Bootstrap Framework 3.3.6

[mega therion]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TWL_aR1kFYc
odusevljavam se iznova i iznova ovim zenama.

[bas bleu]

If it chance your eye offend you,
Pluck it out, lad, and be sound:
'Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you,
And many a balsam grows on ground.

And if your hand or foot offend you,
Cut it off, lad, and be whole;
But play the man, stand up and end you,
When your sickness is your soul.

[Laerem]

W. H. Auden - Victor

Victor was a little baby,
Into this world he came;
His father took him on his knee and said:
'Don't dishonour the family name.'

Victor looked up at his father
Looked up with big round eyes:
His father said; 'Victor, my only son,
Don't you ever ever tell lies.'

Victor and his father went riding
Out in a little dog-cart;
His father took a Bible from his pocket and read;
'Blessed are the pure in heart.'

It was a frosty December
Victor was only eighteen,
But his figures were neat and his margins were straight
And his cuffs were always clean.

He took a room at the Peveril,
A respectable boarding-house;
And Time watched Victor day after day
As a cat will watch a mouse.

The clerks slapped Victor on the shoulder;
'Have you ever had woman?' they said,
'Come down town with us on Saturday night.'
Victor smiled and shook his head.

The manager sat in his office,
Smoked a Corona cigar:
Said; 'Victor's a decent fellow but
He's too mousy to go far.'

Victor went up the his bedroom,
Set the alarum bell;
Climbed into bed, took his Bible and read
Of what happened to Jezebel.

It was the First of April,
Anna to the Peveril came;
Her eyes, her lips, her breasts, her hips
And her smile set men aflame,

She looked as pure as a schoolgirl
On her First Communion day,
But her kisses were like the best champagne
When she gave herself away.

It was the Second of April.
She was wearing a coat of fur;
Victor met her upon the stair
And he fell in love with her.

The first time he made his proposal,
She laughed, said; 'I'll never wed;
The second time there was a pause;
Then she smiled and shook her head.

Anna looked into her mirror,
Pouted and gave a frown:
Said 'Victor's as dull as a wet afternoon
But I've got to settle down.'

The third time he made his proposal,
As they walked by the Reservoir:
She gave him a kiss like a blow on the head,
Said; 'You are my heart's desire.'

They were married early in August,
She said; 'Kiss me, you funny boy';
Victor took her in his arms and said;
'O my Helen of Troy.'

It was the middle of September,
Victor came to the office one day;
He was wearing a flower in his buttonhole,
He was late but he was gay.

The clerks were talking of Anna,
The door was just ajar:
One said, 'Poor old Victor, but where ignorance
Is bliss, et cetera.'

Victor stood still as a statue,
The door was just ajar:
One said, 'God, what fun I had with her
In that Baby Austin car.'

Victor walked out into the High Street,
He walked to the edge of town:
He came to the allotments and the rubbish heap
And his tears came tumbling down.

Victor looked up at the sunset
As he stood there all alone;
Cried; 'Are you in Heaven, Father?'
But the sky said 'Address not known'.

Victor looked at the mountains,
The mountains all covered in snow
Cried; 'Are you pleased with me, Father?'
And the answer came back, No.

Victor came to the forest,
Cried: 'Father, will she ever be true?'
And the oaks and the beeches shook their heads
And they answered: 'Not to you.'

Victor came to the meadow
Where the wind went sweeping by:
Cried; 'O Father, I love her so',
But the wind said, 'She must die'.

Victor came to the river
Running so deep and so still:
Crying; 'O Father, what shall I do?'
And the river answered, 'Kill'.

Anna was sitting at table,
Drawing cards from a pack;
Anna was sitting at table
Waiting for her husband to come back.

It wasn't the Jack of Diamonds
Nor the Joker she drew first;
It wasn't the King or the Queen of Hearts
But the Ace of Spades reversed.

Victor stood in the doorway,
He didn't utter a word:
She said; 'What's the matter, darling?'
He behaved as if he hadn't heard.

There was a voice in his left ear,
There was a voice in his right,
There was a voice at the base of his skull
Saying, 'She must die tonight.'

Victor picked up a carving-knife,
His features were set and drawn,
Said; 'Anna it would have been better for you
If you had not been born.'

Anna jumped up from the table,
Anna started to scream,
But Victor came slowly after her
Like a horror in a dream.

She dodged behind the sofa,
She tore down a curtain rod,
But Victor came slowly after her:
Said; 'Prepare to meet thy God.'

She managed to wrench the door open,
She ran and she didn't stop.
But Victor followed her up the stairs
And he caught her at the top.

He stood there above the body,
He stood there holding the knife;
And the blood ran down the stairs and sang,
'I'm the Resurrection and the Life'.

They tapped Victor on the shoulder,
They took him away in a van;
He sat as quiet as a lump of moss
Saying, 'I am the Son of Man'.

Victor sat in a corner
Making a woman of clay:
Saying; 'I am Alpha and Omega, I shall come
To judge the earth some day.'

[Katengl]

[Dark Walker]

T.S. Eliot - Gerontion

Thou hast nor youth nor age
But as it were an after dinner sleep
Dreaming of both.


HERE I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I was neither at the hot gates
Nor fought in the warm rain
Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,
Bitten by flies, fought.
My house is a decayed house,
And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,
Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,
Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.
The goat coughs at night in the field overhead;
Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds.
The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea,
Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter.

I an old man,
A dull head among windy spaces.

Signs are taken for wonders. “We would see a sign”:
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness. In the juvescence of the year
Came Christ the tiger

In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering judas,
To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk
Among whispers; by Mr. Silvero
With caressing hands, at Limoges
Who walked all night in the next room;
By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians;
By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room
Shifting the candles; Fraulein von Kulp
Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door. Vacant shuttles
Weave the wind. I have no ghosts,
An old man in a draughty house
Under a windy knob.

After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,
Guides us by vanities. Think now
She gives when our attention is distracted
And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions
That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late
What’s not believed in, or if still believed,
In memory only, reconsidered passion. Gives too soon
Into weak hands, what’s thought can be dispensed with
Till the refusal propagates a fear. Think
Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices
Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree.

The tiger springs in the new year. Us he devours. Think at last
We have not reached conclusion, when I
Stiffen in a rented house. Think at last
I have not made this show purposelessly
And it is not by any concitation
Of the backward devils
I would meet you upon this honestly.
I that was near your heart was removed therefrom
To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition.
I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it
Since what is kept must be adulterated?
I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:
How should I use it for your closer contact?
These with a thousand small deliberations
Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,
Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,
With pungent sauces, multiply variety
In a wilderness of mirrors. What will the spider do,
Suspend its operations, will the weevil
Delay? De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs. Cammel, whirled
Beyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear
In fractured atoms. Gull against the wind, in the windy straits
Of Belle Isle, or running on the Horn,
White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,
And an old man driven by the Trades
To a a sleepy corner.

Tenants of the house,
Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.

[Speculum Columbae]

ЄПϨОСОN ATETNAAС НОУА NNЄЇСNΗУ ЕТСОВК NТАТЕТНААС NАЇ

odnosno:

понєжє сътвористє єдиномȣ сихъ братїи моихъ мєншихъ мнѣ сътвористє

[Speculum Columbae]

Che poi tant'avverrà tra pochi giorni
Ch'io qui seco per sempre à voi ritorni,
Dove al fin pure ogni mortal se'n viene,

[Speculum Columbae]

Tristes apprêts, pâles flambeaux,
Jour plus affreux que les ténèbres,
Astres lugubres des tombeaux,
Non, je ne verrai plus que vos clartés funèbres.
Toi, qui vois mon cœur éperdu,
Père du Jour! ô Soleil! ô mon Père!
Je ne veux plus d'un bien que Castor a perdu,
Et je renonce à ta lumière.
Tristes apprêts, pâles flambeaux,
Jour plus affreux que les ténèbres,
Astres lugubres des tombeaux,
Non, je ne verrai plus que vos clartés funèbres

Mournful solemnities, pale torches,
Day more fearful than darkness,
Lugubrious stars of tombs,
No, I shall see no more than your funereal lights.
You who see my distraught heart,
Father of the day ! O sun ! O my father !
I no longer want any gift but what Castor has lost,
And I renounce your light.
Mournful solemnities, pale torches,
Day more fearful than darkness,
Lugubrious stars of tombs,
No, I shall see no more than your funereal lights.

[bas bleu]

once i believed in you,
and then you came,
unquestionably new, as fame
had said you were. but that was long ago.

you launched no argument,
yet i obeyed,
straightaway, the instrument you played,
distant down sidestreets, keeping different time,

and never questioned what
you fascinate
in me; if good or not, the state
you pressed towards. there was no need to know.

grave pristine absolutes
walked in my mind:
so that i was not mute, or blind,
as years before or since. my only crime

was holding you too dear.
was that the cause
you daily came less near – a pause
longer than life, if you decide it so?

[Speculum Columbae]

Essentially, It's Spring

They noticed abstraction and called it evolution,
Plato's trick, or Socrates',
who drank his last salute to history

so we are not allowed to speak of beauty,
causality, essentiality, signs,
but only graphs, charts, numbers, and revolution.

But it is coming spring on the high plateau;
last week's pink and white brilliance blooms
arrested, curled dingy brown in untimely frost,

though the cottonwoods are hopeful, and the elms,
the willows in their fragile, cherished green?a mixed burden,
spring. One hardly knows whether to lament or sing.

The passive dead revised with neither thought nor care,
biblically numbered bones beside lost meanings repose
abstractions from bodies' lives make progress, unmake significance.

What's gone is not ours to study or to keep:
Plato the Greek was not in favor of literacy of the phonetic kind;
he liked boys, gnosis, metaphysics, mystery
just ask the Egyptian bones stored in universities.

They say there won't be as much fruit this year.
Absent extravagant rains, piñons, mice, and pollen
will be less threat, just ask the unphonetic
Singers, evicted, wise, unlettered, rude.

[RetributioN]

Trapped in this hell
Dead but not without life
A spirit, a demon, a devil
whatever it is we are

I hear speak
of angels
"Beautiful?"
I laugh
With their sickening purity
Using their looks to mask
They are no angels
They are no better than us
The light they touch is no less tainted
than the darkness we dwell in
Angels.
No angel can exist in this world.

[Speculum Columbae]

Quel fior che all’ alba ride
Il sole poi l’uccide,

E tomba hà nella sera.
È un fior la vita, la vita ancora.

(a posebno) L’occaso ha nell’ aurora,
E perde in un sol dì la primavera.

[Speculum Columbae]

Troppo cruda, troppo fiera
è la legge dell' amor;
ma la speme lusinghiera
raddolcisce ogni rigor.

Infiammate. saettate,
ma lasciatemi sperar :
a chi spera, o lucí amate,
non da pena il sospirar.

Love's precepts
are too harsh and stern,
but hope soothes
and sweetens all severity

Inflame and pierce me
O lovely eyes, but let me hope
sighing brings no pain
to one who hopes.

[Sisorama]

Lepa Brena (c. 1135 - c. 1204)

Olim sudor Herculis,
monstra late conterens,
pestes orbis auferens,
claris longe titulis
enituit;
sed tandem defloruit
fama prius celebris,
cecis clausa tenebris,
Ioles illecebris
Alcide captivato.

Amor fame meritum
deflorat,
amans tempus perditum
non plorat,
sed temere
diffluere
sub Venere
laborat.

Hydra damno capitum
facta locupletior,
omni peste sevior,
reddere sollicitum
non potuit,
quem puella domuit.
iugo cessit Veneris
vir, qui maior superis
celum tulit humeris
Atlante fatigato.

Amor fame meritum
deflorat,
amans tempus perditum
non plorat,
sed temere
diffluere
sub Venere
laborat.

Caco tristis halitus
et flammarum vomitus
vel fuga Nesso duplici
non profuit;
Geryon Hesperius
ianitorque Stygius,
uterque forma triplici
non terruit,
quem captivum tenuit
risu puella simplici.

Amor fame meritum
deflorat,
amans tempus perditum
non plorat,
sed temere
diffluere
sub Venere
laborat.

Jugo cessit tenero,
somno qui letifero
horti custodem divitis
implicuit,
frontis Acheloie
cornu dedit Copie,
apro, leone domitis
enituit,
Thraces equos imbuit
cruenti cede hospitis.

Amor fame meritum
deflorat,
amans tempus perditum
non plorat,
sed temere
diffluere
sub Venere
laborat.

Antei Libyci
luctam sustinuit,
casus sophistici
fraudes cohibuit,
cadere dum vetuit;
sed qui sic explicuit
lucte nodosos nexus,
vincitur et vincitur,
dum labitur
magna Iovis soboles
ad Ioles
amplexus.

Amor fame meritum
deflorat,
amans tempus perditum
non plorat,
sed temere
diffluere
sub Venere
laborat.

Tantis floruerat
laborum titulis,
quem blandis carcerat
puella vinculis.
et dum lambit osculis,
nectar huic labellulis
Venereum propinat;
vir solutus otiis
Venereis
laborum memoriam
et gloriam
inclinat.

Amor fame meritum
deflorat,
amans tempus perditum
non plorat,
sed temere
diffluere
sub Venere
laborat.

Sed Alcide fortior
aggredior
pugnam contra Venerem.
ut superem
hanc, fugio;
in hoc enim prelio
fugiendo fortius
et melius
pugnatur,
sicque Venus vincitur:
dum fugitur,
fugatur.

Amor fame meritum
deflorat,
amans tempus perditum
non plorat,
sed temere
diffluere
sub Venere
laborat.

Dulces nodos Veneris
et carceris
blandi seras resero,
de cetero
ad alia
dum traducor studia.
o Lycori, valeas
et voveas,
quod vovi:
ab amore spiritum
sollicitum
removi.
PA KAŽE:
Amor fame meritum
deflorat,
amans tempus perditum
non plorat,
sed temere
diffluere
sub Venere
laborat.

[Tungi]

Love Is A Parallax

'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunt where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
the simple sum of heart plus heart.

Sylvia Plath

[Speculum Columbae]

ήνθισε και μεγάλωνε το δροσερό κλωνάρι
και πλήθαινε στην ομορφιά, στη γνώση και στη χάρη

cvetala je, rasla je zelena grana
i množila u lepoti, u znanju i ljupkosti

[Dark Walker]

James Joyce

Ti što zvezve, začaran sveopštim mirom,
Gledaš duše još pune sanja,
Čuješ li noćni vetar i uzdisanja
Harfi, dok svirkom Ljubav mole da širom
Raskrili dveri svitanja?

Slušaš li, jedini usred sve vasione,
Te harfe kako svojim hosanama
Slave ljubav na pragu dana,
I horove vetra kako im antifone
Do zadnjeg sutona zvone?

Svirajte, svirajte, harfe, pred Ljubavlju strasnu
Himnu, dok ide u blesku zore,
U trenucima dok se boje pale i gasnu,
Svirku pod zemljom dole tananu jasnu,
I u visinama gore.

(Iz ciklusa: Kamerna muzika)

[Markiza]

[izgubljen]

Ako ti jave: umro sam,
a bio sam ti drag,
onda će u tebi
odjednom nešto posiveti.
Na trepavici magla.
Na usni pepeljast trag.

Da li si uopšte ponekad
mislio šta znači živeti?

Ako ti jave: umro sam
evo šta će biti.

Hiljadu šarenih riba
lepršaće mi kroz oko.

I zemlja će me skriti.
I korov će me skriti.
A ja ću za to vreme
leteti visoko...
Visoko.

Zar misliš da moja ruka,
koleno,
ili glava
može da bude sutra
koren breze
il' trava?

Ako ti jave: umro sam,
ne veruj
to ne umem.

Na ovu zemlju sam svratio
da ti namignem malo.
Da za mnom ostane nešto
kao lepršav trag.
I zato: ne budi tužan.
Toliko mi je stalo
da ostanem u tebi
budalast i čudno drag.

Noću,
kad gledaš u nebo,
i ti namigni meni.
Neka to bude tajna.
Uprkos danima sivim
kad vidiš neku kometu
da nebo zarumeni,
upamti: to ja još uvek
šašav letim, i živim.

[Speculum Columbae]

Andrea Mantenja / Oplakivanje

Gjertrud Šnakenberg

Nađeno među slikarevom
Imovinom posle smrti,
Nešto, što već prvim pogledom
Ranjava tvoju dušu zauvek.

Nešto što čim ugledaš
Kroz posredničke ravni izmaglice,
Kao da iza prevrnutih blokova
Obrađenog, kockastog kamena,
Nešto nehajno leži,
Leži samo, čak iza
Neimenovanog „neobrađenog bloka” —

Kao da si prislonio oko
Na pukotinu u zidu i video,
Kroz cezuru u kraljevstvu,
Kroz prostor kroz koji se ne možeš provući,

Sjaj istinskog izgnanstva
Gde on leži na Sinaju prevrnuti kamen
I kamen uvrede, ali ovde
Naslikan u perspektivi tako uskoj
Možeš samo da nasloniš čelo
Na drevno delo mučeništva
Koje te odvaja od njega.

Tako da, pred ovim otvorenim grobom,
Pritiskajući lice o kamen,
Videći te usne koje su dotakle
Gorki hleb, zaustavljen
Pred tim ranjenim stopalima koje snažno želiš
Da dosegneš, kao da bi mogao

Da ih uzmeš u naručje,
Ne možeš odbiti
Da pogneš glavu.

2.
Andrea Mantenja namenio je ovu sliku
Za sopstveni pogrebni spomenik,
Da ga postave njegovi naslednici
Podno njegovog kovčega,
Međutim, da bi platili njegove dugove,
Oni je prodaše
Proždrljivom inventaru
Kardinala Zigismonda Gonzage.

Tamo i nazad, svakog dana
Dvadeset godina,
Hodao je avenijom između svoje kuće
I vojvodske palate u Mantovi —
Široka avenija koja omeđava
Usku stazu koja je ležala
Pred njim, staza kroz dane
Do kraja njegovog života,

Pored svađi u radionicama
I problematičnih odnosa sa mecenama
I sudskih tužbi i lažnih optužbi,
Pored štafelaja sa vaskrsenjima postavljenim
U osenčenim vrtovima
Prigradskih vila plemićkih porodica,
I neobičnih crteža nedavno

Iskopanih antikviteta

Osvojenih za kolekcije prinčeva,
I nacrta za fontane, i ukrašenih svitaka
U srebrnoj olovci i ugljenu,
I zlata pažljivo sitnjenog u prah
Merenog za naglašene detalje
Koji drhte u mantijama
Od vodnjikave ružičaste svile,
I papirnih oblika krojenih makazama
Za očaravanje gledalaca,
I narudžbina za portrete
Plemića sa rekom u pejsažu
Koja vrluda iza prozora palate —

Ali uvek ispred njega
Na kraju staze, taj otvoreni grob
Koji ne beše njegov.
Stalno sa njim dok nije umro,
Ovaj pravougaonik platna
Razapet na štafelaju u njegovoj kući
U sobi na spratu

Gde je, 13 septembra 1506.,
„U osamnaesti otkucaj časovnika,”
Ostavio iza sebe svoje dugove i brige,
Okrenuo leđa poslednji put
Svojoj sobi iznad ulice,
I počeo da se uspinje uz
Golgotu
Gde krst sada, nazirući se na vrhu,
Beše prazan. Nikoga ne beše tamo.
I na samom kraju sagnuo se da ostavi

Mrtvog Hrista iza sebe,

Raspetog u podnožju krsta
Njegovog poslednjeg daha.

3
Iza male pogrebne povorke
Koja je vijugala klizavom stazom,
Rimski vojnice se okrenuše,
Skupiše se, i stupiše
U formaciji na drum —
Iako se jedan čovek okretao da pogleda
Preko svog ramena nekoliko puta,
Opčinjen nečim što nije mogao da izrazi.

Kada se vratio u Rim,
Teško se popeo stepenicama
Na sprat, u onu istu sobu
U kojoj je živeo.
Skinuo je teret sa leđa,
Spustio je vreću na onaj isti pod,
Položio je kacigu na onaj isti sto.
I, gledajući na ulicu
Svog starog kraja pod prozorom svoje sobe,
Pritisnuvši oko na pukotinu
U zidu, video je, za sebe,
Svet za kojim je čeznuo na istoku
Isti kakav i beše pre nego što je pošao.

[Speculum Columbae]

Bele Doette as fenestres se siet,
Lit en un livre, mais au cuer ne l'en tient ;
De son ami Doon li ressovient,
Qu'en autres terres est alez tornoier.
E or en ai dol!

(Lepa Doeta za prozorom sedi
čita knjigu, a srce joj je drugde
O njenom dragom Doonu razmišlja,
koji je u drugoj zemlji, na turniru
O kakav podnosim bol!)

Un escuiers az degrez de la sale
Est dessenduz, s'est destrossé sa male.
Bele Doette les degrez en avale,
Ne cuide pas oïr novele male.
E or en ai dol!

(Vitez je na stepeništu pred hodnikom
sjahao, od tereta se oslobodio
Lepa Doeta se spušta niz stepenice
ne sluti da nosi joj novost nemilu
O kakav podnosim bol!)

Bele Doette tantost li demanda:
" Ou est mes sires que ne vi tel pieça? "
Cil ot tel duel que de pitié plora.
Bele Doette maintenant se pasma.
E or en ai dol!

(Lepa Doeta ga odmah priupita:
Gde je moj gospodin koji je od mene odvojen sve vreme?
Pitanje ga natera da od sažaljenja plače.
Lepa Doeta propada kroz pod.
O kakav podnosim bol!)

Bele Doette s'est en estant drecie,
Voit l'escuier, vers lui s'est adrecie ;
En son cuer est dolante et correcie
Por son seignor dont ele ne voit mie.
E or en ai dol!

(Lepa Doeta se ponovo podigne
Vidi viteza, ponovo mu se obraća
Srce joj je bolom obuzeto
zbog njenog gospodina koga nikada neće videti dok je živa
O kakav podnosim bol!)

Bele Doette li prist a demander :
" -Ou est mes sires cui je doi tant amer?
-En nom Deu, dame nel vos quier mais celer :
Morz est mes sires, ocis fu au joster. "
E or en ai dol!

(Lepa Doeta tada od viteza zahteva:
Gde je moj gospodin koga tako volim?
Gospoda mi, damo, ne mogu od vas više da krijem
Mrtav je moj gospodar, poginuo u borbi.
O kakav podnosim bol!)

Bele Doette a pris son duel a faire:
" Tant mar i fustes, cuens Do, frans debonaire.
Por vostre amor vestirai je la haire,
Ne sor mon cors n'avra pelice vaire. "
E or en ai dol!

(Lepa Doeta tada počinje da žali:
Kakvo vas je zlo nagnalo da odete, plementi i lepi gospodine Doon?
Zbog vaše ljubavi, prekriću kosu maramom,
I meko krzno neće više pokrivati moje telo.
O kakav podnosim bol!)

" Por vos ferai une abbaie tele
Qant iert li jors que la feste iert nomeie,
Se nus i vient qui ait s'amor fauseie,
Ja del mostier ne savera l'entreie.
E or en ai dol!

(U vaše ime sagradiću manastir
u koji, od dana osnivanja
neće moći onaj ko je voleo lažno
da uđe
O kakav podnosim bol!)

Bele Doette prist s'abaie a faire,
Qui moult est grande et adès sera maire :
Toz cels et celes vodra dedanz atraitre
Qui por amor sevent peine et mal traire.
E or en ai dol!
Por vos devenrai nonne a l'eglise saint Pol.

(Lepa Doeta je sagradila svoj manastir
Koji je porastao i još uvek raste
Pruža utočište za sve ljubavnike, mladiće i gospe
Koji zbog ljubavi upoznaše veliki bol i patnju
O kakav podnosim bol
Zbog tebe ću da postanem kaluđerica u crkvi Sen Pol.)

[Speculum Columbae]

Samo Metastazio i Filip Kino mogu trenutno da izraze moj gnev:

Dal cupo Baratro,
Venite o Furie,.
Qui le mie ingiurie.
A vendicar;.
Più non tardate, a voi s'aspetta.
Di far Vendetta.
Di chi persiste a m'oltraggiar

In braccio a mille furie
Sento che l'alma freme,
Sento che unite insieme
Colle passate ingiurie
Tormentano il mio cor.
Quella l'amor sprezzato
Dentro al pensier mi desta
E mi rammenta questa
L'invendicato onor

[Speculum Columbae]

U kojim prilikama sanjaju se mrtvi?
Misliš li često na njih pre nego što zaspiš?
Ko javlja ti se prvi?
Da l’ uvek jedan isti?
Ime? Prezime? Groblje? Datum smrti?

Na šta se pozivaju?
Na staro poznanstvo? Srodstvo? Otadžbinu?
Kažu li otkud idu?
I ko za njima stoji?
I ko ih još sem tebe istog časa sanja?

A lica - jesu l’ nalik na fotografije?
Ostareše li tokom godina?
Sveža? Ispijena?
Ubijeni, jesu li preboleli rane?
Sećaju li se sad još ko ih je ubio?

Šta drže u rukama - opiši predmete.
Gnjili? Ugljenisani? Zarđali? Truli?
Šta im je u očima - pretnja? Molba? Kakva?
Da l’ samo o vremenu zborite međ sobom?
Ptičicama? Cvetićima? Leptirićima?

Vislava Šimborska

[Dark Walker]

Zemlja je prirode majka, al', i njen grob;
Na istom mestu i ukop i plodni drob:
Iz utrobe zemlje porod svake građe
U nedrima njenim svoju hranu nađe:
Iako različna - sva joj deca vredna,
A, neka su, bogme, sjajna, izvanredna.
O, velika dobra krase kamen, travu,
Ako li im nađeš samo svrhu pravu:
Jer na zemlji nema tako loše stvari
Koja ovom svetu ništa ne podari;
Niti tako dobre da u lošoj svrsi
Sve prirodne konce svoje ne zamrsi.
I sama vrlina zna porok da bude,
Ako je u službi rđave pobude;
A porok se katkad izvuče iz blata,
Ako se kroz delo za vrlinu hvata.

(Romeo i Julija)

[justmsmyself]

Dear Human:
You've got it all wrong.

You didn't come here to master unconditional love. This is where you came from and where you'll return.

You came here to learn personal love.
Universal love.
Messy love.
Sweaty Love.
Crazy love.
Broken love.
Whole love.
Infused with divinity.
Lived through the grace of stumbling.
Demonstrated through the beauty of... messing up.
Often.

You didn't come here to be perfect, you already are.

You came here to be gorgeously human. Flawed and fabulous.

And rising again into remembering.

But unconditional love? Stop telling that story.

Love in truth doesn't need any adjectives.
It doesn't require modifiers.
It doesn't require the condition of perfection.

It only asks you to show up.
And do your best.
That you stay present and feel fully.
That you shine and fly and laugh and cry and hurt and heal and fall and get back up and play and work and live and die as YOU.

Its enough.

It's Plenty.

― Courtney A. Walsh

[bas bleu]

The Pipe

The next poem I write will have firewood
right in the middle of it, firewood so thick
with pitch my friend will leave behind
his gloves and tell me, "Wear these when you
handle that stuff." The next poem
will have night in it, too, and all the stars
in the western hemisphere; and an immense body
of water shining for miles under a new moon.
The next poem will have a bedroom
and living room for itself, skylights,
a sofa, a table and chairs by the window,
a vase of violets cut just an hour before lunch.
There'll be a lamp burning in the next poem;
and a fireplace where pitch-soaked
blocks of fir flame up, consuming one another.
Oh, the next poem will throw sparks!
But there won't be any cigarettes in that poem.
I'll take up smoking the pipe.

Raymond Carver

[belch]

This Be The Verse
BY PHILIP LARKIN


They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

[elizevin]

KAPIJE


Pamtiš li magle, u kojima su se rađale
Visoke nepoznate kapije ....

Kroz njihove odškrinute vratnice
Naslućivali smo boje Bosfora,
Odsjaj grčke vatre,
Strah od varvara,
Spori, uporni, zlatni pesak,
U peščanom satu Gospoda ...

Sećaš li se vetra
U lešnikovoj šumi?
Sećaš li se ljubičastog pauna?

U palati svi stubovi su bili crveni,
Na ostrvu usidrenom u mit;
I time smo omeđili zavičaj,
Kao narandžastom linijom svetla,
Kao da smo opisali jedan veliki krug
Da u njega zatvorimo knjige, muziku i breze,
Daleko od očiju varvara ...

Pamtiš li magle, u kojima su se rađale
Visoke, nepoznate kapije ....


Carigrad,
decembar 1990.

<3

[Galadriel]

D.H. Lawrence

Give us Gods


Give us gods, Oh give them us!
Give us gods.
We are so tired of men
and motor-power. -

But not gods grey-bearded and dictatorial,
nor yet that pale young man afraid of fatherhood
shelving substance on to the woman, Madonna mia! shabby virgin!
nor gusty Jove, with his eye on immortal tarts,
nor even the musical, suave young fellow
wooing boys and beauty.

Give us gods
give us something else -

Beyond the great bull that bellowed through space, and got his throat cut.
Beyond even that eagle, that phoenix, hanging over the gold egg of all things,
further still, before the curled horns of the ram stepped forth
or the stout swart beetle rolled the globe of dung in which man should hatch,
or even the sly gold serpent fatherly lifted his head off the earth to think -

Give us gods before these -
Thou shalt have other gods before these.

Where the waters end in marshes
swims the wild swan
sweeps the high goose above the mists
honking in the gloom the honk of procreation from such throats.

Mists
where the electron behaves and misbehaves as it will,
where the forces tie themselves up into knots of atoms
and come untied;

Mists
of mistiness complicated into knots and clots that barge about
and bump on one another and explode into more mist, or don't,
mist of energy most scientific -
But give us gods!

Look then
where the father of all things swims in a mist of atoms
electrons and energies, quantums and relativities
mists, wreathing mists,
like a wild swan, or a goose, whose honk goes through my bladder.

And in the dark unscientific I feel the drum-winds of his wings
and the drip of his cold, webbed feet, mud-black
brush over my face as he goes
to seek the women in the dark, our women, our weird women whom he treads
with dreams and thrusts that make them cry in their sleep.

Gods, do you ask for gods?
Where there is woman there is swan.

Do you think, scientific man, you'll be father of your own babies?
Don't imagine it.
There'll be babies born that are cygnets, O my soul!
young wild swans!
And babies of women will come out young wild geese, O my heart!
the geese that saved Rome, and will lose London.

[Speculum Columbae]

Scalam ad coelos subrectam tormentis cinctam,
Cuius ima draco servare
cautus invigilat iugiter

Cuius ascensus extracto
Aethiops gladio
vetam exitium minitans


Lestve što protežu se do neba, patnjama omeđane
Čije podnožje pažljiva zmija
gleda da čuva za sva vremena

Uz koje, uspinjanje
Etiopljanin s mačem
preteći smrću brani.