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Thread: Poezija

  1. #51
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    Lijepo.

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    Ja Bodlera mnogo volim.

    . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish..






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  4. #53
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    I Mika Antić..jedan od Bodlera..sa našeg podneblja.

    Ispredi iz svoje aorte
    pozlaćen konac trajanja
    i zašij naprsla mesta
    iz kojih drhte čuđenja.

    I nikad ne zamišljaj život
    kao uplašen oproštaj,
    već kao stalni doček
    i stalni početak buđenja.
    _____
    A onda, već jednom ozbiljno
    razmisli šta znači i umreti
    i gde to nestaje čovek.

    Šta ga to zauvek ište.


    Postojanje bez nas.
    I ono..vječni ne razgovaraju..



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    Last edited by Bluemoon; 15-11-22 at 00:14.
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  5. #54
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    Quote Originally Posted by Buva+gacce View Post
    Tek sad vidim..bezdah.
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  6. #55
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    Ja sam nekome pozajmio Bodlera, ne sjećam se kome, i nikad mi ga nije vratio. Ali nije loš ni Džejms.
    If there's two things that I hate-
    It's havin' to cook, and tryin' to date...​

  7. #56
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    Quote Originally Posted by Bluemoon View Post
    Ja Bodlera mnogo volim.

    . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish..






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    I nije sad da ja Tool "proglašavam" poezijom, ali taj stih iz Sober
    Why can't we not be sober? - dupla negacija, kad sam prvi put to čuo zapamtio sam za sva vremena,
    If there's two things that I hate-
    It's havin' to cook, and tryin' to date...​

  8. #57
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    E da, ovo je najbolji prevod -Vladimir Gerić- i gotovo, i jedna od najboljih pjesama, i jedan od najboljih pjevača
    Sviri harmoniko tugo, tugo,
    prsti svirca, val pomamni!
    na, pij sa mnom, kučko, šugo,
    na, pij sa mnom, sa mnom!


    Izgubljena si i ofucana,
    preko mjere,
    šta zvjerkaš tim plavim očurdama,
    da te odaderem!


    Još bi samo u vrt pristajala,
    da vrane plašiš,
    ideš mi na jetra, mala,
    i da sjašiš...i da sjašiš!


    Sviraj harmoniko, sviraj onu moju,
    trgni tikvo šuplja!
    onu sisatu bih radije no koju,
    ta je ponajgluplja!


    Mnogo vas je bilo,
    ti mi, dakle, nisi neka prvina,
    al' nijedna ne bje' k'o što ti si,
    takva strvina!


    Što bolnije, to zvučnije,
    tu dolje ili drugdje u mutljagu,
    neću da se ubijem zbog drolje,
    idi k' vragu!


    Dojadi mi da rastačem,
    život uz taj ološ prosti,
    ja plačem, draga, plačem,
    oprosti...oprosti!

    If there's two things that I hate-
    It's havin' to cook, and tryin' to date...​

  9. #58
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    "Simptomi histrioničnog poremećaja ličnosti
    Ovaj poremećaj karakteriše prenaglašenost emocija i skretanje pažnje na sebe, počevši od ranog odraslog doba, i prisutan je u različitim kontekstima:


    Oseća se neprijatno u situacijama u kojima nije u centru pažnje
    Sklonost ka neadekvatnom i provokativnom ponašanju u odnosima sa drugima
    Izrazito brzo menjanje ponašanja i površnost u izražavanju osećanja
    Korišćenje fizičkog izgleda radi privlačenja pažnje
    Impresionistički stil govora, puno detanja
    Izrazita dramatičnost, teatralnost i emocionalnost
    Osoba je sugestibilna i na nju lako utiču drugi ljudi ili okolnosti
    Procenjivanje odnosa kao mnogo intimnijih nego što zaista jesu u realnosti..."
    to me podsjetilo, ili obrnuto, na Azru
    Ruke su mi bile slani pijesak, sanjao sam te
    Ruke su mi bile na oltaru mnogo godina
    Zaronjene stijene plaču
    Svjetlost počinje tihim mijenjanjem mojih pobuda


    Kao i jučer
    Iza zavjese
    Možda na mom licu nađeš tragove sjećanja
    Možda ne razumiješ
    Ali volim te.


    Krenuo sam u dubinu sobe s jasnom namjerom
    Da materijaliziram nemoguće snagom poruke
    Razuzdanost histriona blisko odzvanja
    Neka drugi broje križeve


    Kao i jučer
    Iza zavjese
    Ono što me stalno plaši zvuči poznato
    Možda ne razumiješ
    Ali volim te.


    Otkud osjećaj da gubiš pouzdano zaleđe
    Umjetnost te čini jačom nego što pretpostavljaš
    Možda tvoja slutnja vara, možda umišljam
    Htio bih da budeš sretnija


    Kao i jučer
    Iza zavjese
    Igraču pred tobom opet ulogu pjesnika
    Možda ne razumiješ
    Ali volim te.


    Gledaj kako konci aluzije prodiru u svijest
    Ni tjeskoba kao nijemi svjedok ne vrijedi suviše
    Stajao sam na peronu ljeta Gospodnjeg
    Moglo je biti prošlo stoljeće


    Kao i jučer
    Iza zavjese
    Zamisli da brdo slika putuje svemirom
    Možda ne razumiješ
    Ali volim te.
    If there's two things that I hate-
    It's havin' to cook, and tryin' to date...​

  10. #59
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    The Stolen Child

    W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939

    Where dips the rocky highland
    Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
    There lies a leafy island
    Where flapping herons wake
    The drowsy water rats;
    There we've hid our faery vats,
    Full of berrys
    And of reddest stolen cherries.
    Come away, O human child!
    To the waters and the wild
    With a faery, hand in hand,
    For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

    Where the wave of moonlight glosses
    The dim gray sands with light,
    Far off by furthest Rosses
    We foot it all the night,
    Weaving olden dances
    Mingling hands and mingling glances
    Till the moon has taken flight;
    To and fro we leap
    And chase the frothy bubbles,
    While the world is full of troubles
    And anxious in its sleep.
    Come away, O human child!
    To the waters and the wild
    With a faery, hand in hand,
    For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

    Where the wandering water gushes
    From the hills above Glen-Car,
    In pools among the rushes
    That scarce could bathe a star,
    We seek for slumbering trout
    And whispering in their ears
    Give them unquiet dreams;
    Leaning softly out
    From ferns that drop their tears
    Over the young streams.
    Come away, O human child!
    To the waters and the wild
    With a faery, hand in hand,
    For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

    Away with us he's going,
    The solemn-eyed:
    He'll hear no more the lowing
    Of the calves on the warm hillside
    Or the kettle on the hob
    Sing peace into his breast,
    Or see the brown mice bob
    Round and round the oatmeal chest.
    For he comes, the human child,
    To the waters and the wild
    With a faery, hand in hand,
    For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.




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    Last edited by Bluemoon; 29-11-22 at 11:41.
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  11. #60
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    Quote Originally Posted by Bluemoon View Post
    The Stolen Child

    W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939

    Where dips the rocky highland
    Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
    There lies a leafy island
    Where flapping herons wake
    The drowsy water rats;
    There we've hid our faery vats,
    Full of berrys
    And of reddest stolen cherries.
    Come away, O human child!
    To the waters and the wild
    With a faery, hand in hand,
    For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

    Where the wave of moonlight glosses
    The dim gray sands with light,
    Far off by furthest Rosses
    We foot it all the night,
    Weaving olden dances
    Mingling hands and mingling glances
    Till the moon has taken flight;
    To and fro we leap
    And chase the frothy bubbles,
    While the world is full of troubles
    And anxious in its sleep.
    Come away, O human child!
    To the waters and the wild
    With a faery, hand in hand,
    For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

    Where the wandering water gushes
    From the hills above Glen-Car,
    In pools among the rushes
    That scarce could bathe a star,
    We seek for slumbering trout
    And whispering in their ears
    Give them unquiet dreams;
    Leaning softly out
    From ferns that drop their tears
    Over the young streams.
    Come away, O human child!
    To the waters and the wild
    With a faery, hand in hand,
    For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

    Away with us he's going,
    The solemn-eyed:
    He'll hear no more the lowing
    Of the calves on the warm hillside
    Or the kettle on the hob
    Sing peace into his breast,
    Or see the brown mice bob
    Round and round the oatmeal chest.
    For he comes, the human child,
    To the waters and the wild
    With a faery, hand in hand,
    For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.




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    Tvoj veš bješe bijel
    Al i druge tvoje imahu ga
    Ne poznah te u baraci staroj
    Koju sitna para iznajmljuje

    Svaka imaše dvadeset godina
    I svaka gola bješe
    Nisam te prepoznao
    Zar ste sve iste.............
    If there's two things that I hate-
    It's havin' to cook, and tryin' to date...​

  12. #61
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    Moj najdraži..pjesnik.Jesenjin.



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    Last edited by Bluemoon; 09-12-22 at 23:04.
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  13. #62
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    Znao je kroz pero toliko toga reći.A ovdje je rekao sve ono što se tiče prosto..čovjeka.



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  17. #64
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    Default Andre Breton - Freedom of Love

    (Translated from the French by Edouard Rodti)

    My wife with the hair of a wood fire
    With the thoughts of heat lightning
    With the waist of an hourglass
    With the waist of an otter in the teeth of a tiger
    My wife with the lips of a cockade and of a bunch of stars of the last magnitude
    With the teeth of tracks of white mice on the white earth
    With the tongue of rubbed amber and glass
    My wife with the tongue of a stabbed host
    With the tongue of a doll that opens and closes its eyes
    With the tongue of an unbelievable stone
    My wife with the eyelashes of strokes of a child's writing
    With brows of the edge of a swallow's nest
    My wife with the brow of slates of a hothouse roof
    And of steam on the panes
    My wife with shoulders of champagne
    And of a fountain with dolphin-heads beneath the ice
    My wife with wrists of matches
    My wife with fingers of luck and ace of hearts
    With fingers of mown hay
    My wife with armpits of marten and of beechnut
    And of Midsummer Night
    Of privet and of an angelfish nest
    With arms of seafoam and of riverlocks
    And of a mingling of the wheat and the mill
    My wife with legs of flares
    With the movements of clockwork and despair
    My wife with calves of eldertree pith
    My wife with feet of initials
    With feet of rings of keys and Java sparrows drinking
    My wife with a neck of unpearled barley
    My wife with a throat of the valley of gold
    Of a tryst in the very bed of the torrent
    With breasts of night
    My wife with breasts of a marine molehill
    My wife with breasts of the ruby's crucible
    With breasts of the rose's spectre beneath the dew
    My wife with the belly of an unfolding of the fan of days
    With the belly of a gigantic claw
    My wife with the back of a bird fleeing vertically
    With a back of quicksilver
    With a back of light
    With a nape of rolled stone and wet chalk
    And of the drop of a glass where one has just been drinking
    My wife with hips of a skiff
    With hips of a chandelier and of arrow-feathers
    And of shafts of white peacock plumes
    Of an insensible pendulum
    My wife with buttocks of sandstone and asbestos
    My wife with buttocks of swans' backs
    My wife with buttocks of spring
    With the sex of an iris
    My wife with the sex of a mining-placer and of a platypus
    My wife with a sex of seaweed and ancient sweetmeat
    My wife with a sex of mirror
    My wife with eyes full of tears
    With eyes of purple panoply and of a magnetic needle
    My wife with savanna eyes
    My wife with eyes of water to he drunk in prison
    My wife with eyes of wood always under the axe
    My wife with eyes of water-level of level of air earth and fire

  18. #65
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    Default A Season in Hell - Arthur Rimbaud

    A while back, if I remember right, my life was one long party where all hearts were open wide, where all wines kept flowing.
    One night, I sat Beauty down on my lap.—And I found her galling.—And I roughed her up.
    I armed myself against justice.
    I ran away. O witches, O misery, O hatred, my treasure's been turned over to you!
    I managed to make every trace of human hope vanish from my mind. I pounced on every joy like a ferocious animal eager to strangle it.
    I called for executioners so that, while dying, I could bite the butts of their rifles. I called for plagues to choke me with sand, with blood. Bad luck was my god. I stretched out in the muck. I dried myself in the air of crime. And I played tricks on insanity.
    And Spring brought me the frightening laugh of the idiot.
    So, just recently, when I found myself on the brink of the final squawk! it dawned on me to look again for the key to that ancient party where I might find my appetite once more.
    Charity is that key.—This inspiration proves I was dreaming!
    "You'll always be a hyena etc. . . ," yells the devil, who'd crowned me with such pretty poppies. "Deserve death with all your appetites, your selfishness, and all the capital sins!"
    Ah! I've been through too much:-But, sweet Satan, I beg of you, a less blazing eye! and while waiting for the new little cowardly gestures yet to come, since you like an absence of descriptive or didactic skills in a writer, let me rip out these few ghastly pages from my notebook of the damned.

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