Тема 15. Эксперименты в английской поэзиИ XIX века

Арабаджян А. Омар Хайям versus Эдуард Фитцджеральд и Томас Стернз Элиот: Диссонанс культуры и его гримаса. М., 2007.

Демурова Н.М. Льюис Кэрролл: Очерк жизни и творчества. – М.: Наука, 1979.

Демурова Н.М. Эдвард Лир и английская поэзия нонсенса // Topsy-Turvy World. Moscow, 1978. С. 5–22.

Бокий О.В. Лингвистические маркеры пародии (стихотворные пародии Кэрролла) // Структура и семантика предложения и текста в германских языках. Л., 1987.

Колесниченко С., Мурадян А. «Глокая куздра» в английской поэзии нонсенса // Анализ стилей зарубежной художественной и научной литературы. Л., 1989. Вып. 6. С. 102–110.

Попова И.Ю. Джерард Мэнли Хопкинс: викторианский контекст // Вестн. Моск. ун-та. Сер. 9, Филология. М., 1993. № 4. С. 27–37.

Хорольский В.В. Предмодернизм в лирике Джерарда Мэнли Хопкинса // Традиции и взаимодействия в зарубежных литературах. Пермь, 1999. C. 99–117.

Элиот Т.С. Суинберн как поэт // Элиот Т. С. Избранное: Религия, культура, литература. М., 2004. С. 713–718.

Рогов В. От переводчика // Диапазон. М., 1994. №1. С. 153–155. [Предисловие к подборке стихотворений Суинберна].

EDWARD FITZGERALD (1809–1883)

From “Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám”

Why, if the Soul can fling the dust aside,

And naked on the air of Heaven ride,

Wer ’t not a shame—wer’t not a shame for him

In this clay carcase crippled to abide?

Ah, fill the Cup: - what boots it to repeat

How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:

Unborn TO-MORROW, and dead YESTERDAY,

Why fret about them if TODAY be sweet?

I think the Vessel, that with fugitive

Articulation answer’d, once did live,

And drink; and ah! the passive lip I kiss’d,

How many kisses might it take—and give!

EDWARD LEAR (1812–1888)

From “The Book of Nonsense”

There was an Old Man with a nose,

Who said, "If you choose to suppose

That my nose is too long,

You are certainly wrong!"

That remarkable man with a nose.

There was a Young Lady of Russia,

Who screamed so that no one could hush her;

Her screams were extreme,

No one heard such a scream,

As was screamed by that lady of Russia.

There was an Old Person whose habits

Induced him to feed upon rabbits;

When he'd eaten eighteen

He turned perfectly green,

Upon which he relinquished those habits.

LEWIS CARROLL (1832–1898)

YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM

“You are old, father William," the young man said,

"And your hair has become very white;

And yet you incessantly stand on your head -

Do you think, at your age, it is right?"

"In my youth," father William replied to his son,

"I feared it would injure the brain;

But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,

Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,

And have grown most uncommonly fat;

Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door -

Pray, what is the reason of that?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,

"I kept all my limbs very supple

By the use of this ointment -- one shilling the box -

Allow me to sell you a couple."

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak

For anything tougher than suet;

Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak -

Pray, how did you manage to do it?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,

And argued each case with my wife;

And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,

Has lasted the rest of my life."

"You are old," said the youth; one would hardly suppose

That your eye was as steady as ever;

Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose --

What made you so awfully clever?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"

Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!

Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?

Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!"

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–1889)

The Caged Skylark

As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage,

Man’s mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells –

That bird beyond the remembering hís free fells;

This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life’s age.

Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stage

Both sing sometímes the sweetest, sweetest spells,

Yet both droop deadly sómetimes in their cells

Or wring their barriers in bursts of fear or rage.

Not that the sweet-fowl, song-fowl, needs no rest –

Why, hear him, hear him babble and drop down to his nest,

But his own nest, wild nest, no prison.

Man’s spirit will be flesh-bound, when found at best,

But úncúmberèd: meadow-dówn is nót distréssed

For a ráinbow fóoting it nor hé for his bónes rísen.

The Bugler's First Communion

A buglar boy from barrack (it is over the hillThere)—boy bugler, born, he tells me, of Irish Mother to an English sire (he Shares their best gifts surely, fall how things will), This very very day came down to us after a boon he onMy late being there begged of me, overflowing Boon in my bestowing, Came, I say, this day to it—to a First Communion. Here he knelt then ín regimental red. Forth Christ from cupboard fetched, how fain I of feetTo his youngster take his treat! Low-latched in leaf-light housel his too huge godhead. There! and your sweetest sendings, ah divine, By it, heavens, befall him! as a heart Christ’s darling, dauntless; Tongue true, vaunt- and tauntless;Breathing bloom of a chastity in mansex fine. Frowning and forefending angel-warder Squander the hell-rook ranks sally to molest him; March, kind comrade, abreast him; Dress his days to a dexterous and starlight order.How it dóes my heart good, visiting at that bleak hill, When limber liquid youth, that to all I teach Yields tender as a pushed peach, Hies headstrong to its wellbeing of a self-wise self-will! Then though I should tread tufts of consolationDáys áfter, só I in a sort deserve to And do serve God to serve to Just such slips of soldiery Christ’s royal ration. Nothing élse is like it, no, not all so strains Us: fresh youth fretted in a bloomfall all portendingThat sweet’s sweeter ending; Realm both Christ is heir to and thére réigns. O now well work that sealing sacred ointment! O for now charms, arms, what bans off bad And locks love ever in a lad!Let mé though see no more of him, and not disappointment Those sweet hopes quell whose least me quickenings lift, In scarlet or somewhere of some day seeing That brow and bead of being, An our day’s God’s own Galahad. Though this child’s driftSeems by a divíne doom chánnelled, nor do I cry Disaster there; but may he not rankle and roam In backwheels though bound home?— That left to the Lord of the Eucharist, I here lie by; Recorded only, I have put my lips on pleasWould brandle adamantine heaven with ride and jar, did Prayer go disregarded: Forward-like, but however, and like favourable heaven heard these.

ALGERNON SWINBURNE (1837–1909)