Poezija i plandovanje

Lajkam.  Evo još malo Shakespeare-a: Sonnet XVIII 

Odlično! 





Stihove ove pjesme sam već stavila ovdje, ali tako mi je nekako neobično bilo čuti kako ona čita svoje pjesme. Ja sam ih u sebi skroz drugačije čitala, što-bi-se-reklo, u jednom dahu.

Gottfried Benn: Psyche

You also; when the nights
change you into a darker self,
Psyche, streaming right hand,
moved, as you merge with the other--
thought it is past men's telling
and you have suffered enough:
love is wine poured into fire
from the sacrament jug.

You bow down and they all
think that all is perfected:
ah, your very own night
flies into veinings of shadow.
Though you glow as the purest
Light for our lips and hands,
we are still without power
to accomplish the dream.


Only the hours, the nights
when your breathing awakens:
psyche, streaming right hand,
deep metamorphosing night--
ah, it is past men's telling,
ah, there is never enough
of your wine in the fire
poured from the sacrament jug.

William Blake: London

I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. 
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear 

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls, 
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls 

But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear 
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse

Oscar Wilde: A Vision

Two crowned Kings, and One that stood alone
With no green weight of laurels round his head,
But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man's never-ceasing moan
For sins no bleating victim can atone,
And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.
Girt was he in a garment black and red,
And at his feet I marked a broken stone
Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.
Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame,
I cried to Beatrice, 'Who are these? '
And she made answer, knowing well each name,
'AEschylos first, the second Sophokles,
And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.'

Why this Norwegian poem about carrots is the best thing you’ll read today


February 3, 2016 / professorwu



A short poem has recently been “doing the rounds” on various social media platforms. It’s Norwegian, and it’s about carrots. It’s also quite, quite brilliant. Here it is – in its original text and with an English translation beneath.
 
 
And the translation:

:)

Evo stihovi jednog nobelovca...

All along the Watchtower

"There must be some kind of way out of here, "
Said the joker to the thief,
"There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief.
Business men – they drink my wine
Plowmen dig my earth
None of them along the line
Know what any of it is worth."

"No reason to get excited, "
The thief – he kindly spoke,
"There are many here among us
Who feel that life is but a joke
But you and I we've been through that
And this is not our fate
So let us not talk falsely now
The hour's getting late."

All along the watchtower
Princess kept their view
While all the women came and went
Bare-foot servants too
Outside in the cold distance
A wild cat did growl
Two riders were approaching
And the wind began to howl, hey.

;)

If you only keep poems in your mind, than maybe the non-realistic things in our lives are more important in the end, than the all realistic memories you have from success and failure. This woman experienced a lot of misfortune in her life but now she recites Racine, Valery, Prevert and Baudelaire like nothing. They stayed.... It's remarkable that they are her only remaining memories.

(Agnes Varda donosi pricu o zeni koja se jedino sjeca - pjesama.)

malo je tužno, kao automat ponavljati nečije stihove..

Niti Varda, niti Bradbury nemaju ni priblizno slicno shvacanje jer nije rijec o pukom recitiranju. A ima veze s onim sto sam navela kao poeziju koja vlada svime. Apollinaire.

memorija I get it.. mala kutijica u glavi na kojoj piše poésie

Ne.

:oknekuzim

Palladiums

IN the newspaper office—who are the spooks?
Who wears the mythic coat invisible?
 
Who pussyfoots from desk to desk
              with a speaking forefinger?
Who gumshoes amid the copy paper
              with a whispering thumb?
 
Speak softly—the sacred cows may hear.
Speak easy—the sacred cows must be fed.


Carl Sandburg

Marge Piercy: The Secretary Chant

My hips are a desk,
From my ears hang
chains of paper clips.
Rubber bands form my hair.
My breasts are quills of
mimeograph ink.
My feet bear casters,
Buzz. Click.
My head is a badly organized file.
My head is a switchboard
where crossed lines crackle.
Press my fingers
and in my eyes appear
credit and debit.
Zing. Tinkle.
My navel is a reject button.
From my mouth issue canceled reams.
Swollen, heavy, rectangular
I am about to be delivered
of a baby
Xerox machine.
File me under W
because I wonce
was
a woman.

Louis Macneice: Snow


The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.
And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes –
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one’s hands –
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

Mitsuye Yamada: Neutralize!

poetry . . .
has been my spiritual guide
throughout my incarceration
in the darkest of times
I turn to Neruda and Hikmet
and Rukeyser and Ritsas
and Chrytos
and Whitman. . .
           – U.S. Political Prisoner

They mean to kill
the sentient being in me
Neutralize!
White white
no poetry in
white floors walls ceiling white
white chairs tables sink white
only when I close my eyes do I see
beyond the white windowless walls
remembering springtime of
lacy trees lightly green against baby blue.
There is silence silence more silence
to drown out the incessant silence
I fill my inner ear with robinsongs
melodious and soothing
but how to quell deafening
nonhuman screeches and scrapes
sounds bouncing against the white walls?
Dull smells of dead air in the cell
but through the olfactory nerves
in my mind
I can tickle with the zest of lemon
and the sweetness of wildflowers.
Willfully bland diet aimed
to erase use of my tongue
Add a pinch of salt with the taste
of sweat or even of blood
anywhere on my body
Remembering the taste of cheese.
One human touch allowed
my own arms enfold me
my fingers move over my sagging breasts
my nipples and soft parts of my body
respond.
They mean to neutralize me but
poetry keeps me alive.