Poezia

[raptor]

.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

[Jay]

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

[herbert]

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

[KORBEN]

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

[raptor]

.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.

[Gaandalf]

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!

[Ambra Blu]

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

[Nae]

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.

[Gaandalf]

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.

[Gaandalf]

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

[Ambra Blu]

De ce mah? Eu chiar le citesc.


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

[BeNnY]

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

[PoliFanAthic]

fum

imi aprind o tigara
din saracia prietenilor

ce fum limpede
suntem noi
cateodata

semnata Robert Serban

[Pinky]

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!

[BeNnY]

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

[Nae]

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.

[BeNnY]

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).

[K's]

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

[herbert]

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...

[Bulumulu]

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

[Gaandalf]

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

[cherryblossom]

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.

[Gaandalf]

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

[raptor]

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

[Gaandalf]

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:

[MinRep]

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
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.

[jackpot]

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.

[Gaandalf]

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

[BeNnY]

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:

Ok atunci eu scriu in japoneza.

Puneti si autorul cand puneti o pozezie

[BeNnY]

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

[ogto]

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.

[herbert]

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)

[raptor]

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.?

[Lady_Skar]

Love Sonnet XI

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Pablo Neruda

[BeNnY]

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

[jackpot]

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 ? !

[Oloriel]

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

[jackpot]

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 --

[nume]

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

[WraIth]

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

[Gaandalf]

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.

[jackpot]

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.

[WraIth]

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

[Gaandalf]

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.

[keyzer soze]

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.

[jackpot]

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

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?

[WraIth]

eram grabit jack:D

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

[jackpot]

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.

[BeNnY]

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

Nu inteleg, poezia trebuie sa fie roz?

[WraIth]

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

[jackpot]

So sweet the hour, so calm the time,
I feel it more than half a crime,
When Nature sleeps and stars are mute,
To mar the silence ev'n with lute.
At rest on ocean's brilliant dyes
An image of Elysium lies:
Seven Pleiades entranced in Heaven,
Form in the deep another seven:
Endymion nodding from above
Sees in the sea a second love.
Within the valleys dim and brown,
And on the spectral mountain's crown,
The wearied light is dying down,
And earth, and stars, and sea, and sky
Are redolent of sleep, as I
Am redolent of thee and thine
Enthralling love, my Adeline.
But list, O list,- so soft and low
Thy lover's voice tonight shall flow,
That, scarce awake, thy soul shall deem
My words the music of a dream.
Thus, while no single sound too rude
Upon thy slumber shall intrude,
Our thoughts, our souls- O God above!
In every deed shall mingle, love.

[BeNnY]

Jackpot mareste-ti numarul de mesaje in alta parte te rog. Thx

[keyzer soze]

Allen Ginsberg - Ballad Of The Skeletons

Said the Presidential Skeleton
I won't sign the bill
Said the Speaker skeleton
Yes you will

Said the Representative Skeleton
I object
Said the Supreme Court skeleton
Whaddya expect

Said the Miltary skeleton
Buy Star Bombs
Said the Upperclass Skeleton
Starve unmarried moms

Said the Yahoo Skeleton
Stop dirty art
Said the Right Wing skeleton
Forget about yr heart

Said the Gnostic Skeleton
The Human Form's divine
Said the Moral Majority skeleton
No it's not it's mine

Said the Buddha Skeleton
Compassion is wealth
Said the Corporate skeleton
It's bad for your health

Said the Old Christ skeleton
Care for the Poor
Said the Son of God skeleton
AIDS needs cure

Said the Homophobe skeleton
Gay folk suck
Said the Heritage Policy skeleton
Blacks're outa luck

Said the Macho skeleton
Women in their place
Said the Fundamentalist skeleton
Increase human race

Said the Right-to-Life skeleton
Foetus has a soul
Said Pro Choice skeleton
Shove it up your hole

Said the Downsized skeleton
Robots got my job
Said the Tough-on-Crime skeleton
Tear gas the mob

Said the Governor skeleton
Cut school lunch
Said the Mayor skeleton
Eat the budget crunch

Said the Neo Conservative skeleton
Homeless off the street!
Said the Free Market skeleton
Use 'em up for meat

Said the Think Tank skeleton
Free Market's the way
Said the Saving & Loan skeleton
Make the State pay

Said the Chrysler skeleton
Pay for you & me
Said the Nuke Power skeleton
& me & me & me

Said the Ecologic skeleton
Keep Skies blue
Said the Multinational skeleton
What's it worth to you?

Said the NAFTA skeleton
Get rich, Free Trade,
Said the Maquiladora skeleton
Sweat shops, low paid

Said the rich GATT skeleton
One world, high tech
Said the Underclass skeleton
Get it in the neck

Said the World Bank skeleton
Cut down your trees
Said the I.M.F. skeleton
Buy American cheese

Said the Underdeveloped skeleton
We want rice
Said Developed Nations' skeleton
Sell your bones for dice

Said the Ayatollah skeleton
Die writer die
Said Joe Stalin's skeleton
That's no lie

Said the Middle Kingdom skeleton
We swallowed Tibet
Said the Dalai Lama skeleton
Indigestion's whatcha get


Said the World Chorus skeleton
That's their fate
Said the U.S.A. skeleton
Gotta save Kuwait

Said the Petrochemical skeleton
Roar Bombers roar!
Said the Psychedelic skeleton
Smoke a dinosaur

Said Nancy's skeleton
Just say No
Said the Rasta skeleton
Blow Nancy Blow

Said Demagogue skeleton
Don't smoke Pot
Said Alcoholic skeleton
Let your liver rot

Said the Junkie skeleton
Can't we get a fix?
Said the Big Brother skeleton
Jail the dirty pricks

Said the Mirror skeleton
Hey good looking
Said the Electric Chair skeleton
Hey what's cooking?

Said the Talkshow skeleton
Fuck you in the face
Said the Family Values skeleton
My family values mace

Said the NY Times skeleton
That's not fit to print
Said the CIA skeleton
Cantcha take a hint?

Said the Network skeleton
Believe my lies
Said the Advertising skeleton
Don't get wise!

Said the Media skeleton
Believe you me
Said the Couch-potato skeleton
What me worry?

Said the TV skeleton
Eat sound bites
Said the Newscast skeleton
That's all Goodnight

[jackpot]

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace- reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh- but smile no more.

[Gaandalf]

Jackpot mareste-ti numarul de mesaje in alta parte te rog. Thx
cel mai recent film vizionat ? - Look who's talking ...
yawn!

crystal white

out the window
snow is falling . . .
white everywhere I look

the howling of a wolf
late at night . . .
I spring up awake

headless snowman . . .
the only snow left
in the schoolyard

the warm barn . . .
cows mooing
chomping their cuds of hay

power out . . .
the flickering of the candle
in the kitchen

the igloo is melting . . .
snow falls off
the white tree tops

so sad, so blue
no white could confort me
the end of winter :(

[BeNnY]

cel mai recent film vizionat ? - Look who's talking ...
yawn!

Si ce gasesc acolo? Leon 9/10 asta e spam? Vezi la acum pe ecrane

[ogto]

Poezia mea:

"Credeam C-o Vad Venind...
Dar N-a venit."

:happy:

Eminescu, Move over buddie :sleep:

[jackpot]

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute";
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.

Tottering above
In her highest noon,
The enamored moon
Blushes with love,
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even,
Which were seven,)
Pauses in Heaven.

And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings-
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings.

But the skies that angel trod,
Where deep thoughts are a duty-
Where Love's a grown-up God-
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star.

Therefore thou art not wrong,
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit-
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
With the fervor of thy lute-
Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely- flowers,
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours.

If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell
From my lyre within the sky.

[lynx]

Am inteles ca se poate si in romana! :)

ULTIMUL, ULTIMA

Ultimul poet va scrie ultima poezie
Cu unghia,
Pe o halcã de slãninã.

Noi doi putem sta linistiti, porcule,
ªirul poetilor de dupã mine se stinge hãt dupa orizont
ªi tu nu esti ultimul porc
Ce aþine calea unui poet.

Uite, a mai cazut o stea -
S-a mai dus un poet,
A mai cãzut o ghindã -
Se mai ingraºã un porc.

[BeNnY]

Poezia mea:

"Credeam C-o Vad Venind...
Dar N-a venit."

:happy:

Eminescu, Move over buddie :sleep:

:o

http://us.i1.yimg.com/us.yimg.com/i/mesg/emoticons6/41.gif

[jackpot]

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!

[cherryblossom]

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...

[jackpot]

eu le fac crede-ma..... am o muza care ma inspira...

[cherryblossom]

bine, bine... ai o (mai)muza.... :P

[jackpot]

....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.

[Gaandalf]

eu le fac crede-ma..... am o muza care ma inspira...
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.

[jackpot]

Pai am fost veri primari cu Eminescu, umblam amandoi la Veronica Micle, numai ca eu m-am "pastrat"...
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?

[Pitbull]

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)

[Pitbull]

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!

[silver_boy]

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 !

[Thea]

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.

[Bogie]

da' diafragma nu ti-ai uitat-o?
sinistra poezie :sick:

[Luke_Dorian]

sunt uimit de faptul ca asa un topic poate sa se intinda pe atatia ani.se vede ca romanul s-a nascut poet...

[ra_nia]

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.

[Thea]

da' diafragma nu ti-ai uitat-o?


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!

[Bogie]

http://www.seximus.ro/articole/diafragma.php
si la faza cu trogloditul.....Hã-Hã-Hã

[Dominic]

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!

[herbert]

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...

[Dominic]

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:

[Dominic]

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! :)

[Pitbull]

Deci, uite, Maro Dragä.
Aicea e de tine!
(Dincolo, pui numai ce-ai comis tu însusi! ;) )

[illotempore2002]

va place Dr. Seuss? Dar Tim Burton? :D

Ce-ati zice de o poezie despre viata, pentru copii? Haideti, ca nu e grea, chiar daca e lungutza!

Oh, the Places You'll Go!

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You're off to Great Places!
You're off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.
You're on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who'll decide where to go.

You'll look up and down streets. Look 'em over with care.
About some you will say, "I don't choose to go there."
With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,
you're too smart to go down any not-so-good street.

And you may not find any
you'll want to go down.
In that case, of course,
you'll head straight out of town.

It's opener there
in the wide open air.

Out there things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen,
don't worry. Don't stew.
Just go right along.
You'll start happening too.

OH!
THE PLACES YOU'LL GO!

You'll be on your way up!
You'll be seeing great sights!
You'll join the high fliers
who soar to high heights.

You won't lag behind, because you'll have the speed.
You'll pass the whole gang and you'll soon take the lead.
Wherever you fly, you'll be the best of the best.
Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don' t
Because, sometimes, you won't.

I'm sorry to say so
but, sadly, it's true
and Hang-ups
can happen to you.

You can get all hung up
in a prickle-ly perch.
And your gang will fly on.
You'll be left in a Lurch.

You'll come down from the Lurch
with an unpleasant bump.
And the chances are, then,
that you'll be in a Slump.

And when you're in a Slump,
you're not in for much fun.
Un-slumping yourself
is not easily done.

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked.
Some windows are lighted. But mostly they're darked.
A place you could sprain both you elbow and chin!
Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?
How much can you lose? How much can you win?

And IF you go in, should you turn left or right...
or right-and-three-quarters? Or, maybe, not quite?
Or go around back and sneak in from behind?
Simple it's not, I'm afraid you will find,
for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.

You can get so confused
that you'll start in to race
down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace
and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
headed, I fear, toward a most useless place.
The Waiting Place...

...for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.

NO!
That's not for you!

Somehow you'll escape
all that waiting and staying.
You'll find the bright places
where Boom Bands are playing.

With banner flip-flapping,
once more you'll ride high!
Ready for anything under the sky.
Ready because you're that kind of a guy!

Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done!
There are points to be scored. there are games to be won.
And the magical things you can do with that ball
will make you the winning-est winner of all.
Fame! You'll be famous as famous can be,
with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.

Except when they don't.
Because, sometimes, they won't.

I'm afraid that some times
you'll play lonely games too.
Games you can't win
'cause you'll play against you.

All Alone!
Whether you like it or not,
Alone will be something
you'll be quite a lot.

And when you're alone, there's a very good chance
you'll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won't want to go on.

But on you will go
though the weather be foul
On you will go
though your enemies prowl
On you will go
though the Hakken-Kraks howl
Onward up many
a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore
and your sneakers may leak.

On and on you will hike
and I know you'll hike far
and face up to your problems
whatever they are.

You'll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You'll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life's
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and 3 / 4 percent guaranteed.)

KID, YOU'LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!

So...
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O'Shea,
you're off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So...get on your way!

---Dr. Seuss

[Picasa2]

mutat aci de nu-mai-stiu-unde pentru ca deranja un numai-stiu-ce-neica-nimeni. de unde se trage concluzia ca poeziile sunt cel putin la fel de daunatoare ca bombele antipersonal, drept dovada marea de "mutilati".

Illo - Poate ar fi fost mai indicata o poezie in limba sa materna, spaniola. cu toate ca bantuit si prin America, cica tipul a fost incapabil sa invete engleza. nu-l condamn.

de pe un site de poezie am ales asta.


Deseo


Sólo tu corazón caliente,
Y nada más.

Mi para�*so, un campo
Sin ruiseñor
Ni liras,
Con un r�*o discreto
Y una fuentecilla.

Sin la espuela del viento
Sobre la fronda,
Ni la estrella que quiere
Ser hoja.

Una enorme luz
Que fuera
Luciérnaga
De otra,
En un campo de
Miradas rotas.

Un reposo claro
Y all�* nuestros besos,
Lunares sonoros
Del eco,
Se abrir�*an muy lejos.

Y tu corazón caliente,
Nada más.

(Federico Garcia-Lorca )

[Picasa2]

Omar Khayam - poetul pentru care a trebuit sa cumpar 11 neinteresante carti pentru ajunge sa-i citesc Rubayatele. a meritat.


Autoportret



Un om prin lume trece. El nu e musulman.
Nici infidel nu este. Nu crede-n legi ºi zei.
Nu neagã, nu afirmã. Dar vezi în ochii sãi
Cã nimenea nu este mai trist ºi mai uman.


Nu mi-am fãcut vreodatã din rugi ºirag de perle
Ca sã-mi ascund noianul pãcatelor cu ele.
Nu ºtiu dacã existã o Milã sau Dreptate,
Dar totuºi nu mi-e teamã: curat am fost în toate.


Mã dojeniþi cã veºnic sunt beat. Ei bine, sunt!
Necredincios mã faceþi. ªi ce dacã-i aºa?
Puteþi orice sã spuneþi pe socoteala mea.
Îmi aparþin. Pricepeþi? ªi sunt ceea ce sunt!


Avui vestiþi maeºtri. Fãcusem mari progrese.
Cînd mi-amintesc savantul ce-am fost, azi îl compar
Cu apa ce ia forma impusã de pahar
ªi fumu-n care vîntul nãluci ciudate þese.


Cu-o mînã þin Coranul ºi cupa cu cealaltã.
Sunt cînd de partea legii, cînd muºc din fruct oprit.
Aºa mã ºtie zilnic cupola cea înaltã:
Nici infidel cu totul, nici musulman smerit.


Virtuþile sã-mi numeri doar una câte una.
Pãcatele îmi iartã cu sutele, cu mia.
Nici vântul nu-þi aþâþe, nici aerul mânia.
Tu ºtii: curat ºi sincer am fost întotdeauna.


Cãtat-am horoscopul în a iubirii carte,
ªi-un înþelept strigat-a: „A fericirii parte
Aceasta este: - o fatã ca luna argintie
ªi-o noapte care þine un an cât o vecie".


Nu pot sã fac deosebire între capcanã ºi momealã.
Un sfat mã-mpinge spre moscheie, iar altu-mi umple cupa goalã.
ªi totuºi vinul ºi cu mine ºi draga-n ceasuri de iubire,
Mai bine fripþi într-o tavernã decât cruzi într-o mãnãstire.


(Omar Khayam)
http://www.aol.ro/2000/01/galerie/kayyam.htm

[yssis]

una dintre preferatele mele

Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl!


ASLEEP! O sleep a little while, white pearl!
And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee,
And let me call Heaven’s blessing on thine eyes,
And let me breathe into the happy air,
That doth enfold and touch thee all about, 5
Vows of my slavery, my giving up,
My sudden adoration, my great love!

john keats

[yssis]

si as mai vrea sa adaug fapul ca sunt intru totul de acord cu acest topic pt poezie...chiar era nevoie de unul p aici :)

[Picasa2]

Singurãtatea omului



Sã-þi faci puþini prieteni. Din tine nu ieºi.
Cãci prea des falsitatea credinþa ne-o înfrânge.
Când þi se-ntinde-o mânã, 'nainte de-a o strânge,
Gândeºte-te cã poate te va lovi-ntr-o zi.


Sã nu-þi dezvãlui taina din suflet celor rãi.
Nãdejdile, - ascunse sã-þi stea de lumea toatã.
În zâmbet sã te ferici de toþi semenii tãi,
Nebunilor nu spune durerea niciodatã.


O, tânãr fãrã prieteni mai vechi de douã zile,
Nu te-ngriji de Cerul cu-naltele-i feºtile!
Puþinul sã-þi ajungã, ºi zãvorât în tine,
Tãcut contemplã jocul umanelor destine.



Pe cei curaþi la suflet ºi luminaþi la minte
Neîncetat sã-i cauþi. ªi fugi de tonþi ºi rãi.
Dacã-þi va da otravã un înþelept, s-o bei -
ªi-aruncã antidotul, un prost de þi-l întinde.


Renume de-ai sã capeþi, hulit vei fi de vulg.
Dar dacã te vei þine departe de mulþime,
Uneltitor te-or crede. Cum, Doamne, sã mã smulg,
Sã nu mã ºtie nimeni ºi sã nu ºtiu de nime?


Mai toarnã-mi vinul roºu ca un obraz de fatã.
Curatul sânge scoate-l din gâturi de ulcioare.
Cãci, în afara cupe-i, Khayyām azi nu mai are
Mãcar un singur prieten cu inima curatã.


Cel care are pâine de astãzi pânã mâine
ªi-un strop de apã rece în ciobul sãu frumos,
De ce-ar sluji pe-un altul ce-i este mai prejos?
De ce sã fie sclavul unui egal cu sine?


Când zãrile din suflet ni-s singura avere,
Pãstreazã-le în tainã, ascundele-n tãcere.
Atât timp cât þi-s limpezi ºi vãz, ºi-auz, ºi grai -
Nici ochi ºi nici ureche, nici limbã sã nu ai.


Nu ºtie nimeni taina ascunsã sus sau jos.
ªi nici un ochi nu vede dincolo de cortinã.
Strãini suntem oriunde. Ni-i casa în þãrânã.
Bea - ºi terminã-odatã cu vorbe de prisos!


Târzii acum mi-s anii. lubirea pentru tine
Mi-a pus în mânã cupa cu degetele-i fine.
Tu mi-ai ucis cãinþa ºi mintea îngereºte.
-Dar timpul, fãrã milã - ºi roza desfrunzeºte…


Puþinã apã ºi puþinã pâine
ªi ochii tãi în umbra parfumatã.
N-a fost sultan mai fericit vreodatã
ªi nici un cerºetor mai trist ca mine


Atâta duioºie la început. De ce?
Atâtea dulci alinturi ºi-atâtea farmece
În ochi, în glas, în gesturi - apoi. De ce? ªi-acum
De ce sunt toate urã ºi lacrimã ºi fum?


Bãtrân sunt, dar iubirea m-a prins iar în capcanã.
Acum buzele tale îmi sunt ºi vin ºi canã.
Mi-ai umilit mândria ºi biata raþiune,
Mi-ai sfâºiat vestmântul cusut de-nþelepciune.


Tu vezi doar aparenþe. Un vãl ascunde firea.
Tu ºtii de mult aceasta. Dar inima, firava,
Tot vrea sã mai iubeascã. Cãci ni s-a dat iubirea
Aºa cum unor plante le-a dat Allah otrava.


(Omar Khayam)

[yssis]

alta poezie ce imi place:

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
2
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
3
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

john keats

[Pauline Kael]

alta poezie ce imi place:

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
2
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
3
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

john keats
Daca aveti traducerea in romana,e perfect :)

[yssis]

nu am traducerea...dar voi pune si poezi in romana :)

[Pauline Kael]

nu am traducerea...dar voi pune si poezi in romana :)
Keats,va rog :) Ador poeziile englezesti,nici alea frantuzesti nu-s mai prejos.Daca ar fi dupa mine ar trebui sa punem aici carti intregi,chiar e o idee,daca am voie sa pun un link cu cartile mele electronice sa descarcati...E legal??
Cine are curaj de un Emil Brumaru sau Miron Radu Paraschivescu. :P

[nibo]

eu, Pauline...
...si Brumaru, si Paraschivescu !

[Pauline Kael]

eu, Pauline...
...si Brumaru, si Paraschivescu !
Baga mare,frumosule/frumoaso... :)
Dar eu ma refeream la poeziile acelea licentioase,obscene,explicite... :oops: :oops: :oops:
Bineinteles ca au si poezii...decente,dar insipide.Glumesc.

[nibo]

se pare ca ne-am inteles ca-n ...tren !
eu asteptam de la tine...

[yssis]

Intr- noapte,
m-am trezit privind cerul,
Cineva aprinsese luminile stelelor,
in candelabrele unui templu.
Eram singura
si sub pasi mei
dalele de marmura starneau ecoul.

Patrunsesem fara sa stiu,
intr-un palat cu coloane nevazute.
Atunci m-a cuprins teama
si am strigat:Unde sunt?
si mi s-a raspuns:In lume!


(RASARIT-MARIANA DRAGAN IONITA)

[redmen]

CANTEC MISOGIN
(Celestialei Porcutza Satannici)


Toate femeile`s putori,
Se fut in cur si sug la pule
Si`apoi pasesc asa fudule,
Parca plutind cu capu`n nori.

Au izuri iuti la subsuori
Si`n par parfum de campanule,
Si cand vorbesc soptit fac bule
Cu "Te iubesc in veci.Te`ador".

De`aceea noi,curtenitori,
Le mirosim la craci si nu le
Jignim in pizde cu`n cotor
De morcov,nici cu barabule,

Ci le bagam incetisor
Cozi de ciocan,stoiuri de mule,
Sau sceptrul vreunui domnitor,
Pan` ce`atipesc,moi si satule...


P.S. Ghiciti autorul !

[Pauline Kael]

Brumaru.P-asta n-o stiam.Mor de ras.

[EgOisM]

hey...adaug si eu un poem kre mi s-a parut bunicel...

Soldati copii

Se aud mishcari de trupe in noaptea lichida
Unde cel mai mic zgomot e`n stare sa ucida

Viata ascude un copil jucandu`se cu moartea
Crescut fortat pentru a deveni soldat
Pentru a fi impushcat, uitat, abandonat, neonorat.

Nefericitul s-a nascut combatant luptator
In razboiu-n care, nimeni nu-i invingator.

Numaratoarea inversa se apropie de zero
Si sub zero grade Celsius se ascud ganduri
Negre de la Nero.

Copilaria distrusa de tancuri-jucarii
Se reconstruieste castel de nisip
In memoria soldatilor-copii.

Vor razbuna...
Cei care le`au omorat in bataie zanele
Si le`au lipit pe arme mainile,
Naruinde-le sperantele si spulberandu-le visele.

Mishcarile de trupe ale noptii lichide
Se sting usor, ramanand neclintite
Armele lipite, pe corpurile deja de mult timp adormite.

In noaptea cea mare, durerea nu moare,
Caci moartea doare doar pentru cei ce raman in picioare.
Razbunarea-i la randul ei mare,
Caci strigatul mortii in noapte tresare.

astfel, tacerea noptii dispare
Mihai Jitianu,Soldati copii :D

[silver_boy]

Întrebare

Adanca-i noaptea, orele profunde...
Gemand, spre raftul cartilor mã-ndrum
si-ntreb în soapta fiece volum:
-Tu esti? Si cartea fuge si se-ascunde.

Plangand, intreb portretul ei acum:
-Tu esti? Si nici iubita nu-mi raspunde.
Imi umplu cupa-n vin sã mã scufunde,
intreb: -Tu esti? Si cupa piere-n fum.

Si-ntreb si spada mea: -Tu esti? Si tace.
Si, cum mã prabusesc în jilt, infrant,
din zid o umbra alba se desface...

Mã-ntorc spre ea cu sange în cuvant
si-n ochii lui Iisus e numai pace.
Intreb: -Tu esti? Si umbra spune: -Sant.

(Radu Gyr)

[silver_boy]

pt tamara & dragomara


Elogiul candorii

Stiu sa intreb
Despre miei, despre flori.
Odata-ntr-o padure
Am sarutat un izvor.

Stiu ce uimita-i
Culoarea albastra.
Am o gradina
Si o fereastra.

Mai am si o carte
Foarte subtire
In care nu-ncape
Decat o iubire.

Pot sa-mi iau locul
Langa tine, pe stea ?

- Da, spuse printul
Esti prietena mea.


(Nina Cassian)

[EgoGrafii]

Rondelul ochiului de geam



Razant cu lumea de granit
Un moale ochi de geam existã.
Locuitorii îl omit
Dar el rãmâne ºi insistã.

Sã nu mai fie ocolit,
Sã ºtie urbea egoistã
Cã-n buza lumii de granit
Un moale ochi de geam existã

E plin de mâluri, umilit
De Antihrist, de ginta tristã
Dar lumineazã alb, mulcit,
Ca dintr-o noapte elenistã,
Razant cu lumea de granit.


(Leonid Dimov)

[silver_boy]

ploaia p(r)ost modernã
(flotãri poetice la obiect)

Vine ploaia
bine-mi pare
In grãdina...
n-am nici o floare
dar de asta-n c.ur ma doare
...vine ploaia
bine-mi pare


sus pe cer, norii-ncãrcaþi
toarnã ca o stropitoare
sfânta apã roditoare
...vine ploaia-n c.ur ma doare...

dacã vreau, la o adicã
fãrã gând de pãsãricã
pot alene ca sã ies
sã simt apa cum mã udã
sã devin o paparudã
ºi s-ascult în ploaie Yes
fãrã niciun interes
...
dar prefer, candid cum sunt
sã postez cronica ploii
sã dau frâu atent nevoii
de poeme deslânate
scrise brut, fãrã perdea
...sã-moarã-familia-mea !

[yssis]

viata


daca tot mai crezi in dragoste si vis,
cand tot in jur se naruie si piere,
esti inca in furtuna far aprins,
o stanca neclintita in tacere.

de poti sa stai la frumuri,la rascruci,
s-alini durerea surda si nesansa,
spre marile-naltimi sa vrei sa urci
ramai senin cnd trece avalansa!

viata-ti este un sirag de vise-ntregi
sau bobite raspandite prin tufisuri,
cu rabdare te apleci si le culegi
si de fiecare-n parte sa te bucuri!

e povestea mea,si-a ta,si-a tuturor,
este soarta fiecaruia in parte
este cantecul de viatza datator
ce desparte insasi nasterea de moarte

[thequietsurfer]

Ar fi inteligent (si decent) sa nu mai incercam sa refacem poezii. Glasul lui Kipling se simte in spatele miorlaiturilor tale.
IF.....


IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

[yssis]

daca te referi la poezia pusa de mn te inseli nu incerc sa refac nimik,iar autorul este Mariana-Dragan-Ionita

[thequietsurfer]

Tot o cununa de truisme patetice ramane. Numai buna de ornat capete de ipsos.

[illotempore2002]

ce bici metaforic are thequietsurfer!

:)

in sensul bun adica

[yssis]

la urma urmei fiecare cu parerea lui...gusturile nu se discuta iar mie imi place poezia:Pdaca nu iti place nu o citi;)

[illotempore2002]

gusturile nu se discuta, se imputa

:D

vorba lui Andrei Gheorghe

[ricutza]

de catre autoritati in domeniu, presupun...

[illotempore2002]

de catre persoane cu IQ-ul peste medie

dar tu ce faci acuma, ma urmaresti? cauti sa ma prinzi la cotitura si sa-mi dai in cap?

[ricutza]

yup...scopul meu personal in viata!

[illotempore2002]

asa se intampla cu persoanele cu viata goala

[Neuptolem]

Imi place atitudinea ta, ricutza, in special cu scenaristica. ;) Poate ne vdm prin atelier.
Asta e un topic care pe mine ma depaseste...nu pot sa inteleg rostul poeziei in viata (al declaratiilor de amor, da, mai dai o puicutza pe spate..), la cat de perversa, curva si dura e uneori viata, numai de poezie nu-ti arde. Poate si pt ca iubesc mult filmul, filmul e inspirat din viata asa cum e, poezia din trairi = singuratate, ups! deci pt oamenii singuri, I don't like it, imi place sa comunic* (sunt gemeni :P ).
__________________________________________________ ___________
*: Nu neaparat pe forumul asta si nicidecum virtual.

[illotempore2002]

ia imprieteneste-te tu cu ricutza si cu pauline......ce trio grozav ati face!

[Pitbull]

Care pe care?

Când aveam vreo zece-unspe ani, un prieten de-al lu' tata, profesor de istorie la liceu, m-a învätat: "Retine - pärintii trebuie sä fie bätuti de mici."
(O spusese în sens foarte... poetic, deci mesajul meu e on-topic. Da' hai sä redevenim si mai on-topic.)

[silver_boy]

hahaha...lovely !!!

[Dulce de Leche]

... ºi azi m-am îndrãgostit. am vrut sã dorm un pic ascultând altceva. Submarinul erotic. îl ºtiam medic ºi licenþios. deloc pe gustul meu.

de mai bine de 3 ore îi ascult recitându-ºi poeziile. e o catastrofã, recitã de parcã ar descânta între 2 orgasme, e sâsâit, trebuie sã mã concentrez ca sã-l înþeleg, încã nu m-am obiºnuit cu timbrul vocii. în decurs de 3 ore am dormit doar 5 minute, am stat cu ochii închiºi trãindu-i poezia. nu am cuvinte. trebuie sã inventez, vocabularul meu e prea sãrac pentru a-l descrie . nici mãcar nu sunt sigurã cã el este cel care recitã. i-am gãsit blogul; în decembrie împlineºte 70 de ani. am deja premoniþii despre comentariile pe care am sã le fac. poeziei lui.

... ºi m-am îndrãgostit.

iatã-l, deci, pe Emil Brumaru:
- "Sunt fericit, Dimov" - http://www.trilulilu.ro/Dragomara/2af3167c867e53
- "Cântec rãutãcios (1)" - http://www.trilulilu.ro/Dragomara/d890aa006f1465
- "Cântec rãutãcios (2)" - http://www.trilulilu.ro/Dragomara/c4e290953df879
- "Cântec rãutãcios (3)" - http://www.trilulilu.ro/Dragomara/4a8ed5a68dcb7d
- "Blues" - http://www.trilulilu.ro/Dragomara/4b5064760e37e2
- ""Povestea unei mici plimbãri ºi-a unei mari dezvirginãri" - http://www.trilulilu.ro/Dragomara/99005868bf4f5d

[Pauline Kael]

Daca esti gerontofila ,na-ti:

http://hobbitul.ro

[Dulce de Leche]

Crochiu


Am fost ºi eu o haimana derutatã
la sfârºitul unui secol amar
cu buzele arse am umblat nopþi întregi
prin cartierele cenuºii
încercând sã-ncãlzesc inimile
câtorva oameni înrãiþi ºi lunatici
mã poticneam pe strãzi sub
luminile cenuºii
abia reuºind sã îmi port pe umerii slãbãnogi
capul înfãºurat în benzi cenuºii de neliniºte
disperat ºi furios ºi solemn
am bodogãnit multã vreme
când înnebunit de tristeþe
pentru toatã nepãsarea
din privirea vatmanului a bancherului
ºi a chelneriþei
nu fãceam decât sã ºuier
poeme insolente ºiroind de alcool
(citisem eu într-o carte cã nimic
nu a mai rãmas de salvat
de bãut de regretat de f_utut
ºi toþi oamenii buni îºi târºâie picioarele
pe aleile unui ospiciu pãrãsit
ºi aproape scufundat
într-o mlaºtinã de la marginea lumii)
………………………………………………………..

când mã gândesc la câteva momente ºi chipuri,
corpul meu se ilumineazã ºi zornãie
ca un sãculeþ plin cu monede ieºite din uz

(Claudiu Komartin)

(PS: ºi dupã nenea ãsta mor, cu toate cã e mult mai tânãr :P).

[mafalda]

O poezie care am invatat-o in copilarie si care mi-a ramas in suflet pe viata, e poezia lui Virgil Carianopol

PURITATE

Hermina-i doar un strop de viata,
un giuvaer ce da scantei.
Traieste-n nordul numai gheata
si-i prinsa pentru argintul ei

Ca s-o vaneze, vanatorii
gasesc un golf de gheata in jur
si-i dau cu chinoros peretii.
stiind cat tine ea la PUR!

Haitasi, cu glasul ca de fiare
in aerul vibrand sonor,
o-mping apoi, stralucitoare,
pana ce intra-n golful lor.

Cu muschi puternici, temerara
cu gheare tari, in teci adanci
hermina ar putea sa sara,
sa fuga, dincolo de stanci.

Decat sa-si murdareasca insa
cu negru, albul ei de har
s-aseaza pe zapada, stransa,
si-asteapta moartea ca pe un dar.

E datul ei, ii scrie in soarta
sa dea cuvant la vesnicii
Mai bine sa luceasca moarta
Decat murdara printre vii!


Toata viata mea m-am straduit sa imi asum conditia existentiala a herminei! Nu stiu daca am reusit...

[Dulce de Leche]

Chiar dupa ce voi muri


Chiar dupa ce voi muri, dragul meu,
Si voi fi-ngropata adanc in pamant, dragul meu,
Deasupra mormantului meu va arde vesnic o flacara, dragul meu,
Ziua, flacara va fi alba, dragul meu,
Noaptea, flacara va fi neagra, dragul meu,
Si tu n-o vei vedea niciodata, dragul meu.
Flacara alba va fi dragostea mea pentru tine, dragul meu,
Flacara neagra va fi dragostea mea pentru tine, dragul meu,
Flacara alba si flacara neagra,dragul meu,
Nu se vor stinge niciodata, dragul meu,
Niciodata, niciodata, dragul meu.

(Zaharia Stancu)

[Pitbull]

Ei doar au stele cu situatie
Si prigoniri de soarte.
Noi nu avem timp, nici locatie,
Si nu cunoastem moarte!

("Luceafärul", editie updatatä)

[Pitbull]

De-ale lui Pãstorel:

Intr-un secol agitat,
Nu e lucru de mirare
Cä mâncäm cu toti rahat!
Numai eu mä foarte mir
Când aud pe Sadoveanu
Cä räcneste ca golanu'
Cä-i serbet de trandafir!

Sadoveanu, filo-rus,
Stä cu curul spre apus.
Ca sä vadä tot apusul
Cum aratä-n fatä rusul!

Domnul Graur se fäleste
Cä ne-nvatä româneste.
Asta însä, când i-o creste
Bucätica ce-i lipseste!

Caligula Imperator
A facut din cal - senator,
Petru Groza - mai sinistru
A facut din bou - ministru.


La venirea rusilor

Pe drumeagul din catun
Venea ieri un rus si-un tun;
Tunul rus
Si rusul tun!

* * *

Armistitiul ne-a impus
Sa dam boii pentru rus!
Ca sa completam noi doza,
L-am trimis pe Petru Groza!


Statuii ostasului sovietic

Soldat rus, soldat rus,
Te-au ridicat atat de sus,
Ca sa te vada popoarele...
Sau fiindca-ti put picioarele?


Votati soarele

Cand te vad asa pe garduri
Si cu raze imprejur,
Mai ca-mi vine sa te-asemui
Cu o gaura de cur!


Radioului (unde era invitat sa intre prin str. Temisana, adica prin spate)

De un an si jumatate
Ma bagati numai prin spate,
Pe cand eu, intreaga viata
V-am bagat numai... prin fata!


Diviziei Tudor Vladimirescu, decimata la Debretin

Din falnic vanator de munte
Mi te-a facut Ana pandur !
Intai ti-a-nfipt o stea in frunte
Si-apoi un Debretin in cur !


Comunistii isi maresc randurile cu o parte din legionari

Capitane, nu fi trist!
Tine minte trei cuvinte:
Garda merge inainte...
Prin partidul comunist!


Dupa alegerile din 1946 se mai putea vedea pe garduri: Votati soarele!

Nu credeam s-ajung vreodata
C-am sa pot sa fiu in stare
Ca facand pipi pe garduri,
Sa o fac direct in... soare!

* * *

Din Banat pana la Iasi
Se resimte lipsa sarii,
Fiindca cei mai multi ocnasi
Au ajuns la carma tarii.


Catren omagial catre Caragiale:

Cu greu tmi vine sa astern,
Un adevar ce nu-l suport,
Ca tocmai tu sa fii cel mort
Si Catavencu cel etern...


La Pelisor, palat transformat de regimul comunist in casa de creatie:

Voi, creatori ai artei pure,
Ce stati acuma la padure,
Sa fiti atenti cand va plimbati
Sa nu calcati in ... ce creati !


Guvernul Groza:

In guvernul Groza, cel de concentrare,
S-au primit trei membri, pentru completare,
Insa ca sa fie cabinet etern,
Imi bag si eu membrul... in acest guvern!


ZECE MEMBRI DE PARTID

Zece membri de partid
Visau viata noua
Unul a vorbit in vis,
Si-au ramas doar noua.

Noua membri de partid
De marxism s-au copt!
Unul s-a rascopt din ei,
Si-au ramas doar opt!

Opt membri de partid
Au trecut la fapte ...
Unul a trecut la Tito!
Si-au ramas doar sapte!

Sapte membri de partid
Fac afaceri grase,
Unul a intrat la zdup
Si-au ramas doar sase!

Sase membri de partid
Au strigat lozinci,
Unul a strigat gresit
Si-au ramas doar cinci!

Cinci membri de partid
Cand au fost la teatru,
Unul n-a aplaudat
Si-au ramas doar patru!

Patru membri de partid
Si cam toti evrei,
Unul a plecat in Eretz
Si-au ramas doar trei!

Trei membri de partid
Vorbeau de razboi!
Unul a vorbit cam mult,
Si-au ramas doar doi!

Doi membri de partid
Mandri ca paunul.
Unul a innebunit,
Si-a ramas doar unul!

Un membru de partid,
Cel mai lamurit.
A plecat cu Onete-ul
Si n-a mai venit!

ZERO membri de partid,
Lupta pentru pace.
Ca partidul nostru drag
Stie el ce face!


Steaua

Cate stele sunt pe cer
Toate pan' la ziua pier.
Numai pe uzina noastra
Sade una, ca o proasta...


RECLAMA

Imi spunea un betivan,
Rezemat contra perete:
Fetele din Popa Nan
E frumoase, dar nu-i fete!


La restaurantul Uniunii Scriitorilor

Beau baietii, harnici,
De cu seara-n zori,
Unii sunt paharnici,
Altii... turnatori !


GEOMETRIE BAHICÃ

de Pastorel Teodoreanu

Hranit mai mult cu lapte si iaurt,
Un grec vazu cu mintea-i inteleapta
Ca intre doua puncte, cel mai scurt
Din drumuri, cu putinta, e o dreapta.

Dar axiomul devenit banal
Si insusit de vremile-aceste
A fost atunci precum va fi si este
Valabil doar pe-un plan orizontal.

Si daca vrei sa tragi invatatura,
Un plan orizontal, cand te gandesti,
Constati ca nu exista in natura
Ci exclusiv in mintile grecesti.

Iar cand in loc de lapte, bei "Madera ",
Aceasta socoteala te conturba
Caci tu nu uiti ca ai baut pe-o sfera
Pe care dreapta lui devine curba.

Si-n cap cu dreapta grecului defunct
Pana ce vreun nalt areopag
O va fi pus definitiv la punct
Pornesti spre domiciliu in zigzag.


Prin anii '30 Viorica Porumbacu, a scris niste versuri de adanca simtire
si vibratie de genul:

" O, Europa, te simt in mine
Te simt vibrând adanc.."

A doua zi Pastorel :

"Mult stimata Veronica,
Eu credeam c-o ai mai mica !
Dar marturisirea-ti clara
Din 'Gazeta literara'
Dovedeste elocvent
Ca in ...chestia matale...
De-adancimi fenomenale
Intra-ntregul continent!"


Dupa prima vizita a lui Petru Groza in URSS, Pastorel a scris:

Din Galati la Port Arthur
Petru Groza, in carlinga,
N-a vazut atata cur
Cat ar fi putut sa linga.

* * *

Aici doarme Pastorel,
Baiat bun si suflet fin,
Daca treceti pe la el,
Nu-l treziti, ca cere vin!

Si alta scrisa cand era internat cu probleme de ficat (sau de plamani, nu
mai stiu), in Dealul Filaretului, la un sanatoriu situat pe Soseaua Viilor
(in Bucuresti). Cica asta a fost ultima lui epigrama, a murit dupa cateva
zile:

Culmea ironiilor
Si rasul copiilor
Sa pun punct betiilor
Pe Soseaua Viilor!


* * *

Mircea Ionescu-Quintus:

Sa-nchinam paharul
Pentru Pastorel:
N-a fost nici Cotnarul
Mai spumos ca el.

[Pitbull]

Altele de-ale lui
Pastorel Teodoreanu


Sadoveanu era dator cu niste bani lui Pastorel. Se stie ca Sadoveanu era zgarcit. Au trecut luni fara nicio miscare din partea lui. Pastorel compune :

De-ar fi sa mori (cam ar fi cazul)
Sa nu-mi lasi bani, sa-mi lasi obrazul
Sa-mi fac din el bocanci.



Un schimb de epigrame intre Mihail Codreanu si Pastorel

Cand a pornit lugubrul zvon
Cum c-ai murit la Carlton
Mi-am zis atunci: - cu adevarat
O fi el mort, insa mort beat.

La care Pastorel, ii raspunde:

La Carlton eu ca din vis
Lugubrei morti scapat-am trenul
Insa aflai ca m-a ucis
La Iasi, Codreanu cu catrenul !


Cine-i ametit prea tare
Pe sub mese sa se culce
Si in zgomot de pahare,
Doarma dulce !

Sa nu fie vorba lunga
Doara stim ce scurta-i viata
Sa bem pana sa ne-ajunga,
Dimineata.


* * *

Epigrama nu e scula
Care-ti poate sterge crima,
Dupa ce ca scrii cu sula
Vrei sa regulezi cu rima?


AMERICANILOR

Daca si de asta data
Se retrag din Orient,
Ma fac porumbelul pacii
Si ma cac pe occident!




In tara asta prefacuta
Cacatii scriu in loc sa puta.
Iar scriitori-adevarati
Sunt dati afara de cacati...

aici zace Pastorel,
vesnic si nemangaiat
ca e prima data mort
fara ca sa fie beat...




Lui Mihail Sadoveanu

Venea o moara pe Siret
Leganandu-se pe-o coasta,
Si-n ea un autor siret
Macina faina proasta !


Cica la un moment dat a trimis o cerere primului ministru Iorga. Asta dupa ce Pastorel ii reprosase ca a coborat din Olimpul stiintei in mocirla curvasariei, pardon am vrut sa scriu, politica.... Evident ca tonul folosit a fost extrem de virulent si caustic..
Asa ca Iorga, care era si un tip extrem de orgolios, a jurat sa profite de pozitia publica avuta si pana cand calamburistul nu isi va cere scuze... Cum la un moment dat fara semnatura savantului nu se putea misca nimic, prietenii comuni au aranjat ca imediat dupa rostirea cuvintelor "Domnule Iorga, imi pare rau, recunosc public ca am gresit fata de dvoastra" sa ii fie inmanata cererea aprobata, stampilata si parafata...
Perfect. Toti asteptau umilirea.
In ziua si la ora fixata Pastorel suna la usa savantului si ii zice servitorului ceva de genul: " Sunt domnul Theodoreanu si sunt asteptat de domnul IORGU"
Servitorul :"Pardon, stapanul casei este domnul IORGA"
"Ma contrazici sau imi dai drumul?" Asa ca servitorul i-a deschis si l-a condus in sufragerie, unde toti cei prezenti asteptau penitenta..
"Domnule Iorga, imi pare rau, recunosc public ca am gresit fata de dvoastra, cand v-am spus IORGU, nu Iorga. Acum, ca mi-am cerut scuze, astept sa va tineti si dumneavoastra de cuvant si sa imi dati documentul promis"....
Evident ca aproape toata lumea a pufnit in ras. Singura exceptie a fost... nu va spun cine.
Dar cum situatia devenea penibila, i-a inmanat documentul semnat, parafat, etc....
Indiferent de opinile diferite, amandoi erau oameni destepti, care recunosteau atat umorul cat si capacitatea celuilalt. Si influenta opiniei publice...

Lucreziei Karnabat, autoarea cartii "sexul de peste drum"

Sexul doamnei Karnabat,
De vreo luna mi se pare,
A sporit mult la vanzare,
Caci se vinde separat,
Fara doamna Karnabat

Lui Iuliu Maniu

Intr-un moment de grea povara
Pentru sarmana tara-a mea,
Eu unul stalp de cafenea,
Inchin pentru un stalp de tara!

[illotempore2002]

For Jane


225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.

when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.

Charles Bukowski

[illotempore2002]

si preferata mea, de la Brautigan

We stopped at perfect days
and got out of the car.
The wind glanced at her hair.
It was as simple as that.
I turned to say something

[Pitbull]

AICI e locul pentru poezii ale altora.
"Ars poetica" e topicul pentru POEZII ORIGINALE ALE FORUMISTILOR.

L.E.
Am postat acest mesaj în cadrul instructiunilor pentru Illo, care initial postase poeziile de mai sus la "Ars poetica" (topicul dedicat versurilor noastre originale). Judex le-a mutat la locul potrivit, inaugurându-si moderatoria printr-o aplicare a noii si mult doritei functii "merge" ("contopeste").

[illotempore2002]

Mircea Micu a fost un mare parodist (i-a cam parodiat pe Nichita, Paunescu, Labis, Sorescu, George Tomozei) si aproape orice almanah literar din anii 80 cuprindea cateva paordii ale lui

anyway mi-a placut foarte mult poezia de mai sus

[illotempore2002]

poezia care ma face sa plang :) Brautigan, again

It’s raining in love

I don't know what it is,
but I distrust myself
when I start to like a girl
a lot.

It makes me nervous.
I don't say the right things
or perhaps I start
to examine,
evaluate,
compute
what I am saying.

If I say, "Do you think it's going to rain?"
and she says, "I don't know,"
I start thinking : Does she really like me?

In other words
I get a little creepy.

A friend of mine once said,
"It's twenty times better to be friends
with someone
than it is to be in love with them."

I think he's right and besides,
it's raining somewhere, programming flowers
and keeping snails happy.
That's all taken care of.

BUT

if a girl likes me a lot
and starts getting real nervous
and suddenly begins asking me funny questions
and looks sad if I give the wrong answers
and she says things like,
"Do you think it's going to rain?"
and I say, "It beats me,"
and she says, "Oh,"
and looks a little sad
at the clear blue California sky,
I think : Thank God, it's you, baby, this time
instead of me.

[miercuri]

Poezia care ma face pe mine sa plang

William Blake - The Chimney-Sweeper (varianta din Songs of Innocence)

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry ‘ 'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!’
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curl'd like a lamb’s back, was shav'd: so I said
‘Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head’s bare
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.’

And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!—
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black.

And by came an Angel who had a bright key,
And he open'd the coffins & set them all free;
Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run
And wash in a river, and shine in the Sun.

Then naked & white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the Angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father, & never want joy.

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags & our brushes to work.
Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm;
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

[corinka]

William Wordsworth, Ode to the Daffodils:

I wander'd lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

:x

[illotempore2002]

prea multa descriere de natura, Corinka, imi aminteste de Sadoveanu si de ..... ala cu pe drumuri de munte :P

[miercuri]

Pai Wordsworth cu asta s-a ocupat mai mult si asta era moda pe vremea aia (un pic inainte de 1800). Romantismul a avut si el rolul lui, a venit ca o gura de aer dupa constiparile neoclasice.

[illotempore2002]

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

[miercuri]

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

[illotempore2002]

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,




=))

[miercuri]

Oh common, lasa-l pe Wordsworth in pace, era un romantic mai cumintel, dar a deschis niste drumuri acolo. :)

[StefanDo]

on the grass...

care era poezia aia de la limba romana care ni se da dadea ca exemplu de descriere "hiper-activa", cu numar record de verbe? ceva cu noapte, luna, umbre, strigoi, chestii :D

[illotempore2002]

uite marea, uite valu'......

=))

[miercuri]

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

[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. :P
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. :P

[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/poesie/Vian.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.

[corinka]

Ion Minulescu, Prin gările cu firme-albastre

Tristeţea trenului ce pleacă
Noi n-am trâit-o niciodată,
Căci - călători ades cu trenul -
În clipa când plecăm din gară,
Noi stăm pe loc -
Doar trenul pleacă!...

Doar trenul pleacă,
Trenul singur
Ne poartă nerăbdarea mută,
Bagajul visurilor noastre
Şi setea noilor senzaţii,
Pe infinite paralele,
De-a lungul verzilor plantaţii
De mătrăgună şi cucută,
Pe schela podurilor albe,
Prin noaptea negrelor tunele
Şi gările cu firme-albastre!...

Doar trenul pleacă,
Trenul singur
Respiră,
Cugetă,
Vorbeşte,
Şi-n forţa aburilor cântă
Viteza roţilor ce creşte...

Doar trenul singur se frământă,
El singur urcă
Şi coboară -
Reptilă neagră ce-mprumută
Aripi de liliac ce zboară
Şi glas de cobe ce-nspăimântă!...

Doar trenul singur se-nfioară
De-atâta veşnică povară.
El singur poartă mai departe
Pachetele-omeneşti, culcate
Ca-ntr-un muzeu de statui sparte,
Pe bănci de pluş capitonate!...
Doar trenul suferă ofensa
Sclaviei negrilor "ad-hoc",
Ce poartă-n lectici mai departe
Pe cei născuţi să stea pe loc...

El singur,
El,
Şi numai trenul,
Creează-n urma lui distanţa
Monotonia
Şi refrenul
Din care ne-adăpăm speranţa
Toţi călătorii spre mai bine...

Şi numai el,
Doar trenul singur,
Doar trenul ştie-anume cine
Şi câţi din cei plecaţi aseară
Putea-vom mâine,-n zorii zilei,
Bagajul visurilor noastre
Să-l presărăm, din suflet iară,
Prin gările cu firme-albastre!...

[corinka]

Lucian Blaga, Poetul

Intru pomenirea lui Rainer Maria Rilke

Prietena, sa nu mai rostim zadarnicul sunet
cu care-l chemau muritorii!
Astazi, vorbind pentru toti
el nu are chip si nu are nume - poetul!
Viata lui mult ne-a mirat,
ca un cantec cu tulbure talc,
ca un straniu eres.

In anii de demult
poetul, cuvantul strivindu-si, a indurat
napastele toate cu barbatie
si cele mai mari, cele mai crunte dureri, si le-a stins
in muntele singuratatii, ce si-a ales.
Cand la un semn
s-au surpat albastrimile cerului,
si minutarele vremii treceau
ca taisuri prin toata faptura,
in anii aceia, poetul voi sa uite de semeni si vatra.

In anii cumplitelor pacle
cand pamantenii cu sfanta lor omenie si carne
s-au destramat fara numar,
si viata - atata s-a stins
de-ar fi fost, vai, tocmai de-ajuns
ca duhul sa prinda trup pe pamant.
Poetul, cu numele sters si pierdut, s-a retras
sub pavaza muntelui,
facandu-se prieten inaltelor piscuri de piatra.

Si neajuns, neclintit, a ramas in jurul destinului
flancat de albe si negre solstitii
mare si singur.
Nu l-a ucis amarnica grija din vale, nici gandul
ca Dumnezeu rapitu-si-a singur putinta-ntruparii.
Nu l-au razbit nici tunetul din departari,
nici tenebrele.
Si nu l-a schimbat in cenusa
fulgerul care i-a fost pentr-o clipa
oaspete-n prag.
Mereu isi da siesi cuvantul
si pasul sau era legamant.

Ingaduie Prietena, sa-ti amintesc ca Poetul
muri numai mult mai tarziu.
Mult mai tarziu, ucis
de-un ghimpe muiat in azur
ca de-un spine cu foc de albina.

Muri poetul ucis sub soare de-un trandafir,
de-un ghimpe muiat
in simplu albastru, in simpla lumina.
De-atunci, in frunzare-aplecate
privighetoarele toate-amutira
uimite de cele-ntamplate.
Privighetorile ceasului, din rarele noastre gradini,
amutira-n lumina ce-apare-n zadar
si fara de semne, de-atunci.

Si nu stiu nimic pe pamant
ce-ar putea sa le-ndemne
sa cante iar.

[Dragomara]

şters!

[Dragomara]

şters!

[Pitbull]

Nice lyrics, but off-topic. :x
Judex (sau Stefan ori Gloria), Dragomara vä roagä (prin intermediul meu) sä mutati mesajul de mai sus (cu al meu cu tot) la "Lyrics" sau "Poezia".

[Dragomara]

şters!

[illotempore2002]

pe mine ma innebunesc versurile de la Plainsong cantat de The Cure, ma ruineaza afectiv melodia cu totul, versuri si muzica. enjoy.

I think it's dark and it looks like rain," you said
"And the wind is blowing like it's the end of the world," you said
"And it's so cold it's like the cold if you were dead," and then you smiled for a second.

"I think I'm old and I'm feeling the pain," you said,
"And it's all running out like it's the end of the world," you said
"And it's so cold it's like the cold if you were dead," and then you smiled for a second.

Sometimes you make me feel like I'm living at the edge of the world, like I'm living at the edge of the world.
"It's just the way I smile," you said

[Dragomara]

şters!

[Judex]

My girl, my girl, don't lie to me,
Tell me where did you sleep last night?

In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun will never shine
I would shiver the whole night through

My girl, my girl, where will you go?
I'm going where the cold wind blows

In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun will never shine
I would shiver the whole night through

Her husband, was a hard working man
Just about a mile from here
His head was found in a driving wheel
But his body never was found

My girl, my girl, don't lie to me,
Tell me where did you sleep last night?

In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun will never shine
I would shiver the whole night through

My girl, my girl, where will you go?
I'm going where the cold wind blows

In the pines, in the pines
Where the will never shine
I would shiver the whole night through

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=8243287786956119226

[Dragomara]

şters!

[illotempore2002]

http://img36.imageshack.us/img36/511/lovepoem.th.gif (http://img36.imageshack.us/i/lovepoem.gif/)


cine poate sa mareasca poezia asta?
:(

[paul_aramis]

It’s so nice
to wake up in the morning
all alone
and not have to tell somebody
you love them
when you don’t love them

[illotempore2002]

Probabil ca stiti poezia, dar imi place asa de mult ca as vrea sa o vad afisata peste tot, in tot orasul :)

A Radio With Guts

it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street
I used to get drunk
and throw the radio through the window
while it was playing, and, of course,
it would break the glass in the window
and the radio would sit there on the roof
still playing
and I'd tell my woman,
"Ah, what a marvelous radio!"
the next morning I'd take the window
off the hinges
and carry it down the street
to the glass man
who would put in another pane.
I kept throwing that radio through the window
each time I got drunk
and it would sit there on the roof
still playing-
a magic radio
a radio with guts,
and each morning I'd take the window
back to the glass man.
I don't remember how it ended exactly
though I do remember
we finally moved out.
there was a woman downstairs who worked in
the garden in her bathing suit,
she really dug with that trowel
and she put her behind up in the air
and I used to sit in the window
and watch the sun shine all over that thing
while the music played.

Charles Bukowski

[illotempore2002]

poate am mai pus asta dar nu importa.....

Karma Repair Kit

1. Get enough food to eat, and eat it.
2. Find a place to sleep where it is quiet, and sleep there.
3. Reduce intellectual and emotional noise until you reach the silence of yourself, and listen to it.
4.


Brautigan, obsesia mea cea mai recenta.

[illotempore2002]

Tristeţă casnică
de Tristan Tzara


În sămânţă de crini
te-am înmormântat senin
ne-am iubit în clopotniţe vechi
anii se distramă
ca dantele vechi.

te caut pretutindeni Doamne
dar tu ştii că-i prea puţin
te-am înmormântat în noiembrie
când se duceau şcolăriţele la prânz
n-au ştiut că erai în căruţă
că ar fi plâns.
.................................................. ...............


Se continua, dar sa nu o lungim prea mult cu poezia....

[Deleted]

Ariel


Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
God's lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!--The furrow
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks----
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else
Hauls me through air----
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
White
Godiva, I unpeel----
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child's cry
Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.

[moltisanti88]

Sunt un om viu
de Nichita Stănescu

Sunt un om viu.
Nimic din ce-i omenesc nu mi-e străin.
Abia am timp să mă mir că exist, dar
mă bucur totdeauna că sunt.

Nu mă realizez deplin niciodată,
pentru că
am o idee din ce în ce mai bună
despre viaţă.

Mă cutremură diferenţa dintre mine
şi firul ierbii,
dintre mine şi lei,
dintre mine şi insulele de lumină
ale stelelor.
Dintre mine şi numere,
bunăoară între mine şi 2, între mine şi 3.

Am şi-un defect un păcat:
iau în serios iarba,
iau în serios leii,
mişcările aproape perfecte ale cerului.
Şi-o rană întâmplătoare la mână
mă face să văd prin ea,
ca printr-un ochean,
durerile lumii, războaiele.

Dintr-o astfel de întâmplare
mi s-a tras marea înţelegere
pe care-o am pentru Ulise – şi
bărbatului cu chip ursuz, Dante Alighieri.

Cu greu mi-aş putea imagina
un pământ pustiu, rotindu-se
în jurul soarelui…

Îmi olace să râd, deşi
râd rar, având mereu câte o treabă,
ori călătorind cu o plută, la nesfârşit,
pe oceanul oval al fantaziei.

E un spectacol de neuitat acela
de-a şti,
de-a descoperi
harta universului în expansiune,
în timp ce-ţi priveşti
o fotografie din copilărie!

E un trup al tău vechi,
pe care l-ai rătăcit
şi nici măcar un anunţ, dat
cu litere groase,
nu-ţi pferă vreo şansă
să-l mai regăseşti.

Îmi desfac papirusul vieţii
plin de hieroglife,
şi ceea ce pot comunica
acum, aici,
după o descifrare anevoioasă,
dar nu lipăsită de satisfacţii,
e un poem închinat păcii,
ce are, pe scurt, următorul cuprins:

Nu vreau,
când îmi ridic tâmpla din perne,
să se lungească-n urma mea pe paturi
moartea,
şi-n fiece cuvânt ţâşnind spre mine,
peşti putrezi să-mi arunce, ca-ntr-un râu
oprit.

Nici după fiecare pas,
în golul dinapoia mea rămas,
nu vreau
să urce moartea-n sus, asemeni
unei coloane de mercur,
bolţi de infern proptind deasupra-mi…

Dar curcubeul negru-al ei, de alge,
de-ar bate-n tinereţia mea s-ar sparge.

E o fertilitate nemaipomenită
în pământ şi-n pietre şi în schelării,
magnetic, timpul, clipită cu clipită,
gândurile mi le-nalţă
ca pe nişte trupuri vii.

E o fertilitate nemaipomenită
în pământ şi-n pietre şi în schelării.
Umbra de mi-aş ţine-o doar o clipă pironită,
s-ar şi umple de ferigi, de bălării!

Doar chipul tău prelung iubito,
lasă-l aşa cum este, răzimat
între două bătăi ale inimii mele,
ca între Tigru
şi Eufrat.

[illotempore2002]

Moldova Noua



te-am prins că furi din uzină
şi te-ai suit în tramvai
am pus mîna pe tine
saci davai

da ce credeai c-a să meargă
n-ai fost crescut de părinţi?
eu dacă fur de la tine
tu cum te simţi?

la ce-ai furat tu sacii?
cât puteai să iai pe ei?
te-ai făcut de ruşine
pentru o su di lei

mi-e şi milă de tine
acuma intri la zdup
ce golani sunt acolo
uăi te rup


:D

[SoX]

Acum chiar mi se rupe
Puteti sa arucati cu ce vreti
Ati spart deja geamurile prin care ii vedeam strambi pe cei drepti



Dar ei ma vad la fel
Un om fara nici un tel
Fara sa stie ca nu caut lumina
A inceput sa imi placa in tunel



Si acum ma simt atat de usor
Desi sunt strivit de greutati
Si ar trebui sa strig dupa ajutor
Privesc neputincios cum toate se duc
Nu-mi pasa, uite, ce mai am arunc


Prietenii s-au dus
Banii nu au fost niciodata de ajuns
Iar fata pe care am iubit-o mi-a spus ca a iubit pe cineva pe ascuns
Inocenta.. s-a pierdut si ea pe parcurs
Iar rabdarea o consideram de mult un plus
Si acum suflu fumul spre cer



Nu simt nevoia sa imi cer nici un raspuns
ma simt fericit
Defapt nu imi pasa ce simt
Hai ca m-am dus.. Pa!

[vave]

Musai recitată de Pittiş (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvodzuSYhhY).

Ultima scrisoare de Mihai Beniuc

Sfârşitul a venit fără de veste.
Eşti fericită? Văd că porţi inel.
Am înţeles. Voi trage dungă peste
Nădăjdea inutilă. Fă la fel.
Nici un cuvânt. Nu-mi spune că-i o formă,
Cunosc însemnătatea ei deplin.
Ştiu, voi aveţi în viaţă altă normă,
Eu însă-n faţa normei nu mă-nchin.
Nu te mai cânt în versuri niciodată,
În drumul tău mai mult nu am să ies,
Nu-ţi fac reproşuri, nu eşti vinovată
Şi n-am să spun că nu m-ai înţeles.
A fost desigur numai o greşeală,
Putea să fie mult, nimic n-a fost.
În veşnicia mea de plictiseală
Tot nu-mi închipui că puneai un rost.
Şi totuşi, totuşi, câteva atingeri
Au fost de-ajuns să-mi deie ameţeli.
Vedeam văzduhul fluturând de îngeri,
Lumină-n noaptea mea de îndoieli.
Când degete de Midas am pus magic
Pe fragedă fiinţa ta de lut,
Suna în mine murmurul pelagic
Al sfintelor creaţii de-nceput.
Vedeam cum peste vremuri se înalţă
Statuia ta de aur greu, masiv,
Cum serioase veacuri se descalţă
Şi-ngenuncheate rânduri submisiv
La soclul tău dumnezeisc aşteaptă
Să le întinzi un zâmbet liniştit
Spre sărutare, adorata dreaptă,
‘Nainte de-a se şterge-n infinit.
O, de-am fi stat alături doar o oră,
Ai fi rămas în auriul vis
Ca o eternă, roză auroră
De nenţeles, de nedescris.
Ireversibil s-a-ncheiat povestea
Şi nici nu ştiu de ai să mai citeşti
Din întâmplare rândurile-acestea
În care-aş vrea să fii ce nu mai eşti.
N-am să strivesc eu visul sub picioare,
N-am să pătez cu vorbe ce mi-i drag.
Aş fi putut să spun: „Eşti ca oricare...”
Dar nu vreau în noroaie să mă bag.
De-ar fi mocirla-n jurul tău cât hăul,
Tu vei rămâne nufărul de nea
Ce-l oglindeşte beat de pofte tăul,
Ce-l ţine candid amintirea mea.
Vei fi acolo veşnic ne-ntinată,
Te voi iubi mereu fără cuvânt,
Şi lumea n-o să ştie niciodată
De ce nu pot mai mult femei să cânt.
Acolo, sub lumină de mister,
Scăldată-n apa visurilor lină,
Vei sta iubită ca-ntr-un colţ de cer
O stea de seară blânda şi senină.
Şi când viaţa va fi rea cu tine,
Când au sa te împroaşte cu noroi,
Tu fugi în lumea visului la mine,
Vom fi atuncea singuri amândoi.
Cu lacrimi voi spăla eu orice pată,
Cu versuri nemaiscrise te mângâi.
În dulcea lor cadenţă legănată,
Te vei simţi ca-n visul tău dintai.
Iar de va fi (cum simt mereu de-o vreme)
Să plec de-aicea de la voi curând,
Când glasul tău vreodat-o să mă cheme,
Voi reveni la tine din mormânt*.
Şi dac-ar fi să nu se poată trece
Pe veci pecetluitele hotare
M-aş zbate-ngrozitor în ţărna rece,
Plângând în noaptea mare, tot mai mare.

_________________
* impresionant să îl aud cum spune asta

[movie4]

LA Belle Dame Sans Merci


Ballad.


I.


O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

II.


O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

III.


I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

IV.


I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful - a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

V.


I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

VI.


I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.

VII.


She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
«I love thee true.»

VIII.


She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

IX.


And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d - Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.

X.


I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - «La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!»

XI.


I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

XII.


And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

John Keats

[SoricicaMov]

Voodoo Girl
Tim Burton

Her skin is white cloth,
and she's all sewn apart
and she has many colored pins
sticking out of her heart.

She has many different zombies
who are deeply in her trance.
She even has a zombie
who was originally from France.

But she knows she has a curse on her,
a curse she cannot win.
For if someone gets
too close to her,

the pins stick farther in.

[movie4]

Voodoo Girl
Tim Burton

Her skin is white cloth,
and she's all sewn apart
and she has many colored pins
sticking out of her heart.

She has many different zombies
who are deeply in her trance.
She even has a zombie
who was originally from France.

But she knows she has a curse on her,
a curse she cannot win.
For if someone gets
too close to her,

the pins stick farther in.
:x :x :x

I CANNOT GIVE THE REASONS

I cannot give the reasons,
I only sing the tunes:
the sadness of the seasons
the madness of the moons.

I cannot be didactic
or lucid, but I can
be quite obscure and practic-
ally marzipan

In gorgery and gushness
and all that's squishified.
My voice has all the lushness
of what I can't abide

And yet it has a beauty
most proud and terrible
denied to those whose duty
is to be cerebral.

Among the antlered mountains
I make my viscous way
and watch the sepia mountains
throw up their lime-green spray.

Mervyn Peake

[SoricicaMov]

Movie, ai vazut de curand Bright Star, nu? :)

[movie4]

da:x
mi-a placut mult filmul
Ben Whishaw:x

[SoricicaMov]

Da. Si mie. Mult mult :) Ma gandeam eu ca de asta ai postat din Keats, ha ha, nu de alta dar voiam sa pun si eu tot un poem de-al lui ;)

[omudindulap]

Cine moare
Pablo Neruda

Moare câte puţin cine se transformă în sclavul obişnuinţei,
urmând în fiecare zi aceleaşi traiectorii;
cine nu-şi schimbă existenţa;
cine nu riscă să construiască ceva nou;
cine nu vorbeşte cu oamenii pe care nu-i cunoaşte.

Moare câte puţin cine-şi face din televiziune un guru.

Moare câte puţin cine evită pasiunea,
cine preferă negrul pe alb şi punctele pe "i" în locul unui vârtej de emoţii,
acele emoţii care învaţă ochii să strălucească,
oftatul să surâdă şi care eliberează sentimentele inimii.

Moare câte puţin cine nu pleacă atunci când este nefericit în lucrul său;
cine nu riscă certul pentru incert pentru a-şi îndeplini un vis;
cine nu-şi permite măcar o dată în viaţă să nu asculte sfaturile "responsabile".

Moare câte puţin cine nu călătoreşte;
cine nu citeşte;
cine nu ascultă muzică;
cine nu caută harul din el însuşi.

Moare câte puţin cine-şi distruge dragostea; cine nu se lasă ajutat.

Moare câte puţin cine-şi petrece zilele plângându-şi de milă şi detestând ploaia care nu mai încetează.

Moare câte puţin cine abandonează un proiect înainte de a-l fi început;
cine nu întreabă de frică să nu se facă de râs
şi cine nu răspunde chiar dacă cunoaşte întrebarea.

Evităm moartea câte puţin, amintindu-ne întotdeauna că "a fi viu" cere un efort mult mai mare decât simplul fapt de a respira.

Doar răbdarea cuminte ne va face să cucerim o fericire splendidă.

Totul depinde de cum o trăim...

Dacă va fi să te înfierbânţi, înfierbântă-te la soare.
Dacă va fi să înşeli, înşeală-ţi stomacul.
Dacă va fi să plângi, plânge de bucurie.
Dacă va fi să minţi, minte în privinţa vârstei tale.
Dacă va fi să furi, fură o sărutare.
Dacă va fi să pierzi, pierde-ţi frica.
Dacă va fi să simţi foame, simte foame de iubire.
Dacă va fi să doreşti să fii fericit, doreşte-ţi în fiecare zi...

[Ipu]

Fericirea (”La dicha” de Jorge Luis Borges) - vezi și o variantă în engleză recitată aici (www.youtube.com/watch?v=FlP3kdKGzVM).

Cine îmbrăţişează o femeie este Adam. Femeia este Eva.
Totul se întâmplă pentru prima oară.
Văzut-am ceva alb pe cer. Că-i luna mi se spune,
dar ce pot face cu un cuvânt şi o mitologie?
O înfiorare simt când văd copacii. O, cât sunt de frumoşi!
Se-apropie de mine cu blândeţe tot felul de jivine pentru ca eu să le spun pe nume.
Pe raft stau cărţi, dar litere nu au. Când cartea o deschid, apar şi ele.
Când răsfoiesc atlasul, trasez conturul insulei Sumatra.
Cine aprinde un chibrit în întuneric născoceşte focul.
În oglindă cineva stă la pândă.
Cine priveşte marea vede Anglia.
Cine recită un vers de Liliencron a intrat în luptă.
Am visat Cartagina şi legiunile care au nimicit Cartagina.
Am visat spada şi balanţa.
Lăudată fie dragostea în care nu există posesor şi posedat,
căci amândoi se lasă în voia ei.
Lăudat fie coşmarul, care ne arată că putem crea iadul.
Cine se scaldă într-un râu se scaldă în Gange.
Cine priveşte un ceas de nisip vede năruirea unui imperiu.
Cine se joacă cu un pumnal prevesteşte moartea lui Cezar.
Cel care doarme este toţi oamenii.
În pustiu am văzut apărând Sfinxul, pe care chiar atunci îl terminaseră.
Nimic nu e atât de vechi sub soare.
Totul se întâmplă pentru prima oară, dar într-un chip veşnic.
Cine citeşte cuvintele mele le inventează.

[RomaniaMare]

Recomand tuturor pe Grigore Vieru(evident,mă adresez celor care încă nu îi cunosc opera mastrului).

[moltisanti88]

Ridică-te, Gheorghe, ridică-te, Ioane!
de Radu Gyr

Nu pentru-o lopată de rumenă pâine,
nu pentru patule, nu pentru pogoane,
ci pentru văzduhul tău liber de mâine,
ridică-te, Gheorghe, ridică-te, Ioane!

Pentru sângele neamului tău curs prin şanţuri,
pentru cântecul tău ţintuit în piroane,
pentru lacrima soarelui tău pus în lanţuri,
ridică-te, Gheorghe, ridică-te, Ioane!

Nu pentru mania scrâşnită-n măsele,
ci ca să aduni chiuind pe tapsane
o claie de zări şi-o căciula de stele,
ridică-te, Gheorghe, ridică-te, Ioane!

Aşa, ca să bei libertatea din ciuturi
şi-n ea să te-afunzi ca un cer în bulboane
şi zărzării ei peste tine să-i scuturi,
ridică-te, Gheorghe, ridică-te, Ioane!

Şi ca să pui tot sărutul fierbinte
pe praguri, pe prispe, pe uşi, pe icoane,
pe toate ce slobode-ţi ies inainte,
ridică-te, Gheorghe, ridică-te, Ioane!

Ridică-te, Gheorghe, pe lanţuri, pe funii!
Ridică-te, Ioane, pe sfinte ciolane!
Şi sus, spre lumina din urmă-a furtunii,
ridică-te, Gheorghe, ridică-te, Ioane!

Ce soartă a avut acest om. Putea fi următorul Eminescu.

[Ipu]

O poezie dintre acelea care dau titluri de filme. Vezi aici (www.cinemagia.ro/forum/showthread.php?t=95399&page=132#2622).
http://updateslive.blogspot.com/2008/10/o-poezie-de-forough-farrokhzad.html

[Ipu]

Rezultatul concursului de muzică ușoară al grupului Euroviziunii mi-a evocat faimoasa lamentație a bătrânului Will:

Sonetul LXVI (în traducerea clasică a lui Mihnea Gheorghiu)

Mă uit scârbit la tot, şi-aş vrea să mor,
Decât să-l văd slăvit pe ticălos,
Iar pe sărman de râsul tuturor,
Să-l văd tăgăduit pe credincios,
Pe vrednicul de cinste, oropsit,
Şi pe femei batjocorite crunt,
Pe cel făr’de prihană pedepsit
Şi pe viteaz răpus de cel mărunt
Şi artele sub pintenul despot.
Să văd prostia doctor la deştepţi,
Şi adevărul, “vorbă de netot”
Şi strâmbul poruncindu-le la drepţi.
Mă uit scârbit la tot şi bun rămas!
Dar dacă mor, iubirea-mi cui o las?

Clichează aici pentru un eseu despre traducerea acestui sonet, eseu care conține varianta originală în engleză, precum și alte șase tălmăciri aparținând unor diverși autori. (www.poezie.ro/index.php/essay/1739466/%C5%9Ease_variante_de_traducere_pentru_Sonetul_LXV I_de_William_Shakespeare)

Să gândim pozitiv și să nu ne lăsăm înfrânți de dezamăgiri!

[Windom]

Cîntec de circ

de Oana Sanziana Marian

Primul lucru pe care i l-am spus
dimineaţă a fost «Danny, nu mai vreau să mor
virgină», la care mi-a răspuns,
fără ca măcar să mă privească-n faţă,
«Avem timp, Lassie, avem timp»,
şi-a trebuit să mă întreb, în schimb,
ce caut eu aici,
întinsă pe spate, purtînd lenjerii băieţeşti,
aşteptînd să debutez în societate.

De-afară se-auzeau sunete pe care le ştiam
din copilăria mea petrecută prin corturi de circ:
«Dunărea albastră» cîntată la flaşnetă,
clopoţelul maşinii de-ngheţată a lui Janek,
arcurile trambulinelor,
tunul,
dar cum rămîne
cu ce nu ştiam să ascult?

Şi Danny înfăşurat, ca Sfîntul Sebastian,
în cearşafuri,
curat şi pufos şi rănit
de-un arcaş de mult plecat.

Eu am făcut dragoste; el a dormit.
N-aş zice că eram nefericită
cu aranjamentul nostru ciudat.

Eram fericită ca un copil
care n-a văzut niciodată oceanul.

[Judex]

The Square Root of Three*
by Dave Feinberg

I fear that I will always be
a lonely number like root 3
A three is all that’s good and right,
why must my three keep out of sight
beneath a vicious square root sign
I wish instead I were a nine
For nine could thwart this evil trick
with just some quick arithmetic
I know I’ll never see the sun
as one point seven three two one
Such is my reality
A sad irrationality
When Hark!
What is this I see?
Another square root of a 3
does quietly come waltzing by
Together now we multiply
to form a number we prefer,
rejoicing as an integer
We break free from our mortal bonds,
and with a wave of magic wands,
our square root signs become unglued
and love for me has been renewed

*e recitata intr-o secventa din filmul Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0481536/), asa am aflat si eu de existenta acestei poezii.

[Judex]

Anaemona, percuteaza!:-*

Nichita Stănescu
Viata mea se iluminează


Părul tău e mai decolorat de soare,
regina mea de negru şi de sare.

Ţărmul s-a rupt de mal şi te-a urmat
ca o umbră, ca un şarpe dezarmat.

Trec fantome-ale verii în declin,
corabiile sufletului meu marin.

Şi viaţa mea se iluminează,
sub ochiul tău verde la amiază,
cenuşiu ca pământul la amurg.
Oho, alerg şi salt şi curg.

Mai lasă-mă un minut.
Mai lasă-mă o secundă.
Mai lasă-mă o frunză, un fir de nisip.
Mai lasă-mă o briză, o undă.

Mai lasă-mă un anotimp, un an, un timp.

http://www.trilulilu.ro/pemplemousse/5bf71306586d2d

[anaemona]

Judex, am percutat :) sintem gind in gind cu Nichita

:-* http://www.trilulilu.ro/danyael/9b6878c1038b91

Si un alt poet pe care-l iubesc, de care m-am indragostit cind l-am auzit pe Horatiu Malaele recitindu-i citeva poezii. Prima poezie ascultata http://www.trilulilu.ro/nicolus/5b6dbb5052f3bd

cand treci prin oras ca zanele prin ceata
pupa-ti-as caleasca pe roata din fata
sufletul din mine
iese-n straie fine
si-o ia dupa tine
pe ulite line
cu ochii cat ceasca si fluturi pe coate
pupa-ti-as caleasca pe roata din spate

[Ipu]

(același obiect descris de un expert și de un artist)
http://www.impactguns.com/store/media/ruger/ruger_1022rb.jpg (www.trilulilu.ro/dorummy/9c025ddcca7fa0)

[dragonfly_drk]

misto Ipu... =))

si acum, putin Cartarescu:

"Ningea pe Colentina şi erau steluţe în genele ei.
Tramvaiul patru cotea inzapezit la Sf. Dumitru
şi erau steluţe, steluţe, steluţe în genele ei.

Ningea, ningea, ningea peste Colentina
demult, demult...
da, dragii moşului, erau...
erau steluţe în genele ei."

(Mircea Cartarescu, Stelute in genele ei)

si "Luceafarul" modern:

intr-o zi chiuveta cazu in dragoste
iubi o mica stea galbena din coltul geamului de la bucatarie
se confesa musamalei si borcanului de mustar
se plinse tacimurilor ude.
in alta zi chiuveta isi marturisi dragostea:
--stea mica, nu scinteia peste fabrica de piine si moara dimbovita
da-te jos, caci ele nu au nevoie de tine
ele au la subsol centrale electrice si sint pline de becuri
te risipesti punindu-ti auriul pe acoperisuri
si paratraznete.
stea mica, nichelul meu te doreste, sifonul meu a bolborosit
tot felul de cintece pentru tine, cum se pricepe si el
vasele cu resturi de conserva de peste
te-au si indragit.
vino, si ai sa scinteiezi toata noaptea deasupra regatului de linoleum
craiasa a gindacilor de bucatarie.

(Mircea Cartarescu, "Poema chiuvetei")

poeziile nu sunt in totalitate postate aici, dar sper ca v-am trezit interesul sa le cititi, mai ales a doua, care infatiseaza o ironie la adresa "Luceafarului" lui Eminescsu....

[MariaMona]

"...Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me..."

T S Eliot Reading The Love Song Of J Alfred Prufrock (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NhiCMAG658M&feature=related)

[Kramer]

Ninge cu cenuşă neagră
Peste bradul acum ofilit
Şi de crezi că lumea e mai dragă,
Ninge cu cenuşă albă.

Dar de ce să crezi că-i dragă,
Când ea-i sumbră şi urâtă?
Nici un optimist n-ar crede
Că lumea îl încântă.

[MariaMona]

"Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice. "

(Robert Frost)

[Judex]

I wanna wake up with you
I wanna be there when you open your eyes
I want you to be
The first thing that I see
I wanna wake up with you

I wanna lay by your side, baby
I wanna feel every beat of your heart
And throughout the night
I wanna hold you tight
I wanna wake up with you

All the love inside me has been sleeping
Waiting till the right one came along
You can share the love that I've been keeping, baby
You can put the music to my song

I wanna wake up with you
I wanna reach out and know that you're there
I want you to be
The first thing that I see
I wanna wake up with you

And throughout the night
I wanna hold you tight
I wanna wake up with you

All the love inside me has been sleeping
Waiting till the right one came along
You can share the love that I've been keeping
You can put the music to my song

I wanna wake up with you
I wanna reach out and know that you're there
I want you to be
The first thing that I see
I wanna wake up with you

I wanna lay by your side, baby
I wanna feel every beat of your heart
And throughout the night
I wanna hold you tight
I wanna wake up with you

All the love inside me has been sleeping
Waiting till the right one came along
You can share the love that I've been keeping, baby
You can put the music to my song

I wanna wake up wïth you
I wanna reach out and know that you're there...


Ana. :-*

[c.ghevara]

Bono recită Bukowski...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0e9qqF5Yhs&feature=related

Roll the Dice
by Charles Bukowski

if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.

if you’re going to try, go all the
way. this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.

go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or
4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the
worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.

if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the
gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.

do it, do it, do it.
do it.

all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter,
it’s the only good fight
there is.

[MariaMona]

A very very nice poem!

[omudindulap]

Ca tot veni vorba de Bukowski, unul dintre scriitorii mei preferati...


Căderea

prea gras

prea slab

sau nimeni.

râs sau

lacrimi

duşmani

iubiţi

străini cu feţe ca

unghiile de la

degetele mari



armate alergând prin

râuri de sânge

fluturând sticle de vin

înjunghiind cu baionetele şi violând

virgine

sau un tip în vârstă într-o cameră ieftină

cu o poză a lui M. Monroe


în această lume există singurătate atât de multă

încât o poţi vedea în mişcarea lentă a limbilor

unui ceas.



oameni atât de obosiţi

mutilaţi

fie de dragoste fie de lipsa ei.



oamenii nu sunt buni

unii cu alţii



bogaţii nu sunt buni cu bogaţii

săracii nu sunt buni cu săracii



ne este frică



sistemul nostru de învăţământ

ne spune la toţi că putem fi

cu toţii învingători de super-căcat.



nu ne-a spus despre şanţuri

şi sinucideri.



sau teroarea unui om

îndurerat, undeva,

singur



neatins de nimeni

căruia nimeni nu-i adresează

nici un cuvânt



oamenii nu sunt buni unii cu alţii.

oamenii nu sunt buni unii cu alţii.

oamenii nu sunt buni unii cu alţii.





cred că nu vor fi niciodată.

nu le cer să fie.



dar uneori mă gândesc la asta.



mărgelele se vor clătina

norii se vor înnora

iar criminalul va decapita copilul

ca şi cum ar muşca dintr-o îngheţată pe băţ.



prea mult

prea puţin



prea gras

prea slab

sau nimeni.



mai mulţi cei care mă urăsc

decât cei care mă iubesc



oamenii nu sunt buni unii cu alţii

poate dacă ar fi

morţile noastre nu ar mai fi aşa de triste.



între timp mă uit la fetele tinere

lujere

flori de posibilităţi.



trebuie să existe o cale.



în mod sigur trebuie să existe o cale la care nu ne-am gândit încă.



cine mi-a pus creierul ăsta înăuntru?


urlă

cere

spune că există o şansă



nu va spune

„nu”.

[c.ghevara]

Îhî, The Crunch. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ai_bGyLOspw&feature=related Traducerea... ta?

L-am descoperit pe Sergiu Cioiu, după câteva zeci de ani în care îl ştiam doar drept un cântăreţ minor - «Scrisoare din Paris... despre esenţa dragostei» (Vladimir Maiakovski, 1928) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GoRa8pLbDA4

[omudindulap]

Traducerea... ta?

Nu.


Voi care vă întoarceţi acasă
şi după ce-aţi închis uşa
spuneţi “bună seara”
voi nu ştiţi ce-nseamnă
să intri pe uşă tăcînd.


(O. Paler, Singuratate)


Inca una de la maestrul Buk, cred ca se potriveste de minune aici..



Writing

often it is the only
thing
between you and
impossibility.
no drink,
no woman's love,
no wealth
can
match it.
nothing can save
you
except
writing.
it keeps the walls
from
failing.
the hordes from
closing in.
it blasts the
darkness.
writing is the
ultimate
psychiatrist,
the kindliest
god of all the
gods.
writing stalks
death.
it knows no
quit.
and writing
laughs
at itself,
at pain.
it is the last
expectation,
the last
explanation.
that's
what it
is.

[c.ghevara]

Un mic clip şi interviu despre "Writing". http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5PtTiuGz2Gw&feature=related

[omudindulap]

Care este legatura dintre el si Sean Penn? :-?

[Judex]

Pe cararea veche
Trec cate o data
Cu speranta vaga
De-a te intalni
Ne cunoastem parca
De o viata intreaga
Neavand puterea
De a ne vorbi.
Prin albastrul moale,
Linistea se aduna
Si prin diafanul
De apus vegheat
Ochii tai de aur,
Ochi de zana buna
Cand aprind in mine
Un ecou ciudat.

Ref.Dragoste la prima vedere,
Cine-ar fi crezut?
Sa iubesc cu atata putere,
Ca la inceput. bis

Ca mi-a fost tarzie
Intalnirea in vreme
Si tarzie clipa
Versuri Ilie Micolov - Dragoste la prima vedere
de pe http://www.versuri.ro
De-a ne fi vazut,
Pe cararea veche
La rascruci de vanturi
Numai timpul stie
Ce e de facut.
Amintirea vie
Mai traieste inca
As da ani din viata sa te regasesc
Ne cunoastem parca
De o vesnicie,
De o vesnicie
Parca te iubesc.

Ref bis.
N-o sa afle nimeni
Poate niciodata
Poate niciodata
N-am sa te-ntalnesc.

As da ani din viata
Sa te am alaturi,
Sa iti simt faptura,
Sa-ti spun te iubesc.(bis ult 4 versurï)

[dragonfly_drk]

NEBUN DE ALB

Acum sunt mai pustiu ca totdeauna
De cand ma simt tot mai bogat de tine
Si-mi stau pe tample soarele si luna
Acum mi-e cel mai rau si cel mai bine

Si uite n-are cine sa ne-ajute
Abia-si mai tine lumea ale sale
Si-ntr-un perete alb de muze mute
Nebunii negri cauta o cale

Refren x 2:
Si te iubesc cu mila si cu groaza
Tot ce-i al tau mi se cuvine mie
Ca un nebun de alb ce captureaza
Regina neagra pentru o vesnicie

Prin gari descreierate accidente
Marfare triste vin in miezul verii
Iar eu sunt plin de gesturi imprudente
Ca sa te apropii si ca sa te sperii

Jur imprejur privelisti aberante
Copii fragili ducand parinti in spate
Batrani cu sanii gri de os pe pante
Si albastrosi venind spre zari uscate

Refren x 2

Mi-e dor de tine si iti caut chipul
In fiecare margine a firii
In podul palmei daca iau nisipul
Simt un inel jucandu-se de-a mirii

I-aud prin batalii din vreme-n vreme
Ostasii garzii tale ti se-nchina
Iubita mea cu foarte mari probleme
Cu chip slavon sinume de regina

mai Judexule... REVINOOOO-TI !!!

[Judex]

Mă învelesc de frig…
Nichita Stănescu

Mă învelesc de frig într-o speranţă
cum se-nveleşte soba nou zidită
în relieful de faianţă
cu focul pururi logodită.

Nu pune mâna peste mine dacă-i vară
căci n-ai să înţelegi nimic
stimată doamnă-domnişoară
din frig.

Ci vino când nu merge nimeni,
când nu avem picioare, vino
dar mai ales când voi fi orb,
lumino.

[omudindulap]

deci, vrei să fii un scriitor

Charles Bukowski


dacă nu vine explodînd
din tine
în ciuda a orice
nu o face.
numai dacă vine neîntrebată
din inima şi mintea şi gura şi
viscerele tale
nu o face.
dacă trebuie să stai cu orele
holbîndu-te la ecranul calculatorului
sau aplecat deasupra maşinii
tale de scris
căutînd cuvintele,
nu o face.
dacă o faci pentru bani
sau faimă,
nu o face.
dacă o faci pentru că
doreşti femei în patul tău,
nu o face.
dacă trebuie să stai acolo
şi să o rescrii din nou şi
din nou,
nu o face.
dacă e muncă grea
doar gîndindu-te despre ea,
nu o face.
dacă încerci să scrii ca
altcineva,
uită de asta.
dacă trebuie să aştepţi pentru
ca să răcnească din tine,
atunci aşteaptă răbdător,
dacă nu mai răcneşte
din tine,
fă altceva.
dacă dintîi trebuie să o citeşti
soţiei tale
sau prietenei sau prietenului
sau părinţilor tăi sau
oricărei alte persoane
nu eşti pregătit.


nu fi ca atît de mulţi scriitori
nu fi ca atîtea mii de
oameni care se consideră scriitori,
nu fi nasol şi
plictisitor şi pretenţios,
nu fi consumat cu iubirea de sine
bibliotecile lumii au căscat pînă
la adormire
din cauza acestui fel de scriitură
nu te alătura la asta
nu o face.
numai dacă vine din sufletul
tău ca o rachetă,
numai dacă stînd nemişcat te-ar
aduce la nebunie sau suicid
sau crimă,
nu o face.
numai dacă soarele din interiorul
tău îţi arde viscerele
nu o face.

cînd într-adevăr este timpul,
şi dacă ai fost ales,
se va face
de la sine şi va continua să
se facă
pînă cînd vei muri sau va muri
în tine
nu există o altă cale
şi niciodată nu a existat.

[White1]

Jackpot,Edgar Allan Poe:P Cred ca e singurul autor strain la care am avut rabdare sa citesc opera scrisa in alta limba decat romana.
Si totusi,ceva de la noi:
Cand dintre pomi spre mare se rasucise vantul,
Si-n catifeaua umbrei nisipul amortea,
L-a scos un val afara cu grija asezandu-l
Pe-un cimitir de scoici ce stralucea.

La marginea vietii clocotitoare-a marii
Sta nefiresc de teapan, trufas, insa rapus.
Priveste inca parca talazurile zarii
Cu gatul gales indoit in sus.

Murdare si sarate-s aripile-i deschise,
Furtuna ce-l izbise ii canta-un surd prohod
Lucesc multicolore in juru-i scoici ucise
Al caror miez caldurile il rod.

De valuri aruncate pe tarmul sec si tare
Murira fara lupta sclipind acum bogat,
Le tulbura lumina lor alba, orbitoare,
Aripa lui cu mal intunecat.

Deasupra tipa-n aer dansand in salturi bruste,
Sfidand nemarginirea, un tanar pescarus.
Razboinicul furtunii zvarlit intre moluste
Rasfrange-n ochiu-i stins un nou urcus.

Cand se-nteteste briza aripa-i se-nfioara
Si, renviat o clipa de-un nevazut indemn,
Iti pare ca zbura-va din nou, ultima oara,
Spre-un cimitir mai sobru si mai demn.

[andreiu7z]

One Wish Alone Have I

One wish alone have I:
In some calm land
Beside the sea to die;
Upon its strand
That I forever sleep,
The forest near,
A heaven near,
Stretched over the peaceful deep.
No candles shine,
Nor tomb I need, instead
Let them for me a bed
Of twigs entwine.
That no one weeps my end,
Nor for me grieves,
But let the autumn lend
Tongues to the leaves,
When brooklet ripples fall
With murmuring sound,
And moon is found
Among the pine-trees tall,
While softly rings
The wind its trembling chime
And over me the lime
Its blossom flings.

As I will then no more
A wanderer be,
Let them with fondness store
My memory.
And Lucifer the while,
Above the pine.
Good comrade mine,
Will on me gently smile;
In mournful mood,
The sea sings sad refrain ...
And I be earth again
In solitude.

[fresie]

PSALM 5 (Nu-ţi cer un lucru prea cu neputinţă...)

de Tudor Arghezi

Nu-ţi cer un lucru prea cu neputinţă
În recea mea-ncruntată suferinţă.
Dacă-ncepui de-aproape să-ţi dau ghes,
Vreau să vorbeşti cu robul tău mai des.

De când s-a întocmit Sfânta Scriptură
Tu n-ai mai pus picioru-n bătătură
Şi anii mor şi veacurile pier
Aci sub tine, dedesubt, sub cer.

Când magii au purces după o stea,
Tu le vorbeai – şi se putea.
Când fu să plece şi Iosif,
Scris l-ai găsit în catastif
Şi i-ai trimis un înger de povaţă –
Şi îngerul stătu cu el de faţă.
Îngerii tăi grijeau pe vremea ceea
Şi pruncul şi bărbatul şi femeea.

Doar mie, Domnul, veşnicul şi bunul,
Nu mi-a trimis, de când mă rog, nici-unul...

[gigabyte]

Eternul EMINESCU

Ziua lui Mihai Eminescu
Astazi 15 ianuarie se implinesc 161 de ani de la naşterea sa.


Romania.Eminescu.Poezii
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V3w0I32KwVQ


ODA IN METRU ANTIC-M.EMINESCU
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AVE7i7Yh8r4


MIHAI EMINESCU - Revedere
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTN6JbXeHTw&feature=related


ONE WISH ALONE
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wa0_nfHGYfY

Mihai Eminescu-Adio
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHI7RaL4OzE&feature=related


Mihai Eminescu - Glossa
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QUMAg_LuZek&feature=related

[portofel]

Tu cu cruzime m-ai respins cand am voit,copila,
Sa devastez frumusetea ta cea dulce , far' de mila-
Si totusi corpul tau e plin de-o coapta tinereta,
Tu , al amorului duios demonica prasila!
Eu am plecat purtind in piept durerea-mi toata scrisa,
Precum al primaverei vint duce-n vazduh o fila;
Dar noaptea, cand am adormit, atunci durerea-mi toata
Se ghemuieste-n inima-mi, o arde si-o impila;
Parea din somn ca m-am trezit si te-am vazut pe patu-mi,
Botind cearsaful meu cel alb cu ,mina ta gentila;
Abia al hainei tale gaz de umaru-ti se tine
Si sinii tai s-au liberat de-al hainei cruda sila
Si proaspeti, albi, rotunzi si tariei se ridic, se lasa
Si ochii tai in lacrimi ard, in lacrimi dulci de mila.
La rasuflarea cald-a ta se coace-uscata gura,
Se vad frumosi margaritari ce-ntredeschisi defila.
Cu bratul meu eu selele ti le-clestai salbatec
Si-am vrut sa-ti musc gurita ta de tremurai febrila;
Si tu te aperi surizind, c-o man-acoperi sinii,
Privirea ta inoata ud,cand blinda, cind ostila,
De bunavoie lingezind,te lasi de sold rapita,
Dar retrezita de amor tu te desfaci cu sila
Si de turbare s-a-nclestat, s-a strins gurita-ti creata;
Tu de pe frunte paru-ti dai, plingi tremurind ,copila,
In solduri boiul ti-l indoi si-ai vrea sa-mi scapi din mina,
Precum se-ndoaie ,vrind s-o rupi, in degete-o zambila,
Dar singele tau dulce-acum ca mierea cea de struguri
In vine-ti fierbe nebunit si mintea o exila.
Atunci cazusi pe pieptul meu , o sarcina in friguri,
Un fruct rascopt de-amorului caldura fara mila,
Ai mai gemut o data clar ca omul care moare,
Apoi te lasasi patimei ce te ardea, Sibylla,
Si-n lupta noastra te-am adus sub greul vietii mele,
Pecete-am rupt ce pin-acum junetea ti-o sigila-
Un corp am fost ingemanat traind o viat-obscura,
Demonic-dulce ,amoros-spasmotica, febrila,
Si sufletele noastre-atunci pe buze atirnate
S-au contopit in sarutari, in dezmierdari, in mila,
Parc-am trecut noi amindoi in noaptea nefiintei,
Ne-am zugrumat in sarutari, ne-am omorit, copila!

GAZEL MIHAI EMINESCU
POEZIA SUFLETULUI MEU..........O ADOR!

[sorina25]

Mihai Codreanu (1876-1957)

Iisus veni si-n casa mea-ntr-o seara:
Era-ntr-un tainic si suav apus...
Si-am stat in casa singur cu Iisus...
Si-afara era blinda primavara.

Atunci mi-a spus cu vocea Lui cea clara
Ca oamenii sunt buni, desi L-au dus
Sa-L bata-n cuie pe Golgota, sus,
Fiindca i-a iubit din cale-afara.

Si mi-a mai spus ca poate fi iertat
Chiar Iuda ce-L vindu cu-n sarutat,
Ca sa-si sporeasca cu treizeci argintii.

Apoi, plecind, din prag mi-a spus asa:
Comoara sufletului ca si-a mintii
E sa iubesti, pentru-a putea ierta.

[sorina25]

The Square Root of Three*
by Dave Feinberg

I fear that I will always be
a lonely number like root 3
A three is all that’s good and right,
why must my three keep out of sight
beneath a vicious square root sign
I wish instead I were a nine
For nine could thwart this evil trick
with just some quick arithmetic
I know I’ll never see the sun
as one point seven three two one
Such is my reality
A sad irrationality
When Hark!
What is this I see?
Another square root of a 3
does quietly come waltzing by
Together now we multiply
to form a number we prefer,
rejoicing as an integer
We break free from our mortal bonds,
and with a wave of magic wands,
our square root signs become unglued
and love for me has been renewed

*e recitata intr-o secventa din filmul Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0481536/), asa am aflat si eu de existenta acestei poezii.


O ador!!!

[omudindulap]

Scurta despartire (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C1zjXIkmQkc&feature=related)

[omudindulap]

I don't give a damn
if women's breasts are like magnolias
or like dried figs;
a complexion like a peach
or like sandpaper.
I give a importance equal to zero
to whether they awake with an aphrodisiac breath
or a breath like insecticide.
I am perfectly capable of bearing a nose
that would take first prize at a carrot show;
but one thing is for sure!
and in this I am intransigent.
Under no pretext whatsoever will I forgive them
for not knowing how to fly.
(for A friend)

[miere]

Mei, mei dar ce romane de pozeii pe aici.Cu siguranta sunt destui care sa le citeasca :)
Ar fi interesant daca s-ar deschide un topic si pentru creatiile eului propriu.



Eu nu strivesc corola de minuni a lumii

Eu nu strivesc corola de minuni a lumii
şi nu ucid
cu mintea tainele, ce le-ntâlnesc
în calea mea
în flori, în ochi, pe buze ori morminte.
Lumina altora
sugrumă vraja nepătrunsului ascuns
în adâncimi de întuneric,
dar eu,
eu cu lumina mea sporesc a lumii taină -
şi-ntocmai cum cu razele ei albe luna
nu micşorează, ci tremurătoare
măreşte şi mai tare taina nopţii,
aşa înbogăţesc şi eu întunecata zare
cu largi fiori de sfânt mister
şi tot ce-i neînţeles
se schimbă-n neînţelesuri şi mai mari
sub ochii mei-
căci eu iubesc
şi flori şi ochi şi buze şi morminte.

Poemele luminii-Lucian Blaga

[andreiu09]

Gion shouja no kane no koe
shogyou mujou no hibiki ari.
Shara souju no hana no iro
jousha hissui no kotowari o arawasu.
Ogoreru hito mo hisashikarazu,
Tada haru no yo no yume no gotoshi.
Takeki mono mo tsui ni horobinu.
Hitoe ni kaze no mae no chiri ni onaji.

Sper să vă placă

[MariaMona]

Minunata! :)) Numai ca nu am inteles nimic! :-/

[marllenn]

Soacră-mea-ntr-o seară, cum stătea proţap,
Ceasul din perete i-a căzut în cap!
Eu privind pendula ce-i turtise nasul...
Zic: -n-aduce anul ce aduce ceasul!

[chuckyfan]

Tocmai ce a plecat verisoara mea de la mine si am gasit o poezie care a compuso acum ( ea e in clasa a - VI - a ). Nu stiu de ce dar mie mi se pare destul de reusita.

Nu am modificat nimic, o copiez exact cum e pe foaie. N-are titlu.

Cand si ultima speranta dispare
Si ultima raza de soare se pierde in zare
Nu-ti mai ramane decat sa astepti
Sa treaca furtuna ca soarele sa-l vezi
Si daca furtuna se ca inteti
Tu cauta curcubeul de culori vii
Si daca curcubeul nu il vei afla
Cauta ochii mei in intuneric
Ei iti vor spune ce sa faci.

Pareri?

[ionutderbedeul]

Frumoasa poezie a scris verisoara ta....sincer, nu stiu cu cine seamana asa desteapta...=))

[omudindulap]

Din nou, maestrul Bukowski

dinţi alb perfecţi

până la urmă mi-am cumpărat
şi eu un televizor color
şi noaptea trecută am dat peste
filmul ăsta:
în Paris e un individ care
n-are nici un ban
dar poartă un costum de fiţe
şi-un nod perfect la cravată
nu e nici îngrijorat nici beat
în schimb
tipul stă toată ziua într-o cafenea
şi toate femeile frumoase sânt
îndrăgostite de el şi
cumva reuşeşte să-şi plătească
la timp chiria şi
tot urcă şi coboară nişte scări şi
cămăşile strălucesc pe el şi
le spune fetelor
că ele nu ştiu să scrie poezie
că el ştie dar
nu simte
deocamdată
nevoia
pentru că el acum caută
de fapt Adevărul.
tunsoarea lui e şi ea perfectă
nu e niciodată mahmur
n-are nici un tic
nu i se zbate nici o pleoapă
iar dinţii
veşnic alb perfecţi.

ştiam ce urmează:
tipul avea să rămână cu poezia
femeia şi
Adevărul.
aşa că am închis televizorul
gândindu-mă, aşa-ţi trebuie,
în pizda mă-tii, cretinule,
le meriţi pe toate
trei.

[miere]

@chuckyfan
Ma ung pe suflet poeziile celor mici :) Vezi daca mai are!

[Sorin87]

am si eu una dar e cu prostii, pot sa o postez asa sau trebe cenzurata? e foarte tare oricum

[dragonfly_drk]

Să te urăsc
(George Filip)

N-am banuit ca-n grota vietii
voi poposi asa putin;
Acolo, printre lighioane
de noapte, mi-a parut senin.

Trapasii tineretii mele
s-au adapat din vagi fantani
iar tainele adolescentei
eu ti le-am dibuit in sani.

Trecut-au pasari de lumina
dar le-impuscau braconieri
convivi, ce stiau al dracu'
s-azvarle mainele din ieri.

Intai, cind aprindeam tigara
ma excitam precum un manz,
si nu stiam, prin timpul lacom,
de-i miezul noptii sau e prinz.

Am invatat sa svarl cu pietre
si bumenrangul sa-l arunc,
dar tinta mea nevinovata
era mereu acelas prunc.

Sunt prada tineretii mele
ce-a nins pe mine dintr-o stea,
de-aceea pot, la nemurire,
sa te urasc, iubita mea.

[Chambord]

Oh thou poisonous viper
Thy tongue aims sharper
Than a sniper

Cred ca am sanse sa ajung mai bun ca Shakespeare

http://www.tare.ro/anonim/2051602-ce-crezi-ca-ascunde-fata-asta-in-gura

[omudindulap]

Caótica Ana (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wa-PtGBJCyg&feature=fvwrel)

[Socal]

Meserie.. bratara de aur.. aurul e f scump merge bine la cerneala, cerneala e si ea pana la urma meserie te baga la parnaie, te sciate de pe felie. Apa trece, pietrele raman... aurul ramane, oamenii se descompun.....

[omudindulap]

Sper sa ma vindec de tine in cateva zile
Trebuie sa incetez sa te fumez, sa te beau, sa te gandesc
E posibil. Urmand prescriptiile unei moralitati sucite
Aceasta mi-a dat reteta timpului, a abstinentei, a singuratatii.

Ti-ar placea sa te iubesc doar pentru o saptamana?
Nu e mult, nici putin, e suficient.
Intr-o saptamana se pot uni toate cuvintele de iubire
Care s-au pronuntat vreodata pe acest pamant si le putem da foc
Te voi incalzi cu aceasta cenusa a unei iubiri fierbinti.
Si de asemenea cu tacerea.
Pentru ca cele mai frumoase cuvinte de dragoste sunt intre 2 oameni care nu-si spun nimic.

Trebuie la fel sa ardem si acel vocabular lateral si marginal al iubirii.
Tu stii cum iti spun ca te iubesc atunci cand iti spun:
ce cald e!
Da-mi apa!
Stii sa conduci?
s-a facut noapte!
Printre lume, cei din lumea ta
Si lumea mea, ti-am spus doar “deja este tarziu”
Si tu stiai ca ti-am spus “te iubesc”.

O saptamana in plus pentru a uni toata iubirea timpurilor.
Pentru a ti-o da.
Pentru a face cu ea tot ce-ti doresti tu.
s-o pastrezi
sa ai grija de ea
s-o arunci la gunoi.
Nu e suficient, ai dreptate.
Nu vreau decat o saptamana pentru a intelege lucrurile
Pentru ca ce mi se intampla este asemanator cu iesirea dintr-un ospiciu pentru a intra intr-o manastire.

Mi-ar fi placut s-o fi scris eu, dar...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XUsyPwcV9uQ&feature=related

[redmen]

Getting along with women,
Knocking around with men,
Having more credit than money,
Thus one goes through the world.

(Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Claudine von Villa Bella, 1776.)

[icb1]

Preferata mea...

George Coșbuc - La Oglindă

Azi am să crestez în grindă
Jos din cui acum, oglindă!
Mama-i dusă-n sat! Cu dorul
Azi e singur puișorul,
Si-am inchis ușa la tindă
Cu zăvorul.
Iată-mă! Tot eu, cea veche!
Ochii? hai, ce mai pereche!
Si ce cap frumos răsare!
Nu-i al meu? Al meu e oare?
Dar al cui! Si la ureche,
Uite-o floare.
Asta-s eu! Și sânt voinică!
Cine-a zis că eu sant mică?
Uite, zău, acum iau seama
Că-mi sta bine-n cap năframa,
Și ce fată frumușică
Are mama! ...

...Doamne, de-ar fi dat de mine,
Ce bătaie!

Și a mea :">

[icb1]

,,Lupul în piele de oaie."


La Moscoviți se duse vestea
Că lupu-și schimbă iar povestea:
Din lacom, rău și-nfumurat,
În oaie s-ar fi transformat...

Dar de la Nistru pîn' la Iași:
,,Da-vai, da-vai" tot ce-adunași!
Iar de la Nistru pîn' la Don:
,,Da-vai ceas, da-vai palton"!

Din veac, din Nistru pîn' la Tisa,
Tot Românu plânsumi-sa. ;) =))

[icb1]

Hyperion -Luceafărul

de John Keats
cu traducere liberă

BOOK I --Prima strofă din Hyperion--Luceafărul lui John Keats, în traducerea mea liberă și complect originală


În umbre adânci pe-o vale verde
Ce dimineața nu o vede,
Departe-i Luna ce străluce
Și-acel Luceafăr--Steaua cea cu cruce
Stă Saturn c-un păr albit de Vremi
Tăcut ca stânca din poemi,
Încremenit într-o tăcere
Ce-i sapă adânc a sa Putere...
Păduri peste păduri se-nalță asupra Lui
Asemeni unor nori peste alți nori în zori
Nici aerul nu mișcă în liniștea cu flori
Nici viață nu-i oriunde sub bolta Cerului
Și nici sămânța-n iarbă nu se mișcă
Iar unde frunza cade, stă- nu mișcă
Izvorul curge fără sunet
Un suflet parcă fără cuget
Iară Naiada de pe lac își puse
Un deget rece pe-a ei buze.

BOOK I

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star,
Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair;
Forest on forest hung above his head
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,
Not so much life as on a summer's day
Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass,
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity
Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds
Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips.

Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went,
No further than to where his feet had stray'd,
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed;
While his bow'd head seem'd list'ning to the Earth,
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.

It seem'd no force could wake him from his place;
But there came one, who with a kindred hand
Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low
With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
She was a Goddess of the infant world;
By her in stature the tall Amazon
Had stood a pigmy's height: she would have ta'en
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck;
Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel.
Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx,
Pedestal'd haply in a palace court,
When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore.
But oh! how unlike marble was that face:
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
There was a listening fear in her regard,
As if calamity had but begun;
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear
Was with its stored thunder labouring up.
One hand she press'd upon that aching spot
Where beats the human heart, as if just there,
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain:
The other upon Saturn's bended neck
She laid, and to the level of his ear
Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake
In solemn tenor and deep organ tone:
Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue
Would come in these like accents; O how frail
To that large utterance of the early Gods!
"Saturn, look up!---though wherefore, poor old King?
I have no comfort for thee, no not one:
I cannot say, 'O wherefore sleepest thou?'
For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth
Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a God;
And ocean too, with all its solemn noise,
Has from thy sceptre pass'd; and all the air
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty.
Thy thunder, conscious of the new command,
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house;
And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands
Scorches and burns our once serene domain.
O aching time! O moments big as years!
All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth,
And press it so upon our weary griefs
That unbelief has not a space to breathe.
Saturn, sleep on:---O thoughtless, why did I
Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude?
Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes?
Saturn, sleep on! while at thy feet I weep."

As when, upon a tranced summer-night,
Those green-rob'd senators of mighty woods,
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir,
Save from one gradual solitary gust
Which comes upon the silence, and dies off,
As if the ebbing air had but one wave;
So came these words and went; the while in tears
She touch'd her fair large forehead to the ground,
Just where her fallen hair might be outspread
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet.
One moon, with alteration slow, had shed
Her silver seasons four upon the night,
And still these two were postured motionless,
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern;
The frozen God still couchant on the earth,
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet:
Until at length old Saturn lifted up
His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone,
And all the gloom and sorrow ofthe place,
And that fair kneeling Goddess; and then spake,
As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard
Shook horrid with such aspen-malady:
"O tender spouse of gold Hyperion,
Thea, I feel thee ere I see thy face;
Look up, and let me see our doom in it;
Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape
Is Saturn's; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice
Of Saturn; tell me, if this wrinkling brow,
Naked and bare of its great diadem,
Peers like the front of Saturn? Who had power
To make me desolate? Whence came the strength?
How was it nurtur'd to such bursting forth,
While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous grasp?
But it is so; and I am smother'd up,
And buried from all godlike exercise
Of influence benign on planets pale,
Of admonitions to the winds and seas,
Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting,
And all those acts which Deity supreme
Doth ease its heart of love in.---I am gone
Away from my own bosom: I have left
My strong identity, my real self,
Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit
Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, search!
Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round
Upon all space: space starr'd, and lorn of light;
Space region'd with life-air; and barren void;
Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell.---
Search, Thea, search! and tell me, if thou seest
A certain shape or shadow, making way
With wings or chariot fierce to repossess
A heaven he lost erewhile: it must---it must
Be of ripe progress---Saturn must be King.
Yes, there must be a golden victory;
There must be Gods thrown down, and trumpets blown
Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival
Upon the gold clouds metropolitan,
Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir
Of strings in hollow shells; and there shall be
Beautiful things made new, for the surprise
Of the sky-children; I will give command:
Thea! Thea! Thea! where is Saturn?"
This passion lifted him upon his feet,
And made his hands to struggle in the air,
His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat,
His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease.
He stood, and heard not Thea's sobbing deep;
A little time, and then again he snatch'd
Utterance thus.---"But cannot I create?
Cannot I form? Cannot I fashion forth
Another world, another universe,
To overbear and crumble this to nought?
Where is another Chaos? Where?"---That word
Found way unto Olympus, and made quake
The rebel three.---Thea was startled up,
And in her bearing was a sort of hope,
As thus she quick-voic'd spake, yet full of awe.

"This cheers our fallen house: come to our friends,
O Saturn! come away, and give them heart;
I know the covert, for thence came I hither."
Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she went
With backward footing through the shade a space:
He follow'd, and she turn'd to lead the way
Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist
Which eagles cleave upmounting from their nest.

Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed,
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe,
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe:
The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound,
Groan'd for the old allegiance once more,
And listen'd in sharp pain for Saturn's voice.
But one of the whole mammoth-brood still kept
His sov'reigny, and rule, and majesy;---
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire
Still sat, still snuff'd the incense, teeming up
From man to the sun's God: yet unsecure:
For as among us mortals omens drear
Fright and perplex, so also shuddered he---
Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated screech,
Or the familiar visiting of one
Upon the first toll of his passing-bell,
Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp;
But horrors, portion'd to a giant nerve,
Oft made Hyperion ache. His palace bright,
Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold,
And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks,
Glar'd a blood-red through all its thousand courts,
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries;
And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds
Flush'd angerly: while sometimes eagles' wings,
Unseen before by Gods or wondering men,
Darken'd the place; and neighing steeds were heard
Not heard before by Gods or wondering men.
Also, when he would taste the spicy wreaths
Of incense, breath'd aloft from sacred hills,
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took
Savor of poisonous brass and metal sick:
And so, when harbor'd in the sleepy west,
After the full completion of fair day,---
For rest divine upon exalted couch,
And slumber in the arms of melody,
He pac'd away the pleasant hours of ease
With stride colossal, on from hall to hall;
While far within each aisle and deep recess,
His winged minions in close clusters stood,
Amaz'd and full offear; like anxious men
Who on wide plains gather in panting troops,
When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers.
Even now, while Saturn, rous'd from icy trance,
Went step for step with Thea through the woods,
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear,
Came slope upon the threshold of the west;
Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope
In smoothest silence, save what solemn tubes,
Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet
And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melodies;
And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape,
In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye,
That inlet to severe magnificence
Stood full blown, for the God to enter in.

He enter'd, but he enter'd full of wrath;
His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels,
And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire,
That scar'd away the meek ethereal Hours
And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault,
Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light,
And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades,
Until he reach'd the great main cupola;
There standing fierce beneath, he stampt his foot,
And from the basements deep to the high towers
Jarr'd his own golden region; and before
The quavering thunder thereupon had ceas'd,
His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb,
To this result: "O dreams of day and night!
O monstrous forms! O effigies of pain!
O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom!
O lank-eared phantoms of black-weeded pools!
Why do I know ye? why have I seen ye? why
Is my eternal essence thus distraught
To see and to behold these horrors new?
Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall?
Am I to leave this haven of my rest,
This cradle of my glory, this soft clime,
This calm luxuriance of blissful light,
These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes,
Of all my lucent empire? It is left
Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine.
The blaze, the splendor, and the symmetry,
I cannot see but darkness, death, and darkness.
Even here, into my centre of repose,
The shady visions come to domineer,
Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp.---
Fall!---No, by Tellus and her briny robes!
Over the fiery frontier of my realms
I will advance a terrible right arm
Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel Jove,
And bid old Saturn take his throne again."---
He spake, and ceas'd, the while a heavier threat
Held struggle with his throat but came not forth;
For as in theatres of crowded men
Hubbub increases more they call out "Hush!"
So at Hyperion's words the phantoms pale
Bestirr'd themselves, thrice horrible and cold;
And from the mirror'd level where he stood
A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh.
At this, through all his bulk an agony
Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crown,
Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular
Making slow way, with head and neck convuls'd
From over-strained might. Releas'd, he fled
To the eastern gates, and full six dewy hours
Before the dawn in season due should blush,
He breath'd fierce breath against the sleepy portals,
Clear'd them of heavy vapours, burst them wide
Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams.
The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode
Each day from east to west the heavens through,
Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds;
Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and hid,
But ever and anon the glancing spheres,
Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure,
Glow'd through, and wrought upon the muffling dark
Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir deep
Up to the zenith,---hieroglyphics old,
Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers
Then living on the earth, with laboring thought
Won from the gaze of many centuries:
Now lost, save what we find on remnants huge
Of stone, or rnarble swart; their import gone,
Their wisdom long since fled.---Two wings this orb
Possess'd for glory, two fair argent wings,
Ever exalted at the God's approach:
And now, from forth the gloom their plumes immense
Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were;
While still the dazzling globe maintain'd eclipse,
Awaiting for Hyperion's command.
Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne
And bid the day begin, if but for change.
He might not:---No, though a primeval God:
The sacred seasons might not be disturb'd.
Therefore the operations of the dawn
Stay'd in their birth, even as here 'tis told.
Those silver wings expanded sisterly,
Eager to sail their orb; the porches wide
Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night
And the bright Titan, phrenzied with new woes,
Unus'd to bend, by hard compulsion bent
His spirit to the sorrow of the time;
And all along a dismal rack of clouds,
Upon the boundaries of day and night,
He stretch'd himself in grief and radiance faint.
There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars
Look'd down on him with pity, and the voice
Of Coelus, from the universal space,
Thus whisper'd low and solemn in his ear:
"O brightest of my children dear, earth-born
And sky-engendered, son of mysteries
All unrevealed even to the powers
Which met at thy creating; at whose joys
And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft,
I, Coelus, wonder, how they came and whence;
And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be,
Distinct, and visible; symbols divine,
Manifestations of that beauteous life
Diffus'd unseen throughout eternal space:
Of these new-form'd art thou, O brightest child!
Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses!
There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion
Of son against his sire. I saw him fall,
I saw my first-born tumbled from his throne!
To me his arms were spread, to me his voice
Found way from forth the thunders round his head!
Pale wox I, and in vapours hid my face.
Art thou, too, near such doom? vague fear there is:
For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods.
Divine ye were created, and divine
In sad demeanour, solemn, undisturb'd,
Unruffled, like high Gods, ye liv'd and ruled:
Now I behold in you fear, hope, and wrath;
Actions of rage and passion; even as
I see them, on the mortal world beneath,
In men who die.---This is the grief, O son!
Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall!
Yet do thou strive; as thou art capable,
As thou canst move about, an evident God;
And canst oppose to each malignant hour
Ethereal presence:---I am but a voice;
My life is but the life of winds and tides,
No more than winds and tides can I avail:---
But thou canst.---Be thou therefore in the van
Of circumstance; yea, seize the arrow's barb
Before the tense string murmur.---To the earth!
For there thou wilt find Saturn, and his woes.
Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright sun,
And of thy seasons be a careful nurse."---
Ere half this region-whisper had come down,
Hyperion arose, and on the stars
Lifted his curved lids, and kept them wide
Until it ceas'd; and still he kept them wide:
And still they were the same bright, patient stars.
Then with a slow incline of his broad breast,
Like to a diver in the pearly seas,
Forward he stoop'd over the airy shore,
And plung'd all noiseless into the deep night.



Parțial , acest Hyperion, l-ar fi inspirat puțin și pe Mihai Eminescu

[icb1]

Hyperion de John Keats

BOOKS II and III

Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings
Hyperion slid into the rustled air,
And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad place
Where Cybele and the bruised Titans mourn'd.
It was a den where no insulting light
Could glimmer on their tears; where their own groans
They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar
Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse,
Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where.
Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seem'd
Ever as if just rising from a sleep,
Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns;
And thus in thousand hugest phantasies
Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe.
Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon,
Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge
Stubborn'd with iron. All were not assembled:
Some chain'd in torture, and some wandering.
Caus, and Gyges, and Briareus,
Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion,
With many more, the brawniest in assault,
Were pent in regions of laborious breath;
Dungeon'd in opaque element, to keep
Their clenched teeth still clench'd, and all their limbs
Lock'd up like veins of metal, crampt and screw'd;
Without a motion, save of their big hearts
Heaving in pain, and horribly convuls'd
With sanguine feverous boiling gurge of pulse.
Mnemosyne was straying in the world;
Far from her moon had Phoebe wandered;
And many else were free to roam abroad,
But for the main, here found they covert drear.
Scarce images of life, one here, one there,
Lay vast and edgeways; like a dismal cirque
Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor,
When the chill rain begins at shut of eve,
In dull November, and their chancel vault,
The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout night.
Each one kept shroud, nor to his neighbour gave
Or word, or look, or action of despair.
Creus was one; his ponderous iron mace
Lay by him, and a shatter'd rib of rock
Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and pined.
Iapetus another; in his grasp,
A serpent's plashy neck; its barbed tongue
Squeez'd from the gorge, and all its uncurl'd length
Dead: and because the creature could not spit
Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove.
Next Cottus: prone he lay, chin uppermost,
As though in pain; for still upon the flint
He ground severe his skull, with open mouth
And eyes at horrid working. Nearest him
Asia, born of most enormous Caf,
Who cost her mother Tellus keener pangs,
Though feminine, than any of her sons:
More thought than woe was in her dusky face,
For she was prophesying of her glory;
And in her wide imagination stood
Palm-shaded temples, and high rival fanes
By Oxus or in Ganges' sacred isles.
Even as Hope upon her anchor leans,
So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk
Shed from the broadest of her elephants.
Above her, on a crag's uneasy shelve,
Upon his elbow rais'd, all prostrate else,
Shadow'd Enceladus; once tame and mild
As grazing ox unworried in the meads;
Now tiger-passion'd, lion-thoughted, wroth,
He meditated, plotted, and even now
Was hurling mountains in that second war,
Not long delay'd, that scar'd the younger Gods
To hide themselves in forms of beast and bird.
Not far hence Atlas; and beside him prone
Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neighbour'd close
Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap
Sobb'd Clymene among her tangled hair.
In midst of all lay Themis, at the feet
Of Ops the queen; all clouded round from sight,
No shape distinguishable, more than when
Thick night confounds the pine-tops with the clouds:
And many else whose names may not be told.
For when the Muse's wings are air-ward spread,
Who shall delay her flight? And she must chaunt
Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had climb'd
With damp and slippery footing from a depth
More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff
Their heads appear'd, and up their stature grew
Till on the level height their steps found ease:
Then Thea spread abroad her trembling arms
Upon the precincts of this nest of pain,
And sidelong fix'd her eye on Saturn's face:
There saw she direst strife; the supreme God
At war with all the frailty of grief,
Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge,
Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all despair.
Against these plagues he strove in vain; for Fate
Had pour'd a mortal oil upon his head,
A disanointing poison: so that Thea,
Affrighted, kept her still, and let him pass
First onwards in, among the fallen tribe.

As with us mortal men, the laden heart
Is persecuted more, and fever'd more,
When it is nighing to the mournful house
Where other hearts are sick of the same bruise;
So Saturn, as he walk'd into the midst,
Felt faint, and would have sunk among the rest,
But that he met Enceladus's eye,
Whose mightiness, and awe of him, at once
Came like an inspiration; and he shouted,
"Titans, behold your God!" at which some groan'd;
Some started on their feet; some also shouted;
Some wept, some wail'd, all bow'd with reverence;
And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil,
Show'd her pale cheeks, and all her forehead wan,
Her eye-brows thin and jet, and hollow eyes.
There is a roaring in the bleak-grown pines
When Winter lifts his voice; there is a noise
Among immortals when a God gives sign,
With hushing finger, how he means to load
His tongue with the filll weight of utterless thought,
With thunder, and with music, and with pomp:
Such noise is like the roar of bleak-grown pines;
Which, when it ceases in this mountain'd world,
No other sound succeeds; but ceasing here,
Among these fallen, Saturn's voice therefrom
Grew up like organ, that begins anew
Its strain, when other harmonies, stopt short,
Leave the dinn'd air vibrating silverly.
Thus grew it up---"Not in my own sad breast,
Which is its own great judge and searcher out,
Can I find reason why ye should be thus:
Not in the legends of the first of days,
Studied from that old spirit-leaved book
Which starry Uranus with finger bright
Sav'd from the shores of darkness, when the waves
Low-ebb'd still hid it up in shallow gloom;---
And the which book ye know I ever kept
For my firm-based footstool:---Ah, infirm!
Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent
Of element, earth, water, air, and fire,---
At war, at peace, or inter-quarreling
One against one, or two, or three, or all
Each several one against the other three,
As fire with air loud warring when rain-floods
Drown both, and press them both against earth's face,
Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple wrath
Unhinges the poor world;---not in that strife,
Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read it deep,
Can I find reason why ye should be thus:
No, nowhere can unriddle, though I search,
And pore on Nature's universal scroll
Even to swooning, why ye, Divinities,
The first-born of all shap'd and palpable Gods,
Should cower beneath what, in comparison,
Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here,
O'erwhelm'd, and spurn'd, and batter'd, ye are here!
O Titans, shall I say 'Arise!'---Ye groan:
Shall I say 'Crouch!'---Ye groan. What can I then?
O Heaven wide! O unseen parent dear!
What can I? Tell me, all ye brethren Gods,
How we can war, how engine our great wrath!
O speak your counsel now, for Saturn's ear
Is all a-hunger'd. Thou, Oceanus,
Ponderest high and deep; and in thy face
I see, astonied, that severe content
Which comes of thought and musing: give us help!"

So ended Saturn; and the God of the sea,
Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove,
But cogitation in his watery shades,
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began,
In murmurs, which his first-endeavouring tongue
Caught infant-like from the far-foamed sands.
"O ye, whom wrath consumes! who, passion-stung,
Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies!
Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears,
My voice is not a bellows unto ire.
Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof
How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop:
And in the proof much comfort will I give,
If ye will take that comfort in its truth.
We fall by course of Nature's law, not force
Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, thou
Hast sifted well the atom-universe;
But for this reason, that thou art the King,
And only blind from sheer supremacy,
One avenue was shaded from thine eyes,
Through which I wandered to eternal truth.
And first, as thou wast not the first of powers,
So art thou not the last; it cannot be:
Thou art not the beginning nor the end.
From Chaos and parental Darkness came
Light, the first fruits of that intestine broil,
That sullen ferment, which for wondrous ends
Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour came,
And with it Light, and Light, engendering
Upon its own producer, forthwith touch'd
The whole enormous matter into life.
Upon that very hour, our parentage,
The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest:
Then thou first born, and we the giant race,
Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms.
Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 'tis pain;
O folly! for to bear all naked truths,
And to envisage circumstance, all calm,
That is the top of sovereignty. Mark well!
As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far
Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once chiefs;
And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth
In form and shape compact and beautiful,
In will, in action free, companionship,
And thousand other signs of purer life;
So on our heels a fresh perfection treads,
A power more strong in beauty, born of us
And fated to excel us, as we pass
In glory that old Darkness: nor are we
Thereby more conquer'd, than by us the rule
Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull soil
Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed,
And feedeth still, more comely than itself?
Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves?
Or shall the tree be envious of the dove
Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings
To wander wherewithal and find its joys?
We are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs
Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves,
But eagles golden-feather'd, who do tower
Above us in their beauty, and must reign
In right thereof; for 'tis the eternal law
That first in beauty should be first in might:
Yea, by that law, another race may drive
Our conquerors to mourn as we do now.
Have ye beheld the young God of the seas,
My dispossessor? Have ye seen his face?
Have ye beheld his chariot, foam'd along
By noble winged creatures he hath made?
I saw him on the calmed waters scud,
With such a glow of beauty in his eyes,
That it enforc'd me to bid sad farewell
To all my empire: farewell sad I took,
And hither came, to see how dolorous fate
Had wrought upon ye; and how I might best
Give consolation in this woe extreme.
Receive the truth, and let it be your balm."

Whether through pos'd conviction, or disdain,
They guarded silence, when Oceanus
Left murmuring, what deepest thought can tell?
But so it was, none answer'd for a space,
Save one whom none regarded, Clymene;
And yet she answer'd not, only complain'd,
With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking mild,
Thus wording timidly among the fierce:
"O Father! I am here the simplest voice,
And all my knowledge is that joy is gone,
And this thing woe crept in among our hearts,
There to remain for ever, as I fear:
I would not bode of evil, if I thought
So weak a creature could turn off the help
Which by just right should come of mighty Gods;
Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell
Of what I heard, and how it made me weep,
And know that we had parted from all hope.
I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore,
Where a sweet clime was breathed from a land
Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and flowers.
Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief;
Too full of joy and soft delicious warmth;
So that I felt a movement in my heart
To chide, and to reproach that solitude
With songs of misery, music of our woes;
And sat me down, and took a mouthed shell
And murmur'd into it, and made melody---
O melody no more! for while I sang,
And with poor skill let pass into the breeze
The dull shell's echo, from a bowery strand
Just opposite, an island of the sea,
There came enchantment with the shifting wind,
That did both drown and keep alive my ears.
I threw my shell away upon the sand,
And a wave fill'd it, as my sense was fill'd
With that new blissful golden melody.
A living death was in each gush of sounds,
Each family of rapturous hurried notes,
That fell, one after one, yet all at once,
Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string:
And then another, then another strain,
Each like a dove leaving its olive perch,
With music wing'd instead of silent plumes,
To hover round my head, and make me sick
Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame,
And I was stopping up my frantic ears,
When, past all hindrance of my trembling hands,
A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune,
And still it cried, 'Apollo! young Apollo!
The morning-bright Apollo! young Apollo!'
I fled, it follow'd me, and cried 'Apollo!'
O Father, and O Brethren, had ye felt
Those pains of mine; O Saturn, hadst thou felt,
Ye would not call this too indulged tongue
Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be heard."

So far her voice flow'd on, like timorous brook
That, lingering along a pebbled coast,
Doth fear to meet the sea: but sea it met,
And shudder'd; for the overwhelming voice
Of huge Enceladus swallow'd it in wrath:
The ponderous syllables, like sullen waves
In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rocks,
Came booming thus, while still upon his arm
He lean'd; not rising, from supreme contempt.
"Or shall we listen to the over-wise,
Or to the over-foolish, Giant-Gods?
Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all
That rebel Jove's whole armoury were spent,
Not world on world upon these shoulders piled,
Could agonize me more than baby-words
In midst of this dethronement horrible.
Speak! roar! shout! yell! ye sleepy Titans all.
Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile?
Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm?
Dost thou forget, sham Monarch of the waves,
Thy scalding in the seas? What! have I rous'd
Your spleens with so few simple words as these?
O joy! for now I see ye are not lost:
O joy! for now I see a thousand eyes
Wide-glaring for revenge!"---As this he said,
He lifted up his stature vast, and stood,
Still without intermission speaking thus:
"Now ye are flames, I'll tell you how to burn,
And purge the ether of our enemies;
How to feed fierce the crooked stings of fire,
And singe away the swollen clouds of Jove,
Stifling that puny essence in its tent.
O let him feel the evil he hath done;
For though I scorn Oceanus's lore,
Much pain have I for more than loss of realms:
The days of peace and slumbrous calm are fled;
Those days, all innocent of scathing war,
When all the fair Existences of heaven
Carne open-eyed to guess what we would speak:---
That was before our brows were taught to frown,
Before our lips knew else but solemn sounds;
That was before we knew the winged thing,
Victory, might be lost, or might be won.
And be ye mindful that Hyperion,
Our brightest brother, still is undisgraced---
Hyperion, lo! his radiance is here!"

All eyes were on Enceladus's face,
And they beheld, while still Hyperion's name
Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks,
A pallid gleam across his features stern:
Not savage, for he saw full many a God
Wroth as himself. He look'd upon them all,
And in each face he saw a gleam of light,
But splendider in Saturn's, whose hoar locks
Shone like the bubbling foam about a keel
When the prow sweeps into a midnight cove.
In pale and silver silence they remain'd,
Till suddenly a splendor, like the morn,
Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps,
All the sad spaces of oblivion,
And every gulf, and every chasm old,
And every height, and every sullen depth,
Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented streams:
And all the everlasting cataracts,
And all the headlong torrents far and near,
Mantled before in darkness and huge shade,
Now saw the light and made it terrible.
It was Hyperion:---a granite peak
His bright feet touch'd, and there he stay'd to view
The misery his brilliance had betray'd
To the most hateful seeing of itself.
Golden his hair of short Numidian curl,
Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade
In midst of his own brightness, like the bulk
Of Memnon's image at the set of sun
To one who travels from the dusking East:
Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon's harp
He utter'd, while his hands contemplative
He press'd together, and in silence stood.
Despondence seiz'd again the fallen Gods
At sight of the dejected King of day,
And many hid their faces from the light:
But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes
Among the brotherhood; and, at their glare,
Uprose Iapetus, and Creus too,
And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode
To where he towered on his eminence.
There those four shouted forth old Saturn's name;
Hyperion from the peak loud answered, "Saturn!"
Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods,
In whose face was no joy, though all the Gods
Gave from their hollow throats the name of "Saturn!"


BOOK III

Thus in altemate uproar and sad peace,
Amazed were those Titans utterly.
O leave them, Muse! O leave them to their woes;
For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire:
A solitary sorrow best befits
Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief.
Leave them, O Muse! for thou anon wilt find
Many a fallen old Divinity
Wandering in vain about bewildered shores.
Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp,
And not a wind of heaven but will breathe
In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute;
For lo! 'tis for the Father of all verse.
Flush everything that hath a vermeil hue,
Let the rose glow intense and warm the air,
And let the clouds of even and of morn
Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills;
Let the red wine within the goblet boil,
Cold as a bubbling well; let faint-lipp'd shells,
On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion turn
Through all their labyrinths; and let the maid
Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surpris'd.
Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades,
Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green,
And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech,
In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song,
And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath the shade:
Apollo is once more the golden theme!
Where was he, when the Giant of the sun
Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers?
Together had he left his mother fair
And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower,
And in the morning twilight wandered forth
Beside the osiers of a rivulet,
Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale.
The nightingale had ceas'd, and a few stars
Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush
Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle
There was no covert, no retired cave,
Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves,
Though scarcely heard in many a green recess.
He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright tears
Went trickling down the golden bow he held.
Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood,
While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by
With solemn step an awful Goddess came,
And there was purport in her looks for him,
Which he with eager guess began to read
Perplex'd, the while melodiously he said:
"How cam'st thou over the unfooted sea?
Or hath that antique mien and robed form
Mov'd in these vales invisible till now?
Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er
The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone
In cool mid-forest. Surely I have traced
The rustle of those ample skirts about
These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers
Lift up their heads, as still the whisper pass'd.
Goddess! I have beheld those eyes before,
And their eternal calm, and all that face,
Or I have dream'd."---"Yes," said the supreme shape,
"Thou hast dream'd of me; and awaking up
Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side,
Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, all the vast
Unwearied ear of the whole universe
Listen'd in pain and pleasure at the birth
Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not strange
That thou shouldst weep, so gifted? Tell me, youth,
What sorrow thou canst feel; for I am sad
When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy griefs
To one who in this lonely isle hath been
The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life,
From the young day when first thy infant hand
Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till thine arm
Could bend that bow heroic to all times.
Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power
Who hath forsaken old and sacred thrones
For prophecies of thee, and for the sake
Of loveliness new born."---Apollo then,
With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes,
Thus answer'd, while his white melodious throat
Throbb'd with the syllables.---"Mnemosyne!
Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how;
Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest?
Why should I strive to show what from thy lips
Would come no mystery? For me, dark, dark,
And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes:
I strive to search wherefore I am so sad,
Until a melancholy numbs my limbs;
And then upon the grass I sit, and moan,
Like one who once had wings.---O why should I
Feel curs'd and thwarted, when the liegeless air
Yields to my step aspirant? why should I
Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet?
Goddess benign, point forth some unknown thing:
Are there not other regions than this isle?
What are the stars? There is the sun, the sun!
And the most patient brilliance of the moon!
And stars by thousands! Point me out the way
To any one particular beauteous star,
And I will flit into it with my lyre,
And make its silvery splendor pant with bliss.
I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where is power?
Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity
Makes this alarum in the elements,
While I here idle listen on the shores
In fearless yet in aching ignorance?
O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp,
That waileth every morn and eventide,
Tell me why thus I rave about these groves!
Mute thou remainest---Mute! yet I can read
A wondrous lesson in thy silent face:
Knowledge enormous makes a God of me.
Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions,
Majesties, sovran voices, agonies,
Creations and destroyings, all at once
Pour into the wide hollows of my brain,
And deify me, as if some blithe wine
Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk,
And so become immortal."---Thus the God,
While his enkindled eyes, with level glance
Beneath his white soft temples, steadfast kept
Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne.
Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush
All the immortal fairness of his limbs;
Most like the struggle at the gate of death;
Or liker still to one who should take leave
Of pale immortal death, and with a pang
As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse
Die into life: so young Apollo anguish'd:
His very hair, his golden tresses famed,
Kept undulation round his eager neck.
During the pain Mnemosyne upheld
Her arms as one who prophesied. At length
Apollo shriek'd;---and lo! from all his limbs
Celestial.

[omudindulap]

http://img853.imageshack.us/img853/4063/tumblrlurbi3etgq1qzbn7n.jpg

[Presedintele]

Omule, offfff... Mi-e greu sa-ti spun dar e de laba!
De-atatea nopti aud plouand ascult materia plangand blabla...
Te iubeste jumate de cinemagia - multe dintre astea sunt femei. Cheam-o si tu pe vreuna la Braila, ce pizdoiu' ma-sii...

[White1]

Deci tu te masturbezi in timp ce il citesti pe Poe? De-a dreptu' poetic da incearca sa nu iti mai dai drumul pe aici.

[jansic]

Sa revenim la oile noastre...

De ce-ai plecat?
Tu nu stiai
Ca-n luna mai,
Prin muntii cu paduri de brad
Oricine-ai fi-femeie sau barbat-
Potecile te duc spre Iad
Si nu, ca-n lumea basmelor, spre Rai?

De ce-ai plecat?
Cu vantu-n parul tau valvoi,
Cand niciun glas nu te-a chemat?
Tu nu stiai ca-n luna mai
Potecile sunt inca pline de noroi?

De ce-ai plecat?
Tu nu stiai
Ca-n luna mai,
E luna primului pacat
Pacatul care dintr-o gluma,
Te prinde-n lat si te sugruma
Si-apoi te-arunca afara-n ploaie
In lada cu gunoaie?

Opreste-te!
Priveste-n jurul tau..
Si daca nu ti-ai murdarit
Pantofii de noroi,
Fa-ti cruce
Si-ntoarce-te-napoi,
Fa-ti cruce
Fiindca n-ai pacatuit
Decat in vis..
Si visul s-a sfarsit!

:)


Lucian Blaga

Dorul

Setos iti beau mirasma si-ti cuprind obrajii
cu palmele-amindoua, cum cuprinzi
în suflet o minune.
Ne arde-apropierea, ochi în ochi cum stam.
Si totusi tu-mi soptesti: "Mi-asa de dor de tine!"
Asa de tainic tu mi-o spui si dornic, parc-as fi
pribeag pe-un alt pamânt.
Femeie,
ce mare porti în inima si cine esti?
Mai cânta-mi inc-o data dorul tau,
sa te ascult
si clipele sa-mi para niste muguri plini,
din care infloresc aievea -- vesnicii.
:x :x :x :x :x

[omudindulap]

Cateodata

eu sunt aici
















iar posibilitatea de a ne intalni in viata asta, aici



Scrisoare de intentie

Bună ziua,
m-am născut acum câteva mii de zâmbete,
am absolvit Școala de Gătit pentru Iubite,
menționez că am o vastă experiența în a face
ochi dulci în timp ce gătesc.
Hobby-urile mele sînt să vă privesc
și să vă șoptesc numele în ureche
deja parcă ne cunoaștem de când iubirea, observați?
Posed abilități deosebite de operare
cu sentimente ușor inflamabile
și emoții de mari dimensiuni,
vorbesc bine limbajul trupului
și foarte bine pe cel al buzelor;
practic de când mă știu înotul
în marea bucurie de a fi, chiar și când
e agitată și vine în valuri.
Vă rog să considerați o posibilă angajare
în caz că aveți disponibil un post de
iubit imperfect. :D

matematica iubirii

tu ai doi ochi
eu am doi ochi
împreună avem patru ochi;
introducem cei patru ochi
în urna relaţiei noastre,
amestecăm bine
apoi, fără să ne uităm,
ha, ha, ce glumă bună -
oricum n-ai ochi când iubeşti,
extragem fiecare doi ochi.
Probabilitatea de a căpăta înapoi
fiecare, cele doua puncte de vedere iniţiale
este de douăzecişicinci la sută;
rezultă că este şaptezecişicinci la sută probabil
ca după iubirea noastră
să nu mai vedem lucrurile la fel;
ceea ce era de demonstrat.

(culese de aici (http://ivcelnaiv.ro/))

S inca una de labis :))

Ce proşti mai suntem amândoi!
Comori de plăceri dorm în noi,
Şi cum le-ar putea deştepta
O clipă din dragostea ta!
E oare-o virute-a răbda? ...
Cu zâmbetul tău mă-nfiori,
Stăpâna atâtor comori:
Eu ştiu că mi-ai da, dac-aş cere,
Tu ştii c-aş primi, de mi-ai da,
Şi totuşi răbdăm în tăcere,
Privind cum viaţa se trece
Pustie, şi tristă, şi rece.

(Nehotărâre, Alexandru Vlahuţă)

[jansic]

Imi plac primele trei :)

Acum am descoperit-o pe tanti asta, extrem de sinistra, Ana Blandiana. Dar imi plac combinatiile pe care le foloseste:

Fără tine

Fără tine mi-e frig
N-am înţeles niciodată
Cum simte aerul
Că ai plecat.
Universul se strânge
Ca o minge plesnită
Şi-şi lasă pe mine zdrenţele reci.
Câinele negru
Cu burta întinsă duios pe zăpadă
Se scoală şi se îndepărtează
Privindu-mă în ochi,
Refuzând să-şi spună numele.
Începe să fulguie.
Mă ustură pielea
Pe locul de unde te-ai rupt.
Şi mi-e frig,
Când simt cum cade moale,
Odată cu zăpada,
Această rugăciune către nimeni.

[jansic]

Lucian Blaga - Gorunul

În limpezi departari aud din pieptul unui turn
cum bate ca o inima un clopot
si-n zvonuri dulci
îmi pare
ca stropi de liniste îmi curg prin vine, nu de sânge.

Gorunule din margine de codru,
de ce ma-nvinge
cu aripi moi atâta pace
când zac în umbra ta
si ma dezmierzi cu frunza-ti jucausa?

O, cine stie? - Poate ca
din trunchiul tau îmi vor ciopli
nu peste mult sicriul,
si linistea
ce voi gusta-o între scândurile lui
o simt pesemne de acum:
o simt cum frunza ta mi-o picura în suflet -
si mut
ascult cum creste-n trupul tau sicriul,
sicriul meu,
cu fiecare clipa care trece,
gorunule din margine de codru.

[omudindulap]

N-o mai iubesc, asta-i sigur, dar cum am putut-o iubi...
Vocea-mi vrea să fie vântul, să-i gâdile auzul.

A altuia. Va fi a altuia. Ca înaintea săruturilor mele.
Vocea ei, trupul ei de lumină. Ochii ei fără hotare.

N-o mai iubesc, asta-i sigur, dar poate încă o iubesc.
Iubirea e atât de scurtă, şi-atât de lungă e uitarea.

Într-una din aceste nopţi am strâns-o în braţe,
şi sufletul nu mi-e împăcat cu pierderea ei.

Chiar de-i ultima zvâcnire pentru ea,
şi acestea ultimele rânduri.

[Aeryn_Sun]

How do I love thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.