Poezia
 

.din moment ce avem si o chestie numita "lyrics" ma gindeam ca ar fi cel putin normal daca nu chiar foarte indicat sa avem si un topic pentru poezie.Asa ca...
(vorba unui forumist, "googlismele" cauzeaza...deci ar fi foarte placut si normal ca poeziile sa fie transcrise direct din carte,sau,si mai bine-din memorie...dar pentru comfortul extremitatilor,se accepta si copy/paste :D ) si alte limbi decat romana.
Asta ar fi ultima mea lectura---apoi m-am decis sa-l devorez pe Chaucer.Scuzati lungimea...

pese: nu va lasati indusi in eroare de numele si scopul acestui topic.nu sunt fata. :lol:



THE TALE OF THE WIFE OF BATH
Now in the olden days of King Arthur,
Of whom the Britons speak with great honour,
All this wide land was land of faery.
The elf-queen, with her jolly company,
Danced oftentimes on many a green mead;
This was the old opinion, as I read.
I speak of many hundred years ago;
But now no man can see the elves, you know.
For now the so-great charity and prayers
Of limiters and other holy friars
That do infest each land and every stream
As thick as motes are in a bright sunbeam,
Blessing halls, chambers, kitchens, ladies' bowers,
Cities and towns and castles and high towers,
Manors and barns and stables, aye and dairies-
This causes it that there are now no fairies.
For where was wont to walk full many an elf,
Right there walks now the limiter himself
In noons and afternoons and in mornings,
Saying his matins and such holy things,
As he goes round his district in his gown.
Women may now go safely up and down,
In every copse or under every tree;
There is no other incubus, than he,
And would do them nothing but dishonour.
And so befell it that this King Arthur
Had at his court a lusty bachelor
Who, on a day, came riding from river;
And happened that, alone as she was born,
He saw a maiden walking through the corn,
From whom, in spite of all she did and said,
Straightway by force he took her maidenhead;
For which violation was there such clamour,
And such appealing unto King Arthur,
That soon condemned was this knight to be dead
By course of law, and should have lost his head,
Peradventure, such being the statute then;
But that the other ladies and the queen
So long prayed of the king to show him grace,
He granted life, at last, in the law's place,
And gave him to the queen, as she should will,
Whether she'd save him, or his blood should spill.
The queen she thanked the king with all her might,
And after this, thus spoke she to the knight,
When she'd an opportunity, one day:
"You stand yet," said she, "in such poor a way
That for your life you've no security.
I'll grant you life if you can tell to me
What thing it is that women most desire.
Be wise, and keep your neck from iron dire!
And if you cannot tell it me anon,
Then will I give you license to be gone
A twelvemonth and a day, to search and learn
Sufficient answer in this grave concern.
And your knight's word I'll have, ere forth you pace,
To yield your body to me in this place."
Grieved was this knight, and sorrowfully he sighed;
But there! he could not do as pleased his pride.
And at the last he chose that he would wend
And come again upon the twelvemonth's end,
With such an answer as God might purvey;
And so he took his leave and went his way.
He sought out every house and every place
Wherein he hoped to find that he had grace
To learn what women love the most of all;
But nowhere ever did it him befall
To find, upon the question stated here,
Two, persons who agreed with statement clear.
Some said that women all loved best riches,
Some said, fair fame, and some said, prettiness;
Some, rich array, some said 'twas lust abed
And often to be widowed and re-wed.
Some said that our poor hearts are aye most eased
When we have been most flattered and thus pleased
And he went near the truth, I will not lie;
A man may win us best with flattery;
And with attentions and with busyness
We're often limed, the greater and the less.
And some say, too, that we do love the best
To be quite free to do our own behest,
And that no man reprove us for our vice,
But saying we are wise, take our advice.
For truly there is no one of us all,
If anyone shall rub us on a gall,
That will not kick because he tells the truth.
Try, and he'll find, who does so, I say sooth.
No matter how much vice we have within,
We would be held for wise and clean of sin.
And some folk say that great delight have we
To be held constant, also trustworthy,
And on one purpose steadfastly to dwell,
And not betray a thing that men may tell.
But that tale is not worth a rake's handle;
By God, we women can no thing conceal,
As witness Midas. Would you hear the tale?
Ovid, among some other matters small,
Said Midas had beneath his long curled hair,
Two ass's ears that grew in secret there,
The which defect he hid, as best he might,
Full cunningly from every person's sight,
And, save his wife, no one knew of it, no.
He loved her most, and trusted her also;
And he prayed of her that to no creature
She'd tell of his disfigurement impure.
She swore him: Nay, for all this world to win
She would do no such villainy or sin
And cause her husband have so foul a name;
Nor would she tell it for her own deep shame.
Nevertheless, she thought she would have died
Because so long the secret must she hide;
It seemed to swell so big about her heart
That some word from her mouth must surely start;
And since she dared to tell it to no man,
Down to a marsh, that lay hard by, she ran;
Till she came there her heart was all afire,
And as a bittern booms in the quagmire,
She laid her mouth low to the water down:
"Betray me not, you sounding water blown,"
Said she, "I tell it to none else but you:
Long ears like asses' has my husband two!
Now is my heart at ease, since that is out;
I could no longer keep it, there's no doubt."
Here may you see, though for a while we bide,
Yet out it must; no secret can we hide.
The rest of all this tale, if you would hear,
Read Ovid: in his book does it appear.
This knight my tale is chiefly told about
When what he went for he could not find out,
That is, the thing that women love the best,
Most saddened was the spirit in his breast;
But home he goes, he could no more delay.
The day was come when home he turned his way;
And on his way it chanced that he should ride
In all his care, beneath a forest's side,
And there he saw, a-dancing him before,
Full four and twenty ladies, maybe more;
Toward which dance eagerly did he turn
In hope that there some wisdom he should learn.
But truly, ere he came upon them there,
The dancers vanished all, he knew not where.
No creature saw he that gave sign of life,
Save, on the greensward sitting, an old wife;
A fouler person could no man devise.
Before the knight this old wife did arise,
And said: "Sir knight, hence lies no travelled way.
Tell me what thing you seek, and by your fay.
Perchance you'll find it may the better be;
These ancient folk know many things," said she.
"Dear mother," said this knight assuredly,
"I am but dead, save I can tell, truly,
What thing it is that women most desire;
Could you inform me, I'd pay well your hire."
"Plight me your troth here, hand in hand," said she,
"That you will do, whatever it may be,
The thing I ask if it lie in your might;
And I'll give you your answer ere the night."
"Have here my word," said he. "That thing I grant."
"Then," said the crone, "of this I make my vaunt,
Your life is safe; and I will stand thereby,
Upon my life, the queen will say as I.
Let's see which is the proudest of them all
That wears upon her hair kerchief or caul,
Shall dare say no to that which I shall teach;
Let us go now and without longer speech."
Then whispered she a sentence in his ear,
And bade him to be glad and have no fear.
When they were come unto the court, this knight
Said he had kept his promise as was right,
And ready was his answer, as he said.
Full many a noble wife, and many a maid,
And many a widow, since they are so wise,
The queen herself sitting as high justice,
Assembled were, his answer there to hear;
And then the knight was bidden to appear.
Command was given for silence in the hall,
And that the knight should tell before them all
What thing all worldly women love the best.
This knight did not stand dumb, as does a beast,
But to this question presently answered
With manly voice, so that the whole court heard:
"My liege lady, generally," said he,
"Women desire to have the sovereignty
As well upon their husband as their love,
And to have mastery their man above;
This thing you most desire, though me you kill
Do as you please, I am here at your will."
In all the court there was no wife or maid
Or widow that denied the thing he said,
But all held, he was worthy to have life.
And with that word up started the old wife
Whom he had seen a-sitting on the green.
"Mercy," cried she, "my sovereign lady queen!
Before the court's dismissed, give me my right.
'Twas I who taught the answer to this knight;
For which he did plight troth to me, out there,
That the first thing I should of him require
He would do that, if it lay in his might.
Before the court, now, pray I you, sir knight,"
Said she, "that you will take me for your wife;
For well you know that I have saved your life.
If this be false, say nay, upon your fay!"
This knight replied: "Alas and welaway!
That I so promised I will not protest.
But for God's love pray make a new request.
Take all my wealth and let my body go."
"Nay then," said she, "beshrew us if I do!
For though I may be foul and old and poor,
I will not, for all metal and all ore
That from the earth is dug or lies above,
Be aught except your wife and your true love."
"My love?" cried he, "nay, rather my damnation!
Alas! that any of my race and station
Should ever so dishonoured foully be!"
But all for naught; the end was this, that he
Was so constrained he needs must go and wed,
And take his ancient wife and go to bed.
Now, peradventure, would some men say here,
That, of my negligence, I take no care
To tell you of the joy and all the array
That at the wedding feast were seen that day.
Make a brief answer to this thing I shall;
I say, there was no joy or feast at all;
There was but heaviness and grievous sorrow;
For privately he wedded on the morrow,
And all day, then, he hid him like an owl;
So sad he was, his old wife looked so foul.
Great was the woe the knight had in his thought
When he, with her, to marriage bed was brought;
He rolled about and turned him to and fro.
His old wife lay there, always smiling so,
And said: "O my dear husband, ben'cite!
Fares every knight with wife as you with me?
Is this the custom in King Arthur's house?
Are knights of his all so fastidious?
I am your own true love and, more, your wife;
And I am she who saved your very life;
And truly, since I've never done you wrong,
Why do you treat me so, this first night long?
You act as does a man who's lost his wit;
What is my fault? For God's love tell me it,
And it shall be amended, if I may."
"Amended!" cried this knight, "Alas, nay, nay!
It will not be amended ever, no!
You are so loathsome, and so old also,
And therewith of so low a race were born,
It's little wonder that I toss and turn.
Would God my heart would break within my breast!"
"Is this," asked she, "the cause of your unrest?"
"Yes, truly," said he, "and no wonder 'tis."
"Now, sir," said she, "I could amend all this,
If I but would, and that within days three,
If you would bear yourself well towards me.
"But since you speak of such gentility
As is descended from old wealth, till ye
Claim that for that you should be gentlemen,
I hold such arrogance not worth a hen.
Find him who is most virtuous alway,
Alone or publicly, and most tries aye
To do whatever noble deeds he can,
And take him for the greatest gentleman.
Christ wills we claim from Him gentility,
Not from ancestors of landocracy.
For though they give us all their heritage,
For which we claim to be of high lineage,
Yet can they not bequeath, in anything,
To any of us, their virtuous living,
That made men say they had gentility,
And bade us follow them in like degree.
"Well does that poet wise of great Florence,
Called Dante, speak his mind in this sentence;
Somewhat like this may it translated be:
'Rarely unto the branches of the tree
Doth human worth mount up: and so ordains
He Who bestows it; to Him it pertains.'
For of our fathers may we nothing claim
But temporal things, that man may hurt and maim
"And everyone knows this as well as I,
If nobleness were implanted naturally
Within a certain lineage, down the line,
In private and in public, I opine,
The ways of gentleness they'd alway show
And never fall to vice and conduct low.
"Take fire and carry it in the darkest house
Between here and the Mount of Caucasus,
And let men shut the doors and from them turn;
Yet will the fire as fairly blaze and burn
As twenty thousand men did it behold;
Its nature and its office it will hold,
On peril of my life, until it die.
"From this you see that true gentility
Is not allied to wealth a man may own,
Since folk do not their deeds, as may be shown,
As does the fire, according to its kind.
For God knows that men may full often find
A lord's son doing shame and villainy;
And he that prizes his gentility
In being born of some old noble house,
With ancestors both noble and virtuous,
But will himself do naught of noble deeds
Nor follow him to whose name he succeeds,
He is not gentle, be he duke or earl;
For acting churlish makes a man a churl.
Gentility is not just the renown
Of ancestors who have some greatness shown,
In which you have no portion of your own.
Your own gentility comes from God alone;
Thence comes our true nobility by grace,
It was not willed us with our rank and place
"Think how noble, as says Valerius,
Was that same Tullius Hostilius,
Who out of poverty rose to high estate.
Seneca and Boethius inculcate,
Expressly (and no doubt it thus proceeds),
That he is noble who does noble deeds;
And therefore, husband dear, I thus conclude:
Although my ancestors mayhap were rude,
Yet may the High Lord God, and so hope I,
Grant me the grace to live right virtuously.
Then I'll be gentle when I do begin
To live in virtue and to do no sin.
"And when you me reproach for poverty,
The High God, in Whom we believe, say I,
In voluntary poverty lived His life.
And surely every man, or maid, or wife
May understand that Jesus, Heaven's King,
Would not have chosen vileness of living.
Glad poverty's an honest thing, that's plain,
Which Seneca and other clerks maintain.
Whoso will be content with poverty,
I hold him rich, though not a shirt has he.
And he that covets much is a poor wight,
For he would gain what's all beyond his might,
But he that has not, nor desires to have,
Is rich, although you hold him but a knave.
"True poverty, it sings right naturally;
Juvenal gaily says of poverty:
'The poor man, when he walks along the way,
Before the robbers he may sing and play.'
Poverty's odious good, and, as I guess,
It is a stimulant to busyness;
A great improver, too, of sapience
In him that takes it all with due patience.
Poverty's this, though it seem misery-
Its quality may none dispute, say I.
Poverty often, when a man is low,
Makes him his God and even himself to know.
And poverty's an eye-glass, seems to me,
Through which a man his loyal friends may see.
Since you've received no injury from me,
Then why reproach me for my poverty.
"Now, sir, with age you have upbraided me;
And truly, sir, though no authority
Were in a book, you gentles of honour
Say that men should the aged show favour,
And call him father, of your gentleness;
And authors could I find for this, I guess.
"Now since you say that I am foul and old,
Then fear you not to be made a cuckold;
For dirt and age, as prosperous I may be,
Are mighty wardens over chastity.
Nevertheless, since I know your delight,
I'll satisfy your worldly appetite.
"Choose, now," said she, "one of these two things, aye,
To have me foul and old until I die,
And be to you a true and humble wife,
And never anger you in all my life;
Or else to have me young and very fair
And take your chance with those who will repair
Unto your house, and all because of me,
Or in some other place, as well may be.
Now choose which you like better and reply."
This knight considered, and did sorely sigh,
But at the last replied as you shall hear:
"My lady and my love, and wife so dear,
I put myself in your wise governing;
Do you choose which may be the more pleasing,
And bring most honour to you, and me also.
I care not which it be of these things two;
For if you like it, that suffices me."
"Then have I got of you the mastery,
Since I may choose and govern, in earnest?"
"Yes, truly, wife," said he, "I hold that best."
"Kiss me," said she, "we'll be no longer wroth,
For by my truth, to you I will be both;
That is to say, I'll be both good and fair.
I pray God I go mad, and so declare,
If I be not to you as good and true
As ever wife was since the world was new.
And, save I be, at dawn, as fairly seen
As any lady, empress, or great queen
That is between the east and the far west,
Do with my life and death as you like best.
Throw back the curtain and see how it is."
And when the knight saw verily all this,
That she so very fair was, and young too,
For joy he clasped her in his strong arms two,
His heart bathed in a bath of utter bliss;
A thousand times, all in a row, he'd kiss.
And she obeyed his wish in everything
That might give pleasure to his love-liking.
And thus they lived unto their lives' fair end,
In perfect joy; and Jesus to us send
Meek husbands, and young ones, and fresh in bed,
And good luck to outlive them that we wed.
And I pray Jesus to cut short the lives
Of those who'll not be governed by their wives;
And old and querulous niggards with their pence,
And send them soon a mortal pestilence!
HERE ENDS THE WIFE OF BATH'S TALE

Tocmai am terminat-o de citit... pe dracul... nu voi citi psalmul tau nici daca-mi dai bani... Ok.. poezii dar nu tot volumul... :D

reptore, reptore,
nici ca se putea un debut de topic atat de greoi. editeaza postarea si elimina poemul acesta interminabil. poezia se savureaza in doze mici. ca tot esti din Cluj, pune si tu un poem de Blaga sau... Ion Pop (Elegii in ofensiva), ca tot va lua Premiul Uniunii Scriitorilor in cateva zile, sau Ion Muresan - poet excelent, sau Marta Petreu... ar trebui sa te mandresti ca esti concitadinul lor :P

n`am prea in teles ce si sum sta treaba cu topicu asta....
zau
da, intre noi fie vorba, raptor, pari baiat dezghetat la minte... chiar te asteptai sa citeasca careva tot pomelnicu???? :D
si ma asteptam ca ast tpoic sa fie deschis de inamicu meu natural, herbert

.primo.
.nu ma luati in balon.m-am chinuit si eu citeva versuri cu poezia asta si apoi m-am lasat dus de val si am savurat-o si pina la final mi se parea prea scurta...herbertule,ma uimesti.daca intra minulescu primul(de exemplu) era mai bine,ca era mai scurta?lungimea conteaza,da' oare si in poezie?...una-alta..am zis sa fac un debut pe care sa-l tineti minte.
.secundo. sunt destule rahaturi deschise p-aici,eu zic ca asta nici nu e chiar asa de rau...da'poate sa pun s'un poll...care e cel mai mare poet al tuturor timpurilor? :w00t:
.terto...sau cam asa ceva...-herbert:-in 2-3 ani or sa se mandreasca ei ca sunt concitadinii mei,mark my words. :D
korben:-da,si eu ma asteptam sa-l deschida herbert,da' deja ma plicisisem asteptand.

The Love Unfeigned...

" YONGE fresshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love up groweth with your age,
Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,
And of your herte up-casteth the visage
To thilke god that after his image
Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre
This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre.
And loveth him, the which that right for love
Upon a cros, our soules for to beye,
First starf, and roos, and sit in the hevene a-bove;
For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye,
That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye.
And sin he best to love is, and most meke,
What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?"

I dare thee 2 understand!

si mie imi place mult chaucer, dar asta nu ma face sa umplu site-ul cu versurile lui pe care nu le citeste nimeni.

ce dreptate ai ambra blu... si eu zic la fel... nimeni n-o sa citeasca ce se scrie aici, si daca este cea mai frumoasa poezie de pe lume.
... totusi, mai tarziu o sa scriu si eu una.

Yeats - The Sorrow of Love

HE quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears,
And all the sorrows of her labouring ships,
And all the burden of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.

De ce mah? Eu chiar le citesc. Sunt unele cuvinte cam imbarligate but that's the beauty of it!
Cine nu are chef de citit nu are rost sa intre sa mai stea sa umple acest topic. Eu am citi shi voi citi.

Bravo, bravo! Pasul urmator e sa le pricepi si, la step 3, de dragul diversitatii, sa citesti o carte de joc.

Macar de-ar fi in romana. Astea in engleza nu-mi plac deloc

fum

imi aprind o tigara
din saracia prietenilor

ce fum limpede
suntem noi
cateodata

semnata Robert Serban

Preferata mea...

George Cosbuc - La Oglinda

Azi am sa-ncrestez in grinda
Jos din cui acum, oglinda!
Mama-i dusa-n sat! Cu dorul
Azi e singur puisorul,
Si-am inchis usa la tinda
Cu zavorul.
Iata-ma! Tot eu, cea veche!
Ochii? hai, ce mai pereche!
Si ce cap frumos rasare!
Nu-i al meu? Al meu e oare?
Dar al cui! Si la ureche,
Uite-o floare.
Asta-s eu! Si sant voinica!
Cine-a zis ca eu sant mica?
Uite, zau, acum iau seama
Ca-mi sta bine-n cap naframa,
Si ce fata frumusica
Are mama!
Ma gandeam eu ca-s frumoasa!
Dar cum nu! Si mama-mi coasa
Sort cu flori, minune mare
Nu-s eu fata ca oricare:
Mama poate fi faloasa
Ca ma are.
Stii ce-a zis si ieri la vie?
A zis: -"Ce-mi tot spun ei mie!
Am si eu numai o fata,
Si n-o dau sa fie data:
Cui o dau voiesc sa-mi fie
Om odata".
Mai stiu eu! Si-asa se poate!
Multe stiu, dar nu stiu toate.
Mama-mi da invatatura
Cum se tese-o panzatura,
Nu cum stau cei dragi de vorba
Gura-n gura.
N-am sa tes doar viata-ntreaga!
Las' sa vad si eu cum se leaga
Dragostea - dar stiu eu bine!
Din frumos ce-l placi ea vine -
Hai, ma prind feciorii draga
Si pe mine!
Ca-s subtire! Sa ma franga
Cine-i om, cu mana stanga!
Dar asa te place dorul:
Subtirea, cu binisorul
Cand te strange el, sa-ti stranga
Tot trupusorul.
Bratul drept daca-l intinde
Roata peste brau te prinde
Si te-ntreaba: -"Draga, strangu-l?"
Si tu-l certi, dar el, natangul,
Ca raspuns te mai cuprinde
Si cu stangul.
Iar de-ti cere si-o gurita -
Doamne! Cine-i la portita?
Om sa fie? Nu e cine!
Hai, e vantul! Uite-mi vine
Sa vad oare cu cosita
Sta-mi-ar bine?
O, ca-mi sta mie-n tot felul!
Sa ma port cu-ncetinelul:
Uite salba, brau, si toate!
Si cosite cumparate,
Stai, sa-nchei si testementul
Pe la spate.
Uite ce bujor de fata
Stai sa te sarut o data!
Tu ma poti, oglinda, spune!
Ei, tu doara nu t-ei pune
Sa ma spui! Tu ai, surata,
Ganduri bune.
De-ar sti mama! Vai, sa stie
Ce-i fac azi, mi-ar da ea mie!
D-apoi! N-am sa fiu tot fata,
Voi fi si nevast-odata:
Las' sa vad cat e de bine
Maritata.
Ca mi-a spus bunica mie
Ca nevasta una stie
Mai mult decat fata, juna,
Ei, dar ce? Nu mi-a spus buna
Si ma mir eu ce-o sa fie
Asta una!
Brau-i pus! Acum, din lada
Mai ieu sortu! O, sa-mi sada
Fata cum imi sta nevasta...
Aolio! Mama-n ograda!
Era gata sa ma vada
Pe fereastra.
Ce sa fac? Unde-mi sta capul?
Grabnic, hai sa-nchid dulapul,
Sa ma port sa nu ma prinda.
Salba, jos! Si-n cui, oglinda!
Ce-am uitat? Inchisa usa
De la tinda.
Intra-n casa? O, ba bine,
Si-a gasit niste vecine,
Sta la sfat... toata-s vapaie!
Junghiul peste piept ma taie:
Doamne, de-ar fi dat de mine,
Ce bataie!

Nu mai puneti poezii chiar asa kilometrice ca nu stiu daca le citeste cineva (ma rog, eu am citit-o), puneti ceva mic, concret si frumos

Acum ceva ce mie mi-a placut, ne-am uitat peste ea la clasa:

"Lucian Blaga e mut ca o lebada.
In patria sa
zapada fapturii tine loc de cuvant.
Sufletul lui e in cautare,
de totdeauna,
si pana la cele din urma hotare.

El cauta apa din care bea cucubeul
El cauta apa,
din care curcubeul
isi bea frumusetea si nefiinta."

_________________________Lucian Blaga - Autoportret

astea irlandeze sunt preferatele mele:

Seamus Heany, Harvest Bow

As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.
Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game cocks
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,
And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall--
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,
Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.
The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser--
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm.

Ce trist.

Pacat ca nu sunt doar in romana, astea in engleza sunt super aiurea, n-au pic de sonoritate (cel putin pentru mine, in calitate de roman).

The morning paper
harbinger of good and ill
-I step over it.
haiku :)

stampa

lente cortegii
un pod peste ape
glasul frumos al flaminului
descrie sapientza...

dinspre leprozerie
un urlet decoreaza cerul

cate ceva despre poezie:
Borges: „Poezia consta in a simti lucrurile ca fiind stranii”... Un poet este în permanenta mirat, nedumerit de lucrurile care il înconjoara.”.

Din multele definitii ale poeziei imi vine in memorie acum si o expresie a lui Cioran, care definea poezia ca o „aberatie sublima, care te apara de un vid interior”. Exista un adevar si in aceasta „sentinta” a „scepticului” de la Paris, precum adevarate sunt si celelalte (multe, nenumarate) „blazoane” ale poeziei...
Pe de alta parte, incercarea de „a prinde” poezia intr-o definitie mi se pare un gest de o gratuitate splendida, care este echivalat doar de splendoarea si gratuitatea poeziei însasi...

Sturmnacht

Der Gott erschrak in seiner Einsamkeit.
Er sah tief unten in der grauen Zeit
den Herbsttag gehn. Der war so greisenhaft,
als reichte nicht zum Abendrande weit
der matte Pfeil vom Bogen seiner Kraft.
Oft stand er still undstarrte nach den Huegeln
und endlich sank er matt ins arme Gras;
und wie der giere Geier auf das Aas,
so fiel auf ihn mit schweren, schwarzen Fluegeln
die nasse Nacht, die seine Seele frass.

Die schwarze Nacht sass auf dem toten Tag,
und Gott erschrak.
Sein Blick ging lange in dem Dunkel irr,
und als er trat aus Wolken und Gewirr,
fand er die Ferne nicht, nicht Flut noch Feld,
die schwarze Nacht frass an der ganzen Welt.
Da ahnte Gott, der schaurend niederblickte,
wie unter diesem schweren Schwingenschlag
die weite Welt erstarrte und erstickte
so wie ein Tag.
Und ploetzlich wusste er: er liebte sie;
doch reglos schattend blieb das Nachtgefieder,
als von dem Rand der leeren Himmel nieder
sein Wille schrie..

Aber der Gott wird groesser im Grimme,
wenn er einmal sein einsames Leid
in dieerwachenden Welten schreit,
ist der Sturm seine Stimme.
Und dann reisst sein wehendes Wort
von den Monden die Wolken fort:
und so sah er im Schimmer thronen
lauter aehnliche Ewigkeiten,
sah die Sterne der Stille wohnen
und die Welten im Wandel schreiten.
Und sein Bangen fand alles geborgen,
in dem leise liebkosenden Licht,
aber ueber dem Gestern und Morgen
schwieg die Nacht und sie ruehrte sich nicht.

Und da war der Gott wie ein Kind,
und er wurde vor Weinen blind,
und durch den wimmernden Wind
grill er mit hilflosen Haenden:
ob sie im Aether die Ufer faenden,
welche die Spitzen der Tuerme sind.
Sein Weinen verwaiste und rief:
"Ist denn die Welt so tief, so tief,
dass der Gott, der Sommer und Sonnen sann,
der in alle Gedanken tauchte,
den Rauch, der um ihre Gipfel rauchte
ihrem Atem - nicht einmal erreichen kann?
Ist dort kein Garten, der Blueten weht,
kein lauschendes Leid, kkein waches Gebet,
keine Stille, die mich versteht?"

Auf Erden war nur ein einziges Licht,
das in dem samtenen Dunkel dicht
an der Wiege des Rindes wachte
und an sein aermliches Dasein dachte,
als die Stimme des Sturmes klang.
Da wurde dem Funken so heimwehbang,
dass er aus blinkendem Becher sachte
wie der Quell aus dem Felsen sprang
und, die Falten der Vorhangs entlang,
wuenschend nach allen Waenden griff,
bis sich berstend die Balken bogen,
und auf hohen, lodernden Wogen
trieb die Wiege, das schlummernde Schiff.

Da regt sich die Welt. Von den Haengen hebt
scheu sich die Nacht vor dem siegenden Scheine.
Es laechelt das Gott; er weiss nur das eine:
Sie lebt!

Rilke

e haiku-ul tau ?

pun si eu un haiku aici...

I want to sleep
Swat the flies
Softly, please.

si inca unul...

Sick and feverish
Glimpse of cherry blossoms
Still shivering.

am shi eu unul
the white is blue
and blue is yellow
how did i ever get
so shallow ?

shi inca unul:
the "red savana"
the lioness
her cubs are fed
white snow

shi inca unul:
the morning after
2 strangers in the night
my friend in the afternoon

bine.cum vreti voi,drajilor.de-acu' fara poiezii lungi si in alta limba decat romana,ca sa nu cauzeze la oci.

ba nu!
preferabil engleza, franceza shi romana ... :D italiana eventual .. dar nu spaniola shi germana k nu-mi plac... :sick:

Din acelasi ciclu (aproape):

Dribble-dribble -trickle-trickle -
What a lot of raw dust!
My dollie's had an accident
And out came all the sawdust!
________________Nursery Rhyme



Nu, nu e din "Harry Potter" (nici din "Macbeth"), ci un "motto" in povestirea "The Education of Otis Yeere", de Kipling.

PAjul CupiDon.

Pajul Cupidon vicleanul,
Mult e rau si alintat,
Cu copii se harjoneste,
Iar la dame doarme-n pat.

De lumina ca talharii,
Se fereste binisor,
Pe feresti se suie noaptea,
Dibuind incetisor.

Cordelute si nimicuri,
Iata toate-a lui averi,
Darnic cand nu vrei niciuna
Si zgarcit daca le ceri.

alea's ale mele personale. Shi mai am cu galeata.
Ma fascineaza haiku-urile k nu au reguli. Potzi sa scrii nonsense. Alea japoneze au reguli... am incercat sa le invatz dar sunt prea complicated.

Ok atunci eu scriu in japoneza.

Puneti si autorul cand puneti o pozezie

詩經 卷一

周南

關雎 1

關關雎鳩,在河之洲。窈窕淑女,君子好逑。
參差荇菜,左右流之。窈窕淑女,寤寐求之。
求之不得,寤寐思服。悠哉悠哉!輾轉反側。
參差荇菜,左右采之。窈窕淑女,琴瑟友之。
參差荇菜,左右芼之。窈窕淑女,鍾鼓樂之。

______________________________________Feng

Asta e cel mai idiot post care l-am vazut de mult timp :D

Idiot in sensul bun al cuvantului. Poezia e "deep", imi place.

reptore, reptore
de ce-ai deschis "haznaua" asta aici, intitulata inca "Poezie"?

sper sa-i rusinez pe nechemati cu aceasta butada:
Poezia salveaza de la declin aparitiile Divinitatii in om. (SHELLEY)

e vinovat cel care-o construieste sau cel care-o umple de cacat.?

Going away gift:

MAI AM UN SINGUR DOR


Mai am un singur dor:
În linistea serii
Sa ma lasati sa mor
La marginea marii;
Sa-mi fie somnul lin
Si codrul aproape,
Pe-ntinsele ape
Sa am un cer senin.
Nu-mi trebuie flamuri,
Nu voi sicriu bogat,
Ci-mi împletiti un pat
Din tinere ramuri.


Si nime-n urma mea
Nu-mi plânga la crestet,
Doar toamna glas sa dea
Frunzisului vested.
Pe când cu zgomot cad
Izvoarele-ntr-una,
Alunece luna
Prin vârfuri lungi de brad.
Patrunza talanga
Al serii rece vânt,
Deasupra-mi teiul sfânt
Sa-si scuture creanga.




Cum n-oi mai fi pribeag
De-atunci înainte,
M-or troieni cu drag
Aduceri aminte.
Luceferi, ce rasar
Din umbra de cetini,
Fiindu-mi prieteni,
O sa-mi zâmbeasca iar.
Va geme de patemi
Al marii aspru cânt...
Ci eu voi fi pamânt
În singuratate-mi.

Mihai Eminescu

Dialog de iarnã

Fereastra e-o poemã de plumb si de scântei,
Orasul adoarme troienit.
Mult mai târziu de miezul noptii sunt orele trecute...
În haosul vietii nici noi nu ne-am gãsit...
O, vino, cel putin, acum, prin fortele necunoscute;
-- Sã viu ?
-- Oh ! mi-i fricã...
-- Vezi !
-- Hai !
-- Am venit ;
-- Unde ?
-- Lângã tine ;
-- Plâng... :((
-- Plâng...
-- Taci...
-- Hai...
-- Hai ;
-- În infinit...
-- În infinit ;
-- Cântã...
-- Vis ;
-- Da...
-- Nu.
-- Nu...
-- Minus ;
-- Minus...
-- Plus ;
-- Plus...
-- Armonie.
-- Armonie...
-- Când ?
-- Când...
-- Poate ;
-- Poate...
-- Of !

Fereastra e-o poemã de plumb, si de scântei.
O zi de promoroacã în camerã pãtrunde...
Sirenele de muncã vibreazã, plângãtor ;
Orasul e-un ghetar de fum, de clopotei,
Si de fior...
-- Unde... Unde ? !

THE HOURS I spent with thee, dear heart,
Are as a string of pearls to me;
I count them over, every one apart,
My rosary.

Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer,
To still a heart in absence wrung;
I tell each bead unto the end—and there
A cross is hung.

Oh, memories that bless—and burn!
Oh, barren gain—and bitter loss!
I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn
To kiss the cross,
Sweetheart,
To kiss the cross.

The Rosary

de Robert Cameron Rogers

PART I

O! nothing earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy-
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill-
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy's voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell-
Oh, nothing of the dross of ours-
Yet all the beauty- all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowers-
Adorn yon world afar, afar-
The wandering star.

'Twas a sweet time for Nesace- for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns- a temporary rest-
An oasis in desert of the blest.
Away- away- 'mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul-
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destin'd eminence,-
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode
And late to ours, the favor'd one of God-
But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
She throws aside the sceptre- leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.

Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt)
She looked into Infinity- and knelt.
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled-
Fit emblems of the model of her world-
Seen but in beauty- not impeding sight
Of other beauty glittering thro' the light-
A wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal'd air in color bound.

All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
Upon the flying footsteps of- deep pride-
Of her who lov'd a mortal- and so died.
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Upreared its purple stem around her knees:-
And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd-
Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
All other loveliness:- its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
In Trebizond- and on a sunny flower
So like its own above that, to this hour,
It still remaineth, torturing the bee
With madness, and unwonted reverie:
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant in grief
Disconsolate linger- grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have Red,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten'd and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
And Clytia, pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run:
And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth,
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
And Valisnerian lotus, thither flown"
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
Isola d'oro!- Fior di Levante!
And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
With Indian Cupid down the holy river-
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven:

"Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blue-
The boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy bar-
Of the barrier overgone
By the comets who were cast
From their pride and from their throne
To be drudges till the last-
To be carriers of fire
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire
And with pain that shall not part-
Who livest- that we know-
In Eternity- we feel-
But the shadow of whose brow
What spirit shall reveal?
Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
Thy messenger hath known
Have dream'd for thy Infinity
A model of their own-
Thy will is done, O God!
The star hath ridden high
Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
Beneath thy burning eye;
And here, in thought, to thee-
In thought that can alone
Ascend thy empire and so be
A partner of thy throne-
By winged Fantasy,
My embassy is given,
Till secrecy shall knowledge be
In the environs of Heaven."

She ceas'd- and buried then her burning cheek
Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek
A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
For the stars trembled at the Deity.
She stirr'd not- breath'd not- for a voice was there
How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
"Silence"- which is the merest word of all.
All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things
Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings-
But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
The eternal voice of God is passing by,
And the red winds are withering in the sky:-

"What tho 'in worlds which sightless cycles run,
Linked to a little system, and one sun-
Where all my love is folly and the crowd
Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath-
(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
What tho' in worlds which own a single sun
The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,
Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven!
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky-
Apart- like fire-flies in Sicilian night,
And wing to other worlds another light!
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
To the proud orbs that twinkle- and so be
To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"

Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
The single-mooned eve!- on Earth we plight
Our faith to one love- and one moon adore-
The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
And bent o'er sheeny mountains and dim plain
Her way, but left not yet her Therasaean reign.

PART II

High on a mountain of enamell'd head-
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven-
Of rosy head that, towering far away
Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
Of sunken suns at eve- at noon of night,
While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light-
Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air,
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall
Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
Of their own dissolution, while they die-
Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
Sat gently on these columns as a crown-
A window of one circular diamond, there,
Look'd out above into the purple air,
And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
Save, when, between th' empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit Flapp'd his dusky wing.
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
The dimness of this world: that greyish green
That Nature loves the best Beauty's grave
Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave-
And every sculptur'd cherub thereabout
That from his marble dwelling peered out,
Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche-
Achaian statues in a world so rich!
Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis-
From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave
Is now upon thee- but too late to save!

Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
Witness the murmur of the grey twilight
That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago-
That stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud-
Is not its form- its voice- most palpable and loud?

But what is this?- it cometh, and it brings
A music with it- 'tis the rush of wings-
A pause- and then a sweeping, falling strain
And Nesace is in her halls again.
From the wild energy of wanton haste
Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
And zone that clung around her gentle waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
Within the centre of that hall to breathe,
She paused and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there.

Young flowers were whispering in melody
To happy flowers that night- and tree to tree;
Fountains were gushing music as they fell
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;
Yet silence came upon material things-
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings-
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:

"'Neath the blue-bell or streamer-
Or tufted wild spray
That keeps, from the dreamer,
The moonbeam away-
Bright beings! that ponder,
With half closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder
Hath drawn from the skies,
Till they glance thro' the shade, and
Come down to your brow
Like- eyes of the maiden
Who calls on you now-
Arise! from your dreaming
In violet bowers,
To duty beseeming
These star-litten hours-
And shake from your tresses
Encumber'd with dew
The breath of those kisses
That cumber them too-
(O! how, without you, Love!
Could angels be blest?)
Those kisses of true Love
That lull'd ye to rest!
Up!- shake from your wing
Each hindering thing:
The dew of the night-
It would weigh down your flight
And true love caresses-
O, leave them apart!
They are light on the tresses,
But lead on the heart.

Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one!
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
O! is it thy will
On the breezes to toss?
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone Albatros,
Incumbent on night
(As she on the air)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?

Ligeia! wherever
Thy image may be,
No magic shall sever
Thy music from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a dreamy sleep-
But the strains still arise
Which thy vigilance keep-
The sound of the rain,
Which leaps down to the flower-
And dances again
In the rhythm of the shower-
The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass
Are the music of things-
But are modell'd, alas!-
Away, then, my dearest,
Oh! hie thee away
To the springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-ray-
To lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of deep rest,
At the many star-isles
That enjewel its breast-
Where wild flowers, creeping,
Have mingled their shade,
On its margin is sleeping
Full many a maid-
Some have left the cool glade, and
Have slept with the bee-
Arouse them, my maiden,
On moorland and lea-
Go! breathe on their slumber,
All softly in ear,
Thy musical number
They slumbered to hear
For what can awaken
An angel so soon,
Whose sleep hath been taken
Beneath the cold moon,
As the spell which no slumber
Of witchery may test,
The rhythmical number
Which lull'd him to rest?"

Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight-
Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light
That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar,
O Death! from eye of God upon that star:
Sweet was that error- sweeter still that death-
Sweet was that error- even with us the breath
Of Science dims the mirror of our joy-
To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy-
For what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood- or that Bliss is Woe?
Sweet was their death- with them to die was rife
With the last ecstasy of satiate life-
Beyond that death no immortality-
But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be'!-
And there- oh! may my weary spirit dwell-
Apart from Heaven's Eternity- and yet how far from Hell!
What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts
To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover-
O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
Unguided Love hath fallen- 'mid "tears of perfect moan."
He was a goodly spirit- he who fell:
A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well-
A gazer on the lights that shine above-
A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair-
And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
The night had found (to him a night of woe)
Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo-
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sat he with his love- his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament:
Now turn'd it upon her- but ever then
It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.

"Ianthe, dearest, see- how dim that ray!
How lovely 'tis to look so far away!
She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eve
I left her gorgeous halls- nor mourn'd to leave.
That eve- that eve- I should remember well-
The sun-ray dropp'd in Lemnos, with a spell
On th' arabesque carving of a gilded hall
Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall-
And on my eyelids- O the heavy light!
How drowsily it weigh'd them into night!
On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
But O that light!- I slumber'd- Death, the while,
Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
So softly that no single silken hair
Awoke that slept- or knew that he was there.

"The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
Was a proud temple call'd the Parthenon;
More beauty clung around her column'd wall
Than ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal,
And when old Time my wing did disenthral
Thence sprang I- as the eagle from his tower,
And years I left behind me in an hour.
What time upon her airy bounds I hung,
One half the garden of her globe was flung
Unrolling as a chart unto my view-
Tenantless cities of the desert too!
Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
And half I wish'd to be again of men."

"My Angelo! and why of them to be?
A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee-
And greener fields than in yon world above,
And woman's loveliness- and passionate love."

"But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
Fail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft,
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy- but the world
I left so late was into chaos hurl'd-
Sprang from her station, on the winds apart.
And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar
And fell- not swiftly as I rose before,
But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
For nearest of all stars was thine to ours-
Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
A red Daedalion on the timid Earth."

"We came- and to thy Earth- but not to us
Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
We came, my love; around, above, below,
Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
She grants to us, as granted by her God-
But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl'd
Never his fairy wing O'er fairier world!
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea-
But when its glory swell'd upon the sky,
As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
We paused before the heritage of men,
And thy star trembled- as doth Beauty then!"

Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away
The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.


-- THE END --

Catelus cu parul cretz, fura ratza din cotet / Si se jura ca nu fura.........da' l-am prins cu rata-n gura !

damn...cat-a roman a scris jackpot...abia acuma vad
dar sa stii ca nu-i rea

m-au durut ochii doar cat am dat scroll down ... apoi sa ma citesc shi poezia de pe calculator ... nu-i problema PRINTTTTT.

Afarã ninge prãpãdind,
Iubita cântã la clavir, --
Si târgul stã întunecat,
De parcã ninge-n cimitir.

Iubita cântã-un mars funebru,
iar eu nedumerit mã mir :
De ce sã cânte-un mars funebru...
Si ninge ca-ntr-un cimitir.

Ea plânge si-a cazut pe clape,
Si geme greu ca în delir...
În dezacord clavirul moare,
Si ninge ca-ntr-un cimitir.

Si plâng si eu si tremurând
Pe umeri pletele-i resfir...
Afarã târgul stã pustiu,
Si ninge ca-ntr-un cimitir.

mai kacpot mai.....tu de unde iei asha poezii
nu-mi spune ca din cap....
ninge in cimitir:huh:

cine scria ceva de genu'asta...cum il cheama-ceva cu un abator,cu sange,nush ce
a da bacovia

shtiu ca nu are leg. cu poezia dar Cioran mi se pare cel mai tare pesimist ... akolo deprimare nu la Bacovia...

A friend

A friend is what i thought i had a while ago
A friend is what i thought he was
A friend in need, a friend in sorrow and in pain,
A friend the way i thought a friend is like
A friend who smiles and laughs
When i am falling ...
A friend no more, a substitute.

Mircea Cãrtãrescu

Dã lãbuþa (vei da ºi boticul)

Cri, dã-mi mânuþa ºi fii atentã:
e toamnã arborescentã
ºi nori în amestec cu stele
curg peste autoturismele de pe ºosele.
prin toamnã priveºti ca prin rigla de plastic
din clasa-ntâia: fantastic
se vedea-nvãþãtoarea ocolitã de curcubeu.

trãim într-un televizor color
cu sonorul dat încetiºor...
în culori peruzea, lila, ecosez
zâmbim obraz lângã obraz, împreunã
ca Frank Sinatra ºi Joan Baez
sau ca doi hamsteri sub un clar de luna.
Cri a mea, Cri
cu tâmplele sidefii.

mi-au cam ieºit fumurile de celebritate din cap
ºi viaþa literarã mi se pare mai departe decât insulele Malvine
ºi fâºnetele de pe stradã mi se par pure obiecte estetice...
nu îmi mai decupez cronicile din reviste,
nu mai "acord" interviuri:
tot ce a fost genialoid în mine mã face acum sã zâmbesc.
ºtii cât mã obseda structura materiei? cât îl iubeam pe Dylan Thomas?
ºtii cum plângeam ascultând "E perfect, mamã"?
acum mentalitatea mea de producãtor s-a transformat într-una de
consumator
ºi nu mai simt nevoia sã-mi cultiv obsesiile,
sã-mi întreþin nefericirea.
visãtoria mea tristã s-a resorbit
acum, când ai rãsãrit
deasupra mea, cu neoane curbe, de curcubeu.

Cri, dragã eu.

trec autoturisme absente
pe ºosele fluorescente.
va veni spic de zãpadã
ºi va fi altfel coloratã fiecare piatrã de pe stradã
o sã viscoleascã peste parbrize, capote
iar noi, sub plapuma de satin
vom citi la caldurã Truman Capote
în miros de scorþiºoarã ºi vin.

în televizorul color
cu sonorul dat încetiºor
din pãrul tãu oricare fir, ºuviþã ºi franj
va fi dublat cu frez, ciclamen ºi oranj
(culorile nefiind bine reglate),
Cri a mea cu tâmple perlate.

ºtiu acum cã viaþa exista ca sã fie trãitã
asta înveþi de fapt de la o femeie: cã nu eºti nemuritor
cã nu eºti tot una cu universul chiar dacã eºti un mic univers.
ºtiu acum cã nici un poem nu a schimbat viaþa nimãnui.

dã lãbuþa (vei da ºi boticul)
toamna îºi agaþã baticul
în pomii turcoaz.

noi hoinãrim prin fototapetul cu frunze gãlbui ºi cer de atlaz.

Da el e si pe deasupra lumea il alinta Jackpot.
Dar hai sa recunoastem toti stim poezia cu Copy-Paste nu?
Ca doar nu ne-am facut poeti peste noapte nu?

eram grabit jack:D

ma gandeam shi eu......cunosc cativa care scriu ei pesonal de aia

The happiest day- the happiest hour
My sear'd and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.
Of power! said I? yes! such I ween;
But they have vanish'd long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been-
But let them pass.

And, pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may even inherit
The venom thou hast pour'd on me
Be still, my spirit!

The happiest day- the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see- have ever seen,
The brightest glance of pride and power,
I feel- have been:

But were that hope of pride and power
Now offer'd with the pain
Even then I felt- that brightest hour
I would not live again:

For on its wing was dark alloy,
And, as it flutter'd- fell
An essence- powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.

Nu inteleg, poezia trebuie sa fie roz?

Nu fara nici o indoiala..nu-mi prea place pozia,dar nici nu ashi citi prea exagerat

am dat peste unele care era de-a dreptul aiurite shi sadice pe deasupra
damn bine ca nu am asah ceva