Алексей Фукс (afuchs) wrote,
Алексей Фукс
afuchs

хрупкая скорлупка

Насколько субъективны те "переклички" (кто-то в ЖЖ это так называл, прошу прощения, что не помню), которые мне кажутся явными в стихах?

Один едва знакомый художник говорил мне, что его совсем не удивляют т.н. "эквидистантные коды" в библейском тексте, потому что западная культура построена вокруг Библии, и этот исходный текст некоторым образом отпечатывается на ней, так что даже в самых, казалось бы, структурных элементах оказывается запрятана семантика настоящего. При этом художник изображал руками куб и крутил его по-всякому, заменив для меня Библию на платоново тело, чтоб было яснее и проще. Поскольку меня подобный эффект уже тогда удивлял и радовал в математике, я не перечил, а впечатлялся, но оттого, что тогда для меня очень актуальной и отчётливой была граница между науками и исскуством, художник и библейский текст легко отслаивались от Платона, Шеннона и Поппера. Поэтому я так и не позволил убедить себя в значимости эквидистантных находок, какова бы ни была предполагаемая каузальность.

Но теперь я позабыл всю математику, а мозг всё ищет паттерны, как знает всякий, кто однажды втыкал в слепую шероховатую стенку, нажравшись кислоты. В этом вся соль, и с ней стоит кушать нижеследующие (и ранее названные) "переклички". С другой стороны, конечно, "поэтическая традиция".

Возможно, стоит повернуть каузальность боком и назвать это просто подборкой важных для меня стихов.

W. S. Merwin, Vixen (1996) G. M. Hopkins, The Wreck of the Deutschland, 1875-6
Comet of stillness princess of what is over
   high note held without trembling without voice without sound
aura of complete darkness keeper of the kept secrets
  of the destroyed stories the escaped dreams the sentences
never caught in words warden of where the river went
   touch of its surface sibyl of the extinguished
window onto the hidden place and the other time
   at the foot of the wall by the road patient without waiting
in the full moonlight of autumn at the hour when I was born
   you no longer go out like a flame at the sight of me
you are still warmer than the moonlight gleaming on you
   even now you are unharmed even now perfect
as you have always been now when your light paws are running
   on the breathless night on the bridge with one end I remember you
when I have heard you the soles of my feet have made answer
   when I have seen you I have waked and slipped from the calendars
from the creeds of difference and the contradictions
   that were my life and all the crumbling fabrications
as long as it lasted until something that we were
   had ended when you are no longer anything
let me catch sight of you again going over the wall
   and before the garden is extinct and the woods are figures
guttering on a screen let my words find their own
   places in the silence after the animals

Thou mastering me
God! giver of breath and bread;
World's strand, sway of the sea;
Lord of living and dead;
Thou hast bound bones & veins in me, fastened me flesh,
And after it almost unmade, what with dread,
Thy doing: and dost thou touch me afresh?
Over again I feel thy finger and find thee.

I am soft sift
In an hourglass—at the wall
Fast, but mined with a motion, a drift,
And it crowds and it combs to the fall;
I steady as a water in a well, to a poise, to a pane,
But roped with, always, all the way down from the tall
Fells or flanks of the voel, a vein
Of the gospel proffer, a pressure, a principle, Christ's gift.

I kiss my hand
To the stars, lovely-asunder
Starlight, wafting him out of it; and
Glow, glory in thunder;
Kiss my hand to the dappled-with-damson west:
Since, tho' he is under the world's splendour and wonder,
His mystery must be instressed, stressed;
For I greet him the days I meet him, and bless when I understand.

Not out of his bliss
Springs the stress felt
Nor first from heaven (and few know this)
Swings the stroke dealt—
Stroke and a stress that stars and storms deliver,
That guilt is hushed by, hearts are flushed by and melt—
But it rides time like riding a river
(And here the faithful waver, the faithless fable and miss).

[...]


По просьбе sentjao следующее замыкание я обосновал в ФБ вот так: Мне кажется, diction очень похож(а), и приёмы те же (односложная чеканность, паратаксис/противопоставление в большой части строк - я/мир, воображение/реальность), и тематика смежная, зеркальная (Тичборн, кстати, писал жене, которую, вероятно, не ожидал больше увидеть). Пожалуй, самое для меня веское сопоставление: "I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead" vs. "I saw the world and yet I was not seen", и есть много других. Но не исключено, что это соприкосновение у меня в мозгах. Безусловно, гигантские пласты в обоих стихотворениях совершенно ортогональны.

Sylvia Plath, Mad Girl's Love Song, 1951 Chidiok Tichborne, Elegy, 1586
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain.
The day is gone and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young,
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen,
My thread is cut, and yet it was not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I lookt for life and saw it was a shade,
I trode the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I am but made.
The glass is full, and now the glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.


Легче всего находить параллели с Джимом Моррисоном, поэзию которого я совсем не могу оценить. (Но Миддлтон, конечно, лучше).

James D. Morrison, Dawn's Highway, 1970 Christopher Middleton, Itinerary for the Apparent Double, 1965

Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.

Me and my -ah- mother and father - and a
Grandmother and a grandfather - were driving through
The desert, at dawn, and a truck load of Indian
Workers had either hit another car, or just - I don't
Know what happened - but there were Indians scattered
All over the highway, bleeding to death.

So the car pulls up and stops. That was the first time
I tasted fear. I musta' been about four - like a child is
Like a flower, his head is just floating in the
Breeze, man.
The reaction I get now thinking about it, looking
Back - is that the souls of the ghosts of those dead
Indians...maybe one or two of 'em...were just
Running around freaking out, and just leaped into my
Soul. And they're still in there.

Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.

With you the lane winds uphill,
by day hatching schemes;
by night, cockshut memory overhauls
your brooding mobile mind.

It steepens for you, on splay claws,
feeling the weight of eggs not engendered yet;
up the incline a lost day
floats its faint rose of shadows.

It is dark from the hill's foot to halfway up.
Boys with stones have smashed the bulbs; some shinned
corkscrewing up the posts, to rob them, furtively.
Morgue of the maidenhead, nigredo, always foots the hill.

Here, for girls, black men come jumping
big from the ditch with naked choppers.
The mewing of owls armours them as they bolt
with goosepimples and their foretaste of moans on beds.

Yet with you the path can be picked out
from the furrow of hushed and curving space
dividing oak bough from oak bough on either side.
On the upturned face a breath of cloud and two stars.

[...]
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