- April is the cruelest month
- 24.4.18 11:35
- APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. - 7 rakstair doma
- 24.4.18 12:37
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T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). The Waste Land. 1922.
- Atbildēt
- 24.4.18 18:14
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Citos aprīļos šīs rindas bijušas vairāk aktuālas, lai gan vienmēr par tām iedomājos ap šo laiku. Bet šogad biežāk galvā skan Himensa "Dzeltenais aprīlis"
- Atbildēt
- 24.4.18 18:18
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Izrādās, ka oriģinālā ir dzeltenais pavasaris (Primavera amarilla).
Yellow Spring
April came, all
filled with yellow flowers.
Yellow the stream,
yellow the fence, the hill,
the children’s cemetary
the orchard where once love bloomed.
The sun anointed the world yellow
in its fallen light;
Oh! for the haloed irises,
the gold-lit water, warm;
the yellow butterflies
over the yellow roses!
Yellow garlands scale
the trees; the day
is a grace perfumed with gold,
in a golden awakening of life.
Between the bones of the dead,
God opens his hands of yellow.
Juan Ramón Jiménez - Atbildēt
- 24.4.18 18:37
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tagad
nudien, cik gadījies lasīt cibu šajā pavasarī - visur tikai dzelteni taureņi
- Atbildēt
- paldies!
- 25.4.18 07:32
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ai. :) tavējais ir dzīvelīgs un laimīgs. es vakar garāmejot pamanīju vecu fleimu, tāpēc mans saskābis -
- Atbildēt
- Re: paldies!
- 25.4.18 07:33
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Juan Ramón Jiménez - Primavera amarilla
Abril venía, lleno
todo de flores amarillas:
amarillo el arroyo,
amarillo el vallado, la colina,
el cementerio de los niños,
el huerto aquel donde el amor vivía.
El sol unjía de amarillo el mundo,
con sus luces caídas;
¡ay, por los lirios áureos,
el agua de oro, tibia;
las amarillas mariposas
sobre las rosas amarillas!
Guirnaldas amarillas escalaban
los árboles; el día
era una gracia perfumada de oro,
en un dorado despertar de vida.
Entre los huesos de los muertos,
abría Dios sus manos amarillas.
Poemas Májicos y Dolientes (1909) - Atbildēt
- 25.4.18 07:35
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īstenībā nav laimīgs - jo between bones of the dead, you now, but opens his hands of yellow -
- Atbildēt