"Sonety, jaká slast..."
Ivan Blatný

Listopad 2007

Karel Toman - Měsíce (1918) - specifické varianty sonetu z pera génia českého rytmu

25. listopadu 2007 v 21:32 | Karel Toman |  Sonety
Leden

Po cestách zavátých a po silnicích
rod opuštěných bloudí.
Sychravé zimy dlátem bolestí
monogram bídy ryly v jejich tělo,
a tak jdou světem.

Vyjde-li hvězda, pro ně nesvítí.
Betlém jim shořel.
Jen v bludných kruzích šlapou boží zemi
a jíní stéká jim chladnými krůpějemi
po tvářích dětsky vzpurných.

Hospodu teplou večer jim dej, Pane,
a plnou mísu
a slovo dobrých lidí.

Únor

Kdo ticho miluješ a samotu
a v lesích hlubokých a v míru sněžných polí
nasloucháš rytmu života,
zda někdy neslyšíš
hlas hlubin?

Zní z dálky karneval vražd, krve, umírání.
Mlčení země bolí.
Však dole
tep srdce chvěje se a skrytý pramen z temnot
dere se k světlu.

A píseň mladých vod
tvé srdce opije a hlavu štěstím zmámí,
že v zoufalství snad, ve víře však nejsme sami.

Březen

Na naší studni ráno hvízdal kos.
Jde jaro, jde jaro.
A když jsem okno na sad otvíral,
šeptaly pukající pupeny:
Jde jaro, jde jaro.

Bez chvěje se a hrušně čekají.
Jde jaro, jde jaro.
Zas novým třpytem rozkvétá ti vlas
a nových kovů napil se tvůj smích.
Jde jaro, jde jaro.

Bože můj,
obnoviteli, obroditeli,
na srdce v sněhu pamatuj.

Duben

Veselé jarní přeháňky
a první boží duha nad krajinou!
Rozsívku složil hospodář
a důvěřivě
obchází půdu, do níž sil.

Snad přijdou mrazy. Ale setba svatá
se neporuší.
Neb zákon jediný jest klíčiti a růst,
růst za bouří a nepohody
všemu navzdory.

Rozšafní dědové se hřejí u kamen
a přemílají starou moudrost, staré zvyky
a staré pranostiky.

Květen

Jdem všichni, s ženami a dětmi
a se snem předků.
Jdem slunce přivítat, jež vyvolala ze tmy
modlitba věrných pokolení
a práce.

V rosnaté trávě tančí naše děti,
bratrský řetěz rukou spjal je v kruh.
V té budoucnosti záští není
a z jejích písní zpívá družný duch
a mluví k otcům.

Neb nikdy bojovník,
ať za pluhem jde, nebo buší v kov,
vítězit chce-li, nesmí zhrdat bratrem.

Červen

Jaromírovi

Stín stromů zelený tě na svět uvítal,
zahrada jarní tišila tvůj pláč.
A s každým červnem vzpomínáme,
co ti ten první dal,
a s tebou koupáme se v jeho slunci.

Sen matky tvé a otce se snem lidu kvete,
i tebe vepjal v řetěz čarovný,
kde hlad a bída umlká,
kde mizí vše, co bolí člověka
a hněte.

Sni, hrej si v červnu svém. Vy všechny děti, sněte
domova nejpyšnější sny,
než řekne velký den: Jsem naplnění, procitněte!

Červenec

Svatý stín strážný bdí nám nad domovem,
hlas jeho slyšet v tichu: Pamatuj!
A v šumu listí, v chladné písni vod
hlas jeho slyšíš, slyšíš doprovod:
Pamatuj!

Ne záře hranice, jen víra, zápal tvůj,
čin s mužným slovem
ať provází tě po Čechách.
Ne bengál vylhaný, jen tichý stálý plamen
ať hoří v duších.

Svatý stín strážný bdí nám nad Čechami
a děti v kolébkách
nám posvěcuje vzdušným pocelem.

Srpen

V zahradu uzavřenou světu
šum klasů zavívá a voní živným chlebem.
Pokojná píseň žní jde po polích
a pod ohnivým sluncem
blažený pot si stírá člověk.

Zdaleka slyším vrata dusných stodol,
jako by skřípal zuby.
Neviditelná ruka loupežná
se podepřela o kalenec
a čeká.

A přece mlčím, nevykřiknu v ticho.
Nad námi hlavy naklánějí bdíce
hodiny samot našich, slunečnice.

Září

Můj bratr dooral a vypřáh koně.
A jak se stmívá,
věrnému druhu hlavu do hřívy
položil tiše, pohladil mu šíji
a zaposlouchal se, co mluví kraj.

Zní zvony z dálky tichým svatvečerem;
modlitba vesnic stoupá chladným šerem.
Duch země zpívá: úzkost, víra, bolest
v jediný chorál slily se a letí
k věčnému nebi.

Svatý Václave,
nedej zahynouti
nám ni budoucím.

Říjen

Ty bože révy, který posíláš
paprsky slunce na nalité hrozny,
na zlaté hrozny, hrozny fialové,
buď milostivý.

Po teplých stráních vzpínají se k tobě
vášnivé keře roztančeným gestem,
zpívají, mluví, hovoří a prosí,
bys dal jim oheň, aby rozdaly jej,
bys vdech jim radost, aby vzkvetla v očích
zkalených trudem.

Neb my jsme lidé mdlí
a pro tvou slávu milujeme víno
a s číší jen se naše srdce pomodlí.

Listopad

Vy štědré stromy zahrad i vy podle cest,
jež vztyčujete ramena
k obloze šeré, k nebi beze hvězd
v dnech dušičkových do mlh vždy nových,
váš smutek žiji.

Úroda vaše voní pod střechami,
radostná těšitelka dětí.
Jste se zemí a s nebem samy
a jenom zřídka bludné ptáče sletí
v koruny oddané a čekající.

Zas přijde květ i plod.
Však za vichřic hlas touhy jediné z vás vane:
Vzplát na tvé hranici, ó Pane!

Prosinec

Šla do Betléma rovná cesta,
zářila hvězda, všechno bylo prosté.
A za nábožných písní
sny otců našich věčně putovaly
po starém mostě.

Byl, nebyl Betlém?
Však na tom mostě rozmarýna roste
a poutníčkové věrní tiše obrátí se,
když místo spasitele
čeládku chlévní najdou.

A vracejí se domů s vírou,
že za rok hvězda stane jistě nad Betlémem
a ta již neoklame.

Dylan Thomas - sonetový cyklus Altarwise by Owl-Light (v originále)

14. listopadu 2007 v 13:45 | Dylan Thomas |  Sonetové cykly
(Pozn. Altarwise = in the proper position of an altar, that is, at the east of a church with its ends towards the north and south.
Owl-Light = "hodina mezi psem a vlkem", soumrak)

I
Altarwise by owl-light in the half-way house
The gentleman lay graveward with his furies;
Abaddon in the hangnail cracked from Adam,
And, from his fork, a dog among the fairies,
The atlas-eater with a jaw for news,
Bit out the mandrake with to-morrow's scream.
Then, penny-eyed, that gentleman of wounds,
Old cock from nowheres and the heaven's egg,
With bones unbuttoned to the half-way winds,
Hatched from the windy salvage on one leg,
Scraped at my cradle in a walking word
That night of time under the Christward shelter:
I am the long world's gentleman, he said,
And share my bed with Capricorn and Cancer.

II

Death is all metaphors, shape in one history;
The child that sucketh long is shooting up,
The planet-ducted pelican of circles
Weans on an artery the gender's strip;
Child of the short spark in a shapeless country
Soon sets alight a long stick from the cradle;
The horizontal cross-bones of Abaddon,
You by the cavern over the black stairs,
Rung bone and blade, the verticals of Adam,
And, manned by midnight, Jacob to the stars.
Hairs of your head, then said the hollow agent,
Are but the roots of nettles and feathers
Over the groundworks thrusting through a pavement
And hemlock-headed in the wood of weathers.

III

First there was the lamb on knocking knees
And three dead seasons on a climbing grave
That Adam's wether in the flock of horns,
Butt of the tree-tailed worm that mounted Eve,
Horned down with skullfoot and the skull of toes
On thunderous pavements in the garden of time;
Rip of the vaults, I took my marrow-ladle
Out of the wrinkled undertaker's van,
And, Rip Van Winkle from a timeless cradle,
Dipped me breast-deep in the descending bone;
The black ram, shuffling of the year, old winter,
Alone alive among his mutton fold,
We rung our weathering changes on the ladder,
Said the antipodes, and twice spring chimed.

IV

What is the metre of the dictionary?
The size of genesis? the short spark's gender?
Shade without shape? the shape of the Pharaoh's echo?
(My shape of age nagging the wounded whisper.)
Which sixth of wind blew out the burning gentry?
(Questions are hunchbacks to the poker marrow.)
What of a bamboo man among your acres?
Corset the boneyards for a crooked boy?
Button your bodice on a hump of splinters,
My camel's eyes will needle through the shroud.
Love's reflection of the mushroom features,
Still snapped by night in the bread-sided field,
Once close-up smiling in the wall of pictures,
Arc-lamped thrown back upon the cutting flood.

V
And from the windy West came two-gunned Gabriel,
From Jesu's sleeve trumped up the king of spots,
The sheath-decked jacks, queen with a shuffled heart;
Said the fake gentleman in suit of spades,
Black-tongued and tipsy from salvation's bottle.
Rose my Byzantine Adam in the night.
For loss of blood I fell on Ishmael's plain,
Under the milky mushrooms slew my hunger,
A climbing sea from Asia had me down
And Jonah's Moby snatched me by the hair,
Cross-stroked salt Adam to the frozen angel
Pin-legged on pole-hills with a black medusa
By waste seas where the white bear quoted Virgil
And sirens singing from our lady's sea-straw.

VI

Cartoon of slashes on the tide-traced crater,
He in a book of water tallow-eyed
By lava's light split through the oyster vowels
And burned sea silence on a wick of words.
Pluck, cock, my sea eye, said medusa's scripture,
Lop, love, my fork tongue, said the pin-hilled nettle;
And love plucked out the stinging siren's eye,
Old cock from nowheres lopped the minstrel tongue
Till tallow I blew from the wax's tower
The fats of midnight when the salt was singing;
Adam, time's joker, on a witch of cardboard
Spelt out the seven seas, an evil index,
The bagpipe-breasted ladies in the deadweed
Blew out the blood gauze through the wound of manwax.

VII

Now stamp the Lord's Prayer on a grain of rice,
A Bible-leaved of all the written woods
Strip to this tree: a rocking alphabet,
Genesis in the root, the scarecrow word,
And one light's language in the book of trees.
Doom on deniers at the wind-turned statement.
Time's tune my ladies with the teats of music,
The scaled sea-sawers, fix in a naked sponge
Who sucks the bell-voiced Adam out of magic,
Time, milk, and magic, from the world beginning.
Time is the tune my ladies lend their heartbreak,
From bald pavilions and the house of bread
Time tracks the sound of shape on man and cloud,
On rose and icicle the ringing handprint.

VIII

This was the crucifixion on the mountain,
Time's nerve in vinegar, the gallow grave
As tarred with blood as the bright thorns I wept;
The world's my wound, God's Mary in her grief,
Bent like three trees and bird-papped through her shift,
With pins for teardrops is the long wound's woman.
This was the sky, Jack Christ, each minstrel angle
Drove in the heaven-driven of the nails
Till the three-coloured rainbow from my nipples
From pole to pole leapt round the snail-waked world.
I by the tree of thieves, all glory's sawbones,
Unsex the skeleton this mountain minute,
And by this blowcock witness of the sun
Suffer the heaven's children through my heartbeat.

IX

From the oracular archives and the parchment,
Prophets and fibre kings in oil and letter,
The lamped calligrapher, the queen in splints,
Buckle to lint and cloth their natron footsteps,
Draw on the glove of prints, dead Cairo's henna
Pour like a halo on the caps and serpents.
This was the resurrection in the desert,
Death from a bandage, rants the mask of scholars
Gold on such features, and the linen spirit
Weds my long gentleman to dusts and furies;
With priest and pharaoh bed my gentle wound,
World in the sand, on the triangle landscape,
With stones of odyssey for ash and garland
And rivers of the dead around my neck.

X

Let the tale's sailor from a Christian voyage
Atlaswise hold half-way off the dummy bay
Time's ship-racked gospel on the globe I balance:
So shall winged harbours through the rockbird's eyes
Spot the blown word, and on the seas I image
December's thorn screwed in a brow of holly.
Let the first Peter from a rainbow's quayrail
Ask the tall fish swept from the bible east,
What rhubarb man peeled in her foam-blue channel
Has sown a flying garden round that sea-ghost?
Green as beginning, let the garden diving
Soar, with its two bark towers, to that Day
When the worm builds with the gold straws of venom
My nest of mercies in the rude, red tree.

Převzato odtud.

Jaromír Borecký - 3 sonety ze sb. Rosa mystica (1892)

14. listopadu 2007 v 13:33 Sonety
Vůně bolesti.

Zas v bledých růžích vzplál sníh na obzoru zoří,
nad mokkou tupě dlím ve snění orgii,
jak chvění hynoucích a zamlžených moří
dav mdlých jde vzpomínek a srdce opíjí.

Zřím jakous známou líc, jež pod polibky hoří
jak krví zbrocený sníh bledých lilijí,
zrak shaslý, z temných řas jenž bolestně se noří,
v šeř krajek tratící se ňader linii.

Zas tepnu na skráni mně dráždí čísi dech,
jak v šedých lásky snech zas pálí na prsech
mne tíha kadeří, jež sytý parfum koupá.

Vše mizí; sníh jen tká své draperie dál.
Jak slzy kadidla bych v černém chrámu ssál,
jed vůně zahořklé v mé duše prázdno stoupá.


V černý vějíř... (z cyklu Féerické vějíře)

V černý vějíř tvůj mé duše smutky stkané
na vlnách tvých ňader chví se v agonii,
na sametu jich se snivým rythmem spíjí,
z nichž dech linaloe do tmy krajek vane.

Pološerem loge vějíř v perlách plane
pod bílou tvou rukou s vůní vanilií,
chvěním nervosním mdlý klesá na tvou šíji
vnořit její zář v své květy nadýchané.

Mystické tvé oči temnem jeho nyjí,
tiše kolébá mé srdce touhou štvané
anglický tvůj profil v snění ambrosii,

v srdce šílené co dál mi bolest kane
a tvé hrdé rty dál nelítostně vpíjí
v černý vějíř tvůj mé duše smutky stkané.


Vám, která víte.

Mne otrávila láska k vám,
ten cit, jenž plný frenesií
jak rána zžírá, štěstím spíjí
a vrhá v náruč horečkám.

Jak dahlia, jež září tmám,
vy bytosti své poesií
jste lásky skvělou symfonii
mým rozpoutala hlubinám.

Blouznivost Schumanna v ní stená,
žár démonický Beethovena
z ní v hymnech slétá do duše.

Či je to zpěv, jejž do vln kvílí
dva slavíci, již v snách se skryli
v chrám pustý Cudné Venuše?
převzato z www.ceska-poezie.cz

Wallace Irwin - The Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum - 22 + 2 Pobudových milostných sonetů (v originále, 1902)

5. listopadu 2007 v 13:29 | Wallace Irwin |  Sonetové cykly
Prologue

WOULDN'T it jar you, wouldn't it make you sore
To see the poet, when the goods play out,
Crawl off of poor old Pegasus and tout
His skate to two-step sonnets off galore?
Then, when the plug, a dead one, can no more
Shake rag-time than a biscuit, right about
The poem-butcher turns with gleeful shout
And sends a batch of sonnets to the store.

The sonnet is a very easy mark,
A James P. Dandy as a carry-all
For brain-fag wrecks who want to keep it dark
Just why their crop of thinks is running small.
On the low down, dear Mame, my looty loo,
That's why I've cooked this batch of rhymes for you.

I

SAY, will she treat me white, or throw me down,
Give me the glassy glare, or welcome hand,
Shovel me dirt, or treat me on the grand,
Knife me, or make me think I own the town?
Will she be on the level, do me brown,
Or will she jolt me lightly on the sand,
Leaving poor Willie froze to beat the band,
Limp as your grandma's Mother Hubbard gown?

I do not know, nor do I give a whoop,
But this I know: if she is so inclined
She can come and play with me on our back stoop,
Even in office hours, I do not mind--
In fact I know I'm nice and good and ready
To get an option on her as my steady.

II

ON the dead level I am sore of heart,
For nifty Mame has frosted me complete,
Since ten o'clock, G.M., when on the street
I saw my lightning finish from the start.
O goo-goo eye, how glassy glazed thou art
To freeze my spinach solid when we meet,
And keep thy Willie on the anxious seat
Like a bum Dago on an apple cart!

Is it because my pants fit much too soon,
Or that my hand-me-down is out of style,
That thou dost turn me under when I spoon,
Nor hand me hothouse beauties with a smile?
If that's the case, next week I'll scorch the line
Clad in a shell I'll buy of Cohenstein.

II

AS follows is the make-up I shall buy,
Next week, when from the boss I pull my pay:--
A white and yellow zig-zag cutaway,
A sunset-colored vest and purple tie,
A shirt for vaudeville and something fly
In gunboat shoes and half-hose on the gay.
I'll get some green shoe-laces, by the way,
And a straw lid to set 'em stepping high.

Then shall I shine and be the great main squeeze,
The warm gazook, the only on the bunch,
The Oklahoma wonder, the whole cheese,
The baby with the Honolulu hunch--
That will bring Mame to time--I should say yes!
Ain't my dough good as Murphy's? Well, I guess!

IV

O FATE, thou art a lobster, but not dead!
Silently dost thou grab, e'en as the cop
Nabs the poor hobo, sneaking from a shop
With some rich geezer's tile upon his head.
By thy fake propositions are we led
To get quite chesty, when it's biff! kerflop!!
We take a tumble and the cog-wheels stop,
Leaving the patient seeing stars in bed.

So was I swatted, for I could not draw
My last week's pay. I got the dinky dink.
No more I see the husk in dreams I saw,
And Mame is mine some more, I do not think.
I know my rival, and it makes me sore--
'Tis Murphy, night clerk in McCann's drug store.

V

LAST night--ah! yesternight--I flagged my queen
Steering for Grunsky's ice-cream joint full sail!
I up and braced her, breezy as a gale,
And she was the all-rightest ever seen.
Just then Brick Murphy butted in between,
Rushing my funny song-and-dance to jail,
My syncopated con-talk no avail,
For Murphy was the only nectarine.

This is a sample of the hand I get
When I am playing more than solitaire,
Showing how I become the slowest yet
When it's a case of razors in the air,
And competition knocks me off creation
Like a gin-fountain smashed by Carrie Nation.

VI

SEE how that Murphy cake-walks in his pride,
That brick-topped Murphy, fourteen-dollar jay;
You'd think he'd leased the sidewalk by the way
He takes up half a yard on either side!
I'm wise his diamond ring's a cut-glass snide,
His overcoat is rented by the day,
But still no kick is coming yet from Mae
When Murphy cuts the cake so very wide.

Rubber, thou scab! Don't throw on so much spaniel!
Say, are there any more at home like you?
You're not the only lion after Daniel,
You're not the only oyster in the stew.
Get next, you pawn-shop sport! Come off the fence
Before I make you look like thirty cents!

VII

MAYHAP you think I cinched my little job
When I made meat of Mamie's dress-suit belle.
If that's your hunch you don't know how the swell
Can put it on the plain, unfinished slob
Who lacks the kiss-me war paint of the snob
And can't make good inside a giddy shell;
Wherefore the reason I am fain to tell
The slump that caused me this melodious sob.

For when I pushed Brick Murphy to the rope
Mame manned the ambulance and dragged him in,
Massaged his lamps with fragrant drug store dope
And coughed up loops of kindergarten chin;
She sprang a come back, piped for the patrol,
Then threw a glance that tommyhawked my soul.

VIII

I SOMETIMES think that I am not so good,
That there are foxier, warmer babes than I,
That Fate has given me the calm go-by
And my long suit is sawing mother's wood.
Then would I duck from under if I could,
Catch the hog special on the jump and fly
To some Goat Island planned by destiny
For dubs and has-beens and that solemn brood.

But spite of bug-wheels in my cocoa tree,
The trade in lager beer is still a-humming,
A schooner can be purchased for a V
Or even grafted if you're fierce at bumming.
My finish then less clearly do I see,
For lo! I have another think a-coming.

IX

LAST night I tumbled off the water cart--
It was a peacherino of a drunk;
I put the cocktail market on the punk
And tore up all the sidewalks from the start.
The package that I carried was a tart
That beat Vesuvius out for sizz and spunk,
And when they put me in my little bunk
You couldn't tell my jag and me apart.

Oh! would I were the ice man for a space,
Then might I cool this red-hot cocoanut,
Corral the jim-jam bugs that madly race
Around the eaves that from my forehead jut--
Or will a carpenter please come instead
And build a picket fence around my head?

X

AS one who with his landlord stands deuce high
And blocks his board bill off with IOU's,
Touching the barkeep lightly for his booze,
Sidestepping when a creditor goes by,
Soaking his mother's watch-chain on the sly,
Haply his ticker, too, haply his shoes,
Till Mr. Johnson comes to turn him loose
And lift the mortgage from that poor cheap guy;

So am I now small change in Mamie's scorn,
A microbe's egg, or two-bits in a fog,
A first cornet that cannot toot a horn,
A Waterbury watch that's slipped a cog;
For when her make-up's twisted to a frown
What can I but go 'way back and sit down?

XI

O scaly Mame to give me such a deal,
To hand me such a bunch when I was true!
You played me double and you knew it, too,
Nor cared a wad of gum how I would feel.
Can you not see that Murphy's handy spiel
Is cheap balloon juice of a Blarney brew,
A phonograph where all he has to do
Is give the crank a twist and let 'er reel?

Nay, love has put your optics on the bum,
To you are Murphy's gold bricks all O.K.;
His talks go down however rank they come,
For he has got you going, fairy fay.
Ah, well! In that I'm in the box with you,
For love has got poor Willie groggy, too.

XII

LIFE is a combination hard to buck,
A proposition difficult to beat,
E'en though you get there Zaza with both feet,
In forty flickers, it's the same hard luck,
And you are up against it nip and tuck,
Shanghaied without a steady place to eat,
Guyed by the very copper on your beat
Who lays to jug you when you run amuck.

O Life! you give Yours Truly quite a pain.
On the T square I do not like your style;
For you are playing favorites again
And you have got me handicapped a mile.
Avaunt, false Life, with all your pride and pelf:
Go take a running jump and chase yourself!

XIII

IF I were smooth as eels and slick as soap
A baked-wind expert, jolly with my clack,
Gally enough to ask my money back
Before the steerer feeds me knock-out dope,
Still might I throw a duck-fit in my hope
That I possessed a headpiece like a tack
To get my Mamie in my private sack
Ere she could flag some Handsome Hank and slope.

What ho! she bumps! My wish avails me not,
My work is coarse, and Mame is onto me;
So am I never Johnnie-on-the-spot
When any wooden Siwash ought to be.
Thus I get busy working up a grouch
Whenever heartless Mame harpoons me--ouch!

XIV

O Mommer! wsn't Mame a looty toot
Last night when at the Rainbow Social Club
She did the bunny hug with every scrub
From Hogan's Alley to the Dutchmen's Boot,
While little Willie, like a plug-eared mute,
Papered the wall and helped absorb the grub,
Played nest-egg with the benches like a dub
When hot society was easy fruit!

Am I a turnip? On the strict Q.T.,
Why do my Trilbys get so ossified?
Why am I minus when it's up to me
To brace my Paris Pansy for a glide?
Once more my hoodoo's thrown the game and scored
A flock of zeros on my tally-board.

XV

NIXIE! I'm not canned chicken till I'm cooked,
And hope still rooms in this pneumatic chest,
While something's doing underneath my vest
That makes me think I'm squiffier than I looked.
Mayhap Love knew my class when I was booked
As one shade speedier than second best
To knock the previous records galley west,
While short-end suckers on my bait were hooked.

Mayhap--I give it up--but this I know:
When I saw Mamie on the line today
She turned her happy searchlights on me so,
And grinned so like a living picture--say,
If a real lady threw you such a chunk,
Couldn't she pack her Raglan in your trunk?

XVI

OH, for a fist to push a fancy quill!
A Lovers' Handy Letter Writer, too,
To help me polish off this billy doo
So it can jolly Mame and make a kill,
Coax her to think that I'm no gilded pill,
But rather the unadulterated goo.
Below I give a sample of the brew
I've manufactured in my thinking mill:

"Gum Drop:--Your tanglefoot has got my game,
I'm stuck so tight you cannot shake your catch;
It's cruelty to insects--honest, Mame,--
So won't you join me in a tie-up match?
If you'll talk business, I'm your lemon pie.
Please answer and relieve
AN ANXIOUS GUY."

XVII

WOMAN, you are indeed a false alarm;
You offer trips to heaven at tourist's rates
And publish fairy tales about the dates
You're going to keep, (not meaning any harm),
Then get some poor old Rube fresh from the farm,
As graceful as a kangaroo on skates,
Trying to transfer at the Pearly Gates--
For instance, note this jolt that smashed the charm:--

"P.S.--You are all right, but you won't do.
You may be up a hundred in the shade,
But there are cripples livelier than you,
And my man Murphy's strictly union-made.
You are a bargain, but it seems a shame
That you should drink so much.
Yours truly,
MAME."

XVIII

LAST night I dreamed a passing dotty dream--
I thought the cards were coming all my way,
That I could shut and open things all day
While Mame and I were getting thick as cream,
And starred as an amalgamated team
In a cigar-box flat across the bay--
Just then the alarm clock blew to pieces. Say,
Wouldn't that jam you? I should rather scream.

Sleep, like a bunco artist, rubbed it in,
Sold me his ten-cent oil stocks, though he knew
It was a Kosher trick to take the tin
When I was such an easy thing to do;
For any centenarian can see
To ring a bull's-eye when he shoots at me.

XIX

A PARDON if too much I chew the rag,
But say, it's getting rubbed in good and deep,
And I have reached the limit where I weep
As easy as a sentimental jag.
My soul is quite a worn and frazzled rag,
My life is damaged goods, my price is cheap,
And I am such a snap I dare not peep
Lest some should read the price-mark on my tag.

The more my sourballed murmur, since I've seen
A Sunday picnic car on Market Street,
Full of assorted sports, each with his queen--
And chewing pepsin on the forninst seat
Were Mame and Murphy, diked to suit the part,
And clinching fins in public, heart to heart.

XX

FORGET it? Well, just watch me try to shake
The memory of that four-bit Scheutzen Park,
Where Sunday picnics boil from dawn till dark
And you tie down the Flossie you can take,
If you don't mind man-handling and can make
A prize rough house to jolly up the lark,
To show the ladies you're the whole tan bark,
And leave a blaze of fireworks in your wake.

'Twas there before the Rainbow Club that Mame
Bawled herself out as Murphy's finansay
And all the chronic glad hand-claspers came
To copper invites for the wedding day;
And when the jocund day threw up the sponge
Murphy was billed to take the fatal plunge.

XXI

AT noon today Murphy and Mame were tied.
A gospel huckster did the referee,
And all the Drug Clerks' Union loped to see
The queen of Minnie Street become a bride,
And that bad actor, Murphy, by her side,
Standing where Your Despondent ought to be.
I went to hang a smile in front of me,
But weeps were in my glimmers when I tried.

The pastor murmured, "Two and two make one,"
And slipped a sixteen K on Mamie's grab;
And when the game was tied and all was done
The guests shied footwear at the bridal cab,
And Murphy's little gilt-roofed brother Jim
Snickered, "She's left her happy home for him."

XXII

STILL joy is rubbernecking on the street,
Still hikes the Mags' parade at five o'clock,
Still does the masher march around the block
Pining in vain some hothouse plant to meet;
Still does the rounder pull your leg to treat,
Where flows the whisky sour or russet bock,
And the store-clothing dummies in a flock
Keep good and busy following their feet.

Rats! cut this out; for I'm a last year's champ;
Into the old bone orchard am I blowing,
So with the late lamented let me camp,
My walkers to the graveyard daisies toeing,
And shaking this too uppish generation,
Pass checks through cigarette asphyxiation.

Epilogue

TO just one girl I've tuned my sad bazoo,
Stringing my pipe-dream off as it occurred,
And as I've tipped the straight talk every word,
If you don't like it you know what to do.
Perhaps you think I've handed out to you
An idle jest, a touch-me-not, absurd
As any sky-blue-pink canary bird,
Billed for a record season at the Zoo.

If that's your guess you'll have to guess again,
For thus I fizzled in a burst of glory,
And this rhythmatic side-show doth contain
The sum and substance of my hard-luck story,
Showing how Vanity is still on deck
And Humble Virtue gets it in the neck.

John Keats - Last Sonnet (Poslední sonet, přel. Jarmila Urbánková)

5. listopadu 2007 v 11:02 | John Keats |  Sonety
Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priest-like task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.


Chtěl bych být, jasná stálice, jak ty!
Ale ne ve tvém skvělém osamění
utkvěle upírat zrak napjatý
z nebeské poustky v neúnavném bdění
na kolot vod, jež kněžským obřadem
konají očistu všech lidských břehů,
či ustrnule pozorovat zem,
tak novou v masce zapadlého sněhu:
ne tak - jen stále, vytrvale bych
rád zůstával k mé milé přitulený,
blaženě vnímal teplý klad a dvih
zrajících ňader, bdících bez proměny,
jak něžně dýchá, poslouchal bych rád -
tak věčně žít, nebo i umírat.

William Wordsworth - Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour (Miltone! Dneska bys měl z hrobu vstát; Wordsworthův sonet Johnu Miltonovi; v originále a v překladu Jarmily Urbánkové)

5. listopadu 2007 v 10:54 | William Wordsworth - Jarmila Urbánková |  Sonety
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In chearful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on itself did lay.


Miltone! Dneska bys měl z hrobu vstát,
volá tě vlast: v ní mrtvé vody hnijí;
meč, oltář, péro, ba i pro Anglii
krk kdysi posvátný, náš majestát,

ztratily cenu, svůj dědičný vklad
vnitřního štěstí. Sobci tu jen žijí -
vstaň, protrhni tu naši letargii,
a ctnosti, mravy, svobodu nám vrať!

Tvá duše hvězda vévodila tmám,
tvůj hlas jak moře, nad nímž rozklene
se nebe čisté, volné vznešené;

tak jsi se všední cestou ubíral,
obklopen svatozáří - a přec sám
nejnižší práce na sebe jsi bral.