Поэзия Канады (Эмили Полин Джонсон). Эмили Полин Джонсон
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Название: Поэзия Канады (Эмили Полин Джонсон)
Автор: Эмили Полин Джонсон
Издательство: Автор
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Would lick my hand or come and put his head aside my knee,
Perhaps his touch would scatter something of the gloom away.
But all alone I had to live until there came a day
When, tired of the battle, as you'd have tired too,
I wished to heaven I'd gone with Ben, 'way up beyond the blue.
II
One morning I took out Ben's gun, and thought I'd hunt all day,
And started through the clearing for the bush that forward lay,
When something made me look around – I scarce believed my mind -
But, sure enough, the dog was following right close behind.
A feeling first of joy, and than a sharper, greater one
Of anger came, at knowing 'twas not me, but Ben's old gun,
That Rove was after, – well, sir, I just don't mind telling you,
But I forgot that moment Ben was up beyond the blue.
Perhaps it was but jealousy – perhaps it was despair,
But I just struck him with the gun and broke the bone right there;
And then – my very throat seemed choked, for he began to whine
With pain – God knows how tenderly I took that dog of mine
Up in my arms, and tore my old red necktie into bands
To bind the broken leg, while there he lay and licked my hands;
And though I cursed my soul, it was the brightest day I knew,
Or even cared to live, since Ben went up beyond the blue.
I tell you, Squire, I nursed him just as gently as could be,
And now I'm all the world to him, and he's the world to me.
Look, sir, at that big, noble soul, right in his faithful eyes,
The square, forgiving honesty that deep down in them lies.
Eh, Squire? What's that you say? He's got no soul? I tell you, then,
He's grander and he's better than the mass of what's called men;
And I guess he stands a better chance than many of us do
Of seeing Ben some day again, 'way up beyond the blue.
Брандон
(Акростих)
Был на груди канадской прерии, улыбчивой под солнцем,
Рожден от материнской почвы, в дорогих полях пшеницы,
А ныне бойких всех, когда мечта стучит в ворота за оконцем,
На плодородной ждут земле, чтоб с тучных акров поживиться,
Дана мечта голодным миллионам на рассвете сытном века,
О человеческой нужде из древних книг узнают дети человека,
Народам даст зерно из кладовых, и это божья за труды опека.
Brandon
(ACROSTIC)
Born on the breast of the prairie, she smiles to her sire – the sun,
Robed in the wealth of her wheat-lands, gift of her mothering soil,
Affluence knocks at her gateways, opulence waits to be won.
Nuggets of gold are her acres, yielding and yellow with spoil,
Dream of the hungry millions, dawn of the food-filled age,
Over the starving tale of want her fingers have turned the page;
Nations will nurse at her storehouse, and God gives her grain for wage.
Шиповник в Страстную Пятницу
Поскольку, дорогой Христос, израненные руки
Твои шиповник отклоняют в жизненном пути,
То нет обиды в сердце, нет душевной муки,
Шипов не чувствуя почти, могу тропой пройти.
Не знала, что, порой, тебя томят заботы эти,
И руки устают вести нас верным курсом,
Ты впереди идешь и сокрушаешь злые ветви,
Чтоб я могла ходить легко и жить со вкусом.
Эгоистичные мои ты часто слышишь просьбы,
Сегодня я молю лишь об одном тебя -
Шипов в венец не добавляли эти руки чтобы,
Терн на челе кровавый теребя.
Brier – Good Friday
Because, dear Christ, your tender, wounded arm
Bends back the brier that edges life's long way,
That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm,
I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.
Because I never knew your care to tire,
Your hand to weary guiding me aright,
Because you walk before and crush the brier,
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