever gone.
Forget my name, since you have scorned my love,
And woman-like do not too late lament;
Since for your sake I do all mischief prove,
I none accuse nor nothing do repent.
I was as fond as ever she was fair,
Yet loved I not more than I now despair.
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