Written by
D. H. Lawrence |
If you live along with all the other people
and are just like them, and conform, and are nice
you're just a worm --
and if you live with all the other people
and you don't like them and won't be like them and won't conform
then you're just the worm that has turned,
in either case, a worm.
The conforming worm stays just inside the skin
respectably unseen, and cheerfully gnaws away at the heart of life,
making it all rotten inside.
The unconforming worm -- that is, the worm that has turned --
gnaws just the same, gnawing the substance out of life,
but he insists on gnawing a little hole in the social epidermis
and poking his head out and waving himself
and saying: Look at me, I am not respectable,
I do all the things the bourgeois daren't do,
I booze and fornicate and use foul language and despise your honest man.
--
But why should the worm that has turned protest so much?
The bonnie bonnie bourgeois goes a-whoring up back streets just the same.
The busy busy bourgeois imbibes his little share
just the same
if not more.
The pretty pretty bourgeois pinks his language just as pink
if not pinker,
and in private boasts his exploits even louder, if you ask me,
than the other.
While as to honesty, Oh look where the money lies!
So I can't see where the worm that has turned puts anything over
the worm that is too cunning to turn.
On the contrary, he merely gives himself away.
The turned worm shouts.
I bravely booze!
the other says.
Have one with me!
The turned worm boasts: I copulate!
the unturned says: You look it.
You're a d----- b----- b----- p----- bb-----, says the worm that's turned.
Quite! says the other.
Cuckoo!
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Written by
William Blake |
Merry, merry sparrow!
Under leaves so green
A happy blossom
Sees you, swift as arrow,
Seek your cradle narrow,
Near my bosom.
Pretty, pretty robin!
Under leaves so green
A happy blossom
Hears you sobbing, sobbing,
Pretty, pretty robin,
Near my bosom.
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Written by
Andrei Voznesensky |
I started up the engine and I lingered.
Where should I go? The night was fine, I figured.
The bonnet trembled like a nervous hound.
I shivered.
Night lit up the houses around.
The Balzac age, I felt its burning pain,
Chilled to the bone, I couldn't hold my own.
The age of balsam wine mixed with champaign!.
.
So I looked up, and wound the window down.
They were young, two pretty-pretty fellows,
wearing fur coats, looking slightly careless.
"You're free, Miss, aren't you ? Care for delight?
Five hundred now.
One thousand for the night".
I flared up.
They took me for a prostitute.
My heart was jumping.
What an attitude!
They want you, you're young, you're a whore!
Indignant, I said "Yes", instead of "No".
The other one, so "sweet and pure",
swaying his hips, looking aside,
said: "Have you got a friend, as rich as you are?
I, too, will take it.
A thousand for the night".
The brutes! I thought I'd better vanish!
I stepped upon the gas and left the site.
My heart, however, jumped for joy and anguish!
"Five hundred now.
One thousand for the night".
© Copyright Alec Vagapov's translation
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