Стихотворения

А и некому обнимать меня,
Обнимать меня, целовать меня,
Белу грудь мою
Целовать.

(1918)

TO SYLVIA BEACH

(following the publication of Ulysses)

Who is Sylvia, what is she
That all our scribes commend her?
Yankee, young and brave is she
The west this grace did lend her,
That all books might published be.

Is she rich as she is brave
For wealth oft daring misses?
Throngs about her rant and rave
To subscribe forUlysses
But, having signed, they ponder grave.

Then to Sylvia let us sing
Her daring lies in selling.
She can sell each mortal thing
That's boring beyond telling.
To her let us buyers bring.

J.J.
after W. S.

(February 1922)

СИЛЬВИИ БИЧ

(по случаю публикации «Улисса»)

Кто Сильвия? И чем она
Всех авторов пленила?
Юна, прелестна и умна,
Талантом янки ей дана
Стихи печатать сила.

Рои людей, и голь и знать,
Вокруг нее столклися,
И рвут и мечут, чтоб достать
Подписку на «Улисса», —
А там уж нет дороги вспять.

Восславим Сильвию, друзья:
Купец она удалый:
Какая бы галиматья
К ней в руки ни попала,
Она издаст ее шутя!

Дж. Дж.
по У. Ш.

(Февраль 1922)

PENNIPOMES TWOGUINEASEACH

Sing a song of shillings
A guinea cannot buy,
Thirteen tiny pomikins
Bobbing in a pie.

The printer's pie was published
And the pomes began to sing
And wasn't Herbert Hughesius
As happy as a king!

(April 1932)

ПЕННИ ЗА ШТУЧКУ — ГИНЕЯ ЗА КУЧКУ

Вот песенка за шиллинг,
Не песенка, а клад.
В один пирог зашили
Тринадцать штук стишат.

Стишата в тексте испеклись,
Запели: «Тру-ля-ля!»
И был Гербертус Хьюзиус
Счастливей короля!

(Апрель 1932)

A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS AN ANCIENT MARINER

I met with a ancient scribelleer
As I scoured the pirates' sea
His sailes were alullt at nought coma null
Not raise the wind could he.

The bann of Bull, the sign of Sam
Burned crimson on his brow.
And I rocked at the rig of his bricabrac brig
With K.O. 11 on his prow

Shakefears & Coy danced poor old joy
And some of their steps were corkers
As they shook the last shekels like phantom freckels
His pearls that had poisom porkers

The gnome Norbert read rich bills of fare
The ghosts of his deep debauches
But there was no bibber to slip that scribber
The price of a box of matches

For all cried, Schuft! He has lost the Luft
That made his U. boat go
And what a weird leer wore that scribelleer
As his wan eye winked with woe.

He dreamed of the goldest sands uprolled
By the silviest Beach of Beaches
And to watch it dwindle gave him Kugelkopfschwindel
Till his eyeboules bust their stitches