Poezia

[miercuri]

Romanii au fost niste intarziati la literatura, de abia prin secolul XX am ajuns si noi in rand cu lumea.

[illotempore2002]

true, dar asta caracterizeaza romania in general, nu doar poezia

hai ca am rasolit si topicul asta cu offtopicuri

[corinka]

ce poate fi mai oribil decat sa citesti poezii care descriu....peisaje?

Sa citesti poezii pompoase despre om, om/dumnezeu si te mai miri ce.

Eu nu sunt de acord cu miercuri, asa ca postez poezia mea religioasa preferata.

Radu Gyr, Cu Iisus in celula:

Azi noapte Iisus mi-a intrat în celulă.
O, ce trist şi ce-nalt părea Crist !
Luna venea după El, în celulă
şi-L făcea mai înalt şi mai trist.

Mâinile Lui păreau crini pe morminte,
ochii adânci ca nişte păduri.
Luna-L bătea cu argint pe vestminte
argintându-I pe mâini vechi spărturi.

Uimit am sărit de sub pătura sură :
- De unde vii, Doamne, din ce veac ?
Iisus a dus lin un deget la gură
şi mi-a făcut semn ca să tac.

S-a aşezat lângă mine pe rogojină :
- Pune-mi pe răni mâna ta !
Pe glezne-avea urme de cuie şi rugină
parcă purtase lanţuri cândva.

Oftând şi-a întins truditele oase
pe rogojina mea cu libărci.
Luna lumina, dar zăbrelele groase
lungeau pe zăpada Lui, vărgi.

Părea celula munte, părea căpăţână
şi mişunau păduchi şi guzgani.
Am simţit cum îmi cade capul pe mână
şi-am adormit o mie de ani…

Când m-am deşteptat din afunda genună,
miroseau paiele a trandafiri.
Eram în celulă şi era lună,
numai Iisus nu era nicăiri…

Am întins braţele, nimeni, tăcere.
Am întrebat zidul : nici un răspuns !
Doar razele reci, ascuţite-n unghere,
cu suliţa lor m-au străpuns…

- Unde eşti, Doamne ? Am urlat la zăbrele .
Din lună venea fum de căţui…
M-am pipăit… şi pe mâinile mele,
am găsit urmele cuielor Lui.

[miercuri]

Nu ma refeream la poezii religioase in general, ci tot la neoclasici/iluministi, care mie imi sunt extrem de antipatici.

[Judex]

The Raven, by Edgar Allan Poe

[First published in 1845]

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 named 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 mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness 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 blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above 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 sad soul 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 lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has 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 named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of 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 lamp-light 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!

[miercuri]

Au aparut in ultimul an doua antologii cu literatura cu pisici si variatiuni pe aceeasi tema. Le-am rasfoit pe amandoua sperand sa vad poezeaua de mai jos printre ele, care nu ar trebui sa lipseasca din nici o antologie pisicoasa care se respecta, si totusi nu era.

Alistair Reid
Curiosity

may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.
Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
do not endear cats to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.
Face it. Curiosity
will not cause us to die--
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.
Only the curious have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.
Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,
are changeable, marry too many wives,
desert their children, chill all dinner tables
with tales of their nine lives.
Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.

[illotempore2002]

finally, o poezie mai de doamne-ajuta, inafara de It's raining in love

[bre]

incerc sa pun si eu ceva dar nu stiu de ce nu mere....dau linku' (o sa caut si traducerea dar titlul stiu ca suna "n-as prea vrea ca s-o mierlesc")

http://www.feelingsurfer.net/garp/po...PasCrever.html

[Dragomara]

şters!

[Dragomara]

şters!

[Chambord]

M-au ascuns bătrânii după obicei
Să nu uit de frica păsării taiate
Şi ascult prin uşa încuiată
Cum se tăvăleşte şi se zbate

Strâmb zăvorul şubrezit de vreme
Ca sa uit ce-am auzit, să scap
De această zbatere în care
Trupul mai aleargă dupa cap

Şi tresar când ochii, împietrind de groază
Se-ntorc pe dos ca să albească
Şi părând că-s boabe de porumb
Alte păsări vin să-i ciugulească

Iau c-o mână capul, cu cealalta restul
Şi le schimb cand mi se pare greu
Până nu sunt moarte, să mai stea legate
Cel puţin aşa, prin trupul meu

Însă capul moare mai devreme
Ca şi cum n-a fost tăiată bine
Şi să nu se zbată trupul singur
Stau să treaca moartea-n el, prin mine.

Ileana Mălăncioiu - Pasărea tăiată

[Dragomara]

şters!

[vicki]

Magda Isanos - Rochia

Din lada mirosind a molii si-a parfum
a scos o rochie din tineretea ei
bunica.
Subtire-i si usoara ca un fum,
de parca-ar fi tesuta din
nimica.

Ca trist fosneste crinolina de matase,
volanele i se distrama
si se taie,
si-n loc de raze, siluete gratioase,
din alte vremi, danseaza
prin odaie.

Revede balul cel dintii batrina,
isi recunoaste rochia de
fata
si-i tremura pe-atlasu rece mina
de-nduiosare multa-nfiorata.

Si
cum isi pleaca fruntea tot mai tare
i-asa de girbova bunica-n vechiul
sal...
Ce s-a facut frumoasa dansatoare
care-a plutit in rochia de
bal?

Picioarele usoare si micute,
si ochii, si surisul stralucit,
in
trupul girbovitei bunicute
cum, oare, pe vecie de-au murit?

Si mi-au
raspuns matasurile moarte,
sau poate chiar batrina-n vechiul sal;
nu,
n-au murit, danseaza mai departe
mereu in alte rochii, primul bal.

[corinka]

Mircea Cărtărescu, Când ai nevoie de dragoste


când ai nevoie de dragoste nu ti se da dragoste.
când trebuie sa iubesti nu esti iubit.
când esti singur nu poti sã scapi de singurãtate.
când esti nefericit nu are sens sã o spui.

când vrei sã strãngi în brate nu ai pe cine.
când vrei sã dai un telefon sunt toti plecati.
când esti la pãmânt cine se intereseazã de tine?
cui îi pasã? cui o sã-i pese vreodatã?

fii tu lângã mine, gândeste-te la mine.
poartã-te tandru cu mine, nu mã chinui, nu mã face gelos,
nu mã pãrãsi, cãci n-as mai suporta încã o rupturã.
fii lângã mine, tine cu mine.

întelege-ma iubeste-mã, nu-mi trebuie partuze, nici conversatie,
fii iubita mea permanentã.
hai sã uitãm regula jocului, sã nu mai stim ca sexul e o junglã.
sã ne atasãm, sã ajungem la echilibru.

dar nu sper nimic. nu primeste dragoste
când ai nevoie de dragoste.
când trebuie sã iubesti nu esti iubit.
când esti la pamânt nici o femeie nu te cunoaste.

[Dragomara]

şters!

[Judex]

O! on high the moon, her lustre dead,
O'er the death-like grove uplifts her head,
Sighing flits the spectre through the gloom--
Misty clouds are shivering,
Pallid stars are quivering,
Looking down, like lamps within a tomb.
Spirit-like, all silent, pale, and wan,
Marshall'd in procession dark and sad,
To the sepulchre a crowd moves on,
In the grave-night's dismal emblems clad.

Who is he, who, trembling on his crutch,
Walks with gloomy and averted eye,
And bow'd down by Destiny's hard touch,
Vents his sorrow in a mournful sigh
O'er the coffin borne in silence by?
Was it "Father!" from the youth's lips came?
Soon a damp and fearful shudder flies
Through his grief-emaciated frame,
And his silv'ry hairs on end uprise.

All his fiery wounds now bleed anew!
Through his soul, hell's bitter torments run!
"Father!" 'twas that from the youth's lips flew,
And the Father's heart hath whispered "Son!"
Ice-cold, ice-cold, in his shroud he lies,--
By thy dream, so sweet and golden erst,
Sweet and golden, Father, thou art curst!
Ice-cold, ice-cold, in his shroud he lies,
Who was once thy joy, thy Paradise!

Mild, as when, fann'd by Elysian gale,
Flora's son over the verdant plain skips,
Girded with roses that fragrance exhale,
When from the arms of Aurora he slips,--
Onward he sped o'er the sweet-smelling field,
Mirror'd below in the silvery flood;
Rapturous flames in his skies were conceal'd,
Chasing the maidens in amorous mood.

Boldly he sprang 'mid the stir of mankind,
As o'er the mountains a youthful roe springs;
Heav'nward ascended his wish unconfin'd,
High as the eagle his daring flight wings.
Proud as the steeds that in passion their manes,
Foaming and champing, toss round in wild waves,
Rearing in majesty under the reins,
Stood he alike before monarchs and slaves.

Bright as a spring-day, his life's joyous round
Fleeted in Hesperus' glory away;
Sighs in the grape's juice all-golden he drown'd,
Sorrow he still'd in the dance light and gay.
Worlds were asleep in the promising boy,
Ha! when he once as a man shall be ripe,--
Father, rejoice -- in thy promising boy,
Soon as the slumbering germ shall be ripe!

Not so, Father -- hark! the churchyard gates
Groan, and lo, the iron hinges creak! --
See the dreaded tomb its prey awaits! --
Not so -- let the tears course down thy cheek!
Tow'rd Perfection lov'd one, hasten on,
In the sun's bright path with joy proceed!
Quench thy noble thirst for bliss alone
In Walhalla's peace, from sorrow freed!

Ye will meet -- oh thought of rapture full! --
Yonder, at the gate of Paradise!
Hark! the coffin sinks with echo dull;
As it re-ascends the death-rope sighs!
Then, with sorrow drunk, we madly roll'd,
Lips were silent, but the mute eye spoke --
Stay, oh, stay! -- we grudg'd the tomb so cold;
But soon warmer tears in torrents broke.

Lo! on high the moon, her lustre dead,
O'er the deathlike grove uplifts her head,
Sighing flits the spectre through the gloom--
Misty clouds are shivering,
Pallid stars are quivering,
Looking down like lamps within a tomb.
Dully o'er the coffin earth-flakes rise, --
All the wealth of earth for one looks more!
Now the grave barr'd up for ever lies;
Duller, duller o'er the coffin earth-flakes rise;
Never will the grave its prey restore!

Friederich Schiller

[Dragomara]

şters!

[Dragomara]

şters!

[Dragomara]

şters!

[corinka]

Foarte frumos, Dragomara!
Cantarea Cantarilor este superba. Te completez cu inca o mostra de poezie biblica:

Psalmul 50:

Miluieste-ma, Dumnezeule, dupa mare mila Ta, si dupa multimea indurarilor Tale, sterge faradelegea mea. Mai vartos ma spala de faradelegea mea si de pacatul meu ma curateste. Ca faradelegea mea eu o cunosc si pacatul meu inaintea mea este pururea. Tie unuia am gresit si rau inaintea Ta am facut, ca sa fii indreptatit intru cuvintele Tale si sa biruiesti cand vei judeca Tu. Ca iata intru faradelegi m-am zamislit si in pacate m-a nascut maica mea. Ca iata adevarul ai iubit; cele nearatate si cele ascunse ale intelepciunii Tale, mi-ai aratat mie. Stropi-ma-vei cu isop si ma voi curati; spala-ma-vei si mai vartos decat zapada ma voi albi. Auzului meu vei da bucurie si veselie; bucura-se-vor oasele mele cele smerite. Intoarce fata Ta de catre pacatele mele si toate faradelegile mele sterge-le. Inima curata zideste intru mine, Dumnezeule si duh drept innoieste intru cele dinlauntru ale mele. Nu ma lepada de la fata Ta si Duhul Tau cel sfant nu-l lua de la mine. Da-mi mie bucuria mantuirii Tale si cu duh stapanitor ma intareste. Invata-voi pe cei fara de lege caile Tale, si cei necredinciosi la Tine se vor intoarce. Izbaveste-ma de varsarea de sange, Dumnezeule, Dumnezeul mantuirii mele; bucura-se-va limba mea de dreptatea Ta. Doamne, buzele mele vei deschide si gura mea va vesti lauda Ta. Ca de ai fi voit jertfa, ti-as fi dat; arderile de tot nu le vei binevoi. Jertfa lui Dumnezeu: duhul umilit; inima infranta si smerita Dumnezeu nu o va urgisi. Fa bine, Doamne, intru bunavoirea Ta, Sionului, si sa se zideasca zidurile Ierusalimului. Atunci vei binevoi jertfa dreptatii, prinosul si arderile de tot; atunci vor pune pe altarul Tau vitei.