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Короткие стихи 1929-1931. The Chimney Sweepers. "What's in Your Mind, My Dove, My Coney…". Happy Ending
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Короткие стихи 1929-1931
Pick a quarrel, go to war,
Leave the hero in the bar;
Hunt the lion, climb the peak:
No one guesses you are weak.
The friends of the born nurse
Are always getting worse.
When he is well
She gives him hell;
But she's a brick
When he is sick.
You’re a long way off becoming a saint
So long as you suffer from any complaint;
But, if you don’t, there’s no denying
The chances are that you’re not trying.
I am afraid there is many a spectacled sod
Prefers the British Museum to God.
I'm beginning to lose patience
With my personal relations:
They are not deep,
And they are not cheap.
Those who will not reason
Perish in the act;
Those who will not act
Perish for that reason.
Let us honor if we can
The vertical man,
Though we value none
But the horizontal one.
'These had stopped seeking
But went on speaking,
Have not contributed
But have diluted.
These ordered light
But had no right,
These handed on
War and a son.
Wishing no harm
But to be warm,
These fell asleep.
On the burning heap.
Private faces
In public places
Are wiser and nicer
Than public faces
In private places.
* * *
I'm beginning to lose patience
With my personal relations:
They are not deep,
And they are not cheap.
* * *
Thoughts of his own death,
like the distant roll
of thunder at a picnic.
* * *
Bound to ourselves for life,
we must learn how to
put up with each other.
* * *
Fate succumbs
many species: one alone
jeopardises itself.
* * *
The palm extended in welcome:
Look! for you
I have unclenched my fist.
* * *
Animal femurs,
ascribed to saints who never
existed, are still
more holy than portraits
of conquerors who,
unfortunately, did.
* * *
Pulling on his socks,
he recall that his gran-pa
went pop in the act.
* * *
Man must either fall in love
with Someone or Something,
or else fall ill.
* * *
Nothing can be loved too much,
but all things can be loved
in the wrong way.
* * *
I'm for freedom because I mistrust the Censor in office,
But if I held the job, my! how severe I should be!
* * *
When he is well
She gives him hell;
But she's a brick
When he is sick.
They wondered why the fruit had been forbidden…
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They wondered why the fruit had been forbidden:
It taught them nothing new. They hid their pride,
But did not listen much when they were chidden:
They knew exactly what to do outside.
They left. Immediately the memory faded
Of all they known: they could not understand
The dogs now who before had always aided;
The stream was dumb with whom they'd always planned.
They wept and quarrelled: freedom was so wild.
In front maturity as he ascended
Retired like a horizon from the child,
The dangers and the punishments grew greater,
And the way back by angels was defended
Against the poet and the legislator.
At last the secret is out…
At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my dear, there's never smoke without fire.
Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,
Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.
For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up on the cement wall,
The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.
The Chimney Sweepers
The chimney sweepers
Wash their faces and forget to wash the neck;
The lighthouse keepers
Let the lamps go out and leave the ships to wreck;
The prosperous baker
Leaves the rolls in hundreds in the oven to burn;
The undertaker
Puts a small note on the coffin saying: " Wait till I return,
I've got a date with Love! "
And deep-sea divers
Cut their boots off and come bubbling to the top;
And engine drivers
Bring expresses in the tunnel to a stop;
The village rector
Dashes down the side-aisle half-way through a psalm;
The sanitary inspector
Runs off with the cover of the cesspool on his arm —
To keep his date with Love!
" What's in Your Mind, My Dove, My Coney…"
What's in your mind, my dove, my coney;
Do thoughts grow like feathers, the dead end of life;
Is it making of love or counting of money,
Or raid on the jewels, the plans of a thief?
Open your eyes, my dearest dallier;
Let hunt with your hands for escaping me;
Go through the motions of exploring the familiar
Stand on the brink of the warm white day.
Rise with the wind, my great big serpent;
Silence the birds and darken the air;
Change me with terror, alive in a moment;
Strike for the heart and have me there.
Happy Ending
The silly fool, the silly fool
Was sillier in school
But beat the bully as a rule
The youngest son, the youngest son
Was certainly no wise one
Yet could surprise one.
Or rather, or rather,
To be posh, we gather
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One should have no father.
Simple to prove
That deeds indeed
In life succeed,
But love in love,
And tales in tales
Where no one fails.
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