Владимир Веров / Написанные рецензии

С улыбкой, Владимир.

Дактилем о хорее

Ближе к Хургаде намылилось лето
Все в шоколаде до топлес раздето.
Где ты, ламбада, любовь под грибком ?!!
Ямбом бы надо… Стихи не о том.

В пятницу к ночи рождаются стансы:
Ноет погода и плачут финансы,
Мокрое чудо сопит у дверей --
Ну проходите, мой бедный хорей.

Стопка в ненастье уместна под ужин,
Можно стаканом тому, кто простужен.
Выпьем обильно, чтоб жить веселей.
Пей, собутыльник, унылый хорей.

Кончилась водка, остыли пельмени
И собутыльник мой вовсе не в теме.
Скучно и грустно - все мысли о ней,
Будет ли рифме любезен хорей.

Прелой листвою пестрят буераки,
Воет борей и вздыхают собаки.
В мокрой папахе под рваным зонтом
Ждет амфибрахий…И мы подождем.

To this, to this, after my hope was lost,
To this strange victory;
To find you with the living, not the dead,
To find you glad of me;
To find you wounded even less than I,
Moving as I across the stricken plain;
After the battle to have found your voice
Lifted above the slain.

That Love is all there is,
Is all we know of Love;
It is enough, the freight should be
Proportioned to the groove.

There is a solitude of space
A solitude of sea
A solitude of death, but these
Society shall be
Compared with that profounder site
That polar privacy
A soul admitted to itself –
Finite infinity.

My Triumph lasted till the Drums
Had left the Dead alone
And then I dropped my Victory
And chastened stole along
To where the finished Faces
Conclusion turned on me
And then I hated Glory
And wished myself were They

What is to be is best descried
When it has also been —
Could Prospect taste of Retrospect  
The tyrannies of Men
Were Tenderer — diviner
The Transitive toward.
A Bayonet's contrition
Is nothing to the Dead

The Hills erect their Purple Heads
The Rivers lean to see
Yet Man has not of all the Throng
A Curiosity.

A Lady red—amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!

The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms—
Sweep vale—and hill—and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?

The Neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird—
In such a little while!

And yet, how still the Landscape stands!
How nonchalant the Hedge!
As if the "Resurrection"
Were nothing very strange!

То тут мадам, то там мадам
Жизнь улыбалась тамадам.
Халтурой словно молью траченный
Поэт терял слова и годы.
Его строфа - крупица ржавчины
На кубометр пустой породы.