In Proceedings By Svetlana

The most famous poems in English

The English poetry is unimaginable without Robert Frost.

«Robert Lee Frost (Robert Lee Frost, March 26, 1874, San Francisco — January 29, 1963, Boston, MA) — one of the greatest poets in the history of the United States, four times winner of the Pulitzer Prize,» — says Wikipedia.

I will not bore the reader with a detailed biography of the author, if you want it you can easily find yourself in the same Wikipedia. Let’s talk about the work of Robert Frost. In the culture of the world it becomes a part of his work entitled «The Road Not Taken». This philosophical and at the same time very simple poem speaks about the issue of choice and the decisions that need to take everyone. In American schools and universities it is often quoted in the ceremonies proms, wanting to yesterday’s pupils and students good luck in choosing a way of life:

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.

There exists a lot of versions of literary translation of this poem. Very often novice authors and translators try their hand on this product. I want to offer you a translation of Gregory Kruzhkova.

Another way

In the autumn woods, at the crossroads,
It was, I thought, at the turn;
There were two paths, and the world was wide,
However, I could not split in two,
And I had to decide on something.

I chose the road that led to the right
And, turning, he disappeared in the thicket.
Untrodden, perhaps, it was
And the more it seemed to me, overgrown;
And yet, both were overgrown.

And both attracted, delighting the eye
Dry leaves loose yellowness.
I left the other in reserve,
Although guessed at that hour,
That is hardly the case will fall back.

I also remember one day
Distant Forest this morning:
It was another path before me,
But I decided to roll to the right —
And it solved everything.

Interestingly, «The Road Not Taken» more than once onto the screen in movies. Here is an excerpt from the film «Dead Poets Society» («Dead Poets Society»), in which the new eksentrichny teacher John Keating, whose methods of teaching literature are very different from the traditional, says his players about the importance of the ability to make their own choices, look for yourself, meditate, do not adjust to the conventional wisdom simply because they are doing it all.

Another poem, which I want to talk about today is called «If» and written by Rudyard Kipling.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, do not deal in lies,
Or being hated do not give way to hating,
And yet do not look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream-and not make dreams your master;
If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings-nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And-which is more-you’ll be a Man, my son!

Literary translation of this poem is also set. Name poems by various authors also translated differently: «If», «will», «Commandment», «When» … The best known translation S. Marshak and ML Lozinski. And I really liked the translation, which I found on LiveJournal. — here you can meet the author, and I’ll share with you her wonderful translation.

Kohl his head you do not lose,
Though all are mad, that blaming you,
Kohl himself completely you trust,
While its critics and loving;
Since you are able to wait tirelessly,
Or, as slander, do not lie,
Or, hatred forgiving patience,
Not tschishsya show superiority;
Kohl dreams, not enslaved to dream
Kohl did not think doom for themselves,
Kohl met with triumph and bedoyu,
You with equal force to doubt them;
Kohl vynesesh when your same word
Pereinachit, fed fools
Or of the collapsed matter of life again
Dried glue scrapie in pieces;
Kohl you are able to put everything on the card,
Risking everything that had to win,
And lose, go back to the start,
Nothing hinting that regretted;
Since you make the heart, nerves and veins
To serve you, even though they already could not stand,
Though everything in you is dead, but with the power of the Will
Repeats: «Hold on!» In order to help them;
Kohl remember who you are speaking to the crowd,
With kings do not lose the simplicity,
Kohl enemy or friend does not have power over you;
Kohl appreciate all without preferences, you are;
Kohl importance of each of seconds you know
As a sprinter who commits the race,
Then the whole Earth as a gift you receive,
And beyond that, son, you — man!

Another author, which I can not tell — Adrian Mitchell (Adrian Mitchell, October 24, 1932 — December 20, 2008), the British poet, novelist and playwright. It is often called the British Mayakovsky as a topic of Mitchell’s art often became social problems of society, as well as historical events. Works of the author is almost always very ironic. In 2003, Adrian Mitchell before the war in Iraq once again read his famous lines from «To whom it may concern»:

I was run over by the truth one day.
Ever since the accident I’ve walked this way
So stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,
Could not find myself so I went back to sleep again
So fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Every time I shut my eyes all I see is flames.
Made a marble phone book and I carved out all the names
So coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

I smell something burning, hope it’s just my brains.
They’re only dropping peppermints and daisy-chains
So stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Where were you at the time of the crime?
Down by the Cenotaph drinking slime
So chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

You put your bombers in, you put your conscience out,
You take the human being and you twist it all about
So scrub my skin with women
Chain my tongue with whisky
Stuff my nose with garlic
Coat my eyes with butter
Fill my ears with silver
Stick my legs in plaster
Tell me lies about Vietnam.

I suggest you listen to this poem by the author:

Once the truth upside dumped me,
And I go crippled since the day
So pour me a leg plaster
Navreno me about Vietnam.

I heard the alarm, he screamed in pain
I myself do not understand and dozed off again
So insert my ears pearls
Pour the plaster on my feet
Navreno me about Vietnam.

I close my eyes and I see a fire
I made a directory of all the marble names
So I glue the eyelids honey
Stick my ears pearls
Pour the plaster on my feet
Navreno me about Vietnam.

Something smokes, I hope, my brains
From them scatter flower petals
So tamp my nostrils onions
Glue my eyelids honey
Stick my ears pearls
Pour the plaster on my feet
Navreno me about Vietnam.

At the time of the crime where you were?
Near Cenotaph * churned muck?
So skuyte my jaw whiskey
Tamp my nostrils onions
Glue my eyelids honey
Insert my ears pearls
Pour the plaster on my feet
Navreno me about Vietnam.

To bombers! In nothing do not blame themselves
All human wring
And scraped my skin woman
Skuyte my jaw whiskey
Tamp my nostrils onions
Glue my eyelids honey
Insert my ears pearls
Pour the plaster on my feet
Navreno me about Vietnam.

* Cenotaph — a monument to the British, who died in the First World War.

Translation Kirill Medvedev.

My favorite work of Adrian Mitchell is «The Castaways or Vote for the Caliban» is a fun, amusing and at the same time subtle philosophical poem without rhyme. It tells about the people who were on a desert island. Each of them quickly found something for everyone. Translate dared me.

A Pacific Ocean —
A blue demi-globe.
Islands like punctuation marks.
A cruising airliner;
Passengers unwrapping pats of butter.
A hurricane arises,
Tosses the plane into the sea.
Five of them, flung onto an island beach,

Pacific Ocean —
Blue hemisphere
Downstairs, as punctuation, islands,
Buzzing aircraft.
Passengers rustle wrappers from the oil.
Suddenly approaching hurricane,
He throws the plane into the ocean.
Five passengers
Thrown on the sandy shore,

Tom the reporter.
Susan the botanist.
Jim the high jump champion.
Bill the carpenter.
Mary the eccentric widow.

Reporter Tom.
Botanist Susan.
Jim, the champion in the high jump.
Bill Carpenter.
And eksentrichnaya widow Mary.

Tom the reporter sniffed out a stream of drinkable water.
Susan the botanist identified the banana tree.
Jim the high-jump champion jumped up and down and gave them each a bunch.
Bill the carpenter knocked up a table for their banana supper.
Mary the eccentric widow buried the banana skins, but only after they had asked her twice.

Reporter Tom knew immediately where to find drinking water.
Botanist Syuzan easily recognized banana tree.
Jump champion, Jim, tore off the tops of a bunch of bananas.
Bill Carpenter fashioned table for their banana dinner.
Mary eksentrichnaya widow buried banana skins, but only after she was asked about it twice.

They all gathered sticks and lit a fire.
There was an incredible sunset.
Next morning they held a committee meeting.
Tom, Susan, Jim and Bill
Voted to make the best of things.
Mary, the eccentric widow, abstained.

They are looking for firewood, and then lit a fire.
Sunset was incomparable.
The next morning, they held a meeting.
Tom Syuzan, Jim and Bill
Voted for how better to equip.
Mary eksentrichnaya widow abstained.

Tom the reporter killed several dozen wild pigs.
Tanned their skins into parchment
And printed the Island News with the ink of squids.
Susan the botanist developed the new strains of banana
Which tasted of chocolate, beefsteak, peanut butter,
Chicken and boot polish.

Reporter Tom killed several dozen wild pigs,
I made out of their skins parchment
And written on it in ink octopus island news.
Botanist Syuzan brought new varieties of bananas,
With the taste of chocolate, steak, peanut butter,
Chicken and shoe polish.

Jim the high jump champion organized organized games
Which he always won easily.
Bill the carpenter constructed a wooden water wheel
And converted the water’s energy into electricity
Using iron ore from the hills, he constructed lamppost.
They all worried about Mary, the eccentric widow,
Her lack of confidence and her-
But there was not time to coddle her.

Jump champion Jim organized a sports competition,
And they continue to win with ease.
Bill Carpenter built a wooden water wheel
And he began to turn the energy of water into electricity
With iron ore, so he built a street lamp.
All worried about Mary eksentrichnuyu widow
During her insecurities —
But in any case, do not have the time it nyanchitsya.

The volcano erupted, but they dug a trench
And diverted the lava into the sea
Where it found a spectacular pier
They were attacked by the pirates but defeated them
With bamboo bazookas firing
Sea-urchins packed with home-made nitro-glycerin.

It happened a volcanic eruption, but they dug a trench,
Sent lava into the sea,
Where is she, frozen, it became a beautiful marina.
They were attacked by pirates, but they have overcome them
With bazookas from bamboo,
What firing sea urchins on a home nitroglycerine.

They gave the cannibals a dose of their own medicine
And survived an earthquake thanks to their skill in jumping.
Tom had been a court reporter
So he became a magistrate and solved disputes
Susan the Botanist established
A University which also served as a museum.
Jim the high-jump champion
I was put in charge of law enforcement-
Jumped on them when they were bad.
Bill the carpenter built himself a church,
I preached there every Sunday.

They offered kanibalov its new drug,
Experienced an earthquake due to the ability to jump.
Tom used to do reporting from the courtroom,
So he became a judge and resolve all disputes.
Botanist Syuzan founded the university,
Which also serves as a museum.
Champion in the high jump headed
Law enforcement agencies —
Hurriedly cut short all disobedience.
Bill Carpenter built a church,
I read a sermon there on Sundays.

But Mary the eccentric widow …
Each evening she wandered down the island’s main street,
Past the Stock Exchange, the Houses of Parliament,
The prison and the arsenal.
Past the Prospero Souvenir Shop,
Past the Robert Louis Stevenson Movie Studios, past the Daniel Defoe Motel
She nervously wandered and sat on the end of the pier of lava,
Breathing heavily,
As if at a loss,
As if at a lover,
She opened her eyes wide
To the usual incredible sunset.

But that’s Mary, the widow eksentrichnaya …
Every evening, she wandered through the main streets of the island,
Past the exchange, past the Houses of Parliament,
Past the prison, past the armory,
Past Studios Motion Pictures Robert Louis Stevenson, past the Motel Daniel Dafoe.
She wandered nervously and then sat on the edge of the pier from the lava.
As if at a loss,
As if looking at the beloved,
She contemplated the usual incomparable sunset.

This poem leaves questions, but no answers. In a sense, it is about all of us, about what we do and why we do it. The fact that each of us lives in his own world, and for all the fuss, we sometimes do not even notice that these our worlds often intersect. Maybe it should be, and perhaps should not be. Someone finds himself a workaholic Susan, someone closer to weasel reporter Jim, and someone always looking like a Mary without realizing template values ​​and disturbing others his melancholy.

Of course, my story about poets, writing characters in English, is endless. Without naming many more illustrious names. Among them was William Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, and Charlotte Bronte, and William Wordsworth and Edward Lear … I can only hope that his story, I woke up the curiosity of the readers, and maybe someone will want to continue to study English-language poetry itself.



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