|
So sweet the hour, so calm the time,
I feel it more than half a crime, When Nature sleeps and stars are mute, To mar the silence ev'n with lute. At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes An image of Elysium lies: Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven, Form in the deep another seven: Endymion nodding from above Sees in the sea a second love. Within the valleys dim and brown, And on the spectral mountain's crown, The wearied light is dying down, And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky Are redolent of sleep, as I Am redolent of thee and thine Enthralling love, my Adeline. But list, O list,- so soft and low Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow, That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem My words the music of a dream. Thus, while no single sound too rude Upon thy slumber shall intrude, Our thoughts, our souls- O God above! In every deed shall mingle, love. |
Jackpot mareste-ti numarul de mesaje in alta parte te rog. Thx
|
Allen Ginsberg - Ballad Of The Skeletons
Said the Presidential Skeleton I won't sign the bill Said the Speaker skeleton Yes you will Said the Representative Skeleton I object Said the Supreme Court skeleton Whaddya expect Said the Miltary skeleton Buy Star Bombs Said the Upperclass Skeleton Starve unmarried moms Said the Yahoo Skeleton Stop dirty art Said the Right Wing skeleton Forget about yr heart Said the Gnostic Skeleton The Human Form's divine Said the Moral Majority skeleton No it's not it's mine Said the Buddha Skeleton Compassion is wealth Said the Corporate skeleton It's bad for your health Said the Old Christ skeleton Care for the Poor Said the Son of God skeleton AIDS needs cure Said the Homophobe skeleton Gay folk suck Said the Heritage Policy skeleton Blacks're outa luck Said the Macho skeleton Women in their place Said the Fundamentalist skeleton Increase human race Said the Right-to-Life skeleton Foetus has a soul Said Pro Choice skeleton Shove it up your hole Said the Downsized skeleton Robots got my job Said the Tough-on-Crime skeleton Tear gas the mob Said the Governor skeleton Cut school lunch Said the Mayor skeleton Eat the budget crunch Said the Neo Conservative skeleton Homeless off the street! Said the Free Market skeleton Use 'em up for meat Said the Think Tank skeleton Free Market's the way Said the Saving & Loan skeleton Make the State pay Said the Chrysler skeleton Pay for you & me Said the Nuke Power skeleton & me & me & me Said the Ecologic skeleton Keep Skies blue Said the Multinational skeleton What's it worth to you? Said the NAFTA skeleton Get rich, Free Trade, Said the Maquiladora skeleton Sweat shops, low paid Said the rich GATT skeleton One world, high tech Said the Underclass skeleton Get it in the neck Said the World Bank skeleton Cut down your trees Said the I.M.F. skeleton Buy American cheese Said the Underdeveloped skeleton We want rice Said Developed Nations' skeleton Sell your bones for dice Said the Ayatollah skeleton Die writer die Said Joe Stalin's skeleton That's no lie Said the Middle Kingdom skeleton We swallowed Tibet Said the Dalai Lama skeleton Indigestion's whatcha get Said the World Chorus skeleton That's their fate Said the U.S.A. skeleton Gotta save Kuwait Said the Petrochemical skeleton Roar Bombers roar! Said the Psychedelic skeleton Smoke a dinosaur Said Nancy's skeleton Just say No Said the Rasta skeleton Blow Nancy Blow Said Demagogue skeleton Don't smoke Pot Said Alcoholic skeleton Let your liver rot Said the Junkie skeleton Can't we get a fix? Said the Big Brother skeleton Jail the dirty pricks Said the Mirror skeleton Hey good looking Said the Electric Chair skeleton Hey what's cooking? Said the Talkshow skeleton Fuck you in the face Said the Family Values skeleton My family values mace Said the NY Times skeleton That's not fit to print Said the CIA skeleton Cantcha take a hint? Said the Network skeleton Believe my lies Said the Advertising skeleton Don't get wise! Said the Media skeleton Believe you me Said the Couch-potato skeleton What me worry? Said the TV skeleton Eat sound bites Said the Newscast skeleton That's all Goodnight |
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace- Radiant palace- reared its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion- It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair! Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow, (This- all this- was in the olden Time long ago,) And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A winged odor went away. Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tuned law, Round about a throne where, sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well-befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen. And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king. But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate. (Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed. And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh- but smile no more. |
Originally Posted by BeNnY:
yawn! crystal white out the window snow is falling . . . white everywhere I look the howling of a wolf late at night . . . I spring up awake headless snowman . . . the only snow left in the schoolyard the warm barn . . . cows mooing chomping their cuds of hay power out . . . the flickering of the candle in the kitchen the igloo is melting . . . snow falls off the white tree tops so sad, so blue no white could confort me the end of winter :( |
Originally Posted by Gaandalf:
Si ce gasesc acolo? Leon 9/10 asta e spam? Vezi la acum pe ecrane |
Poezia mea:
"Credeam C-o Vad Venind... Dar N-a venit." :happy: Eminescu, Move over buddie :sleep: |
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute"; None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy stars (so legends tell), Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute. Tottering above In her highest noon, The enamored moon Blushes with love, While, to listen, the red levin (With the rapid Pleiads, even, Which were seven,) Pauses in Heaven. And they say (the starry choir And the other listening things) That Israfeli's fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings- The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings. But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty- Where Love's a grown-up God- Where the Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star. Therefore thou art not wrong, Israfeli, who despisest An unimpassioned song; To thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest! Merrily live, and long! The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit- Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervor of thy lute- Well may the stars be mute! Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is a world of sweets and sours; Our flowers are merely- flowers, And the shadow of thy perfect bliss Is the sunshine of ours. If I could dwell Where Israfel Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky. |
Am inteles ca se poate si in romana! :)
ULTIMUL, ULTIMA Ultimul poet va scrie ultima poezie Cu unghia, Pe o halcã de slãninã. Noi doi putem sta linistiti, porcule, ªirul poetilor de dupã mine se stinge hãt dupa orizont ªi tu nu esti ultimul porc Ce aþine calea unui poet. Uite, a mai cazut o stea - S-a mai dus un poet, A mai cãzut o ghindã - Se mai ingraºã un porc. |
Originally Posted by ogto:
:o  |
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door- Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door;- Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"- Merely this, and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice: Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore- Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;- 'Tis the wind and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door- Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door- Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered- Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before- On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore- Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never- nevermore'." But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted- On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore- Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted- nevermore! |
jackpot, de unde le scoti? tu personal ai avut rabdare sa citesti poezia asta? :lol:
pune si tu niste haiku-uri, sa intelegem si noi o treaba... |
eu le fac crede-ma..... am o muza care ma inspira...
|
bine, bine... ai o (mai)muza.... :P
|
....da, dar pe aia o am inchiriat-o la ZOO si impart profitul cu ei...
iar din banii astia imi platesc muza... cateodata "ma inspira" si ... gratis. |
Originally Posted by jackpot:
|
Pai am fost veri primari cu Eminescu, umblam amandoi la Veronica Micle, numai ca eu m-am "pastrat"...
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree? |
In sine, nu e räu, atâta numai cä prinseserä cheag si se perpetuaserä topicurile "Lyrics" - pentru versuri citate - si "Ars Poetica" - pentru compozitiile noastre proprii.
Lasä, bine cä mai traduce cineva si Eminescu. Iatä varianta Levitchi: First Epistle When, at night, with drooping eyelids, I blow out the candles flare, Time's unending path is followed only by the old clock there; For just draw aside the curtains and the moon will flood the room With a fire of passions summoned by the ardours of her gloom; From the night of recollection she will resurrect an eon Of distress - which we, however, sense as in a dreamlike paean. Moon, arch-mistress of the ocean, you glide o'er the planet's sphere, You give light to thoughts unthought -of and eclipse sorrow and fear; Oh, how many derserts glimmer under your soft virgin light And how many woods o'ershadow brooks and rivers burning bright! Legion is the name of billows you dispose of as you please, When you sail upon the ever restless solitude of seas; Of resplendent climes, of gardens, palaces and castles old, Which you impregnate with magic and to your own view unfold; of the dwellings that you enter tiptoe by the window-pane To gaze thoughtfully at foreheads that so many thoughts enchain! A king's plans enmesh the planet for a century or more, While the pauper hardly thinks of what his morrow has in store. Though the dice of Fate have to them meted different rungs and ways, Both submit to the same biddings of Death's genius and her rays; Be they weak or be they mighty, unintelligent or clever. All do minister to passions and their bondsmen are forever. One is looking for the mirror, purposing to curl his mane, One - for truth, hoping to find it in the space and time mundane. From the yellow leaves he gathers relics of forgotten lore Whose short-living Latin labels he will tally on the score. One divides up the whole Terra at the counter of his stall, Checking how much gold the oceans bear in their ships black and tall. Over there an aged teacher, with his elbows jutting out Through the threadbare jacket, reckons and the sums cause him to pout. Shivering with cold he buttons his old dressing-gown austere, Thrusts his neck into the collar and the cotton in his ear. Skinny as he is and hunch-backed, a most wretched ne'er-do-well, He has in his little finger all the world, heaven and hell; For behind his brow are looming both the future and the past, And eternity's thick darkness hell' unravel at long last. As, of old, mythical Atlas propped the skies upon his shoulder, He props universe and Chronos in a number - which is bolder... While the moon is shining over mouldy books-stacks penned by sages Thinking takes him back through thousands upon thousands of hoar ages To the very first, when being and non-being were nought still, When there was but utter absence of both life-impulse and will, When unopen there was nothing, although everything was hidden,' When, by His own self pervaded, resting lay the Allforbidden. Was it an abyss? a chasm? wat'ry plains without an end? There was no estate of wisdom, nor a mind to comprehend. For the darkness was as solid as is still the shadows' ocean, And no eyes, had there been any, could have formed of it a notion. Of the unmade things the shadows had not yet begun to gleam And, with its own self-contented, peace eternal reigned supreme. Suddenly, a dot starts moving - the primeval, lonely Other... It becomes the father potent, of the void it makes the mother. Weaker than a drop of water, this small dot that moves and bounds Is the unrestricted ruler of the world's unbounded bounds. Ever since the vasty dimness has been splitting slice by slice, Ever since come into being earth, sun, moon, light, heat, and ice. Ever since up to the present gallaxies of planets lost Follow up mysterious courses, chaos-bred and chaos-tossed, And in endlessness begotten, endless swarms of light are thronging Towards life, for ever driven by an infinite of longing; And in this great world, we, children of a world grotesquely small, Raise upon our tiny planet anthills to o'ertop the All, Lilliputian kings and peoples, soldiers, unread, erudite, We engender generations, reckoning ourselves full bright! One-day moths upon a mudball measeurable with the chip, We rotate in the great vastness and forget 'twixt cup and lip That this world is really nothing but a moment caught in light, That behind, or else before it, all that one can see is night. Just like whirls of dust and powder thousands of live granules play In a glorious ray's dominion and pass over with the ray. Thus against the never-failing night of time without a bound, The spontaneous ray, the moment, still fails not to go the round; When it dies, all dies - like shadows melting in the murky distance For the universe chimeric is a dream of non-existence. Nowadays a thinker's judgement is restricted by no tether; He projects it in a moment over centuries together. To his eye the sun all-glorious is a red orb wrapt in shrouds, Closing like a bleeding ulcer among all-darkening clouds, He sees how the heavenly bodies in vast spaces freeze and run, Rebels that have torn the fetters of the dazzling light and sun; And, behold, the world's foundation is now blackened to the core, And the stars, like leaves in autumn, flicker out and are no more, Lifeless Time distends his body and becomes endless duration, Because nothing ever happens in the boundless desolation; In the night of non-existence all is crumbled, all are slain, And, in keeping with its nature, peace eternal reigns again. *** Starting with the very bottom of the busy human hive And ascending on the ladder to the mightiest kings alive, Everybody by the riddle of his being is obsessed, But, alas, there is no telling which of them is more unblest. In each one there is a woman, in each one there is a man, And above all other people only risses he who can, While the rest, in darkness keeping, every one a fearful gnome, Lose themselves in utter secret, like the never-sighted foam. Much, indeed, will blind Fate notice what they do, or think or know! Over human life it passes like the wind, blow after blow. Let the writers laud his merits, let the world cry out "Allhail!" To the aged teacher, really, is all this of much avail? He will be - perhaps - immortal. His life clung, we must agree, To a single great idea, like the ivy to a tree. "If I die", he says pro sibi, "centuries may come and go, For my name shall be remembered and to time shall ever grow. Everywhere and in all ages, with my name on titles signed, Shall my writings find a shelter in the corners of some mind." Oh, poor soul! Can you remember what you've heard the million say? What has come around you, what yourself have talked away? Much too little. Here you've noted of some imagery a strip, There the shred of an idea, there the scribble on a scrip; Well then, if your own existence was a mystery to you, Why should others rack their five wits and its secrecy undo? After centuries a green-eyed pedant, squeezed by shelf on shelf Of dilapidated volumes, stooping - an old crock himself - , Will appraise the atticism of your language and your style, Blow from his worn-out eye-glasses the dust raised by your wise pile, And compress you to a sentence, carrying you off the stage By some ignominious footnote that winds up a silly page. You may build a world, or wreck it, but, whatever you would say, Everything at last is buried under shovelfuls of clay. Hands that coveted the sceptre of the universe, ideals That would scan the whole creation, find their size in four fir-deals. The procession queues behind you in the old funeral wise, Splendid as a walking sarcasm gazing with indifferent eyes. High above the rest, a pygmy will then set out to discourse, Not to emphasize your merits but to praise his own, of course; For your name is just a pretext. That is all you can expect. The succeeding generations are, well, even more "correct". Failing to attain your compass, will they show their admiration? Sure, they will applaud the slender biographical narration Which attempts to prove that never have you been a man that mattered, That you were just like the others. Everybody is much flattered If you are not his superior. Everybody will be able To dilate his stupid nostrils at a scholars' council-table When your person is his topic. He projected long ago With ironical grimaces to extol you high and low. In this way you will be playing into everybody's hands; He will say that all is wicked who but little understands... Furthermore, they will endeavour to anatomize your morals, To find blemishes and mischiefs, petty scandals, petty quarrels, - All of which will surely draw you nearer to them. Not the light You have to the world imparted, but your sins, your guilt, your spite, Tiredness, ill-health, or weakness, anything that is unworth And is fatally inherent in a mortal lump of earth. All the pretty smarts and worries of a much tormented mind Will attract them more than any plans you have ever designed. *** Among walls, and trees, and blossoms that are falling white and tender, How the full moon is diffusing her own calm and radiant splendour! From the night of recollection myriads of longings beam And their pain is mitigated' we feel them as in a dream, For she opens wide the entrance to our inner world of doubt, Conjuring a host of shadows when the candlelight is out. Oh, how many deserts glimmer under your soft virgin light, And how many woods o'ershadow brooks and rivers burning bright! Legion is the name of billows you dispose of as you please, When you sail over the ever restless solitude of seas; And all those who in their lifetime are subjected to Fate's ways Must submit to the same biddings of Death's genius and your rays! (Translated by Leon Levitchi) |
Si una nesemnatä...
SATIRE I When my eyes are weighed with sleep I quench the evening candle’s glow And leave the ticking clock alone the path of time to go When from my square of window-pane I draw the curtain to one side The climbing moon pours in and floods the room with her voluptuous light; Then from the night of memory in answer to her summons steal An endless host of sorrows pale that we have lived but now scarce feel. Moon, fair ruler of the sea, over the sky’s round vault you glide, The sight of you recalls the grief's that locked within man’s bosom bide; Beneath thy virgin glow are there a thousand deserts glittering, And thousand forest shades conceal the wells from which their waters spring! Over how many million waves extends thy timeless empery When on your way you sail above the lonely wonder of the sea! How many flowers besprinkled fields, how many a walled and peopled place Have known your proud despotic charm when they but looked upon your face! Into how many thousand rooms you peered as now in mine you peer, How many thousands brows has lit the flooded glory of thy sphere! I see a king sit down to plot earth’s destiny for endless days While here the trembling beggar-man plans for the morrow scarcely lays... Different the lots these twain have drawn out the secret urn of fate Alike they fall beneath thy sway, alike inherit death’s estate; What’re they be they come alike under human passions’ rule, So as the weak man is the strong, so as the genius is the fool. One searches on the mirror’s face a novel way to curl his hair, Another roves through time and space to track truth to her hidden lair, Pilling endless loads of lore from ancient learning's yellow page And nothing down the thoughts and names that sped across some bygone age. Another from his counting house controls a nation’s destinies And figures gold his ships have brought across a score of troubled seas. And here the old philosopher, his coatis torn, and does a web of logic spin. Shivering with cold he buttons up his torn and ragged gown, Turns up the collar round his neck, presses his cotton ear-plugs down; Dried up and twisted as he is, of no importance does he stand And yet he holds the universe within the ambit of his hand; Within the confine of his brain the future and the past unite And with his science he lays bare the secrets of eternal night. As Atlas was of old declared to bear the sky upon his back, So does our philosopher the world within a cipher tack. The moon looks in and sheds its beams a pile of ancient books upon, He sets his mind to roving back across a thousand ages gone Into the time are things began, when being and not being still Did not exist to plague man’s mind, and there was neither life nor will, When there was nothing that was hid, yet all things darkly hidden were, When self-contained was uncontained and all was slumber everywhere. Was there a heavenly abyss? Or yet unfathomable sea? There was no mind to contemplate an uncreated mystery. Then was the darkness all so black as seas that roll deep in the earth, As black as blinded mortal eye, and no man yet had come to birth, The shadow of the still unmade did not its silver threads unfold, And over an unending peace unbroken empty silence rolled!... Then something small in chaos stirred... the very first and primal cause. And God the Father married space and placed upon confusion laws. That moving something, small and light, less than a bubble of sea spray, Established through the universe eternal and unquestionable sway... And from that hour the timeless mists draw back their dark and hanging folds. And law in earth and sun and moon essential form and order moulds. After that day in endless swarms countless flying worlds have come Out of the soundless depth of space, each drawn towards its unknown home, Have come in shining colonies rising from out infinity, Attracted to the universe by strange and restless urge to be, while we, inheritors of space, the children of this world of awe, Are raising witless heaps of sand upon our little earthy floor; Microscopic nations rise with warrior and king and seer, Throughout the years our fortunes wax, until we have forgotten fear. We, flies, that for a single day buzz in a measured world and small, Suspended in the midst of time, careless and forgetting all That this frail world in which we trust is only flung momentarily between the darkness that is past and all the darkness yet to be. Just as the motes of dust enjoy their kingdom in the lamplight’s ray, Thousands specks that are no more when once that beam has passed away So, in the midst of endless night, we have our little time to spend, Our moment snatched from chaos, which did not yet come to an end. But when our beam at last goes out, our world will suddenly disperse Amidst the dark that ever hangs around this whirling universe. Yet not within the present day stays the philosopher’s quick thought; One cast of that far-ranging brain a hundred eons of time has caught. He sees grow small and red and cold the sun that now burns high and proud, And at last he sees it die closing like a wound stabbed in a cloud. He sees the rebel planets freeze and headlong plunge about in space Freed from the ordering of the sun who deep in night has veiled his face. While o’er earth’s altar like a veil eternity its darkness weaves And one by one pale, faded stars are failing like the autumn leaves. The body of the universe is stiffened to eternal death And through the emptiness of space is neither movement, life nor breath. All falls into not being’s night and an unbroken silence reigns As once again the universe its primal peace and void regains... .................................................. ....................... Commencing with the multitude that swarms uncounted on the ground And rising to the palace where the Emperor sits with glory crowned, All are as one, and each is by riddle of his life pursued, And none can say which man of them is most with misery endued, For unto all comes each man’s lot, to all the fate of each applies. Little it aids if one of them above his class succeeds to rise While all the others stay below and gaze on him humble hearts, For he and they are all unknown, playing the same ephemeral parts. What reckons fate of their desires, what they would have, or do, or be? Fate rides as blindly o’er their lives as does the wind across the sea. Now writers out of every land and all the world high plaudits raise... What cares the old philosopher? And what to him is all men’s praise? Immortality, people will say! True, all his hard lived days were spent In clinging to a single thought, as ivy round a tree is bent. “After I die,” he tells himself, “my name will live to endless time, From age to age, from mouth to mouth, and carried to the farthest clime, Unto the farthest realms of earth, and to the world’s remotest mind’ Behind the rampart of my works may not my name a refuge find?’ Poor soul ! Do you yourself retain everything that passed your head? All the dreams that you have dreamed, all the words that you have said? Little enough: but here there some of images, some bit Of tattered thought, some phrase, some scrap of yellow paper closely writ. If you forget the life you had, the things that you have done and seen, With other men spend fruitless days discovering how it must have been? Perhaps somewhere in days to come, some green-eyed pedant’s gaze will fall Upon a pile of faded books, himself more faded than them all, To scan the wonder of your words and weigh them in his niggard scale, While from their bindings dust will rise and on his glasses spread a veil. Then will he place your works in rows upon his shelves and summaries Upon a ragged paper slip; he’ll write of your philosophies. Though you create or sink a world, one end there is to all your toil, For over you and all your works a spade will heap a mound of soil. An emperor’s head, or one in which a world of wisdom has been stored Finds ample room within a box composed of four short bits of board.... And all will hasten to attend the honoured funeral you will get, Splendid in their irony, with posturing of feigned regret ... And from some carven pulpit tall a nobody will glibly prate; Not for your honour will he speak, but on his own great gifts dilate Under the shadow of your name: a windy, pompous, empty speech. Posterity? What is it but a phantom far beyond your reach! For who should dream posterity will ever think to talk of you, Except perhaps in some small tone written with grudging words and few, Compiled by some old soulless scribe to prove that you were common clay, A man like any one of them. For fully satisfied are they To prove you even as themselves. Their learned nostrils wide extending Dilated with a splendid pride, when at some learned meeting’s ending Your name pedantically is used, knowing beforehand there will be, Uttered by ironic mouth, some gilded word in praise of thee. Fallen among these wolfish fools your glory will be torn to shreds, While all that is not understood will be decried by wagging heads. Then they will probe your private life, dissecting that, discounting this, And searching out with eager eyes each little thing you’ve done amiss, To make you even as themselves. They will not care for all the light Your labour poured upon the world, but for the sins and every slight And human failing they can find, and every petty thing that must Befall the life of hapless days, of every mortal child of dust. And every little misery that harassed a tormented mind Will seem more notable to them than all the truths that you did find. .................................................. ......................... Within a garden’s closing walls, where fruit-tree blossom strews the ground, And over which the full moon sails with all her shining splendour crowned, Out of the depth of memory’s night countless hidden longings rise; Pain is benumbed as in sleep, we see the world with dreamer’s eyes, For in the calm light of the moon fancy’s gates are open wide And all around us phantoms creep after the candle light has died.... Beneath thy virgin glow, o moon, are thousand deserts glittering And thousand forest shades conceal the wells from which their waters spring! Over how many million waves extends thy timeless empery When on your way you sail above the lonely wonder of the sea! All who sojourn on this earth, within the iron realm of fate, Alike are subject to thy sway, alike inherit death’s estate! |
Buricul Pamintului- Ultima zi cu fata de om
Mai am o zi Doar o zi O ultima zi Cu fata de om Azi vreau sa fac Tot ce n-am facut Pana acum, intr-o viata de om : Vreau sa umblu gol ! Vreau sa deranjez ! Vreau sa ma ofer Gratis tuturor! Azi nu sunt actor, Azi nu sunt actor ! Astazi nu fac bani ..cu fata de om... In ultima zi Cu fata de om As vrea sa am Un rosu buton ! S-apas, apas, Sa va scap De toti care nu va plac .. Cei care te mint, Te fura, te fac Din om neom Si sclav si sarac ! Azi nu zic pardon! Azi nu zic pardon! Celor ce au.. DOAR fata de om? Azi nu sunt al tau , Azi nu mai cersesc Sarutul banal Azi NU te iubesc ! Azi nu te aud ! Azi dorm cat vreau ! Azi sunt doar al meu ! Astazi doar stau ! Astazi comentez ! Azi nu-mi iau bilet ! Astazi evadez ! Astazi nu iert ! Azi n-am nici un rol ! Azi n-am nici un rol ! E doar ultima zi cu fata de om ... ... Vreau doar o zi (x3) Cu fata de om ! Vreau doar o zi (x2) O ultima zi Cu fata de om ! |
Poezie?!
Uitare
Mi-am lãsat agrafa de pãr, rujul ºi apa de parfum pe noptiera ta, iubite, într-o clipã ruptã din aripa timpului trecut, binecuvîntat cu uitare. Sã nu mã mai cauþi nici dacã-þi cere clepsidra doar o ultimã întoarcere. |
da' diafragma nu ti-ai uitat-o?
sinistra poezie :sick: |
sunt uimit de faptul ca asa un topic poate sa se intinda pe atatia ani.se vede ca romanul s-a nascut poet...
|
Ana Blandiana
singuratatea e un oras in care ceilalti au murit, strazile sunt curate, pietele goale, totul se vede deodata dilatat in pustiul atat de limpede sortit. singuratatea e un oras in care ninge enorm si nici un pas nu profaneaza lumina depusa in straturi, si numai tu, ochiul treaz deschis peste cei care dorm, privesti, si-ntelegi, si nu te mai saturi de-atata tacere si neprihana in care nimeni nu lupta si nu e mintit, unde-i prea clara ca sa mai doara pana si lacrima de animal parasit. in valea dintre suferinta si moarte singuratatea e un oras fericit. |
Rãspuns lui Bogie
Originally Posted by Guru Bogie:
Bogie (guru?!), Aº dori sã îþi rãspund prin douã întrebãri: 1, Ce este aceea "diafragmã"? 2, Poezia nu afirmã cã eroina ar fi "uitat" ceva, ci cã a "lãsat" (înadins). Dacã iubitul eroinei a înþeles mesajul acestor mici obiecte tot ca tine, atunci chiar cã trogloditul n-o mai meritã! |
http://www.seximus.ro/articole/diafragma.php
si la faza cu trogloditul.....Hã-Hã-Hã |
Pe data de 15 ianuarie 2007 s`a adus un omagiu celui mai mare poet roman, poetul nostru national Mihai Eminescu!La Iasi s`a organizat un concurs de interpretari si coruri cu copii de la liceele si scolile din orasul respectiv, spectacol intitulat "Floarea Albastra"!Copiii s`au descurcat foarte frumos si au lasat o impresie juriului si spectatorilor!Concursul are loc in fiecare an la ateneul din Iasi!
Mihai Eminescu inseamna mult pentru noi desi multa lume nu ofera interesul meritat acestei zile care ar fi trebuit sa fie sarbatorita si traita! |
lasati-l pe Eminescu macar un an. faceti o pauza. cititi in liniste, in intimitate, nu frecventati spectacolele kitsch...
dar n-are el norocul asta... |
Crede`ma ca nu eu am zis`o ci multi critici care cred eu cunosc poezia mult mai bine ca noi...apreciaza,critica,si in final publica idei.Idei dupa care mai toti elevii sunt invatati!Ca s`a organizat un astfel de concurs cred k este unul din multele motive pentru care multi il numesc poetul national!Cel putin asa se zice in unele sau majoritatea criticilor.La urma urmei cititorul are cuvantul si parerea ii apartine...insa eu asa stiam!
De ce sa nu poti numi pe cineva cel mai mare artist?Pai ai raspuns singur la intrebare "majoritatea adminte acest lucru" si nu e "simplu motiv".Faptul ca majoritatea decide zice totul, astfel cum ai putea cataloga un artist...ex:Britney Spears - printesa popului, Beyonce - printesa r&b`ului pe langa multe soliste au fost eclipsate de ele, cu tot cu contributia lor la acel "domeniu"...sau, de ce nu, o echipa de fotbal...de ce li se mai zice la galactici galactici?Au avut rezultate foarte bune insa nu au fost cursivi, a venit alta echipa cu rezultatea mai bune, de ce nu li se zice lor galactici? Ce vreau sa zic e ca majoritatea decide si Eminescu a fost numit de multi poetul nostru national, nu numai de mine, nu credeam ca nu ai mai auzit.In fine, tu ai parerea ta.Care insulta si care contributie?Nu el a fost cel care a pus bazele limbajului poetic romanesc? :huh: |
1.Problema ta dak te iei dupa critici sau dupa altii.Cu toate astea nimeni nu iti poate schimba parerea.Insa e important si ce cred ei...adik ii respect mai mult pe ei decat, de ex, pe tine(no offence)(legat de Eminescu)
2.Adik decat tine nu?Da, recunosc, stiu mai multa ca mine si ca multi altii...insa nu "concuram" care stie mai multa poezie si care mai putina. 3.Cand am zis ca citittorul are cuvantul ma refeream la faptul ca tine cont numai de propriai parere."La urma urmei ce e important este sa iti placa".(placa - impresia ta despre acel lucru ne tinand cont de ce se vb) 4.Dak erai atent ai fi vazut ca ma refeream strict la exemplele care le`am dat mai sus...Nu am zis niciodata ca arta este un concurs sau orice legat de asa ceva. 5.Imi pare rau ca te dezamagesc :) Ele --> celelalte!Hmm...eu stiam ca faptul ca majoritatea are "gust comun" adik aceeasi parere despre un artitst automat este desemnat "cel mai bun"!Ex:Best male performance-->And the winner is.....Anul care vine ia acelasi premiu acelasi artist si lumea incepe, dak nu incepuse, sa zica despre nu-stiu-cine ca este cel mai bun!Pentru ca la asta ne gandim cand zicem ca el/ea este cel mai bun, pentru ca ne place tot legat de el...cum joaca, canta, gandeste etc. 6."Chestia" cu fotbalul poate intra in discutie, asa cum intra in discutie exemplele date de tine.Cei care nu practica, sau la care nu le place fotbalul zic despre fotbal ca nu este o arta insa cei care il practica, traiesc si il urmaresc pot zice ca pentru ei fotbalul este o arta asa cum zici tu ca poezia este o arta, ei(cei care cred in fotbal) spun despre poezie ca nu este o arta...sa fie oare inculti doar ca nu admit acelasi lucru ca altii?Pareri pareri si iar pareri. Nici prin cap nu mi`a trecut ca te gandesti la asa ceva... si nici nu ma simt ofensat de nimic stai linistit.Imi place sa discut...e normal sa existe pareri...pro si contra! 7.Eu asa stiam...ceva nou...merci! :) |
Deci, uite, Maro Dragä.
Aicea e de tine! (Dincolo, pui numai ce-ai comis tu însusi! ;) ) |
va place Dr. Seuss? Dar Tim Burton? :D
Ce-ati zice de o poezie despre viata, pentru copii? Haideti, ca nu e grea, chiar daca e lungutza! Oh, the Places You'll Go! Congratulations! Today is your day. You're off to Great Places! You're off and away! You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You're on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the guy who'll decide where to go. You'll look up and down streets. Look 'em over with care. About some you will say, "I don't choose to go there." With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet, you're too smart to go down any not-so-good street. And you may not find any you'll want to go down. In that case, of course, you'll head straight out of town. It's opener there in the wide open air. Out there things can happen and frequently do to people as brainy and footsy as you. And when things start to happen, don't worry. Don't stew. Just go right along. You'll start happening too. OH! THE PLACES YOU'LL GO! You'll be on your way up! You'll be seeing great sights! You'll join the high fliers who soar to high heights. You won't lag behind, because you'll have the speed. You'll pass the whole gang and you'll soon take the lead. Wherever you fly, you'll be the best of the best. Wherever you go, you will top all the rest. Except when you don' t Because, sometimes, you won't. I'm sorry to say so but, sadly, it's true and Hang-ups can happen to you. You can get all hung up in a prickle-ly perch. And your gang will fly on. You'll be left in a Lurch. You'll come down from the Lurch with an unpleasant bump. And the chances are, then, that you'll be in a Slump. And when you're in a Slump, you're not in for much fun. Un-slumping yourself is not easily done. You will come to a place where the streets are not marked. Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked. A place you could sprain both you elbow and chin! Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in? How much can you lose? How much can you win? And IF you go in, should you turn left or right... or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite? Or go around back and sneak in from behind? Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find, for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind. You can get so confused that you'll start in to race down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space, headed, I fear, toward a most useless place. The Waiting Place... ...for people just waiting. Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or a plane to go or the mail to come, or the rain to go or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or a No or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting. Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite or waiting around for Friday night or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil, or a Better Break or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants or a wig with curls, or Another Chance. Everyone is just waiting. NO! That's not for you! Somehow you'll escape all that waiting and staying. You'll find the bright places where Boom Bands are playing. With banner flip-flapping, once more you'll ride high! Ready for anything under the sky. Ready because you're that kind of a guy! Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done! There are points to be scored. there are games to be won. And the magical things you can do with that ball will make you the winning-est winner of all. Fame! You'll be famous as famous can be, with the whole wide world watching you win on TV. Except when they don't. Because, sometimes, they won't. I'm afraid that some times you'll play lonely games too. Games you can't win 'cause you'll play against you. All Alone! Whether you like it or not, Alone will be something you'll be quite a lot. And when you're alone, there's a very good chance you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants. There are some, down the road between hither and yon, that can scare you so much you won't want to go on. But on you will go though the weather be foul On you will go though your enemies prowl On you will go though the Hakken-Kraks howl Onward up many a frightening creek, though your arms may get sore and your sneakers may leak. On and on you will hike and I know you'll hike far and face up to your problems whatever they are. You'll get mixed up, of course, as you already know. You'll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go. So be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact and remember that Life's a Great Balancing Act. Just never forget to be dexterous and deft. And never mix up your right foot with your left. And will you succeed? Yes! You will, indeed! (98 and 3 / 4 percent guaranteed.) KID, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS! So... be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea, you're off to Great Places! Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting. So...get on your way! ---Dr. Seuss |
mutat aci de nu-mai-stiu-unde pentru ca deranja un numai-stiu-ce-neica-nimeni. de unde se trage concluzia ca poeziile sunt cel putin la fel de daunatoare ca bombele antipersonal, drept dovada marea de "mutilati".
Illo - Poate ar fi fost mai indicata o poezie in limba sa materna, spaniola. cu toate ca bantuit si prin America, cica tipul a fost incapabil sa invete engleza. nu-l condamn. de pe un site de poezie am ales asta. Deseo Sólo tu corazón caliente, Y nada más. Mi para�*so, un campo Sin ruiseñor Ni liras, Con un r�*o discreto Y una fuentecilla. Sin la espuela del viento Sobre la fronda, Ni la estrella que quiere Ser hoja. Una enorme luz Que fuera Luciérnaga De otra, En un campo de Miradas rotas. Un reposo claro Y all�* nuestros besos, Lunares sonoros Del eco, Se abrir�*an muy lejos. Y tu corazón caliente, Nada más. (Federico Garcia-Lorca ) |
Omar Khayam - poetul pentru care a trebuit sa cumpar 11 neinteresante carti pentru ajunge sa-i citesc Rubayatele. a meritat.
Autoportret Un om prin lume trece. El nu e musulman. Nici infidel nu este. Nu crede-n legi ºi zei. Nu neagã, nu afirmã. Dar vezi în ochii sãi Cã nimenea nu este mai trist ºi mai uman. Nu mi-am fãcut vreodatã din rugi ºirag de perle Ca sã-mi ascund noianul pãcatelor cu ele. Nu ºtiu dacã existã o Milã sau Dreptate, Dar totuºi nu mi-e teamã: curat am fost în toate. Mã dojeniþi cã veºnic sunt beat. Ei bine, sunt! Necredincios mã faceþi. ªi ce dacã-i aºa? Puteþi orice sã spuneþi pe socoteala mea. Îmi aparþin. Pricepeþi? ªi sunt ceea ce sunt! Avui vestiþi maeºtri. Fãcusem mari progrese. Cînd mi-amintesc savantul ce-am fost, azi îl compar Cu apa ce ia forma impusã de pahar ªi fumu-n care vîntul nãluci ciudate þese. Cu-o mînã þin Coranul ºi cupa cu cealaltã. Sunt cînd de partea legii, cînd muºc din fruct oprit. Aºa mã ºtie zilnic cupola cea înaltã: Nici infidel cu totul, nici musulman smerit. Virtuþile sã-mi numeri doar una câte una. Pãcatele îmi iartã cu sutele, cu mia. Nici vântul nu-þi aþâþe, nici aerul mânia. Tu ºtii: curat ºi sincer am fost întotdeauna. Cãtat-am horoscopul în a iubirii carte, ªi-un înþelept strigat-a: „A fericirii parte Aceasta este: - o fatã ca luna argintie ªi-o noapte care þine un an cât o vecie". Nu pot sã fac deosebire între capcanã ºi momealã. Un sfat mã-mpinge spre moscheie, iar altu-mi umple cupa goalã. ªi totuºi vinul ºi cu mine ºi draga-n ceasuri de iubire, Mai bine fripþi într-o tavernã decât cruzi într-o mãnãstire. (Omar Khayam) http://www.aol.ro/2000/01/galerie/kayyam.htm |
una dintre preferatele mele
Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl! ASLEEP! O sleep a little while, white pearl! And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee, And let me call Heaven’s blessing on thine eyes, And let me breathe into the happy air, That doth enfold and touch thee all about, 5 Vows of my slavery, my giving up, My sudden adoration, my great love! john keats |
si as mai vrea sa adaug fapul ca sunt intru totul de acord cu acest topic pt poezie...chiar era nevoie de unul p aici :)
|
Singurãtatea omului
Sã-þi faci puþini prieteni. Din tine nu ieºi. Cãci prea des falsitatea credinþa ne-o înfrânge. Când þi se-ntinde-o mânã, 'nainte de-a o strânge, Gândeºte-te cã poate te va lovi-ntr-o zi. Sã nu-þi dezvãlui taina din suflet celor rãi. Nãdejdile, - ascunse sã-þi stea de lumea toatã. În zâmbet sã te ferici de toþi semenii tãi, Nebunilor nu spune durerea niciodatã. O, tânãr fãrã prieteni mai vechi de douã zile, Nu te-ngriji de Cerul cu-naltele-i feºtile! Puþinul sã-þi ajungã, ºi zãvorât în tine, Tãcut contemplã jocul umanelor destine. Pe cei curaþi la suflet ºi luminaþi la minte Neîncetat sã-i cauþi. ªi fugi de tonþi ºi rãi. Dacã-þi va da otravã un înþelept, s-o bei - ªi-aruncã antidotul, un prost de þi-l întinde. Renume de-ai sã capeþi, hulit vei fi de vulg. Dar dacã te vei þine departe de mulþime, Uneltitor te-or crede. Cum, Doamne, sã mã smulg, Sã nu mã ºtie nimeni ºi sã nu ºtiu de nime? Mai toarnã-mi vinul roºu ca un obraz de fatã. Curatul sânge scoate-l din gâturi de ulcioare. Cãci, în afara cupe-i, Khayyām azi nu mai are Mãcar un singur prieten cu inima curatã. Cel care are pâine de astãzi pânã mâine ªi-un strop de apã rece în ciobul sãu frumos, De ce-ar sluji pe-un altul ce-i este mai prejos? De ce sã fie sclavul unui egal cu sine? Când zãrile din suflet ni-s singura avere, Pãstreazã-le în tainã, ascundele-n tãcere. Atât timp cât þi-s limpezi ºi vãz, ºi-auz, ºi grai - Nici ochi ºi nici ureche, nici limbã sã nu ai. Nu ºtie nimeni taina ascunsã sus sau jos. ªi nici un ochi nu vede dincolo de cortinã. Strãini suntem oriunde. Ni-i casa în þãrânã. Bea - ºi terminã-odatã cu vorbe de prisos! Târzii acum mi-s anii. lubirea pentru tine Mi-a pus în mânã cupa cu degetele-i fine. Tu mi-ai ucis cãinþa ºi mintea îngereºte. -Dar timpul, fãrã milã - ºi roza desfrunzeºte… Puþinã apã ºi puþinã pâine ªi ochii tãi în umbra parfumatã. N-a fost sultan mai fericit vreodatã ªi nici un cerºetor mai trist ca mine Atâta duioºie la început. De ce? Atâtea dulci alinturi ºi-atâtea farmece În ochi, în glas, în gesturi - apoi. De ce? ªi-acum De ce sunt toate urã ºi lacrimã ºi fum? Bãtrân sunt, dar iubirea m-a prins iar în capcanã. Acum buzele tale îmi sunt ºi vin ºi canã. Mi-ai umilit mândria ºi biata raþiune, Mi-ai sfâºiat vestmântul cusut de-nþelepciune. Tu vezi doar aparenþe. Un vãl ascunde firea. Tu ºtii de mult aceasta. Dar inima, firava, Tot vrea sã mai iubeascã. Cãci ni s-a dat iubirea Aºa cum unor plante le-a dat Allah otrava. (Omar Khayam) |
alta poezie ce imi place:
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. 2 Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 3 Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. john keats |
Originally Posted by yssis:
|
nu am traducerea...dar voi pune si poezi in romana :)
|
Originally Posted by yssis:
Cine are curaj de un Emil Brumaru sau Miron Radu Paraschivescu. :P |
eu, Pauline...
...si Brumaru, si Paraschivescu ! |
Originally Posted by nibo:
Dar eu ma refeream la poeziile acelea licentioase,obscene,explicite... :oops: :oops: :oops: Bineinteles ca au si poezii...decente,dar insipide.Glumesc. |
se pare ca ne-am inteles ca-n ...tren !
eu asteptam de la tine... |
Intr- noapte,
m-am trezit privind cerul, Cineva aprinsese luminile stelelor, in candelabrele unui templu. Eram singura si sub pasi mei dalele de marmura starneau ecoul. Patrunsesem fara sa stiu, intr-un palat cu coloane nevazute. Atunci m-a cuprins teama si am strigat:Unde sunt? si mi s-a raspuns:In lume! (RASARIT-MARIANA DRAGAN IONITA) |
CANTEC MISOGIN
(Celestialei Porcutza Satannici) Toate femeile`s putori, Se fut in cur si sug la pule Si`apoi pasesc asa fudule, Parca plutind cu capu`n nori. Au izuri iuti la subsuori Si`n par parfum de campanule, Si cand vorbesc soptit fac bule Cu "Te iubesc in veci.Te`ador". De`aceea noi,curtenitori, Le mirosim la craci si nu le Jignim in pizde cu`n cotor De morcov,nici cu barabule, Ci le bagam incetisor Cozi de ciocan,stoiuri de mule, Sau sceptrul vreunui domnitor, Pan` ce`atipesc,moi si satule... P.S. Ghiciti autorul ! |
Brumaru.P-asta n-o stiam.Mor de ras.
|
hey...adaug si eu un poem kre mi s-a parut bunicel...
Soldati copii Se aud mishcari de trupe in noaptea lichida Unde cel mai mic zgomot e`n stare sa ucida Viata ascude un copil jucandu`se cu moartea Crescut fortat pentru a deveni soldat Pentru a fi impushcat, uitat, abandonat, neonorat. Nefericitul s-a nascut combatant luptator In razboiu-n care, nimeni nu-i invingator. Numaratoarea inversa se apropie de zero Si sub zero grade Celsius se ascud ganduri Negre de la Nero. Copilaria distrusa de tancuri-jucarii Se reconstruieste castel de nisip In memoria soldatilor-copii. Vor razbuna... Cei care le`au omorat in bataie zanele Si le`au lipit pe arme mainile, Naruinde-le sperantele si spulberandu-le visele. Mishcarile de trupe ale noptii lichide Se sting usor, ramanand neclintite Armele lipite, pe corpurile deja de mult timp adormite. In noaptea cea mare, durerea nu moare, Caci moartea doare doar pentru cei ce raman in picioare. Razbunarea-i la randul ei mare, Caci strigatul mortii in noapte tresare. astfel, tacerea noptii dispare Mihai Jitianu,Soldati copii :D |
Întrebare
Adanca-i noaptea, orele profunde... Gemand, spre raftul cartilor mã-ndrum si-ntreb în soapta fiece volum: -Tu esti? Si cartea fuge si se-ascunde. Plangand, intreb portretul ei acum: -Tu esti? Si nici iubita nu-mi raspunde. Imi umplu cupa-n vin sã mã scufunde, intreb: -Tu esti? Si cupa piere-n fum. Si-ntreb si spada mea: -Tu esti? Si tace. Si, cum mã prabusesc în jilt, infrant, din zid o umbra alba se desface... Mã-ntorc spre ea cu sange în cuvant si-n ochii lui Iisus e numai pace. Intreb: -Tu esti? Si umbra spune: -Sant. (Radu Gyr) |
pt tamara & dragomara
Elogiul candorii Stiu sa intreb Despre miei, despre flori. Odata-ntr-o padure Am sarutat un izvor. Stiu ce uimita-i Culoarea albastra. Am o gradina Si o fereastra. Mai am si o carte Foarte subtire In care nu-ncape Decat o iubire. Pot sa-mi iau locul Langa tine, pe stea ? - Da, spuse printul Esti prietena mea. (Nina Cassian) |
| All times are GMT +2. The time now is 15:29. |
Powered by vBulletin - Copyright ©2000 - 2025, Jelsoft Enterprises Ltd.