Энтони Хект / Anthony Hecht

Глин Максвелл / Glyn Maxwell

Огден Нэш / Ogden Nash

Английские поэты XVII - XVIII в. / English poets of the XVII - XVIII centuries.

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Glyn Maxwell Margit-Isle Allies Stargazing For my Daughter Peter Brook The Sentence Margit-Isle The boy has died. We knew that right away. “Es gibt kein Luft,” I said. On a cold day We should have seen his breath as a cone of mist. I was proud I’d used some German words. We stood In a park in Budapest.                                   Some passers-by Did just that with a glance. The German fat guy Peered and shrugged and went. A flashy rich Prostitute arrived. She was the first And only one to touch.                                  It was 2 pm. Nothing happened. “The police are going to come And we’ve no papers,” I fretted. Patrick said: “They won’t ask anything,” and an ambulance Braked and no one did.                                   They hauled him up. His anorak hood fell back. Our little group Saw now he was a girl. She could have died Of drugs or cold, stabwound or rope or rape. Least bad was suicide.                                   They drove away. We’ll never know a thing. We spent the day In the tight conspiracy of private shocks. A clerk in police HQ would make some notes And slide them in a box.                                  A year and a half And I’d do this, predictably enough. In Hungary perhaps they shed some light On why she died, but light shed on a death Is not what I call light.                                   I was waiting. To bring some writer’s thinking to the writing. Of what it was to chance on a fresh dead In public in broad daylight in the middle Of where we are. Instead It ends up as dry as a lucky stone. Something to carry around and feel. Move on. to the top Allies Us? We were with the Allies. We were with you Right on the dot, throughout, and we were with you At and beyond the end. We were with the Allies. And when we were with you we felt we were something more Than a nation, we were a brotherhood, a cause. Nobody said we flouted or broke things. The enemy had one eye, though, that was simple. It’s hard to know what’s right till the night you know What wrong is and the enemy was what wrong is. You great big nations thought of us and said “Them? They’re with the Allies.” So we got added to prayers. The name of our land was mouthed before the Amen By your fair little children. In their schools They crayoned us in like everyone, in the colour The Allies were, and did projects on our products. They told their mothers the things we make, but their mothers Showed them them in tins. They had bought out products Because we were allies. We were the Allies’ allies. After we made our way to the capitals Of superpowers, observed by the delicate ladies Who lived in them, and one told another one “Them? They were with us”, and that was like having new friends Always passing, too well-bred to wave back. Stroll by the Jubilee Arch as the sun goes down: Ours are the curious names on the marble walls As high as the eye can see. You have to remember Our language has no vowels but it can be mastered. Oh yes, we were with the Allies. Me myself? I’ll tell you about my war and about my wife And daughters too if this fellow will ever serve me. to the top Stargazing The night is fine and dry. It falls and spreads the cold sky with a million opposites that, for a moment, seem like a million souls and soon, none, and then, for what seems a long time, one. Then, of course it spins. What is better to do than string out over the infinite dead spaces the ancient beasts and spearmen of the human mind, and, if not the real ones, new ones? But, try making them clear to one you love – whoever is standing by you is one you love when pinioned by the stars -- you will find it quite impossible, but like her more for thinking she sees that constellation. After the wave of pain, you will turn to her and, in an instant, change the universe to a sky you were glad you came out to see. This is the act of all the descended gods of every age and creed: to weary of all that never ends, to take a human hand, and go back into the house. to the top For my daughter If I call this poem that, I have as new A pattern of three words to learn as you Have everything. The day you get the gist Of what this is becoming you’ll have missed The point you were. Then you’ll have reached the stage You stay at, insofar as every age In writing is a step along a shelf Where words are sowed and weather like a self. The height is dizzy but it stays the same And the ladder gets there when you make a name Of something I keep calling you. That date We won’t forget, are bound to celebrate, Like rain we needed after a long spell Of what was blissful but incredible. to the top Peter Brook Let every page Begin as clean And end as clear As stories are If actors pass Through pain and grace To make a stage Of any place. Let every word Be prized enough Shyly to talk Or weep with work Or fail afresh Towards a truth That may be heard Beyond its breath. Let every gap And every strip Of space fulfill Its hapless will That all about Each uttered mark The matter drop Into the dark. Let every line In ignorance Of whence it came Or what’s to come Hold out its hands Into the breeze As I do mine And cling to these. to the top The Sentence Lied to like a judge I stepped down. My court cleared to the shrieks of the set free. I know the truth, I know its level sound. It didn't speak, or didn't speak to me. The jury caught the tan of her bright look, The ushers smoothed her path and bowed aside, The lawyers watched her fingers as she took Three solemn vows, her lipstick as she lied. She vowed and lied to me and won her case. I'm glad she won. I wouldn't have had her led However gently into the shrunken space I'd opened for her. There. There now it's said, Said in this chamber where I sleep of old, Alone with books and sprawling robes and scent. With all I have, I have no power to hold The innocent or the found innocent. to the top © Марина Эскина 2002