® مدير المنتدى ® رسالة sms : عدد المساهمات : 11555 الاٍقامة : وراء الأفق حيث لاشئ سواى وحبيبتى العمل : مهندس نوسا البحر :   2019-01-08, 10:21 pm | | The Hollow Men
T.S. Elliot
Mistah Kurtz--- he dead.
A penny for the Old Guy.
=================================
I
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voice, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rat's feet over broken glass
In Our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us--if at all--not as lost
Violent souls, but only
The stuffed men.
II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer--
Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom
III
This is the dead land
This is the cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone
IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jar of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.
V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the shadow
For Thine is the kingdom
Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the shadow
Life is very long
Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is
Life is
For thine is the
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
الرجال الجوف
ثوماس اشتيرن إليوت
1888 -- 1965
===========================
(1)
نحن الرجال الجوف
نحن سقط المتاع
كتفا لكتف وعلى بعضنا نتكئ
وا حسرتاه
فخوذة الآمال يملآها الضياع
وحين الهمس يسرى بيننا
فصوتنا يباب
بلا معان نحن خامدون
كالريح تعوى فى يابس الحقول والفجاج
أو أقدام جرذان فوق مهشم الزجاج
ونحن فى قبونا السراب
شكل بلا جسد
ظل بلا ألوان
عزيمة مشلولة بلا عضد
إيماءة بلا شعور أو حنان
أؤلئك الذين هوموا وغادروا
بأعين مشرعة
نحو مملكة الموت الأخرى
فلتذكرونا
بأى طريقة ترون
ليس كأرواح عنيفة وضائعة
لكن كطووايس الرجال
(2)
أعين لا أجرأ فى الأحلام
أن أراها أنا
فى مملكة حلم الفناء
هذى لا تبدو
هناك، تلكم العيون، أشعة شمس على عمود متهدم
هناك شجرة تتأرجح، وأصوات فى غناء الريح
أكثر نأيا وقداسة من نجمة ذابلة
دعنى لا أدنو من مملكة حلم الفناء
دعنى أرتدى أقنعة أتعمد الخفاء
رداء جرذان، جلد غراب، حشود مرت هى العناء
أسلك مسلك الريح
ليس أكثر قربا
وليس ذلك هو اللقاء الأخير
فى مملكة الشفق الكسير
(3)
هذى هى الأرض الموات
هذى هى أرض الصبار
هنا صور الحجر عالية
تلتقى دعوات التوسل والرجاء
من أكف ميتة
تحت تلألؤ نجمة بالية
هل هى مثل هذا
فى مملكة الموت الأخرى
تمشى وحيدة على الأديم
فى وقت فيه نحن نرتعش
وتلكم الشفاه فى قبل
ترسل الدعوات للحجر الهشيم
(4)
العيون ليست هاهنا
ليس ثمة عيون هنا
فى هذا الوادى، حيث تموت النجمات
فى هذا الوادى الخواء
جرة ممالكنا المفقودة المحطمة
فى نهاية أماكن اللقاء
معا نتلمس الطريق والأيام
ننأى عن الحديث والكلام
نكتظ على شاطى النهر المتورم
بلا بهاء
ما لم تعاود العيون شرفة الضياء
مثل النجمات سرمدية البقاء
مثل وردة عميمة الإيراق والنماء
فى مملكة شفق الضياع والفناء
هو ذا أمل الرجال الجوف
هو ذا آخر الرجاء
(5)
ها نحن نطوف بالصبار
صبار صبار صبار
عند الخامسة صباحا
قبل مقدم النهار
بين الحقيقة والخيال
بين الشعور والمثال
حيث تسقط الظلال
لك، هذه المملكة، بين المفاهيم وبين الخلق
بين دفق المشاعر واستجابة النداء
هى ذا تشقط الظلال
والحياة طويلة طويلة
بين الرغبة والكلال
بين النفع والوقار والبقاؤ
لك، هذه المملكة، تسقط الظلال
لك، هى الحياة
وبمثل هذا تنتهى الدنا
بمثل هذا تنقضى الدنا
بمثل هذا تنتهى وتستكين
ليس بصدمة، بل بالنشيج والأنين
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo
Non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the windowpanes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the windowpanes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."
. . . . .
No!I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind?Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
T. S. Eliot
المقطع الإفتتاحى من ملحمة "الأرض الخراب" لإيليوت
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went
In the mountains, there you feel free
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter
في “مقدمات” (1917) نقرأ: “يستقر المساء الشتائي/ بروائح المشاوي في الممرات/ الساعةَ السادسة/ النهايات المحترقة لنهارات مُدخِّنة/ والآن زخّةٌ عاصفة تطوي/ المِزَقَ المتَّسِخة/ لأوراق ذاوية حول قدميك/ مع جرائد من عَرَصاتٍ خاوية/ الزخّات تَصفع/ خشبَ الستائر المكسَّرة وأغطيةَ المداخن/ وفي زاوية الشارع/ حصانُ عَرَبةٍ مُستوحِد جَسَدُه ينفثُ البخار وحوافره تطرق حجارة الشارع /ثم تُضاء المصابيح.
هذه صورة عن “لا فعل” من جانب الإنسان. خواء وحياة عقيم. عاد الناس إلى بيوتهم مساءً، في عتمة الشتاء، وتواروا في الشقق المتلاصقة التي لا يفصل فيها سوى ممرّات لا حياة فيها بل رائحة الشواء، الوجبة الأساس لنهارات مدخّنة بل ضبابية، نهاياتها محترقة مثل أعقاب السكاير. لا نرى الناس ولا ما يعملون. والفعل الوحيد في هذه الحياة هو عصف الرياح ودوّامة أوراق الشجر الذاوية ومِزَق الجرائد المتجمِّعة في العَرَصات غير المبنيَّة، المحيطة بهذه العمارات مكسَّرة الستائر الخشبية، التي لم تعد تحمي نوافذها من عصف الريح، التي كسّرت حتى قبّعات المداخن المعدنية على سطوح المساكن، فلم تعد النار في خشب المواقد في الدور تعطي التدفئة المطلوبة، بسبب خراب ستائر النوافذ وأغطيات المداخن التي يصعُب إصلاحها لارتفاعها فتُهمَل. هذه التفصيلات في الصورة تعبِّر عنها صوَر مختصرة سريعة، تشكل برمّتها معادلاً موضوعياً للقول: “هذه حياة عقيم” قولاً تقريرياً. | |
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