mbla's Journal

ирландец Шеймус Хини
На Рождество я подарила

tarzanissimo@lj сборник нечитанного мной Шеймуса Хини - в обычной погоне за очередными английскими стихами, за которые можно будет ухватиться и повампирствовать.

Сегодня открыла и очень обрадовалась

The Peninsula
by Seamus Heaney

When you have nothing more to say, just drive
For a day all around the peninsula,
The sky is tall as over a runway,
The land without marks, so you will not arrive

But pass through, though always skirting landfall.
At dusk, horizons drink down sea and hill,
The ploughed field swallows the whitewashed gable
And you're in the dark again. Now recall

The glazed foreshore and silhoutted log.
That rock where breakers shredded into rags,
The leggy birds stilted on their own legs,
Islands riding themselves out into the fog.

And then drive back home, still with nothing to say
Except that now you will uncode all landscapes
By this; things founded clean on their own shapes
Water and ground in their extremity.

И дождь шуршит песком. И мыльными пузырями на песке пена.