Винить отца не следует, наверно,
Но, всё ж, не кто иной, как он,
явил пример мне ненависти первый,
нелепой, грубой злобой заражён.
Он вспыхивал мгновенно, будто спичка.
Отца всё время что-то да бесило.
Я ж - больше всех! И каждой новой стычки
я не боялся, только сердце ныло.
Ведь он был частью маленького мира.
От боли до комочка тот сжимался,
мир без любви с тираном-дебоширом…
Отец ли виноват? Я часто сомневался.
И я тогда сбежал. Казалось, что на волю.
Отца подобия я оставался пленным.
Средь злых и ненавидящих до боли,
он стал казаться лучшим, несомненно.
Порочный круг - трудяги и бомжи,
Друг друга ненавидят, обвиняют
И тащат всех несчастий багажи,
и всё их в этом мире раздражает.
Да, даже женщины, с которыми я жил,
красивы и умны порой в придачу,
считали - не сумел, не заслужил...
что это я причина неудач их.
И раздражал мой голос и поступки,
Я был мишенью, виноват во всём.
Никто не замечал, что на душе зарубки.
Хотя и делал вид, что всё мне нипочём.
Я просто остолоп, наверное, из тех
кому за счастье небо голубое.
Давно я не хочу тупых утех.
Хочу, чтобы оставили в покое!
Жить с ненавистью это, верно, грех.
И там мой мир, и там моя свобода,
когда я далеко от них от всех.
Неважно где, наверно - где угодно.
И хорошо, спокойно мне, когда
несет мне кофе, улыбаясь нежно,
официантка, что толста, немолода,
но кажется порывом ветра свежим.
Илл. нейро Яндекс.
Из Чарльз Буковски. Неистовый свежий ветер
© Copyright: Блантер Татьяна, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125022101235
Свидетельство о публикации №125022101235
Рецензии
Отличное! А дайте пожалуйста ссылку на оригинал, интересно: мне оно вроде не попадалось, хотя я Буковски много чего перечитал...
С уважением,
Александр
Александр Башкиров 24.02.2025 13:23 • Заявить о нарушении
С уважением,
Александр
Александр Башкиров 24.02.2025 13:23 • Заявить о нарушении
I should not have blamed only my father, but,
he was the first to introduce me to
raw and stupid hatred.
he was really best at it: anything and everything made him
mad-things of the slightest consequence brought his hatred quickly
to the surface
and I seemed to be the main source of his
irritation.
I did not fear him
but his rages made me ill at heart
for he was most of my world then
and it was a world of horror but I should not have blamed only
my father
for when I left that... home... I found his counterparts
everywhere: my father was only a small part of the
whole, though he was the best at hatred
I was ever to meet.
but others were very good at it too: some of the
foremen, some of the street bums, some of the women
I was to live with,
most of the women, were gifted at
hating-blaming my voice, my actions, my presence
blaming me
for what they, in retrospect, had failed
at.
I was simply the target of their discontent
and in some real sense
they blamed me
for not being able to rouse them
out of a failed past; what they didn't consider was
that I had my troubles too-most of them caused by
simply living with them.
I am a dolt of a man, easily made happy or even
stupidly happy almost without cause
and left alone I am mostly content.
but I've lived so often and so long with this hatred
that
my only freedom, my only peace is when I am away from
them, when I am anywhere else, no matter where-
some fat old waitress bringing me a cup of coffee
is in comparison
like a fresh wild wind blowing.
Блантер Татьяна 24.02.2025 13:43 Заявить о нарушении
he was the first to introduce me to
raw and stupid hatred.
he was really best at it: anything and everything made him
mad-things of the slightest consequence brought his hatred quickly
to the surface
and I seemed to be the main source of his
irritation.
I did not fear him
but his rages made me ill at heart
for he was most of my world then
and it was a world of horror but I should not have blamed only
my father
for when I left that... home... I found his counterparts
everywhere: my father was only a small part of the
whole, though he was the best at hatred
I was ever to meet.
but others were very good at it too: some of the
foremen, some of the street bums, some of the women
I was to live with,
most of the women, were gifted at
hating-blaming my voice, my actions, my presence
blaming me
for what they, in retrospect, had failed
at.
I was simply the target of their discontent
and in some real sense
they blamed me
for not being able to rouse them
out of a failed past; what they didn't consider was
that I had my troubles too-most of them caused by
simply living with them.
I am a dolt of a man, easily made happy or even
stupidly happy almost without cause
and left alone I am mostly content.
but I've lived so often and so long with this hatred
that
my only freedom, my only peace is when I am away from
them, when I am anywhere else, no matter where-
some fat old waitress bringing me a cup of coffee
is in comparison
like a fresh wild wind blowing.
Блантер Татьяна 24.02.2025 13:43 Заявить о нарушении