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Թեմա: Անգլո-ամերիկյան գրականության նմուշներ` բնագրով

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  1. #1
    Պատվավոր անդամ Philosopher-ի ավատար
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    Անգլո-ամերիկյան գրականության նմուշներ` բնագրով

    Անգլերենն այսօր դառնում է առաջին օտար լեզու, որն, ինչպես ռուսերենը խորհրդային տարիներին, տալիս է մեծ մշակույթի հետ առավել սերտորեն կապվելու, այն նորովի, չմիջնորդավորված ընկալելու, նրանով սեփական մշակույթը սնելու հնարավորություն: Ցավոք, այսօր անգլերենը առավել հաճախ օգտագործվում է բացառապես մասնագիտական գրականություն յուրացնելու համար, մինչդեռ անգլիական խոսքի արվեստը մի վիթխարի մշակույթ է, աշխարհի, իրականության, մարդկային ապրումների ընկալման մի անկորնչելի գանձարան: Այս թեմայում տեղադրենք անգլո-ամերիկյան, նաև, եթե ցանկանում եք, ագլալեզու այլ գրականությունների լավագույն նմուշները` բնագրով:

    Edgar Allan Poe

    Annabel Lee

    It was many and many a year ago,
    In a kingdom by the sea,
    That a maiden there lived whom you may know
    By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
    And this maiden she lived with no other thought
    Than to love and be loved by me.

    I was a child and she was a child,
    In this kingdom by the sea;
    But we loved with a love that was more than love-
    I and my Annabel Lee;
    With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
    Coveted her and me.

    And this was the reason that, long ago,
    In this kingdom by the sea,
    A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
    My beautiful Annabel Lee;
    So that her highborn kinsman came
    And bore her away from me,
    To shut her up in a sepulchre
    In this kingdom by the sea.

    The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
    Went envying her and me-
    Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
    In this kingdom by the sea)
    That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
    Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

    But our love it was stronger by far than the love
    Of those who were older than we-
    Of many far wiser than we-
    And neither the angels in heaven above,
    Nor the demons down under the sea,
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

    For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
    Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
    In the sepulchre there by the sea,
    In her tomb by the sounding sea.


    Edgar Allan Poe

    The Bells

    I
    Hear the sledges with the bells-
    Silver bells!
    What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
    How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
    In the icy air of night!
    While the stars that oversprinkle
    All the heavens, seem to twinkle
    With a crystalline delight;
    Keeping time, time, time,
    In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
    From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
    Bells, bells, bells-
    From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

    II
    Hear the mellow wedding bells,
    Golden bells!
    What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
    Through the balmy air of night
    How they ring out their delight!
    From the molten-golden notes,
    And an in tune,
    What a liquid ditty floats
    To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
    On the moon!
    Oh, from out the sounding cells,
    What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
    How it swells!
    How it dwells
    On the Future! how it tells
    Of the rapture that impels
    To the swinging and the ringing
    Of the bells, bells, bells,
    Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
    Bells, bells, bells-
    To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

    III
    Hear the loud alarum bells-
    Brazen bells!
    What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
    In the startled ear of night
    How they scream out their affright!
    Too much horrified to speak,
    They can only shriek, shriek,
    Out of tune,
    In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
    In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
    Leaping higher, higher, higher,
    With a desperate desire,
    And a resolute endeavor,
    Now- now to sit or never,
    By the side of the pale-faced moon.
    Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
    What a tale their terror tells
    Of Despair!
    How they clang, and clash, and roar!
    What a horror they outpour
    On the bosom of the palpitating air!
    Yet the ear it fully knows,
    By the twanging,
    And the clanging,
    How the danger ebbs and flows:
    Yet the ear distinctly tells,
    In the jangling,
    And the wrangling,
    How the danger sinks and swells,
    By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-
    Of the bells-
    Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
    Bells, bells, bells-
    In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

    IV
    Hear the tolling of the bells-
    Iron Bells!
    What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
    In the silence of the night,
    How we shiver with affright
    At the melancholy menace of their tone!
    For every sound that floats
    From the rust within their throats
    Is a groan.
    And the people- ah, the people-
    They that dwell up in the steeple,
    All Alone
    And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
    In that muffled monotone,
    Feel a glory in so rolling
    On the human heart a stone-
    They are neither man nor woman-
    They are neither brute nor human-
    They are Ghouls:
    And their king it is who tolls;
    And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
    Rolls
    A paean from the bells!
    And his merry bosom swells
    With the paean of the bells!
    And he dances, and he yells;
    Keeping time, time, time,
    In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the paean of the bells-
    Of the bells:
    Keeping time, time, time,
    In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the throbbing of the bells-
    Of the bells, bells, bells-
    To the sobbing of the bells;
    Keeping time, time, time,
    As he knells, knells, knells,
    In a happy Runic rhyme,
    To the rolling of the bells-
    Of the bells, bells, bells:
    To the tolling of the bells,
    Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
    Bells, bells, bells-
    To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
    Վերջին խմբագրող՝ Philosopher: 03.06.2007, 22:37:

  2. #2
    Պատվավոր անդամ Philosopher-ի ավատար
    Գրանցման ամսաթիվ
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    Re. Անգլո-ամերիկյան գրականության նմուշներ` բնագրով

    Walt Whitman

    A Woman Waits For Me


    A WOMAN waits for me--she contains all, nothing is lacking,
    Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the
    right man were lacking.
    Sex contains all,
    Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results,
    promulgations,
    Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal
    milk;
    All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,
    All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth,
    All the governments, judges, gods, follow'd persons of the earth,
    These are contain'd in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of
    itself.
    Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his
    sex, 10
    Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.
    Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,
    I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that
    are warm-blooded and sufficient for me;
    I see that they understand me, and do not deny me;
    I see that they are worthy of me--I will be the robust husband of
    those women.
    They are not one jot less than I am,
    They are tann'd in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,
    Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,
    They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike,
    retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,
    They are ultimate in their own right--they are calm, clear, wellpossess'd
    of themselves. 20
    I draw you close to me, you women!
    I cannot let you go, I would do you good,
    I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for
    others' sakes;
    Envelop'd in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
    They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.
    It is I, you women--I make my way,
    I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable--but I love you,
    I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,
    I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States--I
    press with slow rude muscle,
    I brace myself effectually--I listen to no entreaties, 30
    I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated
    within me.
    Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,
    In you I wrap a thousand onward years,
    On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,
    The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls, new
    artists, musicians, and singers,
    The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,
    I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,
    I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you
    interpenetrate now,
    I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I
    count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,
    I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death,
    immortality, I plant so lovingly now. 40

  3. #3
    Պատվավոր անդամ Philosopher-ի ավատար
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    Re. Անգլո-ամերիկյան գրականության նմուշներ` բնագրով

    Walt Whitman

    All Is Truth

    O ME, man of slack faith so long!
    Standing aloof--denying portions so long;
    Only aware to-day of compact, all-diffused truth;
    Discovering to-day there is no lie, or form of lie, and can be none,
    but grows as inevitably upon itself as the truth does upon
    itself,
    Or as any law of the earth, or any natural production of the earth
    does.
    (This is curious, and may not be realized immediately--But it must be
    realized;
    I feel in myself that I represent falsehoods equally with the rest,
    And that the universe does.)
    Where has fail'd a perfect return, indifferent of lies or the truth?
    Is it upon the ground, or in water or fire? or in the spirit of man?
    or in the meat and blood? 10
    Meditating among liars, and retreating sternly into myself, I see
    that there are really no liars or lies after all,
    And that nothing fails its perfect return--And that what are called
    lies are perfect returns,
    And that each thing exactly represents itself, and what has preceded
    it,
    And that the truth includes all, and is compact, just as much as
    space is compact,
    And that there is no flaw or vacuum in the amount of the truth--but
    that all is truth without exception;
    And henceforth I will go celebrate anything I see or am,
    And sing and laugh, and deny nothing.

  4. #4
    Մշտական անդամ Սահակ-ի ավատար
    Գրանցման ամսաթիվ
    22.03.2006
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    Re. Անգլո-ամերիկյան գրականության նմուշներ` բնագրով

    John New­ton

    Amazing Grace

    Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
    That sav’d a wretch like me!
    I once was lost, but now am found,
    Was blind, but now I see.

    ’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
    And grace my fears reliev’d;
    How precious did that grace appear,
    The hour I first believ’d!

    Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares,
    I have already come;
    ’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
    And grace will lead me home.

    The Lord has promis’d good to me,
    His word my hope secures;
    He will my shield and portion be,
    As long as life endures.

    Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
    And mortal life shall cease;
    I shall possess, within the veil,
    A life of joy and peace.

    The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
    The sun forbear to shine;
    But God, who call’d me here below,
    Will be forever mine.

    1779

  5. #5
    Պատվավոր անդամ Philosopher-ի ավատար
    Գրանցման ամսաթիվ
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    Re. Անգլո-ամերիկյան գրականության նմուշներ` բնագրով

    Allen Ginsberg

    Sunflower Sutra

    I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade
    of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look for the sunset over the box house hills and cry.
    Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the
    same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by the gnarled
    steel roots of trees of machinery.
    The only water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun sank on top of final Frisco peaks,
    no fish in that stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves rheumy-eyed and
    hung-over like old bums on the riverbank, tired and wily.
    Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray shadow against the sky, big as a
    man, sitting dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--
    --I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower, memories of Blake--my
    visions--Harlem
    and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes greasy Sandwiches, dead baby
    carriages, black treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the poem of the riverbank,
    condoms & pots, steel knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck and the
    razor-sharp artifacts passing into the past--
    and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the
    smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--
    corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out
    of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy
    head like a dried wire spiderweb,
    leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke
    pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
    Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!
    The grime was no man's grime but death and human locomotives,
    all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad skin, that smog of cheek, that
    eyelid of black mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance of artificial
    worse-than-dirt--industrial--modern--all that civilization spotting your crazy golden
    crown--
    and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless eyes and ends and withered roots
    below, in the home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar bills, skin of machinery, the
    guts and innards of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely tincans with their rusty
    tongues alack, what more could I name, the smoked ashes of some cock cigar, the
    cunts of wheelbarrows and the milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs &
    sphincters of dynamos--all these
    entangled in your mummied roots--and you standing before me in the sunset, all your
    glory in your form!
    A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent lovely sunflower existence! a sweet
    natural eye to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited grasping in the sunset
    shadow sunrise golden monthly breeze!
    How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your grime, while you cursed the
    heavens of your railroad and your flower soul?
    Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a flower? when did you look at your
    skin and decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive? the ghost of a locomotive?
    the specter and shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?
    You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a sunflower!
    And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me not!
    So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck it at my side like a scepter,
    and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul too, and anyone who'll listen,
    --We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive,
    we're all golden sunflowers inside, blessed by our own seed & hairy naked
    accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied
    on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly
    tincan evening sitdown vision.

  6. Գրառմանը 1 հոգի շնորհակալություն է հայտնել.

    CactuSoul (17.03.2010)

  7. #6
    Պատվավոր անդամ Philosopher-ի ավատար
    Գրանցման ամսաթիվ
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    Re. Անգլո-ամերիկյան գրականության նմուշներ` բնագրով

    Allen Ginsberg

    An Eastern Ballad


    I speak of love that comes to mind:
    The moon is faithful, although blind;
    She moves in thought she cannot speak.
    Perfect care has made her bleak.

    I never dreamed the sea so deep,
    The earth so dark; so long my sleep,
    I have become another child.
    I wake to see the world go wild.

    Allen Ginsberg

    Song

    The weight of the world
    is love.
    Under the burden
    of solitude,
    under the burden
    of dissatisfaction

    the weight,
    the weight we carry
    is love.

    Who can deny?
    In dreams
    it touches
    the body,
    in thought
    constructs
    a miracle,
    in imagination
    anguishes
    till born
    in human -
    looks out of the heart
    burning with purity -
    for the burden of life
    is love,

    but we carry the weight
    wearily,
    and so must rest
    in the arms of love
    at last,
    must rest in the arms
    of love.

    No rest
    without love,
    no sleep
    without dreams
    of love -
    be mad or chill
    obsessed with angels
    or machines,
    the final wish
    is love
    - cannot be bitter,
    cannot deny,
    cannot withhold
    if denied:

    the weight is too heavy
    - must give
    for no return
    as thought
    is given
    in solitude
    in all the excellence
    of its excess.

    The warm bodies
    shine together
    in the darkness,
    the hand moves
    to the center
    of the flesh,
    the skin trembles
    in happiness
    and the soul comes
    joyful to the eye -

    yes, yes,
    that's what
    I wanted,
    I always wanted,
    I always wanted,
    to return
    to the body
    where I was born.

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  1. Գեղարվեստական գրականության դերն ու նպատակը
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    Վերջինը: 29.09.2008, 14:33

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