| Robert Frost |
| Thief |
И понатаму сум зачуден што не можам да го најдам на македонски, а на српски најдов само една книга со негови препеви, ама и таа во ограничен тираж и распродадена! :(
А, поезија да читам на англиски - не се чувствувам дека толку го знам англискиот, но кога немам избор...
Нека пратат ова Американциве една книга наваму! :)))
Шегата настрана, еве некои негови дела што ги најдов на интернет: |
| Thief |
Into My Own
One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.
I should not be withheld but that some day
into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.
I do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.
They would not find me changed from him the knew--
Only more sure of all I though was true.
My November Guest
My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grady
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so ryly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell he so,
And they are better for her praise.
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| Thief |
Stars
How countlessly they congregate
O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!--
As if with keeness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,--
And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those starts like somw snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight.
To the Thawing Wind
Come with rain. O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do tonight,
bath my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.
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| Thief |
And were an epitaph to be my story I'd have a short one ready for my own. I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover's quarrel with the world.
Едно пријателче како слободен превод долго време ми велеше: Војував како љубовник против светот!
Мојот буквален превод би бил: Имав љубовна препирка со светот.
Слободно би го превел како: Со љубов му пркосев на светот.
Но, што и да ни е подраго како превод на македонски, во секој счучај, епитаф кој, споре мене, мисли на човечка љубов пред се`, на едно битие кон друго, не нужно на машко кон женско. Или...?! |
| AaaAa |
Kako so ljubovnik se precev/karav so svetot.
On ko edno i svetot ko drugo bitie. |
| Thief |
Ајде да видиме дали сум сфатил (оставам можност да сум погрешил): Тој е љубовникот и имал „љубовничка“ (оф, лошо звучи на македонски) препирка (караница) со светот?!
Кој од трите погоре понудени преводи е најблиску (по точност) до оригиналот?!
А, кога видов дека некој одговорил, мсилев дека ми бара адреса да ми го прати Фрост :)))
Или, евентуално (и многу поверојатно), многу линкови со негови песни ;)
Еве уште:
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| Thief |
My Butterfly
Thine emulous fond flowers are dead, too,
And the daft sun-assaulter, he
That frightened thee so oft, is fled or dead:
Saave only me
(Nor is it sad to thee!)
Save only me
There is none left to mourn thee in the fields.
The gray grass is scarce dappled with the snow;
Its two banks have not shut upon the river;
But it is long ago--
It seems forever--
Since first I saw thee glance,
WIth all thy dazzling other ones,
In airy dalliance,
Precipitate in love,
Tossed, tangled, whirled and whirled above,
Like a linp rose-wreath in a fairy dance.
When that was, the soft mist
Of my regret hung not on all the land,
And I was glad for thee,
And glad for me, I wist.
Thou didst not know, who tottered, wandering on high,
That fate had made thee for the pleasure of the wind,
With those great careless wings,
Nor yet did I.
And there were othe rthings:
It seemed God let thee flutter from his gentle clasp:
Then fearful he had let thee win
TOo far beyond him to be gathered in,
Santched thee, o'ereager, with ungentle gasp.
Ah! I remember me
How once conspiracy was rife
Against my life--
The languor of it and the dreaming fond;
Surging, the grasses dizzied me of thought,
The breeze three odors brought,
And a gem-flower waved in a wand!
Then when I was distraught
And could not speak,
Sidelong, full on my cheek,
What should that reckless zephyr fling
But the wild touch of thy dye-dusty wing!
I found that wing broken today!
For thou art dead, I said,
And the strang birds say.
I found it with the withered leaves
Under the eaves.
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| AaaAa |
quote:
Originally posted by Thief
Ајде да видиме дали сум сфатил (оставам можност да сум погрешил): Тој е љубовникот и имал „љубовничка“ (оф, лошо звучи на македонски) препирка (караница) со светот?!
Кој од трите погоре понудени преводи е најблиску (по точност) до оригиналот?!
А, кога видов дека некој договорил, мсилев дека ми бара адреса да ми го прати Фрост :)))
Или, евентуално (и многу поверојатно), многу линкови со негови песни ;)
Еве уште:
Niedna.Site se isto blisku... ama niedna tocno...
U princip on saka da kaze, deka se karal so svetot i raspraval i idel protiv nego, no sepak bil zaljuben vo nego i go sakal. Zatoa veli se karal so svetot ko sto bi se raspraval so svojot ljubovnik... se karash no toa neznaci deka ne go sakas, se raspravash zatoa shto go sakash i ti e stalo. Imalpostojani nesoglasuvanja so svetot, ko so ljubovnik.
http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/robertfrost/
na gore navedeniot link imash 180 poemi negovi
http://www.online-literature.com/frost/
http://frost.freehosting.net/poems.htm
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| Thief |
Tенкју вери мач! :)
За ова имаш тавче-гравче од мене! :)
Јас ја барав Сердарот за да добијам пастрмајлија, ама... :( Ај, да ја најдам печатена, па да ја скенирам... |
| AaaAa |
Anytime.
Steta e sto Robert Frost ne e preveden kaj nas... ama kaj nas mnogu raboti ne se prevedeni.
Go nemam citano bash mnogu, sem na skola koga go rabotevme eden semestar--ama eve mi inspiracija.
Podolu negovata najpoznata poema The Road Not Taken; Iako e pre kvotirana, citirana, analizirana i sekoj eden dibek i ne dibek ja znae, i na site im e omilena bidejki lesno moze da se adaptira na secij zivot, i sekoj vo nejze da najde bar mal del od svoite razmisli i psihicki dilemi so koj se soocuva sekojdnevno. Mnogu cesto ne razbrana, sepak vredi i eve neka ja ima ovde-neminovno e inspirativna.
Robert Frost - The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
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| Thief |
Ако фатам да го препевам, да ти го пратам на крај на рецензија?! :)
Гледам дека сум ја утнал работава со некои преводи :(
Има некој српски превод, као „The best of...“, ќе се обидам да го најдам, нема да се смирам додека книга негова не држам во раце :)
Идемо даље:
Robert Frost - 'Out, Out--'
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them 'Supper'. At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy's hand, or seemed to leap--
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh.
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all--
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man's work, though a child at heart--
He saw all spoiled. 'Don't let him cut my hand off
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!'
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then -- the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little -- less -- nothing! -- and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
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| sisi |
Izvonreden izbor Tif,sekoja cest.Moze da te zamolam nesto? Koga ke ja najdes "The best of.." na srpski da ja podades navaka :)))))))) |
| AaaAa |
bash me interesira shto bi bilo "The best of" i koj toa izbira... ko za madonna da se prai muabet... [:(] |
| Thief |
Затоа пишав „КАО The best of...“, но ајде да се порпавам - се разботри за ИЗБОР од негови поеми.
Сиси,
на српски тешко дека ќе ја најдам, ако ти врши работа англиска верзија, полесно на наглиски, отколку на српски би ја нашол.
[url="http://www.knjizara.co.yu/pls/sasa/knjizara.knjiga?k_id=34"]ОВА[/url] е српското издание. |
| sisi |
quote:
Originally posted by Thief
Затоа пишав „КАО The best of...“, но ајде да се порпавам - се разботри за ИЗБОР од негови поеми.
Сиси,
на српски тешко дека ќе ја најдам, ако ти врши работа англиска верзија, полесно на наглиски, отколку на српски би ја нашол.
[url="http://www.knjizara.co.yu/pls/sasa/knjizara.knjiga?k_id=34"]ОВА[/url] е српското издание.
TNX Thief[:X] |
| AaaAa |
Zemajki vo predvid deka poezijata na Robert Frost e skoro voopsto ne zastapena vo Makedonija, pretpostavuvam deka i negoviot zivot ne e osobeno na dofat na javnosta. Mnogumina veruvaat deka tvoreshtvoto e rezultat na iskustvata i zivotnite situacii, pa mislam deka bi bilo zahtevno da se znae neshto povekje za covekot pozadi delata. Moze da se najde na internet mnogu lesno, no eve neka go ima i ovde.
Se izvinuvam na onie na koi angliskiot ne im e jaka strana.
William H. Pritchard
Frost was born in San Francisco, where he spent his first eleven years. After the death of his father, a journalist, he moved with his mother and sister to eastern Massachusetts near his paternal grandparents. He wrote his first poems while a student at Lawrence High School, from which he graduated as co-valedictorian with the woman he was to marry, Elinor Miriam White. He entered Dartmouth College in the fall of 1892 but stayed for less than a term, returning home to teach school and to work at various jobs, including factory-hand and newspaperman. In 1894 he sold his first poem, 'My Butterfly: An Elegy', to a New York magazine, The Independent. That same year, unable to persuade Elinor to marry him (she wanted to finish college first), he headed south on a reckless journey into Virginia's Dismal Swamp. After emerging unscathed he came home to Lawrence where he and Elinor were married in December 1895.
Both husband and wife taught school for a time, then in 1897 Frost entered Harvard College as a special student, remaining there just short of two years. He performed well at Harvard, but his health was uncertain and he rejoined his wife in Lawrence, where she was about to bear a second child. In October of 1900 he settled with his family on a farm just over the Massachusetts line in New Hampshire, purchased for him by his grandfather. There, over the next nine years, he wrote many of the poems that would make up his first published volumes. But his attempt at poultry farming was none too successful, and by 1906 he had begun teaching English at Pinkerton Academy, a secondary school in New Hampshire. That same year two of his most accomplished early poems, 'The Tuft of Flowers' and 'The Trial by Existence', were published. Meanwhile he and Elinor produced six children, two of whom died in infancy. After a year spent teaching at the State Normal School in Plymouth, New Hampshire, he sold the Derry farm and in the fall of 1912 sailed with his family from Boston to Glasgow, then settled outside London in Beaconsfield.
Within two months of his arrival in England, Frost placed his first book of poems, A Boy's Will (1913) with a small London publisher, David Nutt. He also made acquaintances in the literary world, such as the poet F. S. Flint, who introduced him to Ezra Pound, who in turn reviewed both A Boy's Will and North of Boston, which followed it the next year. He became friends with members of the Georgian school of poets--particularly with Wilfred Gibson and Lascelles Abercrombie--and in 1914, on their urgings, he moved to Gloucestershire to be nearer them and to experience English country living. The most important friend he made in England was Edward Thomas, whom Frost encouraged to write poetry and who wrote sharply intelligent reviews of Frost's first two books. While many reviewers were content to speak of the American poet's 'simplicity' and artlessness, Thomas recognized the originality and success of Frost's experiments with the cadences of vernacular speech--with what Frost called 'the sound of sense'. His best early poems, such as 'Mowin,' ‘Mending Wall,' and ‘Home Burial,' were composed under the assumption that, in Frost's formulation from one of his letters, 'the ear does it. The ear is the only true writer and the only true reader.’ The best part of a poet's work, he insisted, was to be found in the sentence-sounds poems made, as of people talking. Like Wordsworth (as Edward Thomas pointed out in one of his reviews of North of Boston), Frost boldly employed 'ordinary' words and cadences ('I have sunk to a diction even Wordsworth kept above', he said in another letter) yet contrived to throw over them--in Wordsworth's formulation from his preface to the Lyrical Ballads--'a certain colouring of imagination'.
England's entry into the First World War hastened Frost's return to America early in 1915. By the time he landed in New York City, his American publisher, Henry Holt, had brought out North of Boston (Holt would continue to publish Frost throughout his life). He was fкted by editors and critics in the literary worlds of both New York and Boston, and he continued shrewdly to publicize himself, providing anthologists and interviewers with a vocabulary to describe his poetic aims. A third volume of verse, Mountain Interval, published in 1916 but still drawing on poems he had written in England and before, showed no falling off from his previous standard. In fact such poems as 'The Road Not Taken,’ ‘An Old Man's Winter Night,' 'The Oven Bird,’ ‘Birches,’ ‘Putting in the Seed,' and 'Out, Out—‘ were among the best he had written or was to write. Like the somewhat late-coming and even drab oven bird of his poem, Frost knew in 'singing not to sing,’ and a century after the ecstatic flights of romantic poets like Keats and Shelley, Frost's bird remained earthbound (the oven bird, in fact, builds its nests on the ground) and, like the poet who created him, sang about the things of this world.
Soon after he re-established himself in America, Frost purchased a farm in Franconia, New Hampshire (he would purchase a number of farms over the course of his life) and then, at the behest of President Alexander Meiklejohn, joined the faculty of Amherst College in Massachusetts. Frost was later to teach at the University of Michigan and at Dartmouth College, but his relationship to Amherst (sometimes a troubled one) was the most significant educational alliance he formed. Meanwhile he had begun the practice of reading his poems aloud-- rather, 'saying’ them, as he liked to put it public gatherings. These occasions, which continued throughout his life, were often intensive ones in which he would read, comment on, and reflect largely about his poems and about the world in general. Particularly at colleges and universities he commanded the ears and often hearts of generations of students, and he received so many honorary degrees from the academy that he eventually had the hoods made into a quilt.
Frost won the first of four Pulitzer Prizes in 1924 for his fourth book, New Hampshire, and followed it with West-Running Brook (1928) and A Further Range (1936), which also won a Pulitzer. Yet the latter volume occasioned, from critics on the left, the first really harsh criticism Frost's poetry had received. One of those critics, Rolfe Humphries, complained in New Masses (his review was titled 'A Further Shrinking') that Frost no longer showed either a dramatic or a sympathetic attitude toward his New England characters; that in setting himself against systematic political and social reforms (especially, Franklin Roosevelt's New Deal), he had become querulous and sarcastic, all too personally present in his quarrel with the way things were going. It is true that, for one reason or another, Frost no longer wrote poems like the dramatic monologues and dialogues in North Of Boston, and that poems from A Further Range, such as 'Two Tramps in Mud Time' or 'Provide, Provide', were argumentative and at times didactic in their thrust. But he had become expert at composing poems that had affinities with light verse and that consisted of a pointed, witty treatment of issues and ideas. Such a treatment purchased its surface brilliance at the cost of deeper sympathies and explorations.
Those deeper concerns were to make themselves felt once again, however, in what was to be Frost's last truly significant book of verse, A Witness Tree (1942). During the 1930s, as he became ever more honoured and revered, Frost endured a terrible series of family disasters. In 1934 his youngest and best-loved child, Marjorie, died a slow death from the puerperal fever contracted after giving birth to her first child; in 1938 his wife Elinor died suddenly of a heart attack, then, when he seemed to be pulling things together once more, his son Carol committed suicide in 1940. Another daughter, Irma, suffered--as did Frost's sister Jeannie--from mental disorders and was finally institutionalized. A number of poems in A Witness Tree undoubtedly derived their dark tone from the family tragedies suffered over the decade; but at any rate lyrics such as 'The Silken Tent', 'I Could Give All to Time', 'Never Again Would Birds' Song Be the Same', and 'The Most of It' stand in the top rank of Frost's work (he himself thought that some of his best poetry was contained in this book). In words from his prose essay 'The Figure a Poem Makes', they exhibit both ‘how a poem can have wildness and at the same time a subject that shall be fulfilled.’
Except for the publishing of a major poem, 'Directive', in his 1947 volume, Steeple Bush, Frost's poetry after the Second World War was mainly occasional, a relaxation from earlier intensities. He made a triumphant return to England in 1957 to receive honorary degrees from Oxford and Cambridge; he expended his efforts to have Pound released from St Elizabeth's Hospital; and under the Kennedy administration he made a somewhat less-than-satisfactory visit to Russia, in which he attempted, in conversation with Premier Khrushchev, to mediate between the superpowers. His last reading was given to a large audience in Boston in December 1962; the following day he went into hospital for a prostate operation and suffered a severe heart attack while convalescing, then a series of embolisms, one of which killed him in January of 1963.
Frost once wrote about Edwin Arlington Robinson that ‘his life was a revel in the felicities of language', and surely the claim could be made, even more appropriately, of Frost himself. While standing apart from the modernist work of his famous contemporaries--Eliot, Pound, Stevens--his own poetry, in its complication of tone and its delicate balancing of gravity and wit ('I am never more serious than when joking,’ he said more than once), asks for constant vigilance on the reader's part: a listening ear for the special postures of speech and the dramatic effects of silences. Like the works of his great predecessor, Emerson, Frost's poetry has never been sufficiently appreciated in England, the country which gave him his start. This neglect may be in part a reaction to the rather promiscuous admiration he inspired from so many different sorts of American readers (and non-readers), many of whom would have no time for Eliot or Stevens. But if, for some Americans, the homely nature of Frost's materials--cows, apples, and snow-covered woods—predisposes them to like his poetry, such readers are no more narrow than the 'cosmopolitan' ones who accept mythical allusions in Eliot or Pound but disdain stone walls as a fit vehicle for serious poetry. Frost's own formulation to an American friend in 1914 is helpful in thinking about his achievement: he told the friend, Sidney Cox, that the true poet's pleasure lay in making ‘his own words as he goes' rather than depending upon words whose meanings were fixed: 'We write of things we see and we write in accents we hear. Thus we gather both our material and our technique with the imagination from life; and our technique becomes as much material as material itself.' It was this principle that Pound saluted in Frost when, in his review of North of Boston, he remarked conclusively: 'I know more of farm life than I did before I had read his poems. That means I know more of "Life".'
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