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.

Eshti demn de admirat ... dar in acelashi timp ai shi "timp" sa scrii. Ce n-ash da sa mai am shi eu timp sa scriu.

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
 

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! :)