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  1. #16

    Odgovor: Poezija raspoloženja...

    by: Sylvia Plath

    You do not do, you do not do
    Any more, black shoe
    In which I have lived like a foot
    For thirty years, poor and white,
    Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

    Daddy, I have had to kill you.
    You died before I had time--
    Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
    Ghastly statue with one gray toe
    Big as a Frisco seal

    And a head in the freakish Atlantic
    Where it pours bean green over blue
    In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
    I used to pray to recover you.
    Ach, du.

    In the German tongue, in the Polish town
    Scraped flat by the roller
    Of wars, wars, wars.
    But the name of the town is common.
    My Polack friend

    Says there are a dozen or two.
    So I never could tell where you
    Put your foot, your root,
    I never could talk to you.
    The tongue stuck in my jaw.

    It stuck in a barb wire snare.
    Ich, ich, ich, ich,
    I could hardly speak.
    I thought every German was you.
    And the language obscene

    An engine, an engine
    Chuffing me off like a Jew.
    A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
    I began to talk like a Jew.
    I think I may well be a Jew.

    The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
    Are not very pure or true.
    With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
    And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
    I may be a bit of a Jew.

    I have always been scared of you,
    With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
    And your neat mustache
    And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
    Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

    Not God but a swastika
    So black no sky could squeak through.
    Every woman adores a Fascist,
    The boot in the face, the brute
    Brute heart of a brute like you.

    You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
    In the picture I have of you,
    A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
    But no less a devil for that, no not
    Any less the black man who

    Bit my pretty red heart in two.
    I was ten when they buried you.
    At twenty I tried to die
    And get back, back, back to you.
    I thought even the bones would do.

    But they pulled me out of the sack,
    And they stuck me together with glue.
    And then I knew what to do.
    I made a model of you,
    A man in black with a Meinkampf look

    And a love of the rack and the screw.
    And I said I do, I do.
    So daddy, I'm finally through.
    The black telephone's off at the root,
    The voices just can't worm through.

    If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
    The vampire who said he was you
    And drank my blood for a year,
    Seven years, if you want to know.
    Daddy, you can lie back now.

    There's a stake in your fat black heart
    And the villagers never liked you.
    They are dancing and stamping on you.
    They always knew it was you.
    Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

    From "Ariel", 1966
    За землю родную не на жизнь а на смерть
    Воевал с врагами Володимир князь
    Многая лета
    Многая лета
    Многая лета
    Русской земле

  2. #17

    Odgovor: Poklonite pesmu...

    A Red, Red Rose

    My luve is like a red, red rose,
    That's newly sprung in June:
    My luve is like the melodie,
    Thet's sweetly play'd in tune.

    As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
    So deep in luve am I,
    And I will luve thee still, my Dear,
    Till a' the seas gang dry.

    Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,
    And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
    And I will luve thee still, my Dear,
    While the sands o' life shall run.

    And fare-thee-weel, my only luve!
    And fare-thee-weel, a while!
    And I will come again, my luve,
    Tho' it were ten-thousand mile.

    Robert Burns
    When life hands you lemons, ask for tequila and salt

  3. #18

    Odgovor: Poklonite pesmu...


    If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
    If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
    But make allowance for their doubting too,
    If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
    Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
    Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
    And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
    If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
    If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
    If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
    And treat those two impostors just the same;
    If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
    Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
    And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
    If you can make one heap of all your winnings
    And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
    And lose, and start again at your beginnings
    And never breath a word about your loss;
    If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
    To serve your turn long after they are gone,
    And so hold on when there is nothing in you
    Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
    If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
    Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
    If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
    If all men count with you, but none too much,
    If you can fill the unforgiving minute
    With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
    Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
    And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
    --Rudyard Kipling

    Covek je sinteza beskonacnosti i konacnosti,prolaznog i vecnog, slobode i nuznosti, kratko: sinteza.

  4. #19

    Odgovor: Rabindranat Tagore

    In desperate hope I go and search for her
    in all the corners of my room;
    I find her not.

    My house is small
    and what once has gone from it can never be regained.

    But infinite is thy mansion, my lord,
    and seeking her I have to come to thy door.

    I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky
    and I lift my eager eyes to thy face.

    I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish
    ---no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears.

    Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean,
    plunge it into the deepest fullness.
    Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch
    in the allness of the universe.

    Rabindranath Tagore - Brink Of Eternity
    nije dotakla ništa što bi moglo da boli
    njene ruke su bele kao led
    njene misli su čiste, ona misli da voli,ona veruje, veruje

  5. #20

    Odgovor: Poklonite pesmu...


    by: Rabindranath Tagore

    I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times...
    In life after life, in age after age, forever.
    My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,
    That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,
    In life after life, in age after age, forever.
    Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it's age old pain,
    It's ancient tale of being apart or together.
    As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,
    Clad in the light of a pole-star, piercing the darkness of time.
    You become an image of what is remembered forever.
    You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.
    At the heart of time, love of one for another.
    We have played along side millions of lovers,
    Shared in the same shy sweetness of meeting,
    the distressful tears of farewell,
    Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

  6. #21

    Odgovor: Poklonite pesmu...

    Edgar Allan Poe - Raven

    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
    As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
    `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
    Only this, and nothing more.'

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
    Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
    Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
    Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
    This it is, and nothing more,'

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
    `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
    That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
    Darkness there, and nothing more.

    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 darkness 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.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
    Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
    Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
    Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
    'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
    In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
    Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
    Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

    Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
    By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
    `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
    Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
    Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
    Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
    Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
    With such name as `Nevermore.'

    But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
    That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
    Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
    On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
    Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
    `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
    Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
    Of "Never-nevermore."'

    But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
    Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
    What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
    Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
    To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
    But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
    She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
    Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
    Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
    Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
    Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
    On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
    Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
    By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
    `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
    Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
    Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

    And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
    And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
    Shall be lifted - nevermore!
    Krek, krek.. Ne gudra

  7. #22

    Odgovor: Poklonite pesmu...

    Song of Childhood
    By Peter Handke

    When the child was a child
    It walked with its arms swinging,
    wanted the brook to be a river,
    the river to be a torrent,
    and this puddle to be the sea.
    When the child was a child,
    it didnt know that it was a child,
    everything was soulful,
    and all souls were one.
    When the child was a child,
    it had no opinion about anything,
    had no habits,
    it often sat cross-legged,
    took off running,
    had a cowlick in its hair,
    and made no faces when photographed.
    When the child was a child,
    It was the time for these questions:
    Why am I me, and why not you?
    Why am I here, and why not there?
    When did time begin, and where does space end?
    Is life under the sun not just a dream?
    Is what I see and hear and smell
    not just an illusion of a world before the world?
    Given the facts of evil and people.
    does evil really exist?
    How can it be that I, who I am,
    didnt exist before I came to be,
    and that, someday, I, who I am,
    will no longer be who I am?
    When the child was a child,
    It choked on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding,
    and on steamed cauliflower,
    and eats all of those now, and not just because it has to.
    When the child was a child,
    it awoke once in a strange bed,
    and now does so again and again.
    Many people, then, seemed beautiful,
    and now only a few do, by sheer luck.
    It had visualized a clear image of Paradise,
    and now can at most guess,
    could not conceive of nothingness,
    and shudders today at the thought.
    When the child was a child,
    It played with enthusiasm,
    and, now, has just as much excitement as then,
    but only when it concerns its work.
    When the child was a child,
    It was enough for it to eat an apple, bread,
    And so it is even now.
    When the child was a child,
    Berries filled its hand as only berries do,
    and do even now,
    Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw,
    and do even now,
    it had, on every mountaintop,
    the longing for a higher mountain yet,
    and in every city,
    the longing for an even greater city,
    and that is still so,
    It reached for cherries in topmost branches of trees
    with an elation it still has today,
    has a shyness in front of strangers,
    and has that even now.
    It awaited the first snow,
    And waits that way even now.
    When the child was a child,
    It threw a stick like a lance against a tree,
    And it quivers there still today.
    nije dotakla ništa što bi moglo da boli
    njene ruke su bele kao led
    njene misli su čiste, ona misli da voli,ona veruje, veruje

  8. #23

    Odgovor: William Blake

    Auguries of Innocence

    "To see a world in a grain of sand,
    And a heaven in a wild flower,
    Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
    And eternity in an hour."

    Nadam se da ne smeta što su stihovi na engleskom... Mnogo se gubi u prevodu
    nije dotakla ništa što bi moglo da boli
    njene ruke su bele kao led
    njene misli su čiste, ona misli da voli,ona veruje, veruje

  9. #24

    Odgovor: William Shakespeare

    Sonnet CXLVII

    My love is like a fever, longing still
    For that which loner nurseth the disease;
    Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
    The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
    My reason, the physician to my love,
    Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
    Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
    Desire is death, which physic did except.
    Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
    And frantic mad with evermore unrest;
    My thoughts and my discourse as mad men’s are,
    At random from the truth vainly express’d;
    For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
    Who are as black as hell, as dark as night.

    William Shakespeare
    Poruku je izmenio Cecara, 19.02.2009 u 19:33 Razlog: autor
    Isn't it funny how day by day, nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different?
    C. S. Lewis

  10. #25

    Odgovor: Poklonite pesmu...


    The curly hair fell dead on the stairway,
    Towards the skies of his piece of mind,
    Feeling at ease, entrance

    Light and heaven lying,
    Almost, in this lukewarm bath.

    Body and the encrusted smile.
    Trace of blood
    On the one nostril,

    Pointing at the ceiling.
    Eyes closed, arms, hands

    Did he fall back,
    All the way to the bottom
    Of the stairs of glass,

    Only looking, not touching?
    Back to where he came from,
    Back to square one?

    Rocks broke rocks.
    Sand put sand to dust.

    Jim Morrison
    nije dotakla ništa što bi moglo da boli
    njene ruke su bele kao led
    njene misli su čiste, ona misli da voli,ona veruje, veruje

  11. #26

    Odgovor: Poklonite pesmu...

    Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
    Enwrought with golden and silver light,
    The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
    Of night and light and the half light,
    I would spread the cloths under your feet:
    But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
    I have spread my dreams under your feet;
    Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

    W.B. Yeats, Aedh wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
    nije dotakla ništa što bi moglo da boli
    njene ruke su bele kao led
    njene misli su čiste, ona misli da voli,ona veruje, veruje

  12. #27

    Odgovor: Poklonite pesmu...

    Oriah Mountain Dreamer - The Invitation

    It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
    It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
    It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
    I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
    I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.
    It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
    I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.
    I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.'
    It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
    It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
    It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
    I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

  13. #28

    Odgovor: William Shakespeare

    Moj omiljeni sonet Viljema Sekspira:

    When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
    I summon up remembrances of things past,
    I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought
    And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste.

    Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
    For precious friends, lost in Death's dateless night,
    And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe,
    And moan the expense of many a vanished sight.

    Then can I grieve for grievances foregone,
    And heavily, from woe to woe tell o'er
    The sad account of forbemoaned moan
    Which I new pay, as if not paid before.

    But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
    All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

    A omiljeni citat iz njegovih drama je definitivno:

    Prospero: We are such stuff
    As dreams are made on,
    And our little life is rounded
    With a sleep.
    (The Tempest)

    [Zapravo, obozavam sve sto je Sekspir ikada napisao. Po meni, on je najveci pesnik i dramski pisac svih vremena.]
    Poruku je izmenio Cecara, 19.02.2009 u 19:32

  14. #29

    Odgovor: Poklonite pesmu...

    Jedna od... tisuću

    Citat SQUAW kaže: Pogledaj poruku
    Dream Land

    Where sunless rivers weep
    Their waves into the deep,
    She sleeps a charmed sleep:
    Awake her not.
    Led by a single star,
    She came from very far
    To seek where shadows are
    Her pleasant lot.

    She left the rosy morn,
    She left the fields of corn,
    For twilight cold and lorn
    And water springs.
    Through sleep, as through a veil,
    She sees the sky look pale,
    And hears the nightingale
    That sadly sings.

    Rest, rest, a perfect rest
    Shed over brow and breast;
    Her face is toward the west,
    The purple land.
    She cannot see the grain
    Ripening on hill and plain;
    She cannot feel the rain
    Upon her hand.

    Rest, rest, for evermore
    Upon a mossy shore;
    Rest, rest at the heart's core
    Till time shall cease:
    Sleep that no pain shall wake;
    Night that no morn shall break
    Till joy shall overtake
    Her perfect peace.

    Christina Rossetti



    ... I went to the Garden of Love,
    And saw what I never had seen;
    A Chapel was built in the midst,
    Where I used to play on the green.

    And the gates of this Chapel were shut
    And "Thou shalt not," writ over the door;
    So I turned to the Garden of Love
    That so many sweet flowers bore.

    And I saw it was filled with graves,
    And tombstones where flowers should be;
    And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
    And binding with briars my joys and desires.


    "The Garden of Love"
    William Blake


  15. #30

    Poezija na stranim jezicima


    Devil Incarante,You stand before me -
    And I call You 'Angel'.
    Tear my heart out and crush it
    And I would still say that I Love You Only.
    You control my Soul so completely
    I didn't even know that I fell
    And altho I know I'm just a puppet
    To You; I Love You Only.
    And I don't care if You're Laffing,
    I just wanted You to know
    That I'd kill my own mother -
    But Only for You.
    And if You really do care nothing
    At all; I just wanted You to know,
    That I Love You like no other
    Can do; Only You.
    And my own life means nothing,
    I don't have any joy,
    I'll neva eva know any peace at all
    If I can't have You.
    And I swear "My blood in place of Yours,Darling"
    You only need to ask,Boy,
    And I'll watch ova You for evamore -
    Loving Only You.

    nepoznat autor
    Poruku je izmenio Cecara, 24.04.2009 u 21:54 Razlog: autor


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    Autor HLEBmaster u forumu Spomenar
    Odgovora: 3
    Poslednja poruka: 26.11.2006, 22:32

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