On this site we hope to help you learn, and to remove the difficulties caused by the difference of culture and language. Sur ce site nous espérons vous aider à apprendre, et à enlever la barrière causée par les différents languages et cultures.
Как пуст, и вял, и ничтожен почти всякий прожитой день! Как мало следов оставляет он за собою! Как бессмысленно глупо пробежали эти часы за часами!
Oh ! comme chaque jour qui passe est vide, morne et fastidieux ! Comme il laisse peu de traces ! Et que la course des heures est stupide !
И между тем человеку хочется существовать; он дорожит жизнью, он надеется на нее, на себя, на будущее… О, каких благ он ждет от будущего!
Pourtant, l’homme est avide de vivre ; il y tient ; il a foi en lui-même, dans son existence, dans son avenir… Ô, combien d’espoirs il fonde sur demain !
I want to wish you all a Happy Fourth of July, and a nice celebration with friends and family. The poem I propose is “An Ode for theFourth of July, 1876” by James Russell Lowell. The photos are memories… and a few view of Strasbourg. Charisma is a Dickerson 41 on which I lived many years. Hope you enjoy
Comet on top of Charisma
An Ode for theFourth of July, 1876
I
1.
Entranced I saw a vision in the cloud That loitered dreaming in yon sunset sky, Full of fair shapes, half creatures of the eye, Half chance-evoked by the wind’s fantasy In golden mist, an ever-shifting crowd: There, ‘mid unreal forms that came and went In air-spun robes, of evanescent dye, A woman’s semblance shone preeminent; Not armed like Pallas, not like Hera proud, But, as on household diligence intent, Beside her visionary wheel she bent Like Aretë or Bertha, nor than they Less queenly in her port; about her knee Glad children clustered confident in play: Placid her pose, the calm of energy; And over her broad brow in many a round (That loosened would have gilt her garment’s hem), Succinct, as toil prescribes, the hair was wound In lustrous coils, a natural diadem. The cloud changed shape, obsequious to the whim Of some transmuting influence felt in me, And, looking now, a wolf I seemed to see Limned in that vapor, gaunt and hunger-bold, Threatening her charge; resolve in every limb, Erect she flamed in mail of sun-wove gold, Penthesilea’s self for battle dight; One arm uplifted braced a flickering spear, And one her adamantine shield made light; Her face, helm-shadowed, grew a thing to fear, And her fierce eyes, by danger challenged, took Her trident-sceptred mother’s dauntless look. ‘I know thee now, O goddess-born!’ I cried, And turned with loftier brow and firmer stride; For in that spectral cloud-work I had seen Her image, bodied forth by love and pride, The fearless, the benign, the mother-eyed, The fairer world’s toil-consecrated queen.
A visitor on the boom of Charisma at Crown Marina
2.
What shape by exile dreamed elates the mind Like hers whose hand, a fortress of the poor, No blood in vengeance spilt, though lawful, stains? Who never turned a suppliant from her door? Whose conquests are the gains of all mankind? To-day her thanks shall fly on every wind, Unstinted, unrebuked, from shore to shore, One love, one hope, and not a doubt behind! Cannon to cannon shall repeat her praise, Banner to banner flap it forth in flame; Her children shall rise up to bless her name, And wish her harmless length of days, The mighty mother of a mighty brood, Blessed in all tongues and dear to every blood, The beautiful, the strong, and, best of all, the good.
An evening at Ruark Marina
3.
Seven years long was the bow Of battle bent, and the heightening Storm-heaps convulsed with the throe Of their uncontainable lightning; Seven years long heard the sea Crash of navies and wave-borne thunder; Then drifted the cloud-rack a-lee, And new stars were seen, a world’s wonder; Each by her sisters made bright, All binding all to their stations, Cluster of manifold light Startling the old constellations: Men looked up and grew pale: Was it a comet or star, Omen of blessing or bale. Hung o’er the ocean afar?
Strasbourg
4.
Stormy the day of her birth: Was she not born of the strong. She, the last ripeness of earth, Beautiful, prophesied long? Stormy the days of her prime: Hers are the pulses that beat Higher for perils sublime, Making them fawn at her feet. Was she not born of the strong? Was she not born of the wise? Daring and counsel belong Of right to her confident eyes: Human and motherly they, Careless of station or race: Hearken! her children to-day Shout for the joy of her face.
On July 3, 2023 in Strasbourg, next to the German border
II
1.
No praises of the past are hers, No fanes by hallowing time caressed, No broken arch that ministers To Time’s sad instinct in the breast; She has not gathered from the years Grandeur of tragedies and tears, Nor from long leisure the unrest That finds repose in forms of classic grace: These may delight the coming race Who haply shall not count it to our crime That we who fain would sing are here before our time. She also hath her monuments; Not such as stand decrepitly resigned To ruin-mark the path of dead events That left no seed of better days behind, The tourist’s pensioners that show their scars And maunder of forgotten wars; She builds not on the ground, but in the mind, Her open-hearted palaces For larger-thoughted men with heaven and earth at ease: Her march the plump mow marks, the sleepless wheel, The golden sheaf, the self-swayed commonweal; The happy homesteads hid in orchard trees Whose sacrificial smokes through peaceful air Rise lost in heaven, the household’s silent prayer; What architect hath bettered these? With softened eye the westward traveller sees A thousand miles of neighbors side by side, Holding by toil-won titles fresh from God The lands no serf or seigneur ever trod, With manhood latent in the very sod, Where the long billow of the wheatfield’s tide Flows to the sky across the prairie wide, A sweeter vision than the castled Rhine, Kindly with thoughts of Ruth and Bible-days benign.
Cette semaine j’ai continué à ajouter des livres d’Ivan Tourgueniev en français, anglais et russe ainsi que ses nouvelles en russe et la plupart en anglais.
This week I continued to add books from Ivan Turgenev in French, English and Russian as well as his short stories in Russian and most of them in English.
Brève analyse du poème “Tempête” d’Alexandre Pouchkine
Le poème “Tempête” a été créé à Mikhailovskoye, mais sur la base du style romantique de l’œuvre, il est possible que l’auteur en ait fait l’esquisse pendant son exil dans le sud. … Continuer la lecture
Peinture “Tempête” d’Ivan Aïvazovski
Tempête d’Ivan Aïvazovski – 1886 – Style : Romantisme, Genre : Marina, Média : Huile sur toile. Dimensions : 84 X 142 cm / Буря Ивана Айвазовского – 1886
Ivan Aivazovsky (Иван Айвазовский), l’auteur de plus de 6000 toiles, est un peintre de marine et de bataille russe de renommée mondiale ainsi qu’un collectionneur et … Continuer la lecture
Poème “Tempête” d’Alexandre Pouchkine français et russe côte à côte
Short analysis of the poem “Tempest” by Alexander Pushkin
The poem “Tempest” was created in Mikhailovskoye, but based on the romantic style of the work, it is possible that the author made the sketches for it during his southern exile. … Continue reading
Cette semaine, j’ai décidé d’ajouter un autre livre bilingue à notre collection alors j’ai mis côte à côte « Moumou » (Rus/Ang). C’est une nouvelle écrite par Ivan Tourgueniev en 1852 et publiée pour la première fois en 1854 qui a attiré une plus grande attention sur les cruautés du serdom.
J’ai ajouté, quelques livres d’ Ivan Tourgueniev mais en français cette fois, ainsi qu’ “Une Nichée De Gentilshommes” que j’ai déjà fait en russe et en anglais la semaine dernière.
J’ai beaucoup travaillé sur nos sections de poèmes. J’ai nettoyé la page de James Russell Lowell , classé la plupart de ses poèmes par ordre alphabétique et ajouté environ 50 d’entre eux. En même temps j’ai ajouté 20 nouveaux poèmes sur les pages de Charles Baudelaire , et 10 poèmes pour Mikhail Lermontov ainsi que les poèmes écrits par Alexandre Pouchkine en français .
Comme je l’ai dit, beaucoup de travail a été fait sur la page de James Russell Lowell . Je vais juste mettre quelques poèmes au hasard en commençant par la dernière page pour que vous puissiez passer à la précédente et découvrir tous les nouveaux poèmes qui ont été publiés sur le site
This week, I decided to add another bilingual book to out collection so I put side by side “Mumu”. It is a short story written by Ivan Turgenev in 1852 and first published in 1854 which brought a greater attention to the cruelties of serdom.
I added, a few books by Ivan Turgenev but in French this time, as well as “Une Nichée De Gentilshommes” which I already added it in Russian and English last week.
I worked a lot on our poems sections. I cleaned up James Russell Lowell page, pu most of his poems in alphabetical order and added about 50 of them. At the same time I added 20 new poems on the pages of Charles Baudelaire, and 10 poems for Mikhail Lermontov as well as the poems written by Alexander Pushkin in French .
As I said a lot of work went on James Russell Lowell‘s page. I’ll just put a few random poems beginning by the last page so you can go to the previous and find out all the new poems that were published on the site
Cette semaine, j’ai décidé de faire quelques changements. Les articles seront rédigés directement sur le site au lieu du blog pour faciliter leur recherche. Le blog n’affichera qu’une partie de l’article avec un lien vers la page. Votre avis sur le changement est bienvenu dans les commentaires.
“Moumou” est une histoire courte écrite par Ivan Tourgueniev en 1852 et publiée pour la première fois en 1854. Cette histoire a attiré une plus grande attention sur les cruautés du serdom. Elle fait maintenant partie de notre livre bilingue (russe/anglais)
Ivan Sergueïevitch Tourgueniev est né le 9 novembre (28 octobre) 1818 à Orel dans l’Empire russe. Il était un romancier, nouvelliste, poète, dramaturge, traducteur russe parlant couramment l’allemand, le français et l’anglais. Il popularisait également la littérature russe en Occident, mais sa principale préoccupation était la Russie et il écrivait principalement à ce sujet et uniquement en russe. Il est mort le 22 aout (3 septembre) 1883 a Bougival en France.
Mymy
Ivan Turgenev a écrit l’histoire “Moumou” alors qu’il était exilé dans son domaine de Spasskoye-Lutovinovo après avoir passé un mois en détention pour avoir écrit une nécrologie sur la mort de Nicholai Gogol contrairement aux interdictions de la censure.
“Moumou” est une exploration et une critique du servage montrant la terreur du pouvoir absolu d’un être humain sur un autre, et est basé sur une histoire vraie avec un chien qui s’est passé chez Tourgueniev à Moscou. Sa mère est représentée par la propriétaire tandis que le serf était Andrey qui, contrairement au serf de l’histoire, est resté avec sa maîtresse. …
This week I decided to make some changes. The articles will be written directly on the site instead of the blog to facilitate their finding. The blog will show only part of the article with a link to the page. You are more than welcome to give me your opinion in the comments.
Mumu is a short story written by Ivan Turgenev in 1852 and first published in 1854 which brought a greater attention to the cruelties of serdom. It is now part of our bilingual book (Russian/English)
Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev was born on November 9, (October 28), 1818 in Oryol in the Russian Empire. He was a Russian novelist, short story writer, poet, playwright, translator fluent in German, French and English. He also was a popularizer of Russian literature in the West but his primary concern was Russia and he wrote mostly about it and only in Russian. He died on September 3 (August 22) 1883, in Bougival, France.
Mymy
Ivan Turgenev wrote the story “Mumu” while he was exiled to his estate of Spasskoye-Lutovinovo after having spend a month in custody for writing an obituary on the death of Nicholai Gogol contrary to the prohibitions of censorship.
“Mumu” is an exploration and a critic of serfdom showing the terror of absolute power of one human being over another and is based on a real story with a dog that happened at Turgenev’s house in Moscow. His mother is represented by the landlady while the Serf was Andrey who unlike the serf in the story stayed with his mistress. …
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