ЧАРЛЬЗ БУКОВСКИ
АФОРИЗМЫ
***
Мои дни, мои годы, моя жизнь видели паденья и взлёты, свет и тьму. Если бы я писал только и исключительно о светлом и никогда бы не упоминал о другом, то как художник я был бы лжецом.
***
My days, my years, my life has seen up and downs, lights and darknesses. If I wrote only and continually of the ‘light’ and never mentioned the other, then as an artist, I would be a liar.
***
Кто-то однажды меня спросил, каковой была моя жизненная теория, и я сказал: "Не пытайся." Это так же подходит для сочинительства. Я не пытаюсь. Я просто печатаю.
Примечание:"На надгробии Буковски изображены боксёр в стойке и надпись:"Don't try"("Не пытайся").
***
Somebody once asked me what my theory of life was, and I said "Don't try." That fits the writing, too. I don't try; I just type.
***
Когда ты начинаешь врать самому себе в стихотворении, чтобы просто его написать, тебя постигает неудача.
***
It’s when you begin to lie to yourself in a poem in order to simply make a poem, that you fail.
18.10.18
Из Чарльза Буковски - Афоризмы
© Copyright: Юрий Иванов 11, 2018
Свидетельство о публикации №118101801961
Свидетельство о публикации №118101801961
Рецензии
ХОРОШО ПИСАТЬ О ХОРОШЕМ! А ГДЕ ОНО? ВЕДЬ ХУДОЖНИК НЕ ДОЛЖЕН ЛГАТЬ, ЧТОБЫ НИ БЫЛО!
НАШЁЛ ВЧЕРА ВОТ ТАКОЙ СТИШОК, КАК БУДЕТ ВАМ УДОБНО, ЮРИЙ, ПЕРЕВЕДИТЕ ПОЖАЛУЙСТА! СПАСИБО! С УВАЖЕНИЕМ И ПРИЗНАТЕЛЬНОСТЬЮ! Д.
Finish
by Charles Bukowski
the hearse comes through the room filled with
the beheaded, the disappeared, the living
mad.
the flies are a glue of sticky paste
their wings will not
lift.
I watch an old woman beat her cat
with a broom.
the weather is unendurable
a dirty trick by
God.
the water has evaporated from the
toilet bowl
the telephone rings without
sound
the small limp arm petering against the
bell.
I see a boy on his
bicycle
the spokes collapse
the tires turn into
snakes and melt
away.
the newspaper is oven—hot
men murder each other in the streets
without reason.
the worst men have the best jobs
the best men have the worst jobs or are
unemployed or locked in
madhouses.
I have 4 cans of food left.
air-conditioned troops go from house to
house
from room to room
jailing, shooting, bayoneting
the people.
we have done this to ourselves, we
deserve this
we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting
it is as if the sun were a mind that has
given up on us.
I go out on the back porch
and look across the sea of dead plants
now thorns and sticks shivering in a
windless sky.
somehow I’m glad we’re through
finished—
the works of Art
the wars
the decayed loves
the way we lived each day.
when the troops come up here
I don’t care what they do for
we already killed ourselves
each day we got out of bed.
I go back into the kitchen
spill some hash from a soft
can, almost cooked
already
and I sit
eating, looking at my
fingernails.
the sweat comes from behind my
ears and I hear the
shooting in the streets and
I chew and wait
without wonder.
Денис Созинов 19.10.2018 02:58 • Заявить о нарушении
НАШЁЛ ВЧЕРА ВОТ ТАКОЙ СТИШОК, КАК БУДЕТ ВАМ УДОБНО, ЮРИЙ, ПЕРЕВЕДИТЕ ПОЖАЛУЙСТА! СПАСИБО! С УВАЖЕНИЕМ И ПРИЗНАТЕЛЬНОСТЬЮ! Д.
Finish
by Charles Bukowski
the hearse comes through the room filled with
the beheaded, the disappeared, the living
mad.
the flies are a glue of sticky paste
their wings will not
lift.
I watch an old woman beat her cat
with a broom.
the weather is unendurable
a dirty trick by
God.
the water has evaporated from the
toilet bowl
the telephone rings without
sound
the small limp arm petering against the
bell.
I see a boy on his
bicycle
the spokes collapse
the tires turn into
snakes and melt
away.
the newspaper is oven—hot
men murder each other in the streets
without reason.
the worst men have the best jobs
the best men have the worst jobs or are
unemployed or locked in
madhouses.
I have 4 cans of food left.
air-conditioned troops go from house to
house
from room to room
jailing, shooting, bayoneting
the people.
we have done this to ourselves, we
deserve this
we are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting
it is as if the sun were a mind that has
given up on us.
I go out on the back porch
and look across the sea of dead plants
now thorns and sticks shivering in a
windless sky.
somehow I’m glad we’re through
finished—
the works of Art
the wars
the decayed loves
the way we lived each day.
when the troops come up here
I don’t care what they do for
we already killed ourselves
each day we got out of bed.
I go back into the kitchen
spill some hash from a soft
can, almost cooked
already
and I sit
eating, looking at my
fingernails.
the sweat comes from behind my
ears and I hear the
shooting in the streets and
I chew and wait
without wonder.
Денис Созинов 19.10.2018 02:58 • Заявить о нарушении
Спасибо, Денис!Меня тоже некоторые читатели просят больше писать о хорошем - на эти просьбы у меня давно написан ответ:"Какая жизнь - такие и стихи." Стишок постараюсь сделать завтра-послезавтра. С уважением, Юра.
Юрий Иванов 11 19.10.2018 07:01 Заявить о нарушении
Юрий Иванов 11 19.10.2018 07:01 Заявить о нарушении
На это произведение написаны 4 рецензии, здесь отображается последняя, остальные - в полном списке.