Сафі Хана
У Сусветны Дзень Паэзіі фрэндлента вельмі дарэчна расказала, што ў рыфму ў Еўропе даўно не пішуць. Дарэчна ў тым сэнсе, што я сапраўды даўнавата не перачытваў Сафі Хану (Sophie Hannah), а тут узгадаў. Калі ў 2004 годзе Poetry Book Society склала спіс істотных "паэтаў новага пакалення", трыццацігадовая на той момант Хана аказалася ў гэтым спісе адной з наймаладзейшых. Яна, як няцяжка здагадацца, піша ў рыфму :) Між іншым, не грэбуе рыфмаю (хаця і не заўсёды) і яшчэ адзін фігурант спісу, на год маладзейшы Джэкаб Полі (маладыя паэты не падпарадкаваліся так ясна вызначанай тэндэнцыі? Спытайце ў Зігмунда Фрэйда Харальда Блума, чаго гэта яны). Але размова тут пра Сафі Хану. Яна суцэльна люты - і вельмі класны - "англакласіцыст", як у жартах (I’ve got the motive. // I’ve got the stamina. // I’m going to kill // The external examiner), так і на розных ступенях сур'ёзнасці. Штосці з гэтага я ўжо рэкламаваў, штосці не, карацей -
The End of Love
The end of love should be a big event.
It should involve the hiring of a hall.
Why the hell not? It happens to us all.
Why should it pass without acknowledgement?
Suits should be dry-cleaned, invitations sent.
Whatever form it takes - a tiff, a brawl -
The end of love should be a big event.
It should involve the hiring of a hall.
Better than the unquestioning descent
Into the trap of silence, than the crawl
From visible to hidden, door to wall.
Get the announcements made, the money spent.
The end of love should be a big event.
It should involve the hiring of a hall.
Something Coming
The pavement shone with news of something coming,
or just with rain. She took it as a warning,
identical to last time - first the humming,
then thunder, then his letter in the morning.
She did her best to see some sort of sense
in all these things, to make them fit together.
At the same time, she laughed at the pretence
that love could be connected to the weather,
which can’t be true, or life would be too frightening
to live. Next time, she swore she’d go to bed
and not stay up to study trends of lightning,
and wonder what, if anything, they said.
Against Road-building
He hated roads. He loved the land.
He tended to forget
Or else he didn’t understand
That roads were how we met.
He loved long walks. He hated cars.
He often put them down.
Without them, though, I’d have reached Mars
Before I reached his town.
Now that I’ve seen bad air pervade
An atmosphere once sweet
I wish the car was never made
That drove me to his street.
Now that I’ve felt a world explode
As I had not before
I wish they’d never built the road
That led me to his door.
Крыху болей - тут, на розных старонках: http://www.sophiehannah.com
The End of Love
The end of love should be a big event.
It should involve the hiring of a hall.
Why the hell not? It happens to us all.
Why should it pass without acknowledgement?
Suits should be dry-cleaned, invitations sent.
Whatever form it takes - a tiff, a brawl -
The end of love should be a big event.
It should involve the hiring of a hall.
Better than the unquestioning descent
Into the trap of silence, than the crawl
From visible to hidden, door to wall.
Get the announcements made, the money spent.
The end of love should be a big event.
It should involve the hiring of a hall.
Something Coming
The pavement shone with news of something coming,
or just with rain. She took it as a warning,
identical to last time - first the humming,
then thunder, then his letter in the morning.
She did her best to see some sort of sense
in all these things, to make them fit together.
At the same time, she laughed at the pretence
that love could be connected to the weather,
which can’t be true, or life would be too frightening
to live. Next time, she swore she’d go to bed
and not stay up to study trends of lightning,
and wonder what, if anything, they said.
Against Road-building
He hated roads. He loved the land.
He tended to forget
Or else he didn’t understand
That roads were how we met.
He loved long walks. He hated cars.
He often put them down.
Without them, though, I’d have reached Mars
Before I reached his town.
Now that I’ve seen bad air pervade
An atmosphere once sweet
I wish the car was never made
That drove me to his street.
Now that I’ve felt a world explode
As I had not before
I wish they’d never built the road
That led me to his door.
Крыху болей - тут, на розных старонках: http://www.sophiehannah.com