Откуда смерти факт,
В чём дело? Тридцать лет погибшей,
Ей важно быть в физическом богатстве,
Да в сердце музыкального настроя;
А в двадцать восемь - колыбель, тепло,
Чтоб жизнь дарить. Ведь время – таково…
У Генри Мюррея настроено на мир,
Июнь великолепен, время есть
Анархию унять, прийти к закону,
К блаженству жизни, к счастью красоты,
Удача светит каждому. И птица,
Сжигая перья в гениальном свете,
Тоски, надежды требует. Для тела
Кровь молодости мечется фонтаном
Брызг музыкальных в хрустале бассейна
В час тишины. Встань, чувствуй свежесть, силу
Потоки солнца в мускулы и нервы;
Экстракт из пищи только на здоровье;
Чувствительному и к простым вещам
Листве деревьев, песням и цветам.
Цветы должны желанием любви,
Питанием, оставить на верху
Свет пламени. На произвол судьбы
Уехал Генри Мюррей от жены,
Держался целый месяц, вдохновясь
Письмом о радости на каждый день.
Совместно, опустили и простили,
Забыли боль былую, заменили
Предчувствием грядущего.
Какие результаты?
За тридцать суток в крови у младенца
Под стимулом отсутствия письма,
Растёт тоска, но кормится покоем,
Потоками, питающими тело.
Обогащает клетки пухом, тусклым, спящим,
Растянет и расширит прототип
Новорождённого ребёнка крик,
В ночь, затаив дыхание за час,
Крик, самый из трагических вещей,
Трагедия остра - спит, отдыхает,
И щёлкает мизинцами, вслепую,
С видениями нераскрытых листьев
Чудовищная внешняя среда,
Мир, чувство, то, что двигается в нём.
Так что же она думает о нём,
И жаждет возвращения, как жаждет,
Река её телес течёт, струится,
И оживит её. А утра свет
Уже на потолке, она лежит
И тянет сонно в рушащемся сне
Колеблющихся эмоций и зовёт
Дух с плотью, новым именем назвать,
Звучащем и с закрытыми губами,
И неподвижным языком, себя,
Из середины комнаты зовёт.
А Генри Мюррей мысль одну поймал,
В письме, что она чувствовала там,
Зажглось, ускорилось, вернулось к ней.
Затем фантом любовника в мозгу:
Вернётся незамеченным - что, Бог,
Фантазией? - найдётся в настроении
Она в его отсутствие, размыто
Надеждой на пришествие его.
Цвет, пламя духа. Только он купил
Шабли, пирог и ускользнул бесшумно
В ту комнату, она спала ещё,
Был свет в её лице, прежде того,
Она проснулась и увидела его.
Как плакала от радости она!
И обнимала тело, согревала
В один момент как кубок из огня,
Который переполнился от чувств,
Об уменьшении и нелюбимых рук
В любое время их сожгли бы там
Пока не сдулись. В ладане и свете.
Она приподнялась и облачилась
В халат и тапочки; нарисовался стол,
Меж прочим, были там шабли и торт.
Поела с тем, показывала зубы,
Смеясь, качая локоны назад
На голове и в маленьких воронках.
Рождение Эленор Мюррей, 2 глава
© Copyright: Вячеслав Толстов, 2019
Свидетельство о публикации №119022403863
Свидетельство о публикации №119022403863
Рецензии
THE BIRTH OF ELENOR MURRAY
What are the mortal facts
With which we deal? The man is thirty years,
Most vital, in a richness physical,
Of musical heart and feeling; and the woman
Is twenty-eight, a cradle warm and rich
For life to grow in.
And the time is this:
This Henry Murray has a mood of peace,
A splendor as of June, has for the time
Quelled anarchy within him, come to law,
Sees life a thing of beauty, happiness,
And fortune glow before him. And the mother,
Sunning her feathers in his genial light,
Takes longing and has hope. For body's season
The blood of youth leaps in them like a fountain,
And splashes musically in the crystal pool
Of quiet days and hours. They rise refreshed,
Feel all the sun's strength flow through muscles, nerves;
Extract from food no poison, only health;
Are sensitive to simple things, the turn
Of leaves on trees, flowers springing, robins' songs.
Now such a time must prosper love's desire,
Fed gently, tended wisely, left to mount
In flame and light. A prospering fate occurs
To send this Henry Murray from his wife,
And keep him absent for a month--inspire
A daily letter, written of the joys,
And hopes they have together, and omit,
Forgotten for the time, old aches, despairs,
Forebodings for the future.
What results?
For thirty days her youth, and youthful blood
Under the stimulus of absence, letters,
And growing longing, laves and soothes and feeds,
Like streams that nourish fields, her body's being.
Enriches cells to plumpness, dim, asleep,
Which stretch, expand and turn, the prototype
Of a baby newly born; which after the cry
At midnight, taking breath an hour before,--
That cry which is of things most tragical,
The tragedy most poignant--sleeps and rests,
And flicks its little fingers, with closed eyes
Senses with visions of unopened leaves
This monstrous and external sphere, the world,
And what moves in it.
So she thinks of him,
And longs for his return, and as she longs
The rivers of her body run and ripple,
Refresh and quicken her. The morning's light
Flutters upon the ceiling, and she lies
And stretches drowsily in the breaking slumber
Of fluctuant emotion, calls to him
With spirit and flesh, until his very name
Seems like to form in sound, while lips are closed,
And tongue is motionless, beyond herself,
And in the middle spaces of the room
Calls back to her.
And Henry Murray caught,
In letters, which she sent him, all she felt,
Re-kindled it and sped it back to her.
Then came a lover's fancy in his brain:
He would return unlooked for--who, the god,
Inspired the fancy?--find her in what mood
She might be in his absence, where no blur
Of expectation of his coming changed
Her color, flame of spirit. And he bought
Some chablis and a cake, slipped noiselessly
Into the chamber where she lay asleep,
And had a light upon her face before
She woke and saw him.
How she cried her joy!
And put her arms around him, burned away
In one great moment from a goblet of fire,
Which over-flowed, whatever she had felt
Of shrinking or distaste, or loveless hands
At any time before, and burned it there
Till even the ashes sparkled, blew away
In incense and in light.
She rose and slipped
A robe on and her slippers; drew a stand
Between them for the chablis and the cake.
And drank and ate with him, and showed her teeth,
While laughing, shaking curls, and flinging back
Her head for rapture, and in little crows.
Вячеслав Толстов 24.02.2019 11:53 • Заявить о нарушении
What are the mortal facts
With which we deal? The man is thirty years,
Most vital, in a richness physical,
Of musical heart and feeling; and the woman
Is twenty-eight, a cradle warm and rich
For life to grow in.
And the time is this:
This Henry Murray has a mood of peace,
A splendor as of June, has for the time
Quelled anarchy within him, come to law,
Sees life a thing of beauty, happiness,
And fortune glow before him. And the mother,
Sunning her feathers in his genial light,
Takes longing and has hope. For body's season
The blood of youth leaps in them like a fountain,
And splashes musically in the crystal pool
Of quiet days and hours. They rise refreshed,
Feel all the sun's strength flow through muscles, nerves;
Extract from food no poison, only health;
Are sensitive to simple things, the turn
Of leaves on trees, flowers springing, robins' songs.
Now such a time must prosper love's desire,
Fed gently, tended wisely, left to mount
In flame and light. A prospering fate occurs
To send this Henry Murray from his wife,
And keep him absent for a month--inspire
A daily letter, written of the joys,
And hopes they have together, and omit,
Forgotten for the time, old aches, despairs,
Forebodings for the future.
What results?
For thirty days her youth, and youthful blood
Under the stimulus of absence, letters,
And growing longing, laves and soothes and feeds,
Like streams that nourish fields, her body's being.
Enriches cells to plumpness, dim, asleep,
Which stretch, expand and turn, the prototype
Of a baby newly born; which after the cry
At midnight, taking breath an hour before,--
That cry which is of things most tragical,
The tragedy most poignant--sleeps and rests,
And flicks its little fingers, with closed eyes
Senses with visions of unopened leaves
This monstrous and external sphere, the world,
And what moves in it.
So she thinks of him,
And longs for his return, and as she longs
The rivers of her body run and ripple,
Refresh and quicken her. The morning's light
Flutters upon the ceiling, and she lies
And stretches drowsily in the breaking slumber
Of fluctuant emotion, calls to him
With spirit and flesh, until his very name
Seems like to form in sound, while lips are closed,
And tongue is motionless, beyond herself,
And in the middle spaces of the room
Calls back to her.
And Henry Murray caught,
In letters, which she sent him, all she felt,
Re-kindled it and sped it back to her.
Then came a lover's fancy in his brain:
He would return unlooked for--who, the god,
Inspired the fancy?--find her in what mood
She might be in his absence, where no blur
Of expectation of his coming changed
Her color, flame of spirit. And he bought
Some chablis and a cake, slipped noiselessly
Into the chamber where she lay asleep,
And had a light upon her face before
She woke and saw him.
How she cried her joy!
And put her arms around him, burned away
In one great moment from a goblet of fire,
Which over-flowed, whatever she had felt
Of shrinking or distaste, or loveless hands
At any time before, and burned it there
Till even the ashes sparkled, blew away
In incense and in light.
She rose and slipped
A robe on and her slippers; drew a stand
Between them for the chablis and the cake.
And drank and ate with him, and showed her teeth,
While laughing, shaking curls, and flinging back
Her head for rapture, and in little crows.
Вячеслав Толстов 24.02.2019 11:53 • Заявить о нарушении