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  1. #11
    AVClub Fanatic
    Jun 2006
    62,722

    : .... ;

    The Waste Land
    T.S. Eliot (1888–1965).
    I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD



    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.

    What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
    Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
    You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
    A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
    And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
    And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
    There is shadow under this red rock,
    (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
    And I will show you something different from either
    Your shadow at morning striding behind you
    Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
    I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
    Frisch weht der Wind
    Der Heimat zu.
    Mein Irisch Kind,
    Wo weilest du?
    'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
    'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
    —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
    Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
    Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
    Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
    Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
    Od' und leer das Meer.

    Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
    Had a bad cold, nevertheless
    Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
    With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
    Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
    (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
    Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
    The lady of situations.
    Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
    And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
    Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
    Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
    The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
    I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
    Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
    Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
    One must be so careful these days.

    Unreal City,
    Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
    A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
    I had not thought death had undone so many.
    Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
    And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
    Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
    To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
    With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
    There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson!
    'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
    'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
    'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
    'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
    'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
    'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
    'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!


    . .

    1922
    :
    Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
    vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
    , ; Respondebat illa: .
    Ezra Pound
    Il miglior fabbro
    (1888-1965)

    A.
    ,
    ,
    ,
    .
    ,
    ,
    .

    ,
    , ,
    , .
    Bin gar keine Russin, stamm aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
    , ,
    , ,
    . , ,
    , . h .
    , a .
    , , .
    ,
    ; ,
    , ,
    , ,
    , ,
    .
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    ( ),



    .
    Frisch weht der Wind
    Der Heimat zu,
    Mein Irisch KindWo weilest du?

    ̢ .
    — ,
    , , ,
    , ,
    , ,
    , .
    Oedund leer das Meer.
    , ,
    ,
    ,
    . , ,
    , ,
    (, , . !)
    , ,
    .
    , ,
    , ,
    , ,
    .
    . .
    , .
    . ,
    :
    .
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    ,
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    .
    ,
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    ,

    .
    , , : !
    !
    ,
    ; , ;
    ;
    . ,
    !
    ! hypocrite lecteur ! – mon semblable, - mon frère !



    .

  2. #12
    Senior Member
    Jul 2009
    Salonique
    478

    Re: .... ;

    . .

    Richard Strauss / Alfred Lord Tennyson

    Enoch Arden ( ). Michael York


  3. #13
    Supreme Member
    Jun 2009
    3,594

    Re: : .... ;

    The Waste Land
    T.S. Eliot (1888–1965).
    I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD



    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.

    What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
    Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
    You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
    A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
    And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
    And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
    There is shadow under this red rock,
    (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
    And I will show you something different from either
    Your shadow at morning striding behind you
    Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
    I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
    Frisch weht der Wind
    Der Heimat zu.
    Mein Irisch Kind,
    Wo weilest du?
    'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
    'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
    —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
    Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
    Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
    Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
    Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
    Od' und leer das Meer.

    Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
    Had a bad cold, nevertheless
    Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
    With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
    Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
    (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
    Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
    The lady of situations.
    Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
    And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
    Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
    Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
    The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
    I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
    Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
    Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
    One must be so careful these days.

    Unreal City,
    Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
    A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
    I had not thought death had undone so many.
    Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
    And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
    Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
    To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
    With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
    There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson!
    'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
    'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
    'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
    'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
    'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
    'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
    'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!

    , , "" ;


  4. #14
    AVClub Fanatic
    Jun 2006
    62,722

    : .... ;

    ?

  5. #15
    Supreme Member
    Jun 2009
    3,594

    Re: .... ;

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  6. #16
    Supreme Member
    Jun 2009
    3,594

    Re: .... ;

    '
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    '





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  7. #17
    Established Member
    May 2008
    290

    Re: .... ;






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  8. #18
    Established Member
    May 2008
    290

    Re: .... ;

    To a Common Prostitute

    Be composed--be at ease with me--I am Walt Whitman, liberal and lusty
    as Nature;
    Not till the sun excludes you, do I exclude you;
    Not till the waters refuse to glisten for you, and the leaves to
    rustle for you, do my words refuse to glisten and rustle for
    you.

    My girl, I appoint with you an appointment--and I charge you that you
    make preparation to be worthy to meet me,
    And I charge you that you be patient and perfect till I come.

    Till then, I salute you with a significant look, that you do not
    forget me.

    Walt Whitman

  9. #19
    Supreme Member
    Jun 2009
    3,594

    Re: .... ;

    Circle Game - Buffy St. Marie


    Yesterday, a child came out to wander
    Caught a dragonfly inside a jar
    Fearful when the sky was full of thunder
    And tearful at the falling of a star

    And the seasons they go 'round and 'round
    And the painted ponies go up and down
    We're captive on the carousel of time
    We can't return we can only look behind
    From where we came
    And go round and round and round
    In the circle game

    Then, the child moved ten times 'round the seasons
    Skated over ten clear frozen streams
    Words like, "When you're older", must appease him
    And promises of someday make his dreams

    Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now
    Cartwheels turn to car wheels through the town
    And they tell him, "Take your time. It won't be long now.
    'Til you drag your feet to slow the circles down"

    And the seasons they go 'round and 'round
    And the painted ponies go up and down
    We're captive on the carousel of time
    We can't return we can only look behind
    From where we came
    And go round and round and round
    In the circle game

    So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty
    Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true
    There'll be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty
    Before the last revolving year is through.

    And the seasons they go 'round and 'round
    And the painted ponies go up and down
    We're captive on the carousel of time
    We can't return, we can only look behind
    From where we came
    And go round and 'round and 'round
    In the circle game
    And go 'round and 'round and 'round in the circle game.

    Joni Mitchell sings .....


  10. #20
    Senior Member
    Jan 2009
    556

    Re: .... ;



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