Творчество

Патрик Генри Пирс (стихотворения)

На русском:

Любимому Ребенку
Перевод:Д. Веденяпина

Как ужасно, что этот смеющийся рот
Искривится от плача;
Как нелепо, что этот сияющий взор
Потускнеет от боли;

И под бременем многих печалей
Склонится головка...
Вот какие видения мучат меня,
Когда я целую тебя.

Я Ирландия
Перевод: Д. Веденяпина

Я Ирландия:
Я древнее старухи из Берри.
Велика моя слава:
Мной взлелеян бесстрашный Кухулин.
Велико и бесчестье:
Дети продали мать за бесценок.
Я Ирландия:
Я безродней старухи из Берри.


Мать / The Mother
Перевод:Д. Веденяпина

О нет, я не удерживала их!
Господь, я не удерживала их,
Когда они шагнули за порог
Навстречу верной гибели в неравной
Кровавой схватке за святое дело!
Я верю, люди не забудут их.
Потомки воспоют их и прославят
Их мужество... А я бессонной ночью,
Застыв напротив стылого камина,
Я буду повторять их имена
Лишь для себя одной... О Боже Правый,
Как все-таки Ты к женщинам жесток!
Ведь матери страдают и тогда, когда приходят дети,
И тогда, когда они уходят...
Но нет! Я не удерживала их!
И пусть душа истерзана печалью,
Известна ей и радость: сыновья
Не предали народ, они сражались!

Глупец / The Fool
Перевод:М. Яскова

И поскольку мудрецы не проронили ни слова, я говорю, что я всего лишь глупец,
Глупец, возлюбивший свою глупость,-
Да-да, возлюбивший ее более, чем мудрецы свои книги,
или свои конторы, или же свои безмятежные дома,
Или славу свою на устах молвы;
Глупец, никогда не совершивший ничего благоразумного,
Никогда не считавший расходов, никогда не заботившийся ни о чем, покуда другие
Пожинали плоды своих великих посевов,- ибо всю жизнь только разбрасывал семя;
Глупец, нераскаявшийся глупец, который скоро, в конце всего сущего,
Засмеется в своем одиноком сердце,
Когда зрелый колос падет на серпы и все страждущее будет умиротворено,
Хотя сам он голоден вечно.
Я безрассудно растратил молодые прекрасные годы, которые дал мне господь.
Я пытался достичь невозможного, полагая, что только оно и стоит труда.
Глупость ли на меня снизошла или милость господня?
Не люди судить меня будут, но бог.

Я безрассудно растратил прекрасные годы:
Боже, когда бы ты дал мне их снова, я снова растратил бы их -

Так бери эти годы назад, забирай!
Ибо сердцем своим я услышал, что нужно разбрасывать, а не собирать,
Нужно делать насущное, а не думать о завтрашних бедах,
И с господом не торговаться о милостях, или, может, Христос пошутил
И это мой грех перед миром - довериться горнему слову?
Чопорные, суровые законники собрались на совет
И сказали: "Сей человек глупец", а другие сказали: "Он святотатец";
А мудрецы пожалели глупца
За то, что пытался он в мире пространства, и времени, и многообразных вещей
Оживить ту мечту, которую в сердце носил и которую только сердце выдержит.

О мудрецы, отгадайте: что будет, если сбудется эта мечта?
Что будет, если сбудется эта мечта и миллионы еще не родившихся станут селиться
В том доме, который я в сердце построил и мыслью ограничил?
Боже, я душу мою заложил, я жизни всех ближних моих заложил
За правду, за истину твоего беспощадного слова. Не вспоминай о моих неудачах,
Но помни о вере моей.

И я говорю.
Прошла моя бурная юность, и я говорю моему народу:
Вы будете такими же глупцами, как я; вы будете разбрасывать, а не собирать;
Вы будете всем рисковать, чтоб сохранить то, что больше,чем все;
Вы будете требовать чуда, на слово веря Христу.
И на все это я вам отвечу, о люди, отвечу и ныне, и присно,
О люди, любимые люди,- давайте же вместе ответим на все!


Видение / Ideal
Перевод с ирландского В. Тихомирова

Вдруг увидев тебя,
Красота красоты,
Я едва не ослеп -
И замкнулись глаза.
И услышав тебя,
О музыка музык,
Я едва не оглох -
И замкнулся мой слух.
И пригубив тебя,
О сладчайшая сласть,
Я едва не погиб -
И замкнулась душа.
И замкнулись глаза,
И замкнулся мой слух,
И замкнулась душа -
Нет желаний во мне.
О виденье мое,
От тебя отвратясь,
Обратился лицом
Я к дороге своей.
И тогда я ступил
На дорогу свою:
Дело жизни творя,
Встречу смерти иду.

На английском:

A Rann I Made

A rann I made within my heart
To the rider, to the high king,
A rann I made to my love,
To the king of kings, ancient death.

Brighter to me than light of day
The dark of thy house, tho' black clay;
Sweeter to me than the music of trumpets
The quiet of thy house and its eternal silence.

I am Ireland

I am Ireland:
I am older than the Old Woman of Beare.

Great my glory
I that bore Cuchulainn the valiant.

Great my shame:
My own children that sold their mother.

I am Ireland:
I am lonelier than the Old Woman of Beare.

A Song for Mary Magdalene

O woman of the gleaming hair,
(Wild hair that won men's gaze to thee)
Weary thou turnest from the common stare,
For the shuiler Christ is calling thee.

O woman of the Snowy side,
Many a lover hath lain with thee,
Yet left thee sad at the morning tide,
But thy lover Christ shall comfort thee.

O woman with the wild thing's heart,
Old sin hath set a snare for thee:
In the forest ways forspent thou art
But the hunter Christ shall pity thee.

O woman spendthrift of thyself,
Spendthrift of all the love in thee,
Sold unto sin for little pelf,
The captain Christ shall ransom thee.

O woman that no lover's kiss
(Tho' many a kiss was given thee)
Could slake thy love, is it not for this
The hero Christ shall die for thee?

The Dord Feinne

'Se do bheatha, O woman that wast sorrowful,
What grieved us was thy being in chains,
Thy beautiful country in the possession of rogues,
And thou sold to the Galls,
Oró, 'se do bheatha a bhaile,
Oró, 'se do bheatha a bhaile,
Oró, 'se do bheatha a bhaile,
Now at summer's coming!

Thanks to the God of miracles that we see,
Altho' we live not a week thereafter,
Gráinne Mhaol and a thousand heroes
Proclaiming the scattering of the Galls !
Oró, 'se do bheatha a bhaile,
Oró, 'se do bheatha a bhaile,
Oró, 'se do bheatha a bhaile,
Now at summer's coming!

Gráinne Mhaol is coming from over the sea,
The Fenians of Fál as a guard about her,
Gaels they, and neither French nor Spaniard,
And a rout upon the Galls !
Oró, 'se do bheatha a bhaile,
Oró, 'se do bheatha a bhaile,
Oró, 'se do bheatha a bhaile,
Now at summer's coming!

The Rebel

I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow,
That have no treasure but hope,
No riches laid up but a memory
Of an Ancient glory.
My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born,
I am of the blood of serfs;
The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten,
Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters,
And, though gentle, have served churls;
The hands that have touched mine, the dear hands whose touch is familiar to me,
Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles,
Have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers,
I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone,
I that have never submitted;
I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people's masters,

I that have vision and prophecy and the gift of fiery speech,
I that have spoken with God on the top of His holy hill.

And because I am of the people, I understand the people,
I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire:
My heart has been heavy with the grief of mothers,
My eyes have been wet with the tears of children,
I have yearned with old wistful men,
And laughed or cursed with young men;
Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it,
Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free,
Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full,
Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and of their jailors
With their writs of summons and their handcuffs,
Men mean and cruel!

I could have borne stripes on my body rather than this shame of my people.

And now I speak, being full of vision;
I speak to my people, and I speak in my people's name to the masters of my people.
I say to my people that they are holy, that they are august, despite their chains,
That they are greater than those that hold them, and stronger and purer,
That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God,
God the unforgetting, the dear God that loves the peoples
For whom He died naked, suffering shame.
And I say to my people's masters: Beware,
Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people,
Who shall take what ye would not give.
Did ye think to conquer the people,
Or that Law is stronger than life and than men's desire to be free?
We will try it out with you, ye that have harried and held,
Ye that have bullied and bribed, tyrants, hypocrites, liars!

Lullaby of a Woman of the Mountain

Little gold head, my house's candle,
You will guide all wayfarers that walk this mountain.

Little soft mouth that my breast has known,
Mary will kiss you as she passes.

Little round cheek, O smoother than satin,
Jesus will lay His hand on you.

Mary's kiss on my baby's mouth,
Christ's little hand on my darling's cheek!

House, be still, and ye little grey mice,
Lie close to-night in your hidden lairs.

Moths on the window, fold your wings,
Little black chafers, silence your humming.

Plover and curlew, fly not over my house,
Do not speak, wild barnacle, passing over this mountain.

Things of the mountain that wake in the night-time,
Do not stir to-night till the daylight whitens!

Why do ye torture me?

Why are ye torturing me, O desires of my heart ?
Torturing me and paining me by day and by night?
Hunting me as a poor deer would be hunted on a hill,
A poor long-wearied deer with the hound-pack after him

There's no ease to my paining in the loneliness of the hills,
But the cry of the hunters terrifically to be heard,
The cry of my desires haunting me without respite,---
O ravening hounds, long is your run!

No satisfying can come to my desires while I live,
For the satisfaction I desired yesterday is no satisfaction,
And the hound-pack is the greedier of the satisfaction it has got,---
And forever I shall not sleep till I sleep in the grave.

Long to me Thy coming

Long to me thy coming,
Old henchman of God,
O friend of all friends,
To free me from my pain.

O syllable on the wind,
O footfall not heavy,
O hand in the dark,
Your coming is long to me.

To a Beloved Child

Laughing mouth, what tortures me is
That thou shalt be weeping;
Lovely face, it is my pity
That thy brightness shall grow grey.

Noble head, thou art proud,
But thou shalt bow with sorrow;
And it is a pitiful thing I forbode for thee
Whenever I kiss thee.

Renunciation

Naked I saw thee,
O beauty of beauty,
And I blinded my eyes
For fear I should fail.

I heard thy music,
O melody of melody,
And I closed my ears
For fear I should falter.

I tasted thy mouth,
O sweetness of sweetness,
And I hardened my heart
For fear of my slaying.

I blinded my eyes,
And I closed my ears,
I hardened my heart
And I smothered my desire.

I turned my back
On the vision I had shaped,

And to this road before me
I turned my face.

I have turned my face
To this road before me,
To the deed that I see
And the death I shall die.

Christ's Coming

I have made my heart clean to-night
As a woman might clean her house
Ere her lover come to visit her:
O Lover, pass not by !

I have opened the door of my heart
Like a man that would make a feast
For his son's coming home from afar:
Lovely Thy coming, O Son !

The Mother

I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge
My two strong sons that I have seen go out
To break their strength and die, they and a few,
In bloody protest for a glorious thing,
They shall be spoken of among their people,
The generations shall remember them,
And call them blessed;
But I will speak their names to my own heart
In the long nights;
The little names that were familiar once
Round my dead hearth.
Lord, thou art hard on mothers:
We suffer in their coming and their going;
And tho' I grudge them not, I weary, weary
Of the long sorrow---And yet I have my joy:
My sons were faithful, and they fought.

Christmas 1915

O King that was born
To set bondsmen free,
In the coming battle,
Help thy Gael !

Little Lad of the Tricks

Little lad of the tricks,
Full well I know
That you have been in mischief:
Confess your fault truly.

I forgive you, child
Of the soft red mouth:
I will not condemn anyone
For a sin not understood.

Raise your comely head
Till I kiss your mouth:
If either of us is the better of that
I am the better of it.

There is a fragrance in your kiss
That I have not found yet
In the kisses of women
Or in the honey of their bodies.

Lad of the grey eyes,
That flush in thy cheek
Would be white with dread of me
Could you read my secrets.

He who has my secrets
Is not fit to touch you:
Is not that a pitiful thing,
Little lad of the tricks ?

A Woman of the Mountain keens her Son

Grief on the death, it has blackened my heart:
lt has snatched my love and left me desolate,
Without friend or companion under the roof of my house
But this sorrow in the midst of me, and I keening.

As I walked the mountain in the evening
The birds spoke to me sorrowfully,
The sweet snipe spoke and the voiceful curlew
Relating to me that my darling was dead.

I called to you and your voice I heard not,
I called again and I got no answer,
I kissed your mouth, and O God how cold it was!
Ah, cold is your bed in the, lonely churchyard.

O green-sodded grave in which my child is,
Little narrow grave, since you are his bed,

My blessing on you, and thousands of blessings
On the green sods that are over my treasure.

Grief on the death, it cannot be denied,
It lays low, green and withered together,---
And O gentle little son, what tortures me is
That your fair body should be making clay !

I have not garnered gold

I have not garnered gold;
The fame I found hath perished;
In love I got but grief
That withered my life.

Of riches or of store
I shall not leave behind me
(Yet I deem it, O God, sufficient)
But my name in the heart of a child.

The Rann of the Little Playmate

Young Iosa plays with me every day,
(With an óró and an iaró)
Tig and Pookeen and Hide-in-the-Hay,
(With an óró and an iaró)
We race in the rivers with otters grey,
We climb the tall trees where red squirrels play,
We watch the wee lady-bird fly far away.
(With an óró and an iaró and an úmbó éró)

On the Strand of Howth

On the strand of Howth
Breaks a sounding wave;
A lone sea-gull screams
Above the bay.

In the middle of the meadow
Beside Glasnevin
The corncrake speaks
All night long.

There is minstrelsy of birds
In Glenasmole,
The blackbird and thrush
Chanting music.

There is shining of sun
On the side of Slieverua,
And the wind blowing
Down over its brow.

On the harbour of Dunleary,
Are boat and ship
With sails set
Ploughing the waves.

Here in Ireland,
Am I, my brother.
And you far from me
In gallant Paris.

I beholding
Hill and harbour,
The strand of Howth
And Slieverua's side,

And you victorious
In mighty Paris

Of the limewhite palaces
And the surging hosts;

And what I ask
Of you, beloved,
Far away
Is to think at times

Of the corncrake's tune
Beside Glasnevin
In the middle of the meadow,
Speaking in the night;

Of the voice of the birds
In Glenasmole
Happily, with melody,
Chanting music,

Of the strand of Howth
Where a wave breaks,
And the harbour of Dunleary,
Where a ship rocks;

On the sun that shines
On the side of Slieverua,
And the wind that blows
Down over its brow.

The Fool

Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool;
A fool that hath loved his folly,
Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses or their quiet homes,
Or their fame in men's mouths;
A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing,
Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped
The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed;
A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all
Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping-hooks
And the poor are filled that were empty,
Tho' he go hungry.

I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth
In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil.

Was it folly or grace? Not men shall judge me, but God.

I have squandered the splendid years:
Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again,
Aye, fling them from me !
For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard,
Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow's teen,
Shall not bargain or huxter with God ; or was it a jest of Christ's
And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word?

The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces,
And said, `This man is a fool,' and others have said, `He blasphemeth;'
And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life
In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things,
To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart could hold.

O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true?
What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell
In the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought?
Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kin
On the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures,
But remember this my faith

And so I speak.
Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say:
Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save;
Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all;
Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word.
And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter,
O people that I have loved, shall we not answer together?

The Wayfarer

The beauty of the world hath made me sad,
This beauty that will pass;
Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy
To see a leaping squirrel in a tree,
Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk,
Or little rabbits in a field at evening,
Lit by a slanting sun,
Or some green hill where shadows drifted by
Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath sown
And soon would reap; near to the gate of Heaven;
Or children with bare feet upon the sands
Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets
Of little towns in Connacht,
Things young and happy.
And then my heart hath told me:
These will pass,
Will pass and change, will die and be no more,
Things bright and green, things young and happy;
And I have gone upon my way
Sorrowful.

O Lovely Head

O lovely head of the woman that I loved,
In the middle of the night I remember thee;
But reality returns with the sun's whitening,
Alas, that the slender worm gnaws thee to-night.

Beloved voice, that wast low and beautiful,
Is it true that I heard thee in my slumbers!
Or is the knowledge true that tortures me?
My grief, the tomb hath no sound or voice?