Джеймс Джойс - Стихотворения

(Апрель 1932)

A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS AN ANCIENT MARINER

I met with a ancient scribelleerAs I scoured the pirates' seaHis sailes were alullt at nought coma nullNot raise the wind could he.

The bann of Bull, the sign of SamBurned crimson on his brow.And I rocked at the rig of his bricabrac brigWith K.O. 11 on his prow

Shakefears & Coy danced poor old joyAnd some of their steps were corkersAs they shook the last shekels like phantom freckelsHis pearls that had poisom porkers

The gnome Norbert read rich bills of fareThe ghosts of his deep debauchesBut there was no bibber to slip that scribberThe price of a box of matches

For all cried, Schuft! He has lost the LuftThat made his U. boat goAnd what a weird leer wore that scribelleerAs his wan eye winked with woe.

He dreamed of the goldest sands uprolledBy the silviest Beach of BeachesAnd to watch it dwindle gave him KugelkopfschwindelTill his eyeboules bust their stitches

His hold shipped seas with a drunkard's easeAnd its deadweight grew and grewWhile the witless wag still waived his flagJemmyrend's white and partir's blue.

His tongue stuck out with a dragon's drouthFor a sluice of schweppes and brandyAnd but for the glows on his roseate noseYou'd have staked your goat he was Ghandi.

For the Yanks and Japs had made off with his traps!So that stripped to the stern he clungWhile, increase of a cross, an AlbatrossAbaft his nape was hung.

(October 1932)

ПОРТРЕТ ХУДОЖНИКА КАК СТАРОГО МОРЕХОДА

Я долго плавал в пиратских морях,Знавал и шторм и грозу.И мне повстречался старый мудрякС повязкой на левом глазу.

Его заклеймил Папаша БульИ Дядюшка Сэм отверг.Одиннадцатый год его солнце жжетИ звезд слепит фейерверк.

Ко-Ко и Пшикспир зовут на пир,Брачные бубны гремят,И мечут перлы скитальцы эрлыПод ноги поросят.

Но чертов старик прыг на свой бриг,Как сверчок на насест!Плевать, если нет в кармане монет,Чтоб уплатить за проезд.

Пускай лилипуты кричат: Капут!Хватай негодяя! ПораКак можно скорее вздернуть на реюЭтих пиратов пера!

Но Водиссей лишь ухо заткнет,Припоминая с тоскойЛесок и Песок и голосокДальней сильвены морской.

А бриг выделывал кренделяПод флагом бел-голубым,И чем выше флаг, тем больше флягРазгружалось под ним.

От жажды вываливая язык,Твердя лишь один глагол,Он стал тощее любых мощейИ, как Махатма, гол.

Ибо янки и япы, алчные лапы,Его раздели всерьез,И вместо рубашки на нем, бедняжке,Нелепый повис «Альбатрос».

(Октябрь 1932)

EPILOGUE TO IBSEN'S GHOSTS

Dear quick, whose conscience buried deepThe grim old grouser has been salving,Permit one spectre more to peep.I am the ghost of Captain Alving.

Silenced and smothered by my pastLike the lewd knight in dirty linenI struggle forth to swell the castAnd air a long suppressed opinion.

For muddling weddings into wakesNo fool could vie with Parson Manders.I, though a dab at ducks and drakes,Let gooseys serve or sauce their ganders.

My spouse bore me a blighted boy,Our slavey pupped a bouncing bitch.Paternity, thy name is joyWhen the wise child knows which is which.

Both swear I am that selfsame manBy whom their infants were begotten.Explain, fate, if you care and canWhy one is sound and one is rotten.

Olaf may plod his stony pathAnd live as chastely as SusannaYet pick up in some Turkish bathHis quantum sat of Pox Romana.

While Haakon hikes up primrose way,Spreeing and gleeing as he goes,To smirk upon his latter dayWithout a pimple on his nose.

I gave it up I am afraidBut if I loafed and found it funRemember how a coyclad maidKnows how to take it out of one.

The more I dither on and drinkMy midnight bowl of spirit punchThe firmlier I feel and thinkFriend Manders came too oft to lunch.

Since scuttling ship Vikings like meReck not to whom the blame is laid,Y.M.C.A., V.D., T.B.Or Harbormaster of Port Said.

Blame all and none and take to taskThe harlot's lure, the swain's desire.Heal by all means but hardly askDid this man sin or did his sire.

The shack's ablaze. That canting scamp,The carpenter, has dished the parson.Now had they kept their powder dampLike me there would have been no arson.

Nay more, were I not all I was,Weak, wanton, waster out and out,There would have been no world's applauseAnd damn all to write home about.

(April 1934)

Эпилог К «ПРИВИДЕНИЯМ» ИБСЕНА

От вас, любезные друзья,К которым в глуби подсознаньяСпускался старый Ибсен, — я,Тень Альвинга, прошу вниманья.

Мне затыкали глотку, но,Став жертвой злобного навета,Свой взгляд на драму всё равноЯ изложу в обход запрета.

Пускай не всякий остолопОтыщет к драме ключ. ОднакоКой-что и я, хотя не поп,Кумекаю в вопросах брака.

Жена мне родила мальца,Служанка — дочку. Очень кстатиЗнать для счастливого отцаПороду своего дитяти.

Судьба, поведай мне теперь,Какая есть на то причина,Что крепкую послал мне дщерьГосподь и немощного сына.

Взять Олафа: он честно жилИ был безгрешен, как Сусанна,Но в бане как-то подцепилСвой quantum est[4] от Pox Romana.

Зато блудливый ХааконБыл с дамами куда любезней,Но должный не понес уронОт венерических болезней.

Я сам ухлестывал не разЗа юбками. Поверьте, скороВсё, что задумает, от васДобьется юная притвора.

Я долго думал и рядил,В чем суть, а суть была проста ведь:Не наставлять жену ходилДруг пастор — мне рога наставить.

Что ж тут мудреного? ПорокСо сладким может быть гарниром, —Священник и стафилококкПомазаны единым миром.

Грехи — они кругом кишат;Не заводи же лишних споровИ не пытай у поросят,Кто виноват — свинья иль боров.

Сгорел приют, и плут столярПодставил пастора. Едва лиСлучился бы такой пожар,Топи они свой пыл в бокале.

А я пьянчугой горьким был,Блудил, буянил… Но при этом,Смекните: если б я не пил,Что за комедь с таким сюжетом!

(Апрель 1934)

A COME-ALL-YE, BY A THANKSGIVING TURKEY

Come all you lairds and lassies and listen to my lay!I'll tell you of my adventures upon last Thanksgiving DayI was picked by Madame Jolas to adorn her barbecueSo the chickenchoker patched me till I looked as good as new.

I drove out, all tarred and feathered, from the Grand Palais PotinBut I met with foul disaster in the Place Saint Augustin.My charioteer collided — with the shock I did explodeAnd the force of my emotions shot my liver on the road.

Up steps a dapper sergeant with his pencil and his book.Our names and our convictions down in Lieber's code he took.Then I hailed another driver and resumed my swanee way.They couldn't find my liver but I hadn't time to stay.

When we reached the gates of Paris cries the boss at the Octroi:Holy Poule, what's this I'm seeing? Can it be Grandmother Loye?When Caesar got the bird she was the dindy of the flockBut she must have boxed a round or two with some old turkey cock.

I ruffled up my plumage and proclaimed with eagle's pride:You jackdaw, these are truffles and not blues on my backside.Mind, said he, that one's a chestnut. There's my bill                                                    and here's my thanksAnd now please search through your stuffing and fork out                                                    that fifty francs.

At last I reached the banquet-hall — and what a sight to see!I felt myself transported back among the Osmanli.I poured myself a bubbly flask and raised the golden hornWith three cheers for good old Turkey and the roost where                                                                              I was born.

I shook claws with all the hommes and bowed to blonde and bruneThe mistress made a signal and the mujik called the tune.Madamina read a message from the Big Noise of her StateAfter which we crowed in unison: That Turco's talking straight!

We settled down to feed and, if you want to know my mind,I thought that I could gobble but they left me picked behind.They crammed their chops till cockshout when likeostriches they ran To hunt my missing liver round the Place Saint Augustin.

Envoi

Still I'll lift my glass to Gallia and augur that we mayUntroubled in her dovecote dwell till next Thanksgiving DaySo let every Gallic gander pass the sauceboat to his goose —And let's all play happy homing though our liver's on the loose.

(November 1937)