"Sonety, jaká slast..."
Ivan Blatný

Villanelly

Edwin Arlington Robinson - The House on the Hill (villanella z r. 1894)

23. ledna 2009 v 13:59 | Edwin Arlington Robinson
They are all gone away,
The House is shut and still,
There is nothing more to say.

Through broken walls and gray
The winds blow bleak and shrill.
They are all gone away.

Nor is there one to-day
To speak them good or ill:
There is nothing more to say.

Why is it then we stray
Around the sunken sill?
They are all gone away,

And our poor fancy-play
For them is wasted skill:
There is nothing more to say.

There is ruin and decay
In the House on the Hill:
They are all gone away,
There is nothing more to say.

Richard Jackson - Terzanelle of Kosovo Fields (tercinella z Kosova, červen 2000)

2. prosince 2008 v 14:57 | Richard Jackson
The soldier thinks he can beat the moon with a stick.
His is a country where roads do not meet, nor words touch.
The walls around him crumble: his heart is a pile of bricks.

We sit with the sky draped across our knees and trust
that the shadows of planes, whisper like children in the fields,
follow roads that do not meet us, speak words we will not touch.

The soldier lights a fuse that makes a tragic story real:
our words scavenge the countryside like packs of dogs, derelict,
abandoned, hunted by the shadows of planes that cross the fields.

It's true that the blackbirds fill the air with their terrible music.
How could we think a soldier wouldn't turn our stars to sawdust?
Now our words scavenge the countryside, and our loves are derelict.

I wanted to love you beyond the soldier's aim, beyond the war's clutch.
Now bombs hatch in our hearts. Even the smoke abandons us for the sky.
How could we think a soldier wouldn't turn our stars to sawdust?

We live in a world where the earth refuses to meet the sky.
Our homes are on the march, their smoke abandons us for the sky.
Our soldiers thought they could beat the moon with their sticks.
Now every heart is crumbling, every love is a pile of bricks.

převzato odtud.

Aparna Raghunathová - Terzanelle At Twilight ("Soumračná tercinella" - kombinace terciny a vilanelly - od anglo-indické básnířky)

2. prosince 2008 v 14:45 | Aparna Raghunathová
Suspended twixt day and night
With the evening breezes singing -
The magic hour of twilight.

The earth and sky are listening,
The world is at peace
With the evening breezes singing

Twilight, the hour of ease;
All Nature wants to rest
The world is at peace.

Time to return to the nest
As the night time gathers around
All Nature wants to rest

By the fireside, prayers abound
It's time to sing the Vesper
As the night time gathers around

The breezes benediction whisper
Suspended twixt day and night
It's time to sing the Vesper
In the magic hour of twilight

převzato z této stránky.

Jean Passerat - J'ay perdu ma Tourterelle (historicky první villanella, ve francouzském originálu a v anglickém překladu, 1574)

7. února 2008 v 13:26 | Jean Passerat
I have lost my turtledove:
Isn't that her gentle coo?
I will go and find my love.

Here you mourn your mated love;
Oh, God-I am mourning too:
I have lost my turtledove.

If you trust your faithful dove,
Trust my faith is just as true;
I will go and find my love.

Plaintively you speak your love;
All my speech is turned into
"I have lost my turtledove."

Such a beauty was my dove,
Other beauties will not do;
I will go and find my love.

Death, again entreated of,
Take one who is offered you:
I have lost my turtledove;
I will go and find my love.

převzato z http://amandafrench.net/FirstVillanelle.pdf

Zuzana Konopásková - Zeleno-modrá villanella, Na úpätí vekov, Villanella o tom, že som zelená (3 villanelly ze serveru www.pismak.cz, ve slovenštině)

6. února 2008 v 21:29 | Zuzana Konopásková
Zeleno-modrá villanella

Dnes inšpiroval si ma zrána
hravosťou svojich slov a smiechom si ma prebudil
a ja obliekla som si šat blázna.

Zelená a modrá je pre bláznov vraj dobrá od pradávna
a také sú aj šaty, plné oranžových sĺnk, ktoré obliekla som
dnes. Inšpiroval si ma zrána.

Zatúžila som raz nebyť smutná ako z kŕdľa vrana
v sivočiernom ľane, na ktorej nikto nevidí, že iná je
a tak obliekla som si šat blázna.

Prekvapene, s tichým súcitom sa usmievali na mňa,
všetci tí, vždy vážni, netušiac, že k roztopaši tejto
dnes inšpiroval si ma zrána.

Na chvíľu som bola súčasť mora - hravá vlna vlažná,
presvetlená teplom oranžových sĺnk. To všetko preto,
že obliekla som si šat blázna.

Budím sa a za mnou zatvára sa brána,
vraciam sa zo sna, kde nebola som sivá vrana.
Zo sna, v ktorom inšpiroval si ma zrána
a ja obliekla som si šat blázna.

Na úpätí vekov

Na úpätí vekov som zahalená modrou
spomaľujem ranné kroky
a preciťujem bytie mysľou jemnou.

Pod vrstvami spraše - oblých tvarov
čierna venuša - spala dlhé roky.
Na úpätí vekov som zahalená modrou.

Totemy zvierat boli vierou silnou,
že úspech v love bude trvať naveky.
Ja preciťujem bytie mysľou jemnou.

Na kostiach lovcov, prekvapených smrťou ľadovou
čítam ich odkazy - červené znaky.
Na úpätí vekov som zahalená modrou.

Prastaré ohniská pod hladinou vodnou,
v každom okamihu minulosti dotyk.
Ja preciťujem bytie mysľou jemnou.

Práve tu sa stávam celkom otvorenou
a zmysel života je zrazu nekonečne veľký.
Na upätí vekov som zahalená modrou
a preciťujem bytie mysľou jemnou.
Villanella o tom, že som zelená
Hľadám v Tvojich slovách zmysel
vraj zelená som, ako voda.
Som voda, obmývajúca Ti myseľ.

Píšeš mi denne krátke listy
už sú ich stovky a žiaden taký istý.
Ja hľadám v Tvojich slovách zmysel.

Tak rada čítam Tvoje slová
a hrám sa s nimi stále znova.
Som voda, obmývajúca Ti myseľ.

Vraj verná mám byť sama sebe.
Začínam veriť najviac Tebe
hľadajúc v Tvojich slovách zmysel.

Vravíš, že smútok mením v radosť.
Tak málo stačí, detská hravosť.
Som voda, obmývajúca Ti myseľ.

Som prameň, rieka, more?
Pozeráš do hĺbok a ja hľadím hore.
Hľadám v Tvojich slovách zmysel.
Ja, voda, obmývajúca Ti myseľ.
převzato ze serveru www.pismak.cz

Lewis Turco - Terzanelle in Thunderweather (tercinella, hybrid terciny a villanelly, v originále)

6. února 2008 v 21:16 | Lewis Turco
This is the moment when shadows gather
under the elms, the cornices and eaves.
This is the center of thunderweather.

The birds are quiet among these white leaves
where wind stutters, starts, then moves steadily
under the elms, the cornices, and eaves--

these are our voices speaking guardedly
about the sky, of the sheets of lightning
where wind stutters, starts, then moves steadily

into our lungs, across our lips, tightening
our throats. Our eyes are speaking in the dark
about the sky, of the sheets of lightening

that illuminate moments. In the stark
shades we inhibit, there are no words for
our throats. Our eyes are speaking in the dark

of things we cannot say, cannot ignore.
This is the moment when shadows gather,
shades we inhibit. There are no words, for
this is the center of thunderweather.

převzato z http://www.gryphonsmith.com/fileg/verse/Terzanelle.html

Martha Collinsová - The Story We Know (villanella v originále)

6. února 2008 v 20:56 | Martha Collinsová
The way to begin is always the same. Hello,
Hello. Your hand, your name. So glad, Just fine,
And Good-bye at the end. That's every story we know,

And why pretend? But lunch tomorrow? No?
Yes? An omelette, salad, chilled white wine?
The way to begin is simple, sane, Hello,

And then it's Sunday, coffee, the Times, a slow
Day by the fire, dinner at eight or nine
And Good-bye. In the end, this is a story we know

So well we don't turn the page, or look below
The picture, or follow the words to the next line:
The way to begin is always the same Hello.

But one night, through the latticed window, snow
Begins to whiten the air, and the tall white pine.
Good-bye is the end of every story we know

That night, and when we close the curtains, oh,
We hold each other against that cold white sign
Of the way we all begin and end. Hello,
Good-bye is the only story. We know, we know.

George Higgins - Villanelle (moderní villanella v originále)

6. února 2008 v 20:54 | George Higgins
(Spielberg visited an inner city school in response to a class of black students who had laughed inappropriately at a showing his movie about the holocaust Schindler's List.)

When Steven Spielberg spoke at Oakland High
A custodian swept up the shattered glass,
replaced the broken clocks to satisfy

the Governor, who was preoccupied
with becoming President, with covering his ass.
When Steven Spielberg spoke at Oakland High

the District found diminishing supplies
of disinfectant and toilet paper stashed
away, so they replaced the clocks instead to satisfy

the cameras and the press that they had rectified
the deficiencies among the underclass.
When Steven Spielberg spoke at Oakland High

the students didn't seem dissatisfied
about the cover up, just happy to be out of class.
The custodian replaced the broken clocks to satisfy

this need we have to falsify
the truth in subservience to cash.
When Steven Spielberg came to Oakland High
the custodian replaced the broken clocks.

převzato z http://inwardboundpoetry.blogspot.com/2007/07/451-villanelle-george-higgins.html

Marilyn Hackerová - Villanelle for D. G. B. (villanella v originále)

6. února 2008 v 20:52 | Marilyn Hackerová
Every day our bodies separate,
exploded torn and dazed.
Not understanding what we celebrate

we grope through languages and hesitate
and touch each other, speechless and amazed;
and every day our bodies separate

us farther from our planned, deliberate
ironic lives. I am afraid, disphased,
not understanding what we celebrate

when our fused limbs and lips communicate
the unlettered power we have raised.
Every day our bodies' separate

routines are harder to perpetuate.
In wordless darkness we learn wordless praise,
not understanding what we celebrate;

wake to ourselves, exhausted, in the late
morning as the wind tears off the haze,
not understanding how we celebrate
our bodies. Every day we separate.
převzato z http://inwardboundpoetry.blogspot.com/2007/07/452-villanelle-mad-girls-love-song.html

John M. Ford - villanella z díla A Little Scene to Monarchize (v originále, 1990)

6. února 2008 v 20:50 | John M. Ford
I am the King now, and I want a sandwich.
This monarch business makes a fellow hungry.
I wonder where my brother Richard is.

What happened to the kippers left from breakfast?
Or maybe there's a bit of cold roast pheasant.
I am the King now, and I want a sandwich.

A civil war is such an awful bother.
We fought at Tewksbury and still ran out of mustard.
I wonder where my brother Richard is.

Speak not to me of pasta Marinara.
I know we laid in lots of boar last Tuesday.
I am the King now, and I want a sandwich.

The pantry seems entirely full of Woodvilles
And Clarence has drunk two-thirds of the cellar.
I wonder where my brother Richard is.

If I ran England like I run that kitchen
You'd half expect somebody to usurp it.
I am the King now, and I want a sandwich.
I wonder where my brother Richard is.

převzato z http://nielsenhayden.com/makinglight/archives/007996.html
 
 

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