Sunday, February 20, 2011

Chesapeake Bay Seafood House Blogs

Ted Hughes. There Lion

He lived in a picture with a beautiful frame.
There riot red,
even though he was just paint.
Black threw terrible lightning,
Only to the edge of the canvas.
Gold opened his eyes,
But it seemed to seeing -
He did not see the key jailer,
openers banks nurse.
So he was pleased.
A downpour
began his ancestors,

And the tears were a bad rule, and not tears,
A bloody catastrophe
was a lack of planning rather than kostedrobilkoy,
And kiss
has become a matter of God's mother and daughter.
and all that was frontispiece of the book,
which turned out a masterpiece,
the Cause of all life.

Somewhere in its pages
Pansies, withered, brittle, like the wings of flies,
Noted the paragraph that he once opened,
happened when something important -
forgotten. How? Forgotten.
nothing to do with words that they tarnished.
There is no reason, no communication.

And this book is flying in space
lyrical digressions,
Like a bullet hole through which went the whole of life -

Although, drop it on the city,
anyone could suffer,
And would it burn
Or at least drop прочь.

Анютиным глазкам надеяться не на что.

Ted Hughes. In the Land of the Lion

He lived in a painting, well-framed.
There the colour red raved its worst
But was after all only paint.
Black threw its lightnings, a shock,
But only so far as the frame's edge.
Gold opened its eye
But only seemed to see –
It never saw the jailor's key,
The can-opener that fed him.
So there he was content.
And there the rainfall
Became its precedents,
And there the tears
Were really bad government not tears,
And there the bloody accident
Was lack of planning not frailty of bone,
And there the kiss
Involved itself deeply with God's mother and daughter.
And the whole thing stood frontispiece to a book
Which was in turn a masterpiece,
The work of a lifetime.

Somewhere among those pages
A pansy, faded, frail as a fly's wing,
Marked the passage he was once coming to
When something precious happened –
Forgotten. What? Forgotten.
The pansy
Has nothing to do with the words it has stained.
There is simply no clue, no connection.

And this book flies in space
A parenthesis
Like a bullet-hole into which a person's whole life vanished -

Though if it fell on a city
Somebody might get hurt
And it would have to be burned
Or at least get kicked aside.

The pansy hasn't a hope.


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