Стихотворения
вернуться

Джойс Джеймс
Шрифт:
Не вернуться им с поля бранного, С поля бранного, окаянного, С поля бранного Им не встать. А и некому обнимать меня, Обнимать меня, целовать меня, Белу грудь мою Целовать.

(1918)

TO SYLVIA BEACH

( following the publication of Ulysses)

Who is Sylvia, what is she That all our scribes commend her? Yankee, young and brave is she The west this grace did lend her, That all books might published be. Is she rich as she is brave For wealth oft daring misses? Throngs about her rant and rave To subscribe for Ulysses But, having signed, they ponder grave. Then to Sylvia let us sing Her daring lies in selling. She can sell each mortal thing That's boring beyond telling. To her let us buyers bring. J.J. after W. S.

(February 1922)

СИЛЬВИИ БИЧ

( по случаю публикации «Улисса»)

Кто Сильвия? И чем она Всех авторов пленила? Юна, прелестна и умна, Талантом янки ей дана Стихи печатать сила. Рои людей, и голь и знать, Вокруг нее столклися, И рвут и мечут, чтоб достать Подписку на «Улисса», — А там уж нет дороги вспять. Восславим Сильвию, друзья: Купец она удалый: Какая бы галиматья К ней в руки ни попала, Она издаст ее шутя! Дж. Дж. по У. Ш.

(Февраль 1922)

PENNIPOMES TWOGUINEASEACH

Sing a song of shillings A guinea cannot buy, Thirteen tiny pomikins Bobbing in a pie. The printer's pie was published And the pomes began to sing And wasn't Herbert Hughesius As happy as a king!

(April 1932)

ПЕННИ ЗА ШТУЧКУ — ГИНЕЯ ЗА КУЧКУ

Вот песенка за шиллинг, Не песенка, а клад. В один пирог зашили Тринадцать штук стишат. Стишата в тексте испеклись, Запели: «Тру-ля-ля!» И был Гербертус Хьюзиус Счастливей короля!

(Апрель 1932)

A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS AN ANCIENT MARINER

I met with a ancient scribelleer As I scoured the pirates' sea His sailes were alullt at nought coma null Not raise the wind could he. The bann of Bull, the sign of Sam Burned crimson on his brow. And I rocked at the rig of his bricabrac brig With K.O. 11 on his prow Shakefears & Coy danced poor old joy And some of their steps were corkers As they shook the last shekels like phantom freckels His pearls that had poisom porkers The gnome Norbert read rich bills of fare The ghosts of his deep debauches But there was no bibber to slip that scribber The price of a box of matches For all cried, Schuft! He has lost the Luft That made his U. boat go And what a weird leer wore that scribelleer As his wan eye winked with woe. He dreamed of the goldest sands uprolled By the silviest Beach of Beaches And to watch it dwindle gave him Kugelkopfschwindel Till his eyeboules bust their stitches His hold shipped seas with a drunkard's ease And its deadweight grew and grew While the witless wag still waived his flag Jemmyrend's white and partir's blue. His tongue stuck out with a dragon's drouth For a sluice of schweppes and brandy And but for the glows on his roseate nose You'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 clung While, increase of a cross, an Albatross Abaft his nape was hung.