2019年11月22日 星期五

“Middlemarch” Resonates in the England of 2019. Why Middlemarch is the greatest British novel

Middlemarch won our ‪#‎GreatBritishNovels‬ poll by a landslide.


George Eliot’s sprawling tale of provincial life has triumphed in BBC Culture’s poll of the greatest British novels as voted by the rest of the world. Michael Gorra explains why.
BBC.COM|由 MICHAEL GORRA 上傳

2019年11月19日 星期二

The Truly Great By Stephen Spender (1909-1995)

Stephen Spender (1909-1995)
The Truly Great
I think continually of those who were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul’s history
Through corridors of light, where the hours are suns,
Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition
Was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the Spirit, clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the Spring branches
The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.
What is precious, is never to forget
The essential delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth.
Never to deny its pleasure in the morning simple light
Nor its grave evening demand for love.
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog, the flowering of the spirit.
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields,
See how these names are fêted by the waving grass
And by the streamers of white cloud
And whispers of wind in the listening sky.
The names of those who in their lives fought for life,
Who wore at their hearts the fire’s centre.
Born of the sun, they travelled a short while toward the sun
And left the vivid air signed with their honour.
[From his Collected Poems 1928-1953]

2019年11月17日 星期日

2019年11月14日 星期四

The Susurrations of Trees... The Woodlanders

The Woodlanders - Wikipedia

The Woodlanders is a novel by Thomas Hardy. It was serialised from May 1886 to April 1887 in Macmillan's Magazine and published in three .... Florence Emily Hardy, his second wife, recorded that in 1874 Hardy "put aside a woodland story", which ten years later evolved into The Woodlanders. It was intended to be the ...
Publisher‎: ‎Macmillan and Co
Publication date‎: ‎1887
Genre‎: ‎Novel

Woodland walks at Hardy's Cottage | National Trust

Two downloadable walking trails for Thorncombe Woods, the area of woodland just behind Hardy's Cottage. ... These walking trails take in some of the places that were engrained in the young Thomas Hardy's mind and later translated into the ...

Thomas Hardy's "Winter Night in Woodland (Old Time)"

2003/01/05 - The bark of a fox rings, sonorous and long: — Three barks, and then silentness; 'wong, wong, wong!' In quality horn-like, yet melancholy, As from teachings of years; for an old one is he. The hand of all men is against him, ...



BBC Radio 4
🌳 Thomas Hardy wrote that people could identify a tree by its susurration, the sound of leaves in the wind.
Writer Bob Gilbert listens and hears how poets and musicians capture this








《過溪亭》是宋代詩人蘇軾所作詩詞之一。



身輕步穩去忘歸,四柱亭前野彴微。
  忽悟過溪還一笑,水禽驚落翠毛衣。



----

2019年11月5日 星期二

Glanmore Sonnets BY SEAMUS HEANEY




Glanmore Sonnets

For Ann Saddlemyer,
our heartiest welcomer
I
Vowels ploughed into other: opened ground.   
The mildest February for twenty years   
Is mist bands over furrows, a deep no sound   
Vulnerable to distant gargling tractors.
Our road is steaming, the turned-up acres breathe.   
Now the good life could be to cross a field   
And art a paradigm of earth new from the lathe   
Of ploughs. My lea is deeply tilled.
Old ploughsocks gorge the subsoil of each sense   
And I am quickened with a redolence   
Of farmland as a dark unblown rose.
Wait then...Breasting the mist, in sowers’ aprons,   
My ghosts come striding into their spring stations.   
The dream grain whirls like freakish Easter snows.

GOOGLE的翻譯有模有樣,其實不知所云。然而不失學習初步。

元音拼成其他:打開的地面。
二十年來最溫和的二月
犁溝上有薄霧帶,沒有聲音
易受遙遠的惡作劇拖拉機的影響。
我們的路在熱氣騰騰,空曠的英畝呼吸。
現在好生活可能是穿越田野
和藝術是車床新的地球範式
耕作。 我的辯護已深耕。
舊的犁pl使每種感覺的土壤陷於地下
而且我對重新安置有了信心
一片漆黑的未吹過玫瑰的農田。
然後等一下...用播種者的圍裙吹拂薄霧,
我的鬼魂大步進入春季站。
夢想的穀物像奇異的複活節雪一樣旋轉。


                                  II
Sensings, mountings from the hiding places,   
Words entering almost the sense of touch   
Ferreting themselves out of their dark hutch—
‘These things are not secrets but mysteries,’   
Oisin Kelly told me years ago
In Belfast, hankering after stone
That connived with the chisel, as if the grain   
Remembered what the mallet tapped to know.   
Then I landed in the hedge-school of Glanmore   
And from the backs of ditches hoped to raise
A voice caught back off slug-horn and slow chanter   
That might continue, hold, dispel, appease:   
Vowels ploughed into other, opened ground,   
Each verse returning like the plough turned round.

                                  III
This evening the cuckoo and the corncrake   
(So much, too much) consorted at twilight.   
It was all crepuscular and iambic.   
Out on the field a baby rabbit
Took his bearings, and I knew the deer
(I’ve seen them too from the window of the house,   
Like connoisseurs, inquisitive of air)   
Were careful under larch and May-green spruce.   
I had said earlier, ‘I won’t relapse   
From this strange loneliness I’ve brought us to.   
Dorothy and William—’ She interrupts:   
‘You’re not going to compare us two...?’   
Outside a rustling and twig-combing breeze   
Refreshes and relents. Is cadences.

                                  IV
I used to lie with an ear to the line
For that way, they said, there should come a sound   
Escaping ahead, an iron tune
Of flange and piston pitched along the ground,   
But I never heard that. Always, instead,
Struck couplings and shuntings two miles away   
Lifted over the woods. The head
Of a horse swirled back from a gate, a grey   
Turnover of haunch and mane, and I’d look   
Up to the cutting where she’d soon appear.
Two fields back, in the house, small ripples shook   
Silently across our drinking water
(As they are shaking now across my heart)
And vanished into where they seemed to start.

                                  V
Soft corrugations in the boortree’s trunk,
Its green young shoots, its rods like freckled solder:   
It was our bower as children, a greenish, dank
And snapping memory as I get older.
And elderberry I have learned to call it.
I love its blooms like saucers brimmed with meal,   
Its berries a swart caviar of shot,
A buoyant spawn, a light bruised out of purple.   
Elderberry? It is shires dreaming wine.
Boortree is bower tree, where I played ‘touching tongues’
And felt another’s texture quick on mine.
So, etymologist of roots and graftings,
I fall back to my tree-house and would crouch
Where small buds shoot and flourish in the hush.

                                  VI
He lived there in the unsayable lights.
He saw the fuchsia in a drizzling noon,
The elderflower at dusk like a risen moon
And green fields greying on the windswept heights.   
‘I will break through,’ he said, ‘what I glazed over   
With perfect mist and peaceful absences’—
Sudden and sure as the man who dared the ice   
And raced his bike across the Moyola River.   
A man we never saw. But in that winter
Of nineteen forty-seven, when the snow
Kept the country bright as a studio,
In a cold where things might crystallize or founder,   
His story quickened us, a wild white goose
Heard after dark above the drifted house.

                                  VII
Dogger, Rockall, Malin, Irish Sea:
Green, swift upsurges, North Atlantic flux   
Conjured by that strong gale-warning voice,   
Collapse into a sibilant penumbra.
Midnight and closedown. Sirens of the tundra,
Of eel-road, seal-road, keel-road, whale-road, raise   
Their wind-compounded keen behind the baize   
And drive the trawlers to the lee of Wicklow.   
L’Etoile, Le Guillemot, La Belle Hélène   
Nursed their bright names this morning in the bay   
That toiled like mortar. It was marvellous   
And actual, I said out loud, ‘A haven,’   
The word deepening, clearing, like the sky   
Elsewhere on Minches, Cromarty, The Faroes.

                                  VIII
Thunderlight on the split logs: big raindrops   
At body heat and lush with omen
Spattering dark on the hatchet iron.
This morning when a magpie with jerky steps   
Inspected a horse asleep beside the wood   
I thought of dew on armour and carrion.
What would I meet, blood-boltered, on the road?   
How deep into the woodpile sat the toad?
What welters through this dark hush on the crops?   
Do you remember that pension in Les Landes   
Where the old one rocked and rocked and rocked   
A mongol in her lap, to little songs?   
Come to me quick, I am upstairs shaking.   
My all of you birchwood in lightning.

                                  IX
Outside the kitchen window a black rat
Sways on the briar like infected fruit:
‘It looked me through, it stared me out, I’m not   
Imagining things. Go you out to it.’
Did we come to the wilderness for this?
We have our burnished bay tree at the gate,
Classical, hung with the reek of silage
From the next farm, tart-leafed as inwit.
Blood on a pitchfork, blood on chaff and hay,
Rats speared in the sweat and dust of threshing—
What is my apology for poetry?
The empty briar is swishing
When I come down, and beyond, inside, your face   
Haunts like a new moon glimpsed through tangled glass.

                                  X
I dreamt we slept in a moss in Donegal
On turf banks under blankets, with our faces   
Exposed all night in a wetting drizzle,   
Pallid as the dripping sapling birches.   
Lorenzo and Jessica in a cold climate.   
Diarmuid and Grainne waiting to be found.   
Darkly asperged and censed, we were laid out   
Like breathing effigies on a raised ground.
And in that dream I dreamt—how like you this?—
Our first night years ago in that hotel   
When you came with your deliberate kiss   
To raise us towards the lovely and painful   
Covenants of flesh; our separateness;   
The respite in our dewy dreaming faces.
Seamus Heaney, “Glanmore Sonnets” from Opened Ground: Selected Poems 1966-1996. Copyright © 1998 by Seamus Heaney. Used by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, LLC, http://us.macmillan.com/fsg. All rights reserved.
Source: Opened Ground: Selected Poems 1966-1996 (Farrar Straus and Giroux, 1998)