Permit me voyage, love, into your hands...
Hart CraneOne must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment.
Hart CraneLove: a burnt match skating in a urinal.
Hart CraneAnd so it was I entered the broken world
To trace the visionary company of love, its voice
An instant in the wind (I know not whither hurled)
But not for long to hold each desperate choice.
The bells, I say, the bells break down their tower;
And swing I know not where. Their tongues engrave
Membrane through marrow, my long-scattered score
Of broken intervals … And I, their sexton slave!
I wanted you, nameless Woman of the South,
No wraith, but utterly—as still more alone
The Southern Cross takes night
And lifts her girdles from her, one by one—
High, cool,
wide from the slowly smoldering fire
Of lower heavens,—
vaporous scars!
Eve! Magdalene!
or Mary, you?
Whatever call—falls vainly on the wave.
O simian Venus, homeless Eve,
Unwedded, stumbling gardenless to grieve
Windswept guitars on lonely decks forever;
Finally to answer all within one grave!
And this long wake of phosphor,
iridescent
Furrow of all our travel—trailed derision!
Eyes crumble at its kiss. Its long-drawn spell
Incites a yell. Slid on that backward vision
The mind is churned to spittle, whispering hell.
I wanted you . . . The embers of the Cross
Climbed by aslant and huddling aromatically.
It is blood to remember; it is fire
To stammer back . . . It is
God—your namelessness. And the wash—
All night the water combed you with black
Insolence. You crept out simmering, accomplished.
Water rattled that stinging coil, your
Rehearsed hair—docile, alas, from many arms.
Yes, Eve—wraith of my unloved seed!
The Cross, a phantom, buckled—dropped below the dawn.
Light drowned the lithic trillions of your spawn.
O sleepless as the river under thee, / Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod, / Onto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend / And of the curveship lend a myth to God.
Hart CraneTags: myth-ritual
Приспособяваме се тихо към живота,
доволни и от бледите утехи,
които вятърът довява
и пуска в празните ни джобове.
Но още храним обич към света
щом спираме пред гладно котенце на прага,
готови да го приютим в протрития ръкав,
да го спасим от улицата - шумна и жестока.
(...)
Играта е такава - кара ни да се усмихваме насила.
И все пак виждаме луната, спряла над самотна уличка,
да преобръща празна кофа в искряща чаша на смеха,
и все пак чуваме през веселия шум и нашите стремежи
гласа на котенце, което вика сред пустинята.
Tags: poetry
How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull’s wings shall dip and pivot him,
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty—
Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away;
—Till elevators drop us from our day ...
The game enforces smirks; but we have seen
The moon in lonely alleys make
A grail of laughter of an empty ash can,
And all through the sound of gaiety and quest
Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.
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