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Английский без правил

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За последние 60 дней 2 выпусков (1-2 раза в 2 месяца)


Открыта: 20-08-2011

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Английский без правил


Добрый день, друзья!

 

Люди скорее согласятся обрести славу, нежели стать свободными. К новым философиям нас обычно толкает не столько усталость от старых или дискретность памяти, сколько недовольство тем, что метафоры хорошо знакомые недостаточно нами упакованы, и надежда на то, что книги мало читаемые будут восхищать больше.

 

Enough

Ellen Bass

 

Enough seen….Enough had....Enough…

                          —Arthur Rimbaud

No. It will never be enough. Never

enough wind clamoring in the trees,

sun and shadow handling each leaf, never enough clang

of my neighbor hammering,

the iron nails, relenting wood, sound waves

lapping over roofs, never enough

bees purposeful at the throats

of lilies. How could we be replete

with the flesh of ripe tomatoes, the unique

scent of their crushed leaves. It would take many

births to be done with the thatness of that.

Oh blame life. That we just want more.

Summer rain. Mud. A cup of tea.

Our teeth, our eyes. A baby in a stroller.

Another spoonful of crème brûlée, sweet burnt crust crackling.

And hot showers, oh lovely, lovely hot showers.

Today was a good day.

My mother-in-law sat on the porch, eating crackers and cheese

with a watered-down margarita

and though her nails are no longer stop-light red

and she can’t remember who’s alive and dead,

still, this was a day

with no weeping, no unstoppable weeping.

Last night, through the small window of my laptop,

I watched a dying man kill himself in Switzerland.

He wore a blue shirt and snow was falling

onto a small blue house, onto dark needles of pine and fir.

He didn’t step outside to feel the snow on his face.

He sat at a table with his wife and drank poison.

Online I found a plastic bag complete with Velcro

and a hole for a tube to a propane tank. I wouldn’t have to

move our Weber. I could just slide

down the stucco to the flagstones, where the healthy

weeds are sprouting through the cracks.

Maybe it wouldn’t be half-bad

to go out looking at the yellowing leaves of the old camellia.

And from there I could see the chickens scratching—

if we still have chickens then. And yet…

this little hat of life, how will I bear

to take it off while I can still reach up? Snug woolen watch cap,

lacy bonnet, yellow cloche with the yellow veil

I wore the Easter I turned thirteen when my mother let me

            promenade

with Tommy Spagnola on the boardwalk in Atlantic City.

Oxygen, oxygen, the cry of the body—and you always want to

            give it

what it wants. But I must say no—

enough, enough

with more tenderness

than I have ever given to a lover, the gift

of the nipple hardening under my fingertip, more

tenderness than to my newborn,

when I held her still flecked

with my blood. I’ll say the most gentle refusal

to this dear dumb animal and tighten

the clasp around my throat that once was kissed and kissed

until the blood couldn’t rest in its channel, but rose

to the surface like a fish that couldn’t wait to be caught.

 

До новых встреч!

 
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