Руперт Брук
May. 30th, 2010 03:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oryx_and_crake posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ru_translateА существует ли перевод на русский язык этого стихотворения Руперта Брука? Особенно интересуют выделенные строчки. Заранее спасибо.
Peace
Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
P.S. Вот этот "перевод" не предлагать, он ничего общего с оригиналом не имеет: http://www.stihi.ru/2006/04/18-1942
Peace
Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.
P.S. Вот этот "перевод" не предлагать, он ничего общего с оригиналом не имеет: http://www.stihi.ru/2006/04/18-1942
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no subject
Date: 2010-05-30 10:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-30 06:00 pm (UTC)вот текст:
In the field hospital Julian thought from time to time about the English
language. He thought about the songs the men sang, grim and gleeful.
We’re ’ere because we’re ’ere because we’re ’ere because we’re ’ere.
Far, far from Wipers I long to be
Where German snipers can’t snipe at me.
Damp is my dugout
Cold are my feet
Waiting for the whizz-bangs
To send me to sleep.
I had a comrade
None better could you find
The drum called us to battle
He marched by my side.
Poetry, Julian thought, was something forced out of men by death,
or the presence of death, or the fear of death, or the deaths of others.
He started making a list of words that could no longer be used.
Honour. Glory. Heritage. Joy.
He asked other men for names of trenches. They came up with Rats
Alley Income Tax, Dead Cow, Dead Dog, Dead Hun, Carrion Trench, Skull
Farm, Paradise Copse, Judas Trench, Iscariot Trench and many religious
trenches: Paul, Tarsus, Luke, Miracle. Many trenches were named for
London’s streets and theatres, and many more for women – Flirt Trench,
Fluffy Trench, Corset Trench. Julian collected them in a notebook, and
started stringing them together, but his head ached. They naturally
formed into parodies of jingles
Numskull, rumskull
Hear the bullet hum skull
Now I’ve got my bum full
Of shrapnel tiddly um.
That was no good. But in that direction was something that could
still be done. Rupert Brooke was gone, dead of an infected spot on his
lip, in Greece, a year ago. He had written about Dining Room Tea and
about honey or some such thing in Grantchester, unimaginable now,
and about war as a release from the life of half-men and dirty songs and
dreary, and fighting as ‘swimmers into cleanness leaping’.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-30 08:03 pm (UTC)Купершмидт, попробуем перевести? По крайней мере сам стих?
no subject
Date: 2010-05-30 08:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-30 09:33 pm (UTC)Господи, слава тебе, призвавшему нас в сей час,
Разбудившему нашу юность и поднявшему нас ото сна,
Одарившему острым глазом и твердой рукою нас,
Бросившего нас в море (как чиста его глубина),
Оторвавшего нас от мира немощных стариков
От сердеечных наших болезней, что честью не излечить
От песен недо-людей, их изношенных пустякое,
И от любви, пустоту которой надо давно забыть!
no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 02:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 11:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 01:05 pm (UTC)Господи, слава Тебе, избравшему нас,
Велев юнцам восстать ото сна, и отныне
Твёрдость руки обрели мы и верный глаз,
И мощь рывка - как пловцы, устремляясь в глубины.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 01:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 01:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 01:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 01:17 pm (UTC)И считалочка внизу - это уже из другой оперы.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 01:21 pm (UTC)Ypres
no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 01:30 pm (UTC)Пули над ухом
Как сержант под мухой
Жужжит шрапнель под брюхом.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 01:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 01:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 01:36 pm (UTC)Сегодня у меня во френдленте вот такая фотография появилась - что-то в воздухе витает.
http://community.livejournal.com/vintagephoto/5210927.html
no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 02:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 01:22 pm (UTC)Подальше б сбежать, ребята, от линии той огня
Чтобы стрелок немецкий уже не стрелял в меня
Сыро в моем окопе
Холод сводит живот
Покамест отбой вечерний
спать меня не пошлет.
Был у меня товарищ
Вернее я не видал
Когда нас послали в пекло
Он рядом со мной шагал
no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 01:26 pm (UTC)1 куплет
Date: 2010-05-31 01:58 pm (UTC)Дальше от Ипра быть бы сейчас,
Где вражий снайпер не целит в нас.
Сыро в окопе,
Сводит живот,
Пока нас пуля.
Спать не пошлёт.
Re: 2 куплет
Date: 2010-05-31 02:14 pm (UTC)был мне родней, чем брат.
Мы с ним под барабаны,
Маршировали в ад.
Re: 1 куплет
Date: 2010-05-31 02:24 pm (UTC)Причем снаип как глагол редко употребляется, там намеренная игра слов.
Re: 1 куплет
Date: 2010-05-31 02:29 pm (UTC)Но тогда нельзя спеть. А песня, как оказалось, знаменитая, причём, шотландская, на уровне "Long Way to Tipperrary"
Re: 1 куплет
Date: 2010-05-31 02:35 pm (UTC)Re: 1 куплет( вариант с внутренней рифмой)
Date: 2010-05-31 03:44 pm (UTC)Где снайпер хитрый не целит в нас.
Re: 1 куплет( вариант с внутренней рифмой)
Date: 2010-05-31 07:12 pm (UTC)Re: 1 куплет( вариант с внутренней рифмой)
Date: 2010-05-31 07:23 pm (UTC):0)
no subject
Date: 2010-05-30 08:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-30 06:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-30 07:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 02:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 11:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-31 07:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-01 01:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-02 07:01 pm (UTC)Дальше от Ипра быть бы сейчас,
Где немец хитрый не целит в нас.
Сыро в окопе,
Ноги - как лёд.
Знать, нам мортира
Отбой пропоёт.
верный
no subject
Date: 2010-06-02 07:02 pm (UTC)