Trošnost, u kojoj dogorevam
sa ćutanjem posmatraš kletim,
ti si kamenit - a ja pevam.
Ti si spomenik - a ja letim.
I najlepši je maj procvali -
ništavan pred večnošću svakom.
Ali ja sam ptica – i ne žali
što podležem zakonu lakom.
Za nevine si odviše ti mila.
Ljubazna odveć, ljubavi da se latiš!
Za pola sveta ti bi sreća bila,
al’ sama nikad sreće nećeš znati;
Dve sreće nigda nema za čoveka –
jesi li vid’la brzu, moćnu reku?
Obale cvatu, ali celim tokom
dno joj je uvek hladno i duboko!
Last edited by Mylene; 18-10-21 at 22:23.
It's a funeral we're going to
Death, death of darkness.
M. Day Shalimar.
Trošnost, u kojoj dogorevam
sa ćutanjem posmatraš kletim,
ti si kamenit - a ja pevam.
Ti si spomenik - a ja letim.
I najlepši je maj procvali -
ništavan pred večnošću svakom.
Ali ja sam ptica – i ne žali
što podležem zakonu lakom.
It's a funeral we're going to
Death, death of darkness.
M. Day Shalimar.
Mortality
William Knox, 1789 - 1825
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.
The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant’s affection that proved;
The husband that mother and infant that blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed
That wither away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.
For we are the same that our fathers have been;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,—
We drink the same stream,and we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking, they too would shrink;
To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling;
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumber may come;
They enjoyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.
They died, ay! they died! and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
‘Tis the wink of an eye, ‘tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,—
O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Here I opened wide the door,
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Da imam nebeske tkanine vezene,
zlatnim i srebrnim svetlom ispletene,
tkanine plave i zagasite i tamne
od noci i svetla i polutame,
ja bih ih rasirio pred tvoja stopala:
Ali siromasan sam, imam tek snove;
Raširio sam snove pred tvoja stopala;
Hodaj nežno jer hodaš po mojim snovima.
Gledam te - Pero Zubac mod.
Gledam te. Ti si, a nisi.
Ruke su tvoje. A nisu.
Gledam te. Sneg na kosi.
I korak isti. Drag.
I vetar pahulje nosi
i zameće ti trag.
Gledam te. A sneg sipa.
I sve te više znam.
Here I opened wide the door,
Darkness there, and nothing more.
A Dream Within a Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Edgar Allen Poe
Here I opened wide the door,
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Si nada nos salva de la muerte, al menos que el amor nos salve de la vida.
Crv Pobednik
Gle! slavne li noći
Na kraju godina samotnih!
Mnogo je anđela krilatih, što su hteli doći,
Pod velom i suzama natopljeni,
U pozorište da vide
Igru strahova i nada silnih,
Dok svirači snažno izduvavaju
Muziku svetova davnih.
Mimeza, ko božanstvo sa visina samo,
Mrmori tiho sebi u bradu,
I leti tamo-amo —
Obične lutke, oni što banu pa se iskradu
Po naredbi velikih, bezličnih stvari
Od pozornice prave paradu
I krilima svojim od kondora stvaraju
Nesrećnu nakaradu!
Ta nemoguća drama! — uveren budi
Zaboravljena neće biti!
Sa svojim prividom gonjenim večno od ljudi
Što ga nikad neće dohvatiti
Kružeći istim putem, a uvek
Na isto mesto dolaziti,
I sa još mnogo ludila i mnogo greha
I užasa u čitavoj ovoj uroti.
Ali gle! sred igre što se odvija,
Stvorenje neko puzeći upada!
Krvavi stvor što se otud svija
Ulazi na scenu sada!
Uvija se! — vija! — u smrtnim trzajima
I igra joj plenom pada,
Serafini jecaju kraj zmijskog zuba
Što u ljudsku krv ubada.
Napolju — napolju su svetla — svi napolje sada!
I na drhtave prilike
Zavesa, pokrov mrtvih pada,
Uz olujne hučne slike,
I anđeli bezbojni i bledi
Uspravni i otkriveni, slažu se bez replike
Da je drama tragedija — "čovek",
A herojsko ime pobedniku, crvu pripada.
Edgar Allen Poe
Here I opened wide the door,
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Si nada nos salva de la muerte, al menos que el amor nos salve de la vida.
Si nada nos salva de la muerte, al menos que el amor nos salve de la vida.
Si nada nos salva de la muerte, al menos que el amor nos salve de la vida.
Si nada nos salva de la muerte, al menos que el amor nos salve de la vida.
Otpali cvijet
vratio se na granu?
– Ne, to je leptir!
Moritake
Here I opened wide the door,
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Si nada nos salva de la muerte, al menos que el amor nos salve de la vida.
FINDING A TEACHER
By W.S. Merwin
In the woods I came on an old friend fishing
and I asked him a question
and he said Wait
fish were rising in the deep stream
but his line was not stirring
but I waited
it was a question about the sun
about my two eyes
my ears my mouth
my heart the earth with its four seasons
my feet where I was standing
where I was going
it slipped through my hands
as though it were water
into the river
it flowed under the trees
it sank under hulls far away
and was gone without me
then where I stood night fell
I no longer knew what to ask
I could tell that his line had no hook
I understood that I was to stay and eat with him
Here I opened wide the door,
Darkness there, and nothing more.
The Snow Man
BY WALLACE STEVENS
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
Nazalost nasao sam prevod samo zadnjeg stiha:
Za slusaoca, koji slusa u snijegu,
I , nista ne vidi
Nista sto nije tu i nista sto jeste.
Last edited by Nista; 16-01-22 at 21:10.
Here I opened wide the door,
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Odlomak iz pjesme Jesenjinu
Gadovi se moraju prorediti.
Poslovi - da se stati ne sme!Život treba iznova preurediti,pa tek onda pisati pesme!
Za pero to vreme - lako nije,ali recite, Vi, bogalji, sakati,gde je, kada i koji to genijebirao put utaban i laki?
Reč je – vođa ljudske sile.Napred! Da bi se vreme jezgromotišlo, i veze da bi slabebile za prošlošću svislom.
Malo je veselja na nasoj planeti.Neka nas buducnost sa radošću veže.U ovom životu nije teško mreti.Izgraditi život – daleko je teže.
Majakovski
Aleksandar Leso Ivanović
Sjećanje me lakom tugom ovi:
… veče slazi i miriše lipa.
Kroz sumrak se čuje kolska škripa,
– s puta idu kari Šabanovi.
Mi u susret otrčimo k njima,
a kapi nas vrate srećne kući
i sivom nas džadom truckajući
o pređenim šapću drumovima…
… Mili dani, moji sni nestali,
kao da ste svi u jutro neko
na kare se kradom ukrcali
i otišli od mene daleko.
Zalud uho sad zvukove lovi,
zalud oko daljinama pipa:
davno više ne čuje se škripa
niti idu kari Šabanovi.
"Sanjam o sjeni nepoznate žene
koju volim i koja voli mene.
Tajanstvena ta žena poput vela svene
kad hoću da je dirnem, a znam da voli mene.
Na svijetu nitko, tek ta me žena zna.
Ta nikad ista i uvijek vječno druga,
ja znam da ona ipak voli me ko druga
i moje srce samo za nju bije.
Tajanstveno šuti, tajanstvom se krije.
O, ta žena toplog i mekanog tijela,
ta suzom briše brige s moga čela
i kantilena ta je glazba našeg sna.
Ja ne znam da l’ je plava, crna, smeđa?
Njen glas je svilen i mekan kao pređa
smrti što cvjeta nad tugom ljubavnog odra.
Promatra me nijemo ko statua nijema,
a glas joj zvoni: tajna trepetljiva i modra,
skupocjen mrtav glas kog više nema."
Krleža
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Od autora poeme Jama, Ivana Gorana Kovačića
"Baš je naša vlada bistra,
Dobro naše konce krije:
Draži dala čast ministra,
Jer uz Nijemce on se bije.
Teritorij vlada nema,
Al se gora stvar još sprema –
Kad ni vlade neće biti…
O teško je četnik biti!
Ali ipak ja još snivam,
Kako pokraj ministarstva
Kao kakav Bog uživam
Usred četničkoga carstva.
Šuti, more, još ne slini,
Pomoći će Mussolini!
Ali Englez odveć hiti…
O teško je četnik biti!
Trebala bi naša vlada
Da afrički rat zavuče,
Jer Talijan ako strada –
I nama će biti vruće…
I Nijemac ako pane,
Zlo će jutro da nam svane.
Da! Sve snage treba zbiti!
O teško je četnik biti!
A zlo raste sa svih strana.
Bila bi nam slava draža,
Da pobjede partizanâ
Preoteti može Draža.
Jer se samo za njih čuje,
A već sav svijet na nas pljuje.
To se više ne da kriti.
O teško je četnik biti!
O teško je četnik biti!
Izgubim li zadnju nadu –
Znam što tad ću učiniti –
Obrijat ću gustu bradu,
Ošišati duge vlasi –
Možda to će da me spasi.
A sad idem dalje piti!
O teško je četnik biti…"
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Tin Ujević
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Priča
Sećam se samo da je bila
nevina i tanka
i da joj je kosa bila
topla, kao crna svila
u nedrima golim.
I da je u nama pre uranka
zamirisao bagrem beo.
Slučajno se setih neveseo,
jer volim:
da sklopim oči i ćutim.
Kad bagrem dogodine zamiriše,
ko zna gde ću biti.
U tišini slutim
da joj se imena ne mogu setiti
nikad više.
Miloš Crnjanski, 1918.
Imala je tako divan glas..
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IF
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"Vidiš li: svet pun sebe grca -
Očiju punih, prazna srca."
Da se, koliko je moguće, upoznamo sa poezijom Džejmsa Franka, glumca, pjesnika, umjetnika...koliko je moguće, nama, smrtnicima običnim. Bez prevoda, na žalost, na sreću(!?), htio sam da prevedem ali toliko bi se izgubilo - u prevodu. Dakle, HELLO WOMAN (by James Franco from Straight James/Gay James, 27-28. Copyright © 2016 Whose Dog R UProductions, Inc.) iz zbirke Strejt Džejms/Gej Džejms:
Hello woman, I’d like to be you.
Not because I don’t enjoy my man
Body, my man strength, my man looks,
My man mind, but because I love yours
Even more. I love your woman body
I love your woman mind,
Your woman face that is delicate,
And even has a little downy hair.
I love the shapely soft parts,
I love the vagina lips, no cock,
I love the butt swoop, and the clean
Butthole in the middle.
I love the woman bond,
So much more than the man.
I love the woman desires,
The love, the strength, the connection
More. More, more, more.
The man is angry, the man
Is destructive, the man wants more.
The woman is more, the woman is all.
If I ever got high, it would be to be
The woman. If I ever did porn,
I’d want to be the woman.
I don’t want to be the man in woman
I just want to be woman.
But I will never be woman.
I am man, trapped in man.
I have no escape from this body,
This mind, this upbringing.
My only escape is a poem,
Feel the curves
They are the liquid shape
Of my woman body.
Neka Terpsihora i Polihimnija, ili kako se zovu muze poezije i glume, dozvole kratak osvrt, analizu ću ostavit većim umovima koji možda tek niču i dolaze na naš svijet. "Ako", kaže (pjeva!) Džejms, "ikad budem glumio u erotskom filmu" (već se osjeća gubitak emocije u sirovom prevodu za kakav sam, na žalost, noćas, jedino sposoban), "ne želim da budem muškarac, čak ni muškarac u ženi, isključivo - Žena", sa čistim... (a kakvim kod Žene?; i da, sa velikim Ž, i Džejms bi se sa mnom složio u nadahnuću koje djelimično raspoznajem...tek...)... itd. itd. Jedini bijeg iz svog "muškog" postojanja Džejms vidi u poeziji, da li o bijegu sniva strejt Džejms..ili gej Džejms... Ne, ne, visine su to nedostižne, širine i prostranstva nepregledna, stepe koje se jedino ruskim mogu nazvati, što stepski vuci godinama (vjekovima!?) ne pretrče...ali, zadržimo se na Džejmsovoj ideji "tečnih oblina" njegova "ženskog tijela". On osjeća tijelo žene u sebi, možda zbog čistog ... ali, sitnice su to (sitnica je to), žena u njemu je "tečna", kao potok, kao rijeka, kao more, dubina koja se izmjeriti ne da...Ne mogu....
Dovoljno je. Umjetnik. Bard.
If there's two things that I hate-
It's havin' to cook, and tryin' to date...
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