Poezija

[Raulio]

Ja sam nekome pozajmio Bodlera, ne sjećam se kome, i nikad mi ga nije vratio. Ali nije loš ni Džejms.

[Raulio]

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,

[Raulio]

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!

[Raulio]

"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.

[Bluemoon]

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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[Raulio]

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.............

[Bluemoon]

Moj najdraži..pjesnik.Jesenjin.



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[Bluemoon]

Znao je kroz pero toliko toga reći.A ovdje je rekao sve ono što se tiče prosto..čovjeka.



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[Bluemoon]

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[Mylene]

(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 torrentWith 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

[Mylene]

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.

[Ostoja]

[Ostoja]

Jos jedna od Balasaveica, nenadmasnog majstora rijeci, pjesnika neobuzdanog duha i maste koja ne zna za granice
Ova, manje poznata, ali ne manje dobra pjesma me podsjeti na Geteov Faust

[Bluemoon]

Prvi put je čujem a toliko sam od njega numera odslušala.Mene podsjeća na priču o Vasi Ladačkom, mada ima i to što veliš za Fausta o prodaji duše đavolu kako god se shvatila ta personifikacija.
Ima on taj lajt motiv kroz više numera.



Nothing travels faster than the speed of light with the possible exception of bad news, which obeys its own special laws..

[Ostoja]

Aj jos jednu, nije hit, ali je predivna pjesma:

Mrtvi
Od loših vesti i reklama prognan, utekoh na treći program
Gde je, nekim čudom, tekla poznata burleska
Svi oni gegovi i lica ista, slikovnica što se lista
Setno, ko na dnu škrinje nađena sveska
Osmeh se zaledi na čas Gde su sad Laurel i Hardi
I ovaj ljuti zrika i njegov beli psić?

O, svi su mrtvi... Odneseni...
Bršljan je davno prekrio stih...
Od zla i briga su rešeni...
Al divna ludost ko oreol još rominja oko njih...

Bila je berba... Osta fotka od nje... Leto neznano gospodnje...
No, uglavnom, ta su burad otkad popijena...
Ćale s kačketom, čuvenim, od tvida, putunju sa leđa skida...
Deda pred vranca spušta otkose sena...
U smeđoj senci bresaka samo po bluzi poznam majku...
I ko da čujem mobu... I kikote niz drum...

Al svi su mrtvi... I blaženi...
Bršljan je davno prekrio stih...
Od zlih vremena su spašeni...
A trag poštenja i dobrote ko oreol još rominja oko njih...

U godišnjaku škole važna lica šmekera i bubalica...
Ali samo jedan moto: Drži se, Planeto...
Sanjari... Genijalci...Šampioni... Žrtvovani ko pioni...
Pale su zastave u četrdes' petoj...
Kadgod ih sretnem, žale se... Sapuću ko zaverenici...
Al pijan dah je vetar što zmaja ne diže...

Ma, već su mrtvi... A hodaju...
Ja nisam rođen da čekam smak... Moj život nije na prodaju...
A kad pleteš svoj oreol za to i nema mesta boljeg nego mrak...

[Bluemoon]

Mislim da bi tu ipak Vito mu oborio koplje..Mada ne osporavam, dobra numera.

..A šta ako nema zaborava,
ako je to vječna igra kruga,
a šta ako tamo ispod trava
boli ova ista ljudska tuga.

Ili Dis u njegovoj Nirvani.
"Noćas su me pohodili mrtvi.
Nova groblja i vekovi stari;
Prilazili k meni kao žrtvi,
Kao boji prolaznosti stvari.

Noćas su me pohodila mora,
Sva usahla, bez vala i pene,
Mrtav vetar duvao je s gora,
Trudio se svemir da pokrene.."

U suštini pjesnici su najviše prepoznatljivi po toj temi..ljudske prolaznosti.



Nothing travels faster than the speed of light with the possible exception of bad news, which obeys its own special laws..

[Bluemoon]

Inače, moram postaviti duel njih dvojice.
Majakovski i Jesenjin.

I još nešto, nakon samoubistva Jesenjina stihove Majakovskome nekome s kojim je cio život bio u borbi.To su mi najljepši stihovi Majakovskog.



"I bunca sto je breza usahla -
Ni reči, o dru-ug moj, ni uzda-a-a-ha.
Eh, treba pokazati priču,
Tom Leonidu Leongriniču!
Treba ustati kao skandalist:
Neću da se moj stih žvaće i blati!
Zaglušiti ih uz troprst svist,
I u Boga i u mater ih poslati!
Nek se rasturi ta netalentovana pogan,
Šireći kaputna jedra mrka,
Neka u ludom bekstvu Kohan
Izbode ljude šiljcima brka.
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 genije
Birao put utaban i laki?
Reč je – vođa ljudske sile."

Nothing travels faster than the speed of light with the possible exception of bad news, which obeys its own special laws..

[Raulio]

Pa on ode tamo uz čaršiju,
Kad je bio pobratimu svome,
Pobratimu Petru nalbantinu,
On dozivlje svoga pobratima:
„Iziđ’, pobro da ti potkov platim,
„Što si mene konja potkovao,
„Potkovao veresijom dora.“
Progovara Pero nalbantine:
„Pobratime, bolani Dojčine!
„Nijesam ti dora potkovao:
„Ja se, brate, malo našalio,
„Anđelija ljuta i prokleta,
„Ona planu, kako vatra živa,
„Pa odvede nekovana dora.“
Njemu veli bolesan Dojčine:
„Iziđ’ amo, da ti potkov platim.“
On iziđe pred svoga dućana,
Manu sabljom bolani Dojčine,
Nalbantinu odsiječe glavu,

[Bluemoon]

Nothing travels faster than the speed of light with the possible exception of bad news, which obeys its own special laws..

[Bluemoon]

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 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.

[Bluemoon]

Vladimir Vladimirovič Majakovski

Pročitaj više na: https://www.biografija.org/knjizevno...ic-majakovski/

„devojke Majakovskog” –

u izdajničko vreme mraka,

ta to je ipak dinastija carica

krunisanih u srcu jednog ludaka.”

***

I ljubav od koje patim- Trijumfalna je to kapija, raskošno, bez traga će kroz nju ipak, ljubavnici svih vekova da minu. O, kada bi bio tih kao grom jak- plakao bih, tugom zagrlio izandjalu planetu- pećinu.

[eCs95]

Jesenjin

[eCs95]

Desanka Maksimović

[GerdaBuddenbrook]

Imate li neke autore koje ste voleli kao mladi, a sada su vam krindz?

Ja Prevera.
Ne mogu da verujem da sam se toliko lozila na nesto tako sladunjavo.

[eCs95]

.