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Դիտել ողջ տարբերակը : Արձակ. The Gallows. իմ անգլերեն ու թարգմանված աշխատանքները



Rhayader
10.08.2012, 20:24
Այս քանի օրն աշխատանքներս ինտենսիվ թարգմանում եմ անգլերեն, առաջին ծավալուն անգլալեզու աշխատանքս էլ շուտով ի հայտ կգա:) հետագայում տպագրելու հեռանկարներով:

Թող այստեղ էլ լինեն:

Rhayader
10.08.2012, 20:50
The Nightingale

Naichinge-Ryu

It was damp in the field; when he looked up, he couldn't find the sun and find out what time it was. The grass was deep green, almost a man's height, bushy, with tiny blue and purple flowers, and small dewdrops had gathered on the leaves. The fog was dense; he realized he was walking towards the swamps and directed his steps towards the forest.

The bitter smell of grass was pleasant. He knew that if he walked a bit more it would get mixed with the stench of standing swamp-water.

Then a sound attracted his attention: a brass bell. The sound was coming closer, so he decided to wait.

After a while he saw her: a small girl-child with a brass bell in her hand was running through the field. He waved her; the girl run to him. Her breath was heavy.

- Help me, please!

- What happened, child?- he asked.

- There are gakis there.

- Give me your bell. What is your name?

- Naichinge-ryu.

- Go home, Naichinge-Ryu.

He took the bell and shook it.

The burst of cold wind made him wrap into his coat. If the fog wasn't so dense, he thought, I'd see them already. He sat down on the damp grass.

When a transparent cloud of the fog took the form of a human hand, he could not decide whether that was for real.

He shook the bell once more. This time it wasn't an illusion for sure: he managed to see the angry, fretful face face of a fat, ugly woman, her cap and apron. Two kids were hanging onto the woman's skirt, like they were crying without sound. The gakis stepped forward and seceded from the fog, becoming fragile visions.

But he could see the ghosts. He shook the ring and started a segaki prayer. He knew: the ghosts may be as hungry as they will, but they can't harm him.

They are just hungry ghosts from someone's past. Maybe your own.

This is a dream, isn't it? The ringing of the bell is my alarm, that tries to wake me up.

But I don't want to wake up. No matter how weird or terrible my dreams may be, no matter whose life I live there, I never want to wake up. But do I have a choice?

I opened my eyes and, as always, I saw the ceiling. I sat in my bed and stayed that way for a moment.

I had dressed and finished my breakfast when the phone rang.

- I'm near your house,- you said.

- I'll be in a moment.

He was walking through the damp grass until he caught up with her.

- You really made them go,- said the girl.

- Yes.

They walked together for a while.

Akoigahara

There's a forest at the foot of Fuji mountain they call "The Sea of Trees". That's where I should be. There's a rock in Akoigahara, and if you lean to it upside-down - your legs on the rock - and look up, it will seem to you that you're looking into a pit, and the sky is the bottom. And if you look for long enough, you'll fall into that pit.

And if you can spread your wings until you hit the sky, you will turn into a bird. That's the only place in the world, where a man can become a bird.

The Suicide Forest. That's how they call Akoigahara.

And I woke up.

Neko

The burst of cold wind made the man on the park bench wrap into his coat. A wave of gray, spotted leaves washed over his shoes and covered them in dust.

The park was empty, and he was free to let his mind race.

It was November: the sky was like lead, it predicted a cold winter. He looked at his watch - 5pm, but it seemed like dusk already.

A child was standing under a tree and was looking up. She was saying something, but she was too far for him to hear the words. Wasn't interested either. He slumbered again.

- Sir!

He opened his eyes: the same girl was pulling his sleeve - not exactly beautiful, long neck, freckles. She might be ten or twelve maybe.

- What happened, child?- he said, trying to make his voice sound friendly.

- Sir, would you please help me save that cat?

- That cat?

- Come with me, I'll show you.

And pulled his sleeve once more in impatience. He made himself stand up and follow the child to the tree, making his sleeping limbs wake up while walking.

There really was a cat on the tree; it was meowing in its misery.

- Will you help it, Sir? It won't listen to me,- said the child. Then she spoke to the cat:- Don't worry, this man will help you right away.

He looked at the cat: a simple, gray cat, one of those who had escaped the attention of Animal Control people. Tried to convince himself to climb the tree, not knowing why, but suddenly understood that his coat was on the bench already, his hands are around the lowest branches and his feet are climbing up.

When he reached the cat and tried to catch it, the cat jumped down and run away.

He hung from the branch and jumped down too.

- Your cat ran away, child,- he said laughing.

The girl was just standing, her fingers woven together, and looking lost. He asked:

- What happened to you?

- Dad says I shouldn't talk to strangers.

- You're a strange child. You talked to me first.

The child kept silent.

- Your dad is right. Now run back home, it's late already.

The girl run away, and he walked home too. Soon he forgot of the incident.

Mary

I'm standing by the window, Mary comes up to me and puts her hand on my shoulder.

- I don't know whether you'll ever forgive me,- she says.

Another ghost.

I'm looking back, looking at her, want to hug her, but I can't. Something balls inside, and I pull my hands back. It's like there's something in my throat, but I'm not crying.

- I'm not angry with you.

- You can't imagine how guilty I am. Forgive me, please.

He never confessed to anyone that he cried each time he saw Mary in his sleep. Men don't cry, and he's no exception.

«Why were you asking for forgiveness, Mary? You never said you were sorry. None of us did».

Then a suspicion crept in.

«Maybe something has happened».

He would shiver all day, unable to concentrate on anything. In the evening he couldn't help calling her.

- Hello, Mary?

- Why are you calling me? What do you want?

Fear turned into the old depressive feeling.

- Nothing, I just wanted to make sure you're ok.

- Thank you for caring, but I don't need it. I get all the care I need.

- I know. Sorry for disturbing you.

- Don't call me anymore.

He hung up and walked out of the room. Don't worry, ladies and gentlemen, I'm okay.

He looked back: something was wrong. the water jar was in place, the bookcase too. So what was wrong?

His coat. He had forgotten his coat in the park the day before. The cat. He should go back, hoping his coat was still there.

Walking towards the elevator, he wanted to push the button, but something balled up inside him again, like it did in the dream. He walked away from the elevator and took the stairs instead. The weather was worse than the day before.

The Swamp

When he's lying in his bed, the cat comes and lies down besides him. He caresses the cat, plays with it, then the cat jumps up and goes away. Maybe the cat thinks he won't let it go, will keep caressing him. But he lets the cat go.

Maybe that's what you wanted. Embrace you, never let go, but I can't. Stay, if you want, but that's something you should do, not me. I'm too tired.

We were in a swamp, the same green swamp, when I gave you my hand. I wanted to carry you out; but you wanted to know me first, trust me. I told you you could walk away after we got out, even without me.

I was looking for solid ground and you were looking at me and holding my hand. And when the swamp swallowed us both, you let go of my hand, and I was looking for you, and couldn't find you anymore.

Mary was in my past and she still hurts. It's you now.

Daddy

- Don't love Sunny,- the small one says in an angry voice.- N**** loves Sunny. Go away!

- You want me to go away?

I approach the child, take his shirt up, put my lips against his belly and blow. The child laughs, hits my head with his small fists and repeats:

- Go away!

- Already going,- I continue,- you want more?

- You know who you are?- asks the other kid.- You're daddy. No, N**** is Daddy. Go away!

I know, I know. And I'd give anything not to hear it. I'd give anything to become their father.

Do you love me?

No.

Are you in love with me still?

No. Don't cry, you're turning everything into tragedy.

It's nothing, I'll be fine. I'm okay.

I'm going to Cyprus. I want to be alone, I don't need a second husband.

If you go, I'll come for you.

You won't. I mean you believe it now, but you'll forget soon. You'll be okay.

I'll come for you. Maybe not at once, but I'll put off some money and come for you. And I'll be near if you need me.

When you're drunk, you embrace me, kiss me and ask me to throw you out of the window, you say you love me that way.

We're making love, we are one, we're loving and trusting each other. Do you want us to orgasm together? Do you want us to make a baby?

I don't know, you answer to me.

And I'm not brave enough. When you're sober, it will all be the same, and only regret will remain.

We're lying together for a couple of minutes.

We're out of cigarettes, you said. Let's go to the room and have a smoke.

Starting all over

Sitting alone at home he feels he doesn't want to start it all over. He doesn't want other children, other love, anyone.

Starting all over, it means losing all that was. Losing happy moments, losing pain and loss.

He has started all over way too often.

He finds value even in losing you. You won't be back, but he doesn't want to let go of your ghost. Years will pass, and you won't be as pretty, and you won't be yourself, and maybe everything will change. But at this moment you are everything he wants to hold onto.

For the first time in your life you're having a feeling like you want to go to sleep and never wake up. A feeling that moving on is impossible. And meaningless. Maybe that's the moment a man gets drunk and calls the girl and speak something weird, cry and make himself look miserable.

I'll just sleep. And never wake up.

Naichinge-Ryu (Reprise)

It was damp in the field; when he looked up, he couldn't find the sun and find out what time it was. The grass was deep green, almost a man's height, bushy, with tiny blue and purple flowers, and small dewdrops had gathered on the leaves. The fog was dense; he realized he was walking towards the swamps and directed his steps towards the forest.

They found him lying under the rock, with a child's mild smile on his face. Maybe it was a coincidence, but the pool of blood had drawn the image of a bird's wings around his arms.

The Nightingale was singing on a willow's branch. I love you for your eyes, you said. Now you know, that this nightingale shall have my eyes

The willow has bowed down in slumber,
And it seams to me, that the nightingale on her branch
Is her spirit.
Basho Matsuo

Rhayader
10.08.2012, 20:52
Եթե դուր եկավ, կարող եք մտնել այստեղ, լայքել, տարածել, մեկնաբանել, հարցեր տալ.
http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/312114-the-nightingale

Տվյալ դեպքում դա բավականին էական է:

Վահե-91
11.08.2012, 00:15
իսկ հայերենով որտեղ կարելի ա կարդալ ՞

Rhayader
11.08.2012, 12:27
Աշխատանքների որոշ մասն՝ այստեղ http://songoffall.blogspot.com/p/blog-page.html

Rhayader
11.08.2012, 13:49
Այս մեկն Ակումբում էլ է ժամանակին տեղադրվել:)

Swing Me

Day One
I was walking, I like walking, actually. The snow got hard from the cold and was making cracking noises with each my step. It seemed like the air could crack too; but I'd need something more tender than my frozen feet to make it sound.

Didn't know the places was walking through; at least thought so. But, despite it, something directed the steps, knew where was going. The snow had covered the ground, but somehow knew there was paving under the snow.

Maybe you'll find it strange. Was so deep inside my thoughts, didn't even try to understand all the hows and whys. Not real thoughts, just followed the chaotic patterns in the snow, that the mind followed and repeated.

Wasn't surprised when reached an old, abandoned playground. Broken and rusty swings and benches were covered in snow caps. There he sat - on the only decent swings. He looked at the cold, white winter sun with half-closed eyes and swinging himself gently, pushing the ground with one foot.

Didn't want to speak, but he didn't disturb the loneliness either. Maybe didn't even notice. He just swung and looked at the sun.

Cleared one of the benches of snow and sat down. Maybe looked funny wearing that white, childish coat and a brown beret. Did it matter?

Don't know why, started watching him with a corner of my eye. Middle height, neat brown hair. His features were tender, almost feminine, but his chin spoke of strong-willed nature.

Just swinging on the swings, without noticing anyone or anything. The swings made a quiet rhythmic squeak. Forgot about his existence soon and slumbered a little.

Woke up, when the sun was turning to the horizon. He was still in his place, like only moments had passed. Stood up, rubbed my frozen hands. It was time to go home.

Day Two
Came back again, didn't know why. Maybe the reason was the same - the patterns of the snow took the body, forsaken by mind, to that place forsaken by people.

He was there too, unchanged like the playground. Swinging, like the day before.

- Hello.

He opened his half-closed eyes and smiled a little.

- Hello,- he said.

Cleared the bench from the snow once again and sat down. His voice was mild and deep, but a strange thing happened - like it sounded in the head, and a moment later forgot how it sounded. But the feeling remained.

The wind was a bit cold. Saw that he was human too, he had wrapped himself tight in his coat. So he felt was cold too.

The sun warmed a little, but that made the sharp wind even harder to bear. Dug inside the coat and started to watch the surrouning. Black, withered trees were everywhere, outstretched to the sky like bony senile hands. Like they cursed the heavens for their misery.

And snow. So much you wouldn't see the end of it. Snow covered in chaotic, strange patterns, that captivated the mind those days.

Day Three
- Are you always here?

He lifted his eyes and smiled.

- Hello.

Felt a little confused, it was impolite to approach a stranger and ask strange questions without even saying "hello". But he didn't notice it or didn't show he noticed.

- I really spend a lot of time here these days. Strange, isn't it? I like it here. But you should understand me; you're not coming here to watch me either.

The weather was fine that day, no wind. Felt nice to feel the mild warmth of the sun.

He paused a little, then asked:

- If you want to swing, I'll help.

Mouth acted quicker than the mind.

- Sorry, I'm married.

Just a standard answer given to all men who tried to be friendly. Maybe wanted to believe in that failed marriage still.

He wasn't even surprised. Just looked with that piercing, kind look and said:

- Did I suggest a date? Just swing; if you want to.

- As you wish,- put as much ice in the voice as could. Wanted to? Didn't know anymore.

He stood up, the same calm man. Sat on the swings and stopped thinking. Again the same black trees and the illogical patterns of the snow, they fitted alright with the numb state of mind.

Only one thing had changed: the playground was no longer in stasis; it swung before my eyes.

He swung for some hours, not showing any sign of boredom. With each swing fell deeper and deeper into my slumber. Swinging white ground and black trees; was it all that remained of life?

Woke up when it started to get colder.

Got off the swings.

- Thank you.

- Never mind: I think I won't be wrong to say - till tomorrow.

Didn't answer.

Day Four
No need to say he was right. Didn't come for him, just did what had to do, and it couldn't go the other way around. Sat on the bench again and tried to follow the weird game of snow and trees, where even the wildest movements had frozen into stasis. There was something wrong in it, something artificial.

He was there - sitting on his swings as always, swinging. Went to him and said:

- Will you swing me?

He raised his eyes and smiled again.

- Hello. Of course. I thought you'd want to swing, but let you decide.

Day Five
- What is your name?

- Does it matter? You're married, and I'm leaving in two days.

The snow and the trees were less interesting now than this strange man.

- Leaving? Where? Why?

- It doesn't matter. Let's not spoil everything, okay?

- As you wish. Just keep swinging, okay?

Day Six
Mind was heavy, went to the playground that day. Knew would be seeing him for the last time. As always, he was sitting on the swings with that calm on his face - and swinging himself.

- You're leaving tomorrow?

- Hello. Yes, it's time to. I've been staying in the same place for too long. Time to move on.

- May I write to you?

- If you want to.

He stood up. Hugged him, buried my head in his coat. He hugged back. Lifted my face and tried to catch his lips with mine, didn't know why.

He put his finger on my lips and said.

- No need to. Don't spoil everything.

Started crying.

- Don't cry, please.

His eyes were wet too.

I asked:

- Will you swing me? Please?

His moves were passionate, but the old tenderness wasn't los.

- More, please. More. More...

The swinging became violent. I was weeping and laughing, lost in that miserable euphoria.

Day Seven
The playground was empty. The wind moved his swings, but they were as dead and empty, as the frozen snow and the tree-claws in their meaningless curse.

Cleared the bench of snow and sat down. Depressed. Waited for an hour and took out my phone, called his number. It was busy. Tried once more - same thing.

Then I understood. Looked at the number and saw - it was my own.

My sadness disappeared, now I knew I'd never have to miss him. I sat on the swings, my swings. And swung myself, pushing the ground with my foot.

Then I left the playground. It was time to move on.

Rhayader
11.08.2012, 14:02
Goodreads-ի հղումն՝ այստեղ http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/312128-swing-me

Rhayader
13.08.2012, 18:31
The Legend of Cain

At last the first rays of the Sun touch the top of the Stone God. That day of each year is very important: when the old Sun starts dying, and in the womb of the God a new one starts forming.

Everyone knows how everything dies: people, the earth, the sun - everything but the Stone God, like she's thrown out of time - never changes. Glorious is the God, almighty and eternal. It is the good and the bad, and nothing ever happens if she wills not.

Two men are going up the hill, bearing gifts. They are tired: a whole night of dancing around the sacred bonfire hailing the Stone God, as the Sun dies and is reborn by her will.

When they come closer, their resemblance becomes visible: brothers. They reach the God and put their load on the stony altars. The one on the right puts a living lamb, and the one on the left puts fruits and vegetables. The right brother is a shepherd, the left one - a gardener. The right brother raises his black stony dagger and cuts the lamb's neck artery with one strike, pressing the animal to the stone with his other hand. The lamb convulses and goes cold. Its eyes become fogged, and the altar is red of its blood. Rays of Sun slide over the God's shoulder and rest on the right brother. And they both understand, that this year the accepted sacrifice was his.

On the way back the left brother asks the right one:

- Why does the God accept your sacrifice every time and ignore mine, brother?

- Because I give her what I love most - the smallest lamb of my herd, and my heart aches with it, when I raise the knife,- answers the right one.- I'm sacrificing the dearest that I have.

- If I sacrifice the God the dearest that I have, brother, will she accept my sacrifice?

- She will.

A year passes, and the same day comes. The left brother has lain the right one upon the altar. Tears run down his cheeks.

- God!- he calls.

The God is silent. The left brother continues.

- I sacrifice to you the dearest that I have; my own brother! Accept my sacrifice!

He raises the black stony dagger and cuts his brother's neck artery, pressing him to the altar with his other hand. The right brother convulses and goes cold. Rays of Sun slide over the God's shoulder and rest on the left brother. And he understands, that his sacrifice has been accepted.

Goodreads-ի հղում՝ http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/312448-the-legend-of-cain

Rhayader
13.08.2012, 20:12
The Cold

Can't say for sure, when I stopped moving. Maybe it was happening for a long time, and I just didn't notice. Maybe I didn't need to move for a long time. I just felt one day like I was stuck in some kind of a liquid losing my will and that I'm drowning. I felt cold; the only thing I know for sure.

When she entered the room, I tried to smile, say it was all right, but couldn't. Seemed like I only needed to use my will and my lips would draw a smile, but I couldn't. She went to the mirror and opened a bottle of perfume; it's honey-almond-muscat scent would drive me crazy once. Yet I didn't feel it. I understood - I couldn't smell anymore.

I was lying under the sheets - cold.

Tried to reconstruct the scent of Cristian Dior - Pure Poison, but I couldn't. The liquid was touching my back and pressing on my chest and pulling me deeper.

She came to my bed, called my name, called me sleepy and laughed: I remember how sunlight was falling through white curtains and grains of dust were shining through it. Remembered that I had forgotten to clear the dust on the piano and it made me sad.

The liquid was pulling me deeper, and I understood I wanted to sleep again. Remembered, how in summer, while walking through dry grass, wild barley spikes got into my socks, and that was unpleasant. How I sat down on a stone and pulled all the spikes out.

Then I remembered how I saw in my dream, when I was little, that the big, green plants near our house were violets. And in the morning, when I woke up, I went to gather them, a woman said:

"Don't bother, those aren't violets".

Though I never told anyone of my dreams and those plants didn't even look like violets. Maybe that woman had seen my dream too.

She pushed me: it was unpleasant. I wanted to sleep. Then she lighted a cigarette and started smoking, sitting near me. She had braided her hair already.

I remembered how my bones ached and my skin itched after laying on wet grass: I knew the liquid would do the same.

Then she looked at me and got pale. Called, pushed and laid me on my back, threw the sheets away. I tried to laugh, tell her it was all right, but then understood, why I couldn't. I didn't want to laugh, I didn't want to say it was all right.

She put her head against my chest, then the palms of her hands. She started pushing my chest, pushing me deeper into the liquid. And I knew what I wanted to tell her: don't push me deeper, help me. Help me get out of this swamp, tear my chest, there isn't enough space there for me.

But I knew she wouldn't understand me. She never understood me. When she embraced me and kissed my lips, the taste of her spittle mixed with her tears was unpleasant, and the weight of her body pushed me deeper.

But that didn't matter anymore, did it?

Then, I don't know how many years later, trees tore my chest and pulled me out in the sun. And I knew all the feelings I had last had come back to me with the spring grass.

Goodreads-ի հղում՝ http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/312456-the-cold