"Sonety, jaká slast..."
Ivan Blatný

Sonetové cykly

Robert Kneifl - 12 sonetů pro Michaelu (cyklus moderních sonetů)

14. září 2007 v 3:08 | Robert Kneifl
sonet o životě komínů

V nadzemských výškách
po Ikarově vzoru
vdechují mraky
slunce pouští dolů

Na plochých střechách
ranní mlhy sklízí
cihla a beton
svoji avšak cizí

S božským nadhledem
se špičkami smrků
pozorují zem

S lulkou pod nosem
brumlá si
mlčím,tedy jsem

sonet o strachu

Šel nevěříce bázni
do světa chlapec-muž
vzal sebe na svá bedra
strachu svou čepel bruš

Přes vodu žárem ohňů
za půvab dívky z plátna
srdce s pozlaceným křídlem
tenká růže naděj matná

Kam dojde ve své touze
snílek
a blázen pouze

Co utrpení čeká
na duši
na člověka

sonet o zlu zvyků

Muž na očích s černou čočkou
říká mi života si važ
nebuď hrubý lhostejný
zdraví toť vše co máš

Úklid duše nezvládne sám
do chrámu ho vodí
žár k ránu zhaslých knotů
šedi bělma škodí

Modli se buď vytrvalý
by patroni
bolest nepřáli

Co být má se stane
přesto
díky slepý pane

sonet o večeři

Pane zůstaň s námi
neb chce večer býti
přijmi nuzný nocleh
skromné živobytí

Po přestálém čase
kdy se lidství hroutí
rač náš milý hosti
místo zaujmouti

Pane zůstaň třetí
neboť
hvězdy naděj světí

Po společných krocích
usnem klidni
do dnů následujících

sonet o ztrátě iluzí

Na Vaši krásu slečno
ať kvete dál vaše hlava
nechť přeje Bůh něžnému nosu
kéž zlatem září kadeř plavá

Na Vaše štěstí
rád pomohu
po druhé sklence
najít polohu

Nic neříkejte
máte mě ráda
ráda mě mějte

Vtom ona povídá
ale já nejsem slečna
jsem totiž paní/jakéhosi Davida/

sonet o tíži dechu

Pověz ty kdo poznal's
těžko nadechnout se
záda kaluž krve
dvě děravé ruce

Přibliž obtíž dechu
kdo's jak lotr visel
o polednách v žáru
nikdo není přítel

Zadrž výkřik chabý
ztěžka nadechni se
doušek uvnitř zabij

Bedra hejno muší
na dřevo se lepí
pověz kdo jen tušíš

sonet o zklamání

Neplač nikdy jak jiné pláčí
tvé slzy vzácnější
pro žal stačí
vzpomeň v jaro se obrátí

Neplač pro věci zradou vzplálé
víc než tvůj půvab
hledám stále
dáno je člověku obstáti

Neplač nikdy na rameni
na hrudi toho
kdo den v noc mění

Neplač pro mne
nestojím za to
tvá slza tavené bílé zlato

sonet o lásce květů

Mám dětské ruce
jazykem pletu
přes nedospalost
přemýšlím o lásce květů

Máš jemné dlaně
představy jasné
i okr listů
jedenkrát zhasne

Milují teplo nebeskou vláhu
sázím na fráze
horoucí hlavu

Znovu se vzbudí
pro život nový
já a ty padá v ostnaté křoví

sonet pozdní

Tvé oči rušné přístavy
tvé prsty pozdní luny svit
tvé ne lítosti mne nezbaví
mám prý jít

Tvář jako hladina od studánek
tvá chůze barva červnových třešní
tvé ano-tělo zakleté v ledu
mám zapomenout letmý dotek dnešní

Zůstaň dnes večer
čistá stránka
královno Ester

Já jsem otázka
co se neptá
myslím že víš

sonet o vlaku
/hnědé vlasy,modré oči/

Na shledanou stále hledám
na peronu milenci loučí se
klíč ke zklamání uvězněn v kapse
opři se o mne polib mne

Láska je cit jenž radost je dávat
hlídej se pro mne
jen já a ty
dvě slabiky skromné

Držet tě bez šatů bez přání v náručí
vrať mi klíč
sladký kov věrnost zaručí

Ozvi se odkudkoliv
těžké tě najít
nevěsto vlaků liste oliv

sonet o ptáku štěstí

Poleť se mnou
nezradím tě
miluji ji
ne však skrytě

Přistaň na dlaň
pouto slábne
milovat je
přání chladné

Do dvou dlaní spadlé peří
miloval jsem
kdo uvěří

V knize veršů dopis schován
letíš od nás
nemilován

sonet potmě

Když dovolíš budu tě na chvíli houpat
než usneš když dovolíš
budu citovat tvá skrytá přání
zas a znovu jestli mohu

Když dovolíš proniknu tvým srdcem
docela bez krve když dovolíš
vprostřed noci pod pláštěm deště
počkám až usneš

Opusť svou zarputilost zruš
vyřčené AMEN
nech mě být na moment tvým pánem

Když dovolíš rád tě pustím usnout
pak zmizím
neříkej to stínům cizím


Převzato odtud.

Pavel Eisner - sonet č. 35 (Sonety kněžně, Jaroslav Podroužek, 1945)

27. srpna 2007 v 12:06 | Pavel Eisner
Cumlá tě, dumlá a dudá
dvojdcerstvo věčného Nic,
Nenadanost a Nuda,
ctitelé jitrnic.

A kéž by vepřové hody!
Mláto a bláto a mdlí -
pomyje, oukropy z vody,
knedle a povidlí.

Vozí se s tebou, Drahá -
to z lásky - i bez oře;
civilních čuvstev to snaha:

krákořu, - řeš a - ře
a kdekterá kráva má vlohu
kopnout tě, jda kolem rohu.

Josef Svatopluk Machar - Sonet o dějinách sonetu (ze sb. Čtyři knihy sonetů)

23. srpna 2007 v 11:51 | Josef Svatopluk Machar
Vlastenci staří, již už dávno leží
pod deskou v klínu mohyly,
své staré znělky v potu, trudu, stěží
a nemotorně robili.

Kdož přišli potom, dvoje čtverospřeží
si rýmů nejdřív v papír vstavili,
však jak v ně práskli, rýmy běží, běží,
až pasažéra - jádro - ztratili.

A pozděj sonet byl jak výstřel z děla:
vyrazil kouř, a rána zaduněla,
zda ostře - slepě - pro kouř nevíš už.

Moderní sonet nyní jest jak nůž,
vyletne z pochvy, v modro zahrává
a když se tkne, do krve řezává.

Jan Vřesnický (Jan Nálevka) - sonet z knihy "Pod bělorudým praporem. Znělky učitelské" (1892)

23. srpna 2007 v 1:25 | Jan Vřesnický Nálevka
Já prosím

(Pozn. Jan Vřesnický Nálevka bývá označován za "posledního národního obrozence")
Když oráč osil rozkypřenou líchu
a unavený po roli se dívá,
kdy slunce na zemi se pousmívá
a zrno klíčí v hnědé prsti v tichu:

Svou mysl k nebi bez zášti a hříchu
vždy obrací, by zdárně vzrostla niva,
jež jednou slunce, jindy rosy chtiva
jest, tak jak třeba květům do kalichů.

I já vždy k nebi obracím svůj zrak,
by ujalo se, které siju, sémě,
a prosím jak ten oráč vroucně tak:

Ó přej mi, Pane, stálé nadšení,
by k dobru rostlo ono mladé plémě,
a síly přej, z níž zdar se pramení!

Pablo Neruda - 17 sonetů ze sb. Sto sonetů o lásce

23. srpna 2007 v 1:13 | Pablo Neruda
III (Ráno)

Má drsná lásko, fialko s trny růží,
jak pichlavým trním se prodírám vášněmi,
oštěpe bolesti, který mi drásáš kůži,
jak jsi našla mou duši po cestách bloudění?

Proč jsi najednou vrhla plameny temné
mezi listy mé cesty a zchladila můj sen?
Kdo tě naučil krokům, jež tě dovedly ke mně,
čí květ, čí kámen, čí kouř ti zradil, kde jsem?

Cítil jsem, jak se chvěje kolem bázlivá noc
a úsvit naplňuje svým vínem všechny číše,
jak slunce nastoluje na obloze svou moc,

zatímco krutá láska mě obkličuje tiše,
až meči a ostny drásajíc kůži těla
palčivou cestu mi v srdci otevřela.

IX (Ráno)

Když vlna narazí v svém běhu na skálu,
vystříkne chumáč vod a stvoří bílou růži,
veliký obvod moře se v jednu kapku zúží,
jejíž modrá sůl shůry snáší se pomalu.

Zářivá magnólie, jež taješ v louhu pěn,
potnice magnetická, kvetoucí při zániku,
jež věčně rodíš se a zase mizíš v mžiku:
ty rozprášená soli, s odvěčným pohybem.

Společně ty a já mlčíme, lásko moje,
zatímco tvary soch padají do příboje
a moře kácí věže bělostné jak váza,

protože v osnově neviditelných nití
těch nespoutaných vod a písku, jenž se řítí,
chráníme jedinou něhu, jíž hrozí zkáza.

XI (Ráno)

Hladovím po tvých ústech, po tvých vlasech a řeči
a bloudím nenasycen beze slov ulicemi,
chleba mě nenakrmí, úsvit mě nevyléčí,
hledám tekoucí souzvuk tvých nohou každodenních.

Hladovím po tvém smíchu, nádherně nespoutaném,
po rukou barvy plodů na snědé ošatce,
hladovím po tvých nehtech, co jsou jak bledý kámen,
chci pojídat tvou kůži jak mandli v skořápce.

Chci pojídat i blesk, jenž shořel od tvé krásy,
i ušlechtilý nos, krášlící hrdou líc,
chci jíst i unikavé tvoje temné řasy,

přišel jsem hladový, čichám soumračnou vůni,
tvé teplé srdce hledá, hledám tě stále víc,
jak v poušti Quitratuy větřívají pumy.

XVII (Ráno)

Nemám tě rád jak slanou růži ani topas,
anebo karafiát, z kterého sálá žár:
mám tě rád jako místo, kam vede tajná stopa,
jako věc mezi stínem a duší, jako dar.

Mám tě rád jako kvítek, jenž nekvete a skrývá
světlo tisíci květů v poupěti jediném,
to dík své tajné lásce trvá mi v těle živá
trýznivá vůně, která se vymkla hlubině.

Mám tě rád a sám nevím, odkud, od kdy a jak,
mám tě rád obyčejně bez pýchy, bez rozbroje,
já jinak neumím mít rád než prostě tak,

že mizí já a ty a jsme tělem jediným,
tak blízcí, že tvá ruka na mé hrudi je moje,
tak blízcí, že tvé oči zavřou se spánkem mým.

XXXVII (Poledne)

Lásko má, rudá hrozbo, paprsku šílený,
navštiv mě, po schodech vstup do zámku mého,
jejž ověnčil mlhami čas dávno ztracený,
jen vejdi do bledých stěn srdce zavřeného.

Nikdo se nedoví, že něžnými povely
se začly křišťály tvrdé jak města tvořit,
že proud krve otvírá nešťastné tunely
a ani zima že její moc nepokoří.

Proto tvá ústa, lásko, noha, světlo, tvůj strach
dědictvím života jsou a posvátnými
dary přírody naší a jejích plodných vláh,

jež obtěžkané zrno vloží do vlhké hlíny
a poručí, aby hrozny ve sklepích zkvasily
a z ornic vyšlehly plamínky obilí.

XLIV (Poledne)

Nemiluji tě a miluji, snad víš,
náš život ze dvou polovic se skládá,
i slovo s mlčením jsou si vždy blíž,
vždyť oheň přece chladno předpokládá.

Mám tě rád, abych mohl tě mít rád,
abych zas nekonečno potkal nenadále,
abych tě nepřestal už nikdy milovat:
proto tě ještě nemiluji stále.

Miluji a nemiluji, jako bych
měl v rukou klíče k nejkrásnější sluji
i vratký osud plný předtuch zlých.

Dva životy se v mojí lásce křižují.
Proto tě miluji, když tě nemiluji,
a proto tě miluji, když tě miluji.

XLVIII (Poledne)

Dva šťastní milenci jeden chléb vyválí,
jen jednu kapku luny do trávníku vloží,
když jdou, dva stíny za nimi se objaly,
jen jedno slunce zbylo po nich v jednom loži.

Ze všech rozličných pravd si jasný den zvolili,
vlákny se nespoutali, ale vůněmi,
ani mír ani slova nerozdrobili.
Štěstí je křehká věž a vidíš skrze ni.

Průzračný vzduch a víno jdou s mileneckým párem
a noc jim šťastné růže poskytuje darem
a každý karafiát jim patří zárodečný.

Dva šťastní milenci neznají smrt a zánik,
rodí se, umírají v životě bez přestání,
jak sama příroda zůstávají věční.

XLIX (Poledne)

Je dnešek: včerejšek propadl se již
skrz prsty světla a tvá víčka spící,
zelené kroky zítřka jsou nám blíž:
nikdo nezadrží ráno pod petlicí.

Řeku tvých paží nikdo nezvládne,
ani, má milá, snění ve tvých očích,
jsi chvěním času, jenž se propadne
štěrbinou mezi paprsky a nocí.

Křídla nad tebou uzavírá nebe,
tu bere mi tě, tu přináší tebe
s tajemným gestem do náručí zpět:

proto opěvám dny a měsíce,
tok času, moře, hvězdy, stálice,
tvůj probuzený hlas, tvou noční pleť.

LXII (Odpoledne)

Ach běda mi, i tobě, spanilá,
jen milovat se toužili jsme oba,
a přece si nás vyčíhala zloba
a do srdce nám nehty zaryla.

Já chtěl jen tebe, ty mne přála sis,
žádalas ústa, já zas tajný chleba,
ničeho víc už nebylo nám třeba,
dokud nevlezla oknem nenávist.

Kdo nemiloval, lásku neocení
a nepřeje ji nám a nikomu,
je jako křeslo v prázdném salónu,

dokud se v prach a popel nepromění
a dokud jeho obraz příšerný
nezhasne někde ve tmě večerní.

LXIV (Odpoledne)

Můj život se zbarvil modří po takovém citu,
jak slepí ptáci jsem poletoval sem a tam,
až jsem jednoho dne dorazil k tvému bytu
a tys zaslechla mé srdce bušit na okenní rám.

Takový jsem vyšel ze tmy a vzepjal se k tvé hrudi,
k věži obilí jsem dorazil tušení nemaje
a přiblížil se k tvým rukám nevěda kudy,
vynořil jsem se z moře, abych mohl vstoupit do ráje.

Sotva někdo, má lásko, dnes spočítat může,
všechno to velké, co jsem ti zůstal dlužen,
co se podobá kořenu z rodné Araukánie,

určitě je poseto hvězdami to, co ti dlužím,
jako studánka v lese, kde napjatou kůži
staré krajiny bludný blesk ještě probije.

LXVI (Odpoledne)

Nemiluji tě jen proto, že rád tě mám,
jdu od milování k nemilování tebe,
čekám tě netrpělivě, i když tě nečekám,
srdce mě střídavě ohnivě pálí a zebe.

Nemiluji tě proto, že tě tak miluji,
nenávidím tě i vzývám slovem vroucím,
ideálem té lásky, kterou se sužuji,
je nevidět tě a milovat jak nevidoucí.

Jednou i lednové světlo změní se v nic
a jeho paprsek krutý srdce mi spálí
a uloupí mi navždycky ke klidu klíč.

Až se to přihodí, to jen já se vzdálím,
jen já zemřu láskou, já jako prvý,
neboť tě miluji, lásko, ohněm i krví.

LXXVIII (Odpoledne)

Nemám už nic, jak vždycky. Vítězný pád
zanechal někde v písku ztracené nohy.
Jsem člověk přichystaný své bližní milovat.
Nevím, kdo jsi. Miluji tě. Neprodávám hlohy.

Někdo snad ví, že jsem bojoval nejdříve
s výsměchem a nikoho netoužil ranit,
že se mi naopak duše plnila přílivem.
Holubicemi jsem se nízkosti bránil.

Nemám už nic, protože jsem se k životu
stavěl vždy po svém. Hlásám čistotu
ve jménu svojí lásky, která se mění.

Smrt je jen kamenem zapomnění.
Miluji tě, z úst ti slíbám radost a smích,
snášíme dříví. Rozděláme si oheň na kopcích.

LXXXIX (Noc)

Až vydechnu naposled, své ruce mi na oči přilož:
chci, aby jejich světlo a horoucí obilí
mě ještě jedenkrát svou svěžestí prostoupilo:
abych cítil tvé prsty, jež můj osud změnily.

Chci, abys žila, budu tě čekat v spánku,
abys čichala vůni, co moře ti přivěje,
abys dál naslouchala vichřicím, šumu vánků,
abys chodila v písku, kam vtiskli jsme šlépěje.

Chci, aby to, co miluji, zůstalo živé,
tobě jsem nejvíc zpíval a nejvíce rád tě měl,
a proto, kvetoucí, dál se květy přiodívej,

abys dosáhla všeho, co jsem pro tebe vysnil,
aby můj stín se ti o vlasech procházel,
aby poznali nejlíp prapříčinu mých písní.

XCI (Noc)

Věk zaplavuje nás jak liják běsnící
a nekonečný čas sečítá naše ztráty
a sůl ti rozleptává kůži na lících
a mě už vlhkosti rozežraly šaty.

Čas rozdíl nedělá mezi mou pravicí
a rukou, v níž se pomeranč ti třpytí:
čas život otlouká motykou, vánicí:
tvůj život, který je současně i mým bytím.

Život, jejž jsem ti dal, obrůstá zrny let
tak jako hrozen vína, co na vinici zraje.
Ten hrozen do půdy se vrátí zase zpět.

Neboť čas trvá dál i dole pod zemí
a prší na náš prach, dychtivě vyčkávaje,
až naše šlápoty vymaže z kamení.

XCIV (Noc)

Jestliže zemřu, přežij mě s tak čistou mocí,
že všichni ti závidět budou a chladně se chovat,
zdvihni od jihu k jihu nezničitelné oči,
ať od slunce k slunci zvoní tvá ústa kytarová.

Nechci, aby tvůj smích a tvůj krok byl vratký,
aby se ztratila radost, co nechal jsem na zemi,
nevolej na mé srdce, to už se nevrátí zpátky,
žij v mojí přítomnosti jak v nějakém stavení.

Nepřítomnost je dům tak prostorně vystavěný,
že můžeš volně projít skrz jeho stěny
a pověsit si obrazy do vzduchu pod nebem.

Nepřítomnost je dům průsvitný jak křišťál,
že já, kdo nežiji, tě tam uvidím dozajista,
a budeš-li trpět, lásko, zemřu podruhé pro tebe.

XCVII (Noc)

Teď letět musíme, kdo z nás ví ale kam?
Bez křídel letadla vyletět pod oblohu:
čas kroků přešel již a nevrátí se k nám,
chodec je bez síly a nepozvedne nohu.

Teď letět musíme, proniknout do noci
jak orli, jako dny, které nás nedohoní,
my oči Saturna musíme přemoci,
na jeho zvonicích zavěsit nové zvony.

Cesty a střevíce už nestačí nás chránit,
pevnina bloudícím neslouží k ničemu,
noci nám zkřížily pletence kořenů,

na jiné planetě ty ses teď zjevila mi,
ale jen na chvilku, že ani nevím jak,
aby ses nakonec změnila v rudý mák.

XCIX (Noc)

Nastanou jiné dny a bude pochopeno
mlčení rostlin a planet a nový věk,
tolik čistých věcí poztrácí jméno!
Housle se rozvoní prudce jak úplněk.

Bude ti podoben chléb, pečený v peci,
a bude mít tvůj hlas, tvou vlastnost obilí,
tvou řečí promlouvat budou o jiných věcích:
o kobylách podzimu, které se ztratily.

Kdyby se všechno to nestalo ve víru let,
láska se nashromáždí ve velkých sudech,
do kterých kladou pastýři prastarý med,

a ty se pak vmísíš do prachu srdce mi
(přemnoho zásob tam pro tebe bude)
a na zem se vrátíš jak meloun zelený.

C (Noc)

Do prostředku sadu zasadím zvlášť
smaragdy, abych poznal, kam chodíš,
ty budeš kreslit klasnatý plášť
perem namočeným do zázračné vody.

Jaký to svět! Jaká petržel hluboká!
Jaká loď plující po vlnách slasti!
Stali jsme se asi topasy oba dva!
Naše zvony už nebudou tvořit dvě části.

Už nebude nic, než svobodné vanutí
a jablka, která vítr unáší plání,
šťavnatý letopis na větvích napnutý,

a tam, kde dýchá tisíce hvozdíků,
vytvoříme stěnu, která bude chránit
věčnost našeho vítězného polibku.

Převzato odtud.

Rudolf Mayer - Znělky noční (4 sonety uveřejněné poprvé v almanachu Máj z r. 1858)

29. července 2007 v 15:26 | Rudolf Mayer
I

Již dlouho trvá všechno v mlčení,
tak všechno v blahém nočním míru stojí,
že mír ten srdce tluk se rušit bojí,
a sama duše stane v myšlení.

Tak klidno vše - jen hvězdy v toužení
se divném jedna k druhé úže pojí,
a jejich záře s vlnou spící brojí,
jak by ji budit chtěla ze snění.

Snad by jí ráda sny své povídala,
neb snad chce usnout blahým lásky snem
a nemá místa, kde by klidně spala.

Mým srdcem opět dávná touha vane,
a z ňader bol se vine povzdechem,
zní tichou nocí - kde as, kde as stane?!

II

Tajemství velké v hvězdách uzavřeno,
jež vyzpytovat lidský duch nemůže,
dokud ho země k sobě vine úže
a dokud zpovzdálí jen zří své věno.

Kam cesta má a co mi usouzeno,
až smrtí zvadne života mi růže,
zda budu v sobě dokonalé bůže
dlít v říších, z kterých vyhnaná jsi, změno? -

Či růže odkvete, by opět zkvetla,
a zvadla pak a opět vykvetala?
Tak ptám se hvězd - němá jsou jejich světla.

A v tajemných kdo črtách čísti umí.
zdaž, co tam neviděná ruka vpsala,
zdaž, kdyby přečet`, tomu porozumí? -

III

Jak divuplná noc, jak velekrásná,
když nad tou zemí tichnoucí vychází,
nesmírná jako moře beze hrází,
v němž z lodí sterých září světla jasná;

Kdy ku zemi se skloní tmavořasná
a v každé kvítko slzný démant sází,
a šírošíré světlé stíny hází,
vše vábíc na svá ňadra mírospásná -

Když všechno v snivém polosvětle plyne:
tu v srdci sladko mi a přec tak bolno,
že nevím, bol kde začal, slast kde hyne.

V předivné snění myšlení mé taje:
jak světlům nočním, tak mé duši volno,
jíž tušení věčného míru vlaje.

IV

Milenko má, ty noci smavá, tichá -
tak jemná, jak bys jen blažit chtěla,
pro všechny boly hojných léků měla,
ztiš srdce mé, jež v divné touze vzdychá.

Má duše - snad že na svět přišla lichá -
se marně po soucitu ohlížela,
jen ty`s jí - jejím snům jsi rozuměla -
hojící láska na ni z tebe dýchá.

Nezkojnou touhou k tobě duch můj hárá,
v tvých hvězdách hledá mír a pravou vlast,
zde boj mu jen - a z toho lid mne kárá.

Milenko jediná, mně přisouzená,
obejmi mne, nechť poznám lásky slast -
smrt spojí nás a ty jsi moje žena.
Dílo Rudolfa Mayera, Československý spisovatel 1950, s. 134-136

George Meredith - Modern Love - sonetový cyklus viktoriánského básníka v originále (50/50 sonetů)

25. července 2007 v 10:15 | George Meredith
XXVI

Love ere he bleeds, an eagle in high skies,
Has earth beneath his wings: from reddened eve
He views the rosy dawn. In vain they weave
The fatal web below while far he flies.
But when the arrow strikes him, there's a change.
He moves but in the track of his spent pain,
Whose red drops are the links of a harsh chain,
Binding him to the ground, with narrow range.
A subtle serpent then has Love become.
I had the eagle in my bosom erst:
Henceforward with the serpent I am cursed.
I can interpret where the mouth is dumb.
Speak, and I see the side-lie of a truth.
Perchance my heart may pardon you this deed:
But be no coward:--you that made Love bleed,
You must bear all the venom of his tooth!

XXVII

Distraction is the panacea, Sir!
I hear my oracle of Medicine say.
Doctor! that same specific yesterday
I tried, and the result will not deter
A second trial. Is the devil's line
Of golden hair, or raven black, composed?
And does a cheek, like any sea-shell rosed,
Or clear as widowed sky, seem most divine?
No matter, so I taste forgetfulness.
And if the devil snare me, body and mind,
Here gratefully I score:--he seemed kind,
When not a soul would comfort my distress!
O sweet new world, in which I rise new made!
O Lady, once I gave love: now I take!
Lady, I must be flattered. Shouldst thou wake
The passion of a demon, be not afraid.

XXVIII

I must be flattered. The imperious
Desire speaks out. Lady, I am content
To play with you the game of Sentiment,
And with you enter on paths perilous;
But if across your beauty I throw light,
To make it threefold, it must be all mine.
First secret; then avowed. For I must shine
Envied,--I, lessened in my proper sight!
Be watchful of your beauty, Lady dear!
How much hangs on that lamp you cannot tell.
Most earnestly I pray you, tend it well:
And men shall see me as a burning sphere;
And men shall mark you eyeing me, and groan
To be the God of such a grand sunflower!
I feel the promptings of Satanic power,
While you do homage unto me alone.

XXIX

Am I failing ? For no longer can I cast
A glory round about this head of gold.
Glory she wears, but springing from the mould;
Not like the consecration of the Past!
Is my soul beggared? Something more than earth
I cry for still: I cannot be at peace
In having Love upon a' mortal lease.
I cannot take the woman at her worth!
Where is the ancient wealth wherewith I clothed
Our human nakedness, and could endow
With spiritual splendour a white brow
That else had grinned at me the fact I loathed ?
A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave
Of a great flood that whirls me to the sea.
But, as you will! we'll sit contentedly,
And eat our pot of honey on the grave.

XXX

What are we first ? First, animals; and next
Intelligences at a leap; on whom
Pale lies the distant shadow of the tomb,
And all that draweth on the tomb for text.
Into which state comes Love, the crowning sun:
Beneath whose light the shadow loses form.
We are the lords of life, and life is warm.
Intelligence and instinct now are one.
But nature says: 'My children most they seem
When they least know me: therefore I decree
That they shall suffer.' Swift doth young Love flee,
And we stand wakened, shivering from our dream.
Then if we study Nature we are wise.
Thus do the few who live but with the day:
The scientific animals are they.
Lady, this is my sonnet to your eyes.

XXXI

This golden head has wit in it. I live
Again, and a far higher life, near her.
Some women like a young philosopher;
Perchance because he is diminutive.
For woman's manly god must not exceed
Proportions of the natural nursing size.
Great poets and great sages draw no prize
With women: but the little lap-dog breed,
Who can be hugged, or on a mantel-piece
Perched up for adoration, these obtain
Her homage. And of this we men are vain?
Of this! 'Tis ordered for the world's increase
Small flattery! Yet she has that rare gift
To beauty, Common Sense. I am approved.
It is not half so nice as being loved,
And yet I do prefer it. What's my drift?

XXXII

Full faith I have she holds that rarest gift
To beauty, Common Sense. To see her lie
With her fair visage an inverted sky
Bloom-covered, while the underlids uplift,
Would almost wreck the faith; but when her mouth
(Can it kiss sweetly? sweetly!) would address
The inner me that thirsts for her no less,
And has so long been languishing in drouth,
I feel that I am matched; that I am man!
One restless corner of my heart or head,
That holds a dying something never dead,
Still frets, though Nature giveth all she can.
It means, that woman is not, I opine,
Her sex's antidote. Who seeks the asp
For serpent's bites? 'Twould calm me could I clasp
Shrieking Bacchantes with their souls of wine!

XXXIII

'In Paris, at the Louvre, there have I seen
The sumptuously-feathered angel pierce
Prone Lucifer, descending. Looked he fierce,
Showing the fight a fair one? Too serene!
The young Pharsalians did not disarray
Less willingly their locks of floating silk:
That suckling mouth of his, upon the milk
Of heaven might still be feasting through the fray.
Oh, Raphael! when men the Fiend do fight,
They conquer not upon such easy terms.
Half serpent in the struggle grow these worms
And does he grow half human, all is right.'
This to my Lady in a distant spot,
Upon the theme: While mind is mastering clay,
Gross clay invades it. If the spy you play,
My wife, read this! Strange love talk, is it not?

XXXIV

Madam would speak with me. So, now it comes:
The Deluge or else Fire! She's well; she thanks
My husbandship. Our chain on silence clanks.
Time leers between, above his twiddling thumbs.
Am I quite well? Most excellent in health!
The journals, too, I diligently peruse.
Vesuvius is expected to give news:
Niagara is no noisier. By stealth
Our eyes dart scrutinizing snakes. She's glad
I'm happy, says her quivering under-lip.
'And are not you ?' 'How can I be ?' 'Take ship!
For happiness is somewhere to be had.'
'Nowhere for me!' Her voice is barely heard.
I am not melted, and make no pretence.
With commonplace I freeze her, tongue and sense.
Niagara or Vesuvius is deferred.

XXXV

It is no vulgar nature I have wived.
Secretive, sensitive, she takes a wound
Deep to her soul, as if the sense had swooned,
And not a thought of vengeance had survived.
No confidences has she: but relief
Must come to one whose suffering is acute.
O have a care of natures that are mute!
They punish you in acts: their steps are brief.
What is she doing? What does she demand
From Providence or me? She is not one
Long to endure this torpidly, and shun
The drugs that crowd about a woman's hand.
At Forfeits during snow we played, and I
Must kiss her. 'Well performed!' I said: then she:
''Tis hardly worth the money, you agree?'
Save her? What for? To act this wedded lie!

XXXVI

My Lady unto Madam makes her bow.
The charm of women is, that even while
You're probed by them for tears, you yet may smile,
Nay, laugh outright, as I have done just now.
The interview was gracious: they anoint
(To me aside) each other with fine praise:
Discriminating compliments they raise,
That hit with wondrous aim on the weak point:
My Lady's nose of Nature might complain.
It is not fashioned aptly to express
Her character of large-browed steadfastness.
But Madam says: Thereof she may be vain!
Now, Madam's faulty feature is a glazed
And inaccessible eye, that has soft fires,
Wide gates, at love-time only. This admires
My Lady. At the two I stand amazed.

XXXVII

Along the garden terrace, under which
A purple valley (lighted at its edge
By smoky torch-flame on the long cloud-ledge
Whereunder dropped the chariot), glimmers rich,
A quiet company we pace, and wait
The dinner-bell in prae-digestive calm.
So sweet up violet banks the Southern balm
Breathes round, we care not if the bell be late:
Though here and there grey seniors question Time
In irritable coughings. With slow foot
The low rosed moon, the face of Music mute,
Begins among her silent bars to climb.
As in and out, in silvery dusk, we thread,
I hear the laugh of Madam, and discern
My Lady's heel before me at each turn.
Our tragedy, is it alive or dead?

XXXVIII

Give to imagination some pure light
In human form to fix it, or you shame
The devils with that hideous human game:
Imagination urging appetite!
Thus fallen have earth's greatest Gogmagogs,
Who dazzle us, whom we can not revere:
Imagination is the charioteer
That, in default of better, drives the hogs.
So, therefore, my dear Lady, let me love!
My soul is arrowy to the light in you.
You know me that I never can renew
The bond that woman broke: what would you have?
'Tis Love, or Vileness! not a choice between,
Save petrifaction! What does Pity here?
She killed a thing, and now it's dead, 'tis dear.
Oh, when you counsel me, think what you mean!

XXXIX

She yields: my Lady in her noblest mood
Has yielded: she, my golden-crowned rose!
The bride of every sense! more sweet than those
Who breathe the violet breath of maidenhood.
O visage of still music in the sky
Soft moon! I feel thy song, my fairest friend!
True harmony within can apprehend
Dumb harmony without. And hark! 'tis nigh!
Belief has struck the note of sound: a gleam
Of living silver shows me where she shook
Her long white fingers down the shadowy brook,
That sings her song, half waking, half in dream.
What two come here to mar this heavenly tune ?
A man is one: the woman bears my name,
And honour. Their hands touch! Am I still tame?
God, what a dancing spectre seems the moon!

XL

I bade my Lady think what she might mean.
Know I my meaning, I? Can I love one,
And yet be jealous of another? None
Commits such folly. Terrible Love, I ween,
Has might, even dead, half sighing to upheave
The lightless seas of selfishness amain:
Seas that in a man's heart have no rain
To fall and still them. Peace can I achieve,
By turning to this fountain-source of woe,
This woman, who's to Love as fire to wood?
She breathed the violet breath of maidenhood
Against my kisses once! but I say, No!
The thing is mocked at! Helplessly afloat,
I know not what I do, whereto I strive,
The dread that my old love may be alive,
Has seized my nursling new love by the throat.

XLI

How many a thing which we cast to the ground,
When others pick it up becomes a gem!
We grasp at all the wealth it is to them;
And by reflected light its worth is found.
Yet for us still 'tis nothing! and that zeal
Of false appreciation quickly fades.
This truth is little known to human shades,
How rare from their own instinct 'tis to feel!
They waste the soul with spurious desire,
That is not the ripe flame upon the bough.
We two have taken up a lifeless vow
To rob a living passion: dust for fire!
Madam is grave, and eyes the clock that tells
Approaching midnight. We have struck despair
Into two hearts. O, look we like a pair
Who for fresh nuptials joyfully yield all else?

XLII

I am to follow her. There is much grace
In woman when thus bent on martyrdom.
They think that dignity of soul may come,
Perchance, with dignity of body. Base!
But I was taken by that air of cold
And statuesque sedateness, when she said
'I'm going'; lit a taper, bowed her head,
And went, as with the stride of Pallas bold.
Fleshly indifference horrible! The hands
Of Time now signal: O, she's safe from me!
Within those secret walls what do I see
Where first she set the taper down she stands:
Not Pallas: Hebe shamed! Thoughts black as death,
Like a stirred pool in sunshine break. Her wrists
I catch: she faltering, as she half resists,
'You love. . . ? love. . . ? love. . . ?' all on an in-drawn breath.

XLIII

Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like,
Its skeleton shadow on the broad-backed wave!
Here is a fitting spot to dig Love's grave;
Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike,
And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand:
In hearing of the ocean, and in sight
Of those ribbed wind-streaks running into white.
If I the death of Love had deeply planned,
I never could have made it half so sure,
As by the unblest kisses which upbraid
The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade!
'Tis morning: but no morning can restore
What we have forfeited. I see no sin:
The wrong is mixed. In tragic life, God wot,
No villain need be! Passions spin the plot:
We are betrayed by what is false within.

XLIV

They say, that Pity in Love's service dwells,
A porter at the rosy temple's gate.
I missed him going: but it is my fate
To come upon him now beside his wells;
Whereby I know that I Love's temple leave,
And that the purple doors have closed behind.
Poor soul! if in those early days unkind,
Thy power to sting had been but power to grieve,
We now might with an equal spirit meet,
And not be matched like innocence and vice.
She for the Temple's worship has paid price,
And takes the coin of Pity as a cheat.
She sees through simulation to the bone:
What's best in her impels her to the worst:
Never, she cries, shall Pity soothe Love's thirst,
Or foul hypocrisy for truth atone

XLV

It is the season of the sweet wild rose,
My Lady's emblem in the heart of me!
So golden-crowned shines she gloriously,
And with that softest dream of blood she glows:
Mild as an evening heaven round Hesper bright!
I pluck the flower, and smell it, and revive
The time when in her eyes I stood alive.
I seem to look upon it out of Night.
Here's Madam, stepping hastily. Her whims
Bid her demand the flower, which I let drop.
As I proceed, I feel her sharply stop,
And crush it under heel with trembling limbs.
She joins me in a cat-like way, and talks
Of company, and even condescends
To utter laughing scandal of old friends.
These are the summer days, and these our walks.

XLVI

At last we parley: we so strangely dumb
In such a close communion! It befell
About the sounding of the Matin-bell,
And lo! her place was vacant, and the hum
Of loneliness was round me. Then I rose,
And my disordered brain did guide my foot
To that old wood where our first love-salute
Was interchanged: the source of many throes!
There did I see her, not alone. I moved
Toward her, and made proffer of my arm.
She took it simply, with no rude alarm;
And that disturbing shadow passed reproved.
I felt the pained speech coming, and declared
My firm belief in her, ere she could speak.
A ghastly morning came into her cheek,
While with a widening soul on me she stared.

XLVII

We saw the swallows gathering in the sky,
And in the osier-isle we heard them noise.
We had not to look back on summer joys,
Or forward to a summer of bright dye:
But in the largeness of the evening earth
Our spirits grew as we went side by side.
The hour became her husband and my bride.
Love that had robbed us so, thus blessed our dearth!
The pilgrims of the year waxed very loud
In multitudinous chatterings, as the flood
Full brown came from the West, and like pale blood
Expanded to the upper crimson cloud.
Love that had robbed us of immortal things,
This little moment mercifully gave,
Where I have seen across the twilight wave
The swan sail with her young beneath her wings.

XLVIII

Their sense is with their senses all mixed in,
Destroyed by subleties these women are!
More brain, O Lord, more brain! or we shall mar
Utterly this fair garden we might win.
Behold! I looked for peace, and thought it near.
Our inmost hearts had opened, each to each.
We drank the pure daylight of honest speech.
Alas I that was the fatal draught, I fear.
For when of my lost Lady came the word,
This woman, O this agony of flesh!
Jealous devotion bade her break the mesh,
That I might seek that other like a bird.
I do adore the nobleness! despise
The act! She has gone forth, I know not where.
Will the hard world my sentience of her share?
I feel the truth; so let the world surmise.

XLIX

He found her by the ocean's moaning verge,
Nor any wicked change in her discerned;
And she believed his old love had returned,
Which was her exultation, and her scourge.
She took his hand, and walked with him, and seemed
The wife he sought, though shadow-like and dry.
She had one terror, lest her heart should sigh,
And tell her loudly she no longer dreamed.
She dared not say, 'This is my breast: look in.'
But there's a strength to help the desperate weak.
That night he learned how silence best can speak
The awful things when Pity pleads for Sin.
About the middle of the night her call
Was heard, and he came wondering to the bed.
'Now kiss me, dear! it may be, now!' she said.
Lethe had passed those lips, and he knew all.

L

Thus piteously Love closed what he begat:
The union of this ever-diverse pair!
These two were rapid falcons in a snare,
Condemned to do the flitting of the bat.
Lovers beneath the singing sky of May,
They wandered once; clear as the dew on flowers:
But they fed not on the advancing hours:
Their hearts held cravings for the buried day.
Then each applied to each that fatal knife,
Deep questioning, which probes to endless dole.
Ah, what a dusty answer gets the soul
When hot for certainties in this our life!
In tragic hints here see what evermore
Moves dark as yonder midnight ocean's force,
Thundering like ramping hosts of warrior horse,
To throw that fain thin line upon the shore!

George Meredith - Modern Love - sonetový cyklus viktoriánského básníka v originále (25/50 sonetů)

25. července 2007 v 10:14 | George Meredith
I

By this he knew she wept with waking eyes:
That, at his hand's light quiver by her head,
The strange low sobs that shook their common bed
Were called into her with a sharp surprise,
And strangled mute, like little gaping snakes,
Dreadfully venomous to him. She lay
Stone-still, and the long darkness flowed away
With muffled pulses. Then, as midnight makes
Her giant heart of Memory and Tears
Drink the pale drug of silence, and so beat
Sleep's heavy measure, they from head to feet
Were moveless, looking through their dead black years,
By vain regret scrawled over the blank wall.
Like sculptured effigies they might be seen
Upon their marriage-tomb, the sword between;
Each wishing for the sword that severs all.

II

It ended, and the morrow brought the task.
Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him in
By shutting all too zealous for their sin:
Each sucked a secret, and each wore a mask.
But, oh, the bitter taste her beauty had
He sickened as at breath of poison-flowers:
A languid humour stole among the hours,
And if their smiles encountered, he went mad,
And raged deep inward, till the light was brown
Before his vision, and the world forgot,
Looked wicked as some old dull murder-spot.
A star with lurid beams, she seemed to crown
The pit of infamy: and then again
He fainted on his vengefulness, and strove
To ape the magnanimity of love,
And smote himself, a shuddering heap of pain.

III

This was the woman; what now of the man?
But pass him. If he comes beneath a heel,
He shall be crushed until he cannot feel,
Or, being callous, haply till he can.
But he is nothing:--nothing? Only mark
The rich light striking out from her on him!
Ha! what a sense it is when her eyes swim
Across the man she singles, leaving dark
All else! Lord God, who mad'st the thing so fair,
See that I am drawn to her even now!
It cannot be such harm on her cool brow
To put a kiss? Yet if I meet him there!
But she is mine! Ah, no! I know too well
I claim a star whose light is overcast:
I claim a phantom-woman in the Past.
The hour has struck, though I heard not the bell!

IV

All other joys of life he strove to warm,
And magnify, and catch them to his lip:
But they had suffered shipwreck with the ship,
And gazed upon him sallow from the storm.
Or if Delusion came, 'twas but to show
The coming minute mock the one that went.
Cold as a mountain in its star-pitched tent,
Stood high Philosophy, less friend than foe:
Whom self-caged Passion, from its prison-bars,
Is always watching with a wondering hate.
Not till the fire is dying in the grate,
Look we for any kinship with the stars.
Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold,
And the great price we pay for it full worth:
We have it only when we are half earth.
Little avails that coinage to the old!

V

A message from her set his brain aflame.
A world of household matters filled her mind,
Wherein he saw hypocrisy designed:
She treated him as something that is tame,
And but at other provocation bites.
Familiar was her shoulder in the glass,
Through that dark rain: yet it may come to pass
That a changed eye finds such familiar sights
More keenly tempting than new loveliness.
The 'What has been' a moment seemed his own:
The splendours, mysteries, dearer because known,
Nor less divine: Love's inmost sacredness
Called to him, 'Come!'--In his restraining start,
Eyes nurtured to be looked at, scarce could see
A wave of the great waves of Destiny
Convulsed at a checked impulse of the heart.

VI

It chanced his lips did meet her forehead cool.
She had no blush, but slanted down her eye.
Shamed nature, then, confesses love can die:
And most she punishes the tender fool
Who will believe what honours her the most!
Dead! is it dead? She has a pulse, and flow
Of tears, the price of blood-drops, as I know,
For whom the midnight sobs around Love's ghost,
Since then I heard her, and so will sob on.
The love is here; it has but changed its aim.
O bitter barren woman! what's the name?
The name, the name, the new name thou hast won?
Behold me striking the world's coward stroke!
That will I not do, though the sting is dire.
Beneath the surface this, while by the fire
They sat, she laughing at a quiet joke.

VII

She issues radiant from her dressing-room,
Like one prepared to scale an upper sphere:
--By stirring up a lower, much I fear
How deftly that oiled barber lays his bloom
That long-shanked dapper Cupid with frisked curls
Can make known women torturingly fair;
The gold-eyed serpent dwelling in rich hair,
Awakes beneath his magic whisks and twirls.
His art can take the eyes from out my head,
Until I see with eyes of other men;
While deeper knowledge crouches in its den,
And sends a spark up:--is it true we are wed?
Yea! filthiness of body is most vile,
But faithlessness of heart I do hold worse.
The former, it were not so great a curse
To read on the steel-mirror of her smile.

VIII

Yet it was plain she struggled, and that salt
Of righteous feeling made her pitiful.
Poor twisting worm, so queenly beautiful!
Where came the cleft between us? whose the fault?
My tears are on thee, that have rarely dropped
As balm for any bitter wound of mine:
My breast will open for thee at a sign!
But, no: we are two reed-pipes, coarsely stopped:
The God once filled them with his mellow breath;
And they were music till he flung them down,
Used! used! Hear now the discord-loving clown
Puff his gross spirit in them, worse than death
I do not know myself without thee more:
In this unholy battle I grow base:
If the same soul be under the same face,
Speak, and a taste of that old time restore

IX

He felt the wild beast in him betweenwhiles
So masterfully rude, that he would grieve
To see the helpless delicate thing receive
His guardianship through certain dark defiles.
Had he not teeth to rend, and hunger too?
But still he spared her. Once: 'Have you no fear ?'
He said: 'twas dusk; she in his grasp; none near.
She laughed: 'No, surely; am I not with you?'
And uttering that soft starry 'you,' she leaned
Her gentle body near him, looking up;
And from her eyes, as from a poison-cup,
He drank until the flittering eyelids screened.
Devilish malignant witch and oh, young beam
Of heaven's circle-glory! Here thy shape
To squeeze like an intoxicating grape
I might, and yet thou goest safe, supreme.

X

But where began the change; and what's my crime?
The wretch condemned, who has not been arraigned,
Chafes at his sentence. Shall I, unsustained,
Drag on Love's nerveless body thro' all time?
I must have slept, since now I wake. Prepare,
You lovers, to know Love a thing of moods:
Not like hard life, of laws. In Love's deep woods,
I dreamt of loyal Life:--the offence is there!
Love's jealous woods about the sun are curled;
At least, the sun far brighter there did beam.
My crime is, that the puppet of a dream,
I plotted to be worthy of the world.
Oh, had I with my darling helped to mince
The facts of life, you still had seen me go
With hindward feather and with forward toe,
Her much-adored delightful Fairy Prince!

XI

Out in the yellow meadows, where the bee
Hums by us with the honey of the Spring,
And showers of sweet notes from the larks on wing,
Are dropping like a noon-dew, wander we.
Or is it now? or was it then? for now,
As then, the larks from running rings pour showers:
The golden foot of May is on the flowers,
And friendly shadows dance upon her brow.
What's this, when Nature swears there is no change
To challenge eyesight? Now, as then, the grace
Of heaven seems holding earth in its embrace.
Nor eyes, nor heart, has she to feel it strange?
Look, woman, in the West. There wilt thou see
An amber cradle near the sun's decline:
Within it, featured even in death divine,
Is lying a dead infant, slain by thee.

XII

Not solely that the Future she destroys,
And the fair life which in the distance lies
For all men, beckoning out from dim rich skies:
Nor that the passing hour's supporting joys
Have lost the keen-edged flavour, which begat
Distinction in old times, and still should breed
Sweet Memory, and Hope,--earth's modest seed,
And heaven's high-prompting: not that the world is flat
Since that soft-luring creature I embraced,
Among the children of Illusion went:
Methinks with all this loss I were content,
If the mad Past, on which my foot is based,
Were firm, or might be blotted: but the whole
Of life is mixed: the mocking Past will stay:
And if I drink oblivion of a day,
So shorten I the stature of my soul.

XIII

'I play for Seasons; not Eternities!'
Says Nature, laughing on her way. 'So must
All those whose stake is nothing more than dust!'
And lo, she wins, and of her harmonies
She is full sure! Upon her dying rose,
She drops a look of fondness, and goes by,
Scarce any retrospection in her eye;
For she the laws of growth most deeply knows,
Whose hands bear, here, a seed-bag--there, an urn.
Pledges she herself to aught, 'twould mark her end!
This lesson of our only visible friend,
Can we not teach our foolish hearts to learn ?
Yes! yes !--but, oh, our human rose is fair
Surpassingly! Lose calmly Love's great bliss,
When the renewed for ever of a kiss
Whirls life within the shower of loosened hair!

XIV

What soul would bargain for a cure that brings
Contempt the nobler agony to kill?
Rather let me bear on the bitter ill,
And strike this rusty bosom with new stings!
It seems there is another veering fit,
Since on a gold-haired lady's eyeballs pure,
I looked with little prospect of a cure,
The while her mouth's red bow loosed shafts of wit.
Just heaven! can it be true that jealousy
Has decked the woman thus? and does her head
Swim somewhat for possessions forfeited?
Madam, you teach me many things that be.
I open an old book, and there I find
That 'Women still may love whom they deceive?'
Such love I prize not, madam: by your leave,
The game you play at is not to my mind.

XV

I think she sleeps: it must be sleep, when low
Hangs that abandoned arm toward the floor;
The face turned with it. Now make fast the door.
Sleep on: it is your husband, not your foe.
The Poet's black stage-lion of wronged love,
Frights not our modern dames:--well if he did!
Now will I pour new light upon that lid,
Full-sloping like the breasts beneath. 'Sweet dove,
Your sleep is pure. Nay, pardon: I disturb.
I do not? good!' Her waking infant-stare
Grows woman to the burden my hands bear:
Her own handwriting to me when no curb
Was left on Passion's tongue. She trembles through;
A woman's tremble--the whole instrument:--
I show another letter lately sent.
The words are very like: the name is new.

XVI

In our old shipwrecked days there was an hour,
When in the firelight steadily aglow,
Joined slackly, we beheld the red chasm grow
Among the clicking coals. Our library-bower
That eve was left to us: and hushed we sat
As lovers to whom Time is whispering.
From sudden-opened doors we heard them sing:
The nodding elders mixed good wine with chat.
Well knew we that Life's greatest treasure lay
With us, and of it was our talk. 'Ah, yes
Love dies !' I said: I never thought it less.
She yearned to me that sentence to unsay.
Then when the fire domed blackening, I found
Her cheek was salt against my kiss, and swift
Up the sharp scale of sobs her breast did lift:
Now am I haunted by that taste! that sound!

XVII

At dinner, she is hostess, I am host.
Went the feast ever cheerfuller ? She keeps
The Topic over intellectual deeps
In buoyancy afloat. They see no ghost.
With sparkling surface-eyes we ply the ball:
It is in truth a most contagious game:
HIDING THE SKELETON, shall be its name.
Such play as this the devils might appal!
But here's the greater wonder; in that we,
Enamoured of an acting nought can tire,
Each other, like true hypocrites, admire;
Warm-lighted looks, Love's ephemerioe,
Shoot gaily o'er the dishes and the wine.
We waken envy of our happy lot.
Fast, sweet, and golden, shows the marriage-knot.
Dear guests, you now have seen Love's corpse-light shine.

XVIII

Here Jack and Tom are paired with Moll and Meg.
Curved open to the river-reach is seen
A country merry-making on the green.
Fair space for signal shakings of the leg.
That little screwy fiddler from his booth,
Whence flows one nut-brown stream, commands the joints
Of all who caper here at various points.
I have known rustic revels in my youth:
The May-fly pleasures of a mind at ease.
An early goddess was a county lass:
A charmed Amphion-oak she tripped the grass.
What life was that I lived? The life of these?
Heaven keep them happy! Nature they seem near.
They must, I think, be wiser than I am;
They have the secret of the bull and lamb.
'Tis true that when we trace its source, 'tis beer.

XIX

No state is enviable. To the luck alone
Of some few favoured men I would put claim.
I bleed, but her who wounds I will not blame.
Have I not felt her heart as 'twere my own
Beat thro' me? could I hurt her? heaven and hell!
But I could hurt her cruelly! Can I let
My Love's old time-piece to another set,
Swear it can't stop, and must for ever swell?
Sure, that's one way Love drifts into the mart
Where goat-legged buyers throng. I see not plain:--
My meaning is, it must not be again.
Great God! the maddest gambler throws his heart.
If any state be enviable on earth,
'Tis yon born idiot's, who, as days go by,
Still rubs his hands before him, like a fly,
In a queer sort of meditative mirth.

XX

I am not of those miserable males
Who sniff at vice, and, daring not to snap,
Do therefore hope for heaven. I take the hap
Of all my deeds. The wind that fills my sails,
Propels; but I am helmsman. Am I wrecked,
I know the devil has sufficient weight
To bear: I lay it not on him, or fate.
Besides, he's damned. That man I do suspect
A coward, who would burden the poor deuce
With what ensues from his own slipperiness.
I have just found a wanton-scented tress
In an old desk, dusty for lack of use.
Of days and nights it is demonstrative,
That, like some aged star, gleam luridly.
If for those times I must ask charity,
Have I not any charity to give?

XXI

We three are on the cedar-shadowed lawn;
My friend being third. He who at love once laughed,
Is in the weak rib by a fatal shaft
Struck through, and tells his passion's bashful dawn
And radiant culmination, glorious crown,
When 'this' she said: went 'thus': most wondrous she.
Our eyes grow white, encountering that we are three,
Forgetful; then together we look down.
But he demands our blessing; is convinced
That words of wedded lovers must bring good.
We question; if we dare! or if we should!
And pat him, with light laugh. We have not winced.
Next, she has fallen. Fainting points the sign
To happy things in wedlock. When she wakes,
She looks the star that thro' the cedar shakes:
Her lost moist hand clings mortally to mine.

XXII

What may the woman labour to confess?
There is about her mouth a nervous twitch.
'Tis something to be told, or hidden:--which?
I get a glimpse of hell in this mild guess.
She has desires of touch, as if to feel
That all the household things are things she knew.
She stops before the glass. What sight in view?
A face that seems the latest to reveal!
For she turns from it hastily, and tossed
Irresolute, steals shadow-like to where
I stand; and wavering pale before me there,
Her tears fall still as oak-leaves after frost.
She will not speak. I will not ask. We are
League-sundered by the silent gulf between.
You burly lovers on the village green,
Yours is a lower, and a happier star!

XXIII

'Tis Christmas weather, and a country house
Receives us: rooms are full: we can but get
An attic-crib. Such lovers will not fret
At that, it is half-said. The great carouse
Knocks hard upon the midnight's hollow door,
But when I knock at hers, I see the pit.
Why did I come here in that dullard fit?
I enter, and lie couched upon the floor.
Passing, I caught the coverlet's quick beat:--
Come, Shame, burn to my soul! and Pride, and Pain--
Foul demons that have tortured me, enchain!
Out in the freezing darkness the lambs bleat.
The small bird stiffens in the low starlight.
I know not how, but shuddering as I slept,
I dreamed a banished angel to me crept:
My feet were nourished on her breasts all night.

XXIV

The misery is greater, as I live!
To know her flesh so pure, so keen her sense,
That she does penance now for no offence,
Save against Love. The less can I forgive!
The less can I forgive, though I adore
That cruel lovely pallor which surrounds
Her footsteps; and the low vibrating sounds
That come on me, as from a magic shore.
Low are they, but most subtle to find out
The shrinking soul. Madam, 'tis understood
When women play upon their womanhood;
It means, a Season gone. And yet I doubt
But I am duped. That nun-like look waylays
My fancy. Oh! I do but wait a sign!
Pluck out the eyes of pride! thy mouth to mine!
Never! though I die thirsting. Go thy ways!

XXV

You like not that French novel? Tell me why.
You think it quite unnatural. Let us see.
The actors are, it seems, the usual three:
Husband, and wife, and lover. She--but fie!
In England we'll not hear of it. Edmond,
The lover, her devout chagrin doth share;
Blanc-mange and absinthe are his penitent fare,
Till his pale aspect makes her over-fond:
So, to preclude fresh sin, he tries rosbif.
Meantime the husband is no more abused:
Auguste forgives her ere the tear is used.
Then hangeth all on one tremendous IF:--
If she will choose between them. She does choose;
And takes her husband, like a proper wife.
Unnatural? My dear, these things are life:
And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse.

František Ladislav Čelakovský - oddíl "Znělky" ze "Smíšených básní" (1822)

23. července 2007 v 14:03 | František Ladislav Čelakovský
(1821. u Vltavy)
1.

Zvony zněly, v kráse baldachýnu
Slúhu Páně nésti nejvyššího
Vidět v zboru chvály pějícího
Lidstva hlasy blahých Serafínů.

Světel řady cestu v nočním stínu
Zjasňovaly od hrobu božího,
Ach, tu v říši nebes bloudícího
Bludné oči zhlídly nejprv Nýnu.

Klečící dle máti k blahahojným
Svatou vznášela se duší nivám
V knize dléla pohledem pokojným.

Kněz lid žehná. Žhoucí tvář ukrývám
V hruď se tluka šeptem bohabojným:
Pane odpusť viny! Boha vzívám.

2.

Slunce zašlo, hlučný dostupuje
Den tichounký hrádek večera;
Z vížky pošmourného kláštera
Zvonek temný poklid ohlašuje;

K domovu se toužně navracuje
Sekáč s louky, rybák s jezera;
Ptactvo zmlklo, lehká za šera
Zvěř se z mlází v pole osměluje.

I ta tu chaloupka v klidu dřímá;
Sluch můj nevinné tu před ní hravých
Milých dítek plesy víc nevnímá.

Takováto budka, pole skrovné,
V sádku několiko stínů tmavých,
K tomu ona - štěstí nevýslovné!

3.

Vy, jenž trudné ňádra otvíráte
Volněj, bratří, v chrámě přírody;
Vy, jenž hojných zlostí zárody
Ke své škodě v světě potíráte;

Vy, jenž dny a noci provzdycháte,
Želejíce lásky neshody;
Aneb odkopnuvše mrzké návody,
Onu velkou ztrátu semnou lkáte!

Čisté duše! s losy nezbednými,
Jimžto v zmatku tuto válčiti,
K břehu kroky pospěšte rychlými.

Zde je pevná loď a silné veslo;
Kdož by nechtěl v kraj ten plaviti?
Ideál a krása! naše heslo.

4.

O, jak těžko státi bez podpory!
Kde se rámě moje zachytnou?
Pod nohama hloubi nezpytnou,
V pravo, v levo bohopusté hory.

Přijď již raděj skrotit tyto zpory
Nebes družko tváří nezbytnou,
Než mých prsí brány rozlitnou,
Nemohouce losům činiť vzdory.

Ach, až zmlknou tyto líté boje!
Až oprchnou mého věku květy,
Opět má jsi, věčně budeš moje!

Nýno! má jsi tam u světel zdroje!
A byť cestu zakročily světy,
Přes ně, přes ně k tobě moje lety!

5.

Že mne nezrodili oné časy,
V nichžto mam a ne klam světem hrál,
Ještěbych se o to postaral,
V snopek sbírat svého štěstí klasy.

Vezma harfu, spustiv kružné vlasy,
V prostém šatu volný provensal,
Ode hradu k hradu bych se bral,
Ctným rytířům hudbou sladě kvasy.

Samoten se loudal kolem zámku,
Píseň zvuče v šeru měsíce,
Ai, má na zábradle panice!

Ona kyne vítavou mi známku,
Tejnou spěší branku otevříti,
V tom ji - ale k čemu déle sníti?

6.

Již i ve snách hrůzou navštěvují
Mne i sami strašní živlové!
Náramní mne brzo ohňové
Jakby světy plály, ožehují;

Brzo hladoví zas rozšklebují
Na mne hrozné jícny proudové;
Nebo mnou zas draví vichrové,
An se oblak chytám, kotoučují.

Ondy sním, že práchním v hrobě tmavém,
Na němž zkvetla míru olíva; -
Vet! tu ona v rouchu plápolavém!

Kleknouc na hrob, kvítky smutné sází,
Tudíž slzami je zalívá;
Já se pachtím sevřen - sen uchází.

7.

"Darmo srdce něžná doufajíce
Tam blahot čekáte obnovu
Smutně kráčejíce po rovu
Lásek svých; - tam není znaku více!"

Takto hlásal, vzav mudrcké líce,
Kdosi starou bájku poznovu:
Mně však tam z jejího příkrovu
Jinák plála nezhynutí svíce.

On, jenž tyto stkvostné chrámy boří,
Věřte, On je zase vystaví,
Tisícerou krásou oslaví!

Tam, kde jemu Cherubín se koří,
Kde pověčných krásot zásoby,
Tam i naše vzlétnou podoby.

8.

(Dle Petrarky).

Kdy ptáčků dumy slýchám, nebo tmavé
Jak vánek větve suslivý provívá,
Aneb jak svíží bublem se ozívá
Potůček, vlaže kvítky modrohlavé:

Tu ještě sedě v lásce rozjímavé,
Ten nebe div, jehož zem nyní skrývá,
Ji samu vidím, slyším; mé vinívá
Outrpně, jakby živa, zdechy lkavé:

O, proč tvá darmo krásná léta hynou?
Dí ona, k čemu slzí potokové
Z unylých očí neustále plynou?

Pro mne ty neplač; nebo moji dnové
Jsou věčni, a mé oči zbyvše lesku
Tam věčnému se odemknuly blesku.

Seamus Heaney - Glanmore Sonnets (v originále)

5. července 2007 v 11:00 | Seamus Heaney
For Ann Saddlemyer,
our heartiest welcomer


I

Vowels ploughed into other: opened ground.
The mildest February for twenty years
Is mist bands over furrows, a deep no sound
Vulnerable to distant gargling tractors.
Our road is steaming, the turned-up acres breathe.
Now the good life could be to cross a field
And art a paradigm of earth new from the lathe
Of ploughs. My lea is deeply tilled.
Old ploughsocks gorge the subsoil of each sense
And I am quickened with a redolence
Of farmland as a dark unblown rose.
Wait then...Breasting the mist, in sowers' aprons,
My ghosts come striding into their spring stations.
The dream grain whirls like freakish Easter snows.

II

Sensings, mountings from the hiding places,
Words entering almost the sense of touch
Ferreting themselves out of their dark hutch-
'These things are not secrets but mysteries,'
Oisin Kelly told me years ago
In Belfast, hankering after stone
That connived with the chisel, as if the grain
Remembered what the mallet tapped to know.
Then I landed in the hedge-school of Glanmore
And from the backs of ditches hoped to raise
A voice caught back off slug-horn and slow chanter
That might continue, hold, dispel, appease:
Vowels ploughed into other, opened ground,
Each verse returning like the plough turned round.

III

This evening the cuckoo and the corncrake
(So much, too much) consorted at twilight.
It was all crepuscular and iambic.
Out on the field a baby rabbit
Took his bearings, and I knew the deer
(I've seen them too from the window of the house,
Like connoisseurs, inquisitive of air)
Were careful under larch and May-green spruce.
I had said earlier, 'I won't relapse
From this strange loneliness I've brought us to.
Dorothy and William-' She interrupts:
'You're not going to compare us two...?'
Outside a rustling and twig-combing breeze
Refreshes and relents. Is cadences.

IV

I used to lie with an ear to the line
For that way, they said, there should come a sound
Escaping ahead, an iron tune
Of flange and piston pitched along the ground,
But I never heard that. Always, instead,
Struck couplings and shuntings two miles away
Lifted over the woods. The head
Of a horse swirled back from a gate, a grey
Turnover of haunch and mane, and I'd look
Up to the cutting where she'd soon appear.
Two fields back, in the house, small ripples shook
Silently across our drinking water
(As they are shaking now across my heart)
And vanished into where they seemed to start.

V

Soft corrugations in the boortree's trunk,
Its green young shoots, its rods like freckled solder:
It was our bower as children, a greenish, dank
And snapping memory as I get older.
And elderberry I have learned to call it.
I love its blooms like saucers brimmed with meal,
Its berries a swart caviar of shot,
A buoyant spawn, a light bruised out of purple.
Elderberry? It is shires dreaming wine.
Boortree is bower tree, where I played 'touching tongues'
And felt another's texture quick on mine.
So, etymologist of roots and graftings,
I fall back to my tree-house and would crouch
Where small buds shoot and flourish in the hush.

VI

He lived there in the unsayable lights.
He saw the fuchsia in a drizzling noon,
The elderflower at dusk like a risen moon
And green fields greying on the windswept heights.
'I will break through,' he said, 'what I glazed over
With perfect mist and peaceful absences'-
Sudden and sure as the man who dared the ice
And raced his bike across the Moyola River.
A man we never saw. But in that winter
Of nineteen forty-seven, when the snow
Kept the country bright as a studio,
In a cold where things might crystallize or founder,
His story quickened us, a wild white goose
Heard after dark above the drifted house.

VII

Dogger, Rockall, Malin, Irish Sea:
Green, swift upsurges, North Atlantic flux
Conjured by that strong gale-warning voice,
Collapse into a sibilant penumbra.
Midnight and closedown. Sirens of the tundra,
Of eel-road, seal-road, keel-road, whale-road, raise
Their wind-compounded keen behind the baize
And drive the trawlers to the lee of Wicklow.
L'Etoile, Le Guillemot, La Belle Hélène
Nursed their bright names this morning in the bay
That toiled like mortar. It was marvellous
And actual, I said out loud, 'A haven,'
The word deepening, clearing, like the sky
Elsewhere on Minches, Cromarty, The Faroes.

VIII

Thunderlight on the split logs: big raindrops
At body heat and lush with omen
Spattering dark on the hatchet iron.
This morning when a magpie with jerky steps
Inspected a horse asleep beside the wood
I thought of dew on armour and carrion.
What would I meet, blood-boltered, on the road?
How deep into the woodpile sat the toad?
What welters through this dark hush on the crops?
Do you remember that pension in Les Landes
Where the old one rocked and rocked and rocked
A mongol in her lap, to little songs?
Come to me quick, I am upstairs shaking.
My all of you birchwood in lightning.

IX

Outside the kitchen window a black rat
Sways on the briar like infected fruit:
'It looked me through, it stared me out, I'm not
Imagining things. Go you out to it.'
Did we come to the wilderness for this?
We have our burnished bay tree at the gate,
Classical, hung with the reek of silage
From the next farm, tart-leafed as inwit.
Blood on a pitchfork, blood on chaff and hay,
Rats speared in the sweat and dust of threshing-
What is my apology for poetry?
The empty briar is swishing
When I come down, and beyond, inside, your face
Haunts like a new moon glimpsed through tangled glass.

X

I dreamt we slept in a moss in Donegal
On turf banks under blankets, with our faces
Exposed all night in a wetting drizzle,
Pallid as the dripping sapling birches.
Lorenzo and Jessica in a cold climate.
Diarmuid and Grainne waiting to be found.
Darkly asperged and censed, we were laid out
Like breathing effigies on a raised ground.
And in that dream I dreamt-how like you this?-
Our first night years ago in that hotel
When you came with your deliberate kiss
To raise us towards the lovely and painful
Covenants of flesh; our separateness;
The respite in our dewy dreaming faces.
 
 

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