В продолжение вчерашнего:

Маленькая антология "Цикламены в английской и американской поэзии"

Walter Savage Landor

To a Cyclamen

I COME to visit thee agen,
My little flowerless cyclamen;
To touch the hand, almost to press,
That cheer’d thee in thy loneliness.
What could thy careful guardian find
Of thee in form, of me in mind,
What is there in us rich or rare,
To make us claim a moment’s care?
Unworthy to be so carest,
We are but withering leaves at best

Arlo Bates

The Cyclamen

OVER the plains where Persian hosts
Laid down their lives for glory
Flutter the cyclamens, like ghosts
That witness to their story.
Oh, fair! Oh, white! Oh, pure as snow!
On countless graves how sweet they grow!

Or crimson, like the cruel wounds
From which the life-blood, flowing,
Poured out where now on grassy mounds
The low, soft winds are blowing:
Oh, fair! Oh, red! Like blood of slain;
Not even time can cleanse that stain.

But when my dear these blossoms holds,
All loveliness her dower,
All woe and joy the past enfolds
In her find fullest flower.
Oh, fair! Oh, pure! Oh, white and red!
If she but live, what are the dead!

Robert Fuller Murray

Cyclamen

I had a plant which would not thrive,
Although I watered it with care,
I could not save the blossoms fair,
Nor even keep the leaves alive.

I strove till it was vain to strive.
I gave it light, I gave it air,
I sought from skill and counsel rare
The means to make it yet survive.

A lady sent it me, to prove
She held my friendship in esteem;
I would not have it as she said,
I wanted it to be for love;
And now not even friends we seem,
And now the cyclamen is dead.

William Carlos Williams

From The Crimson Cyclamen

It is miraculous
that flower should rise
by flower
alike in loveliness —
as though mirrors
of some perfection
could never be too often shown —
silence holds them —
in that space. And
color has been construed
from emptiness
to waken there —

Это стихотворение было посвящено памяти друга Уильямса - художника Чарльза Демута.



Charles Demuth


Shirley Kaufman

Cyclamen

            "And when it was claimed
            the war had ended, it had not ended."
                Denise Levertov

They are fragile, pale apparitions
among the stones after the heavy rains,
as if to tell us, "we're back,
you have to take notice."

Rosy and white like spun sugar wings
about to take off, we let these
tremblings alert us again
to possibility.

No more than that. While the planes
roar and practice over our heads,
and we dutifully buy bottled water,
tape for our sealed rooms,

and check our gas masks.
Caught in the same efficiency
that kills. How many times?
How many times?

                January 29, 2003
                Jerusalem

R.S. Thomas

Cyclamen

They are white moths
With wings
Lifted
Over a dark water.


May Sarton

February days

Who could tire of the long shadows,
The long shadows of the trees on snow?
Sometimes I stand at the kitchen window
For a timeless time in a long daze
Before these reflected perpendiculars,
Noting how the light has changed,
How tender it is now in February
When the shadows are blue not black.

The crimson cyclamen has opened wide,
A bower of petals drunk on the light,
And in the snow-bright ordered house
I am drowsy as a turtle in winter,
Living on light and shadow
And their changes.

Exerpt from "JOURNAL OF A SOLITUDE"

January 8th

I look to my left and the transparent blue sky behind a flame-colored cyclamen, lifting about thrity winged flowers to the light, makes an impression of stained glass, light-flooded. I have put the vast heap of unanswered letters into a box at my feet, so I don't see them. And now I am going to make on more try to get that poem right. The last line is still the problem...

One more exerpt

Yesterday was a dismal, absolutely dismal day, except for the fact that a bunch of flowers & a beautiful pink cyclamen came for me.

А вот по-русски не смогла ни одного цикламена вспомнить...

Update
В комментах множество дополнений.