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  1. #31

    Poezija na stranim jezicima

    * * *
    Я вас любил: любовь еще, быть может,
    В душе моей угасла не совсем;
    Но пусть она вас больше не тревожит;
    Я не хочу печалить вас ничем.
    Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно,
    То робостью, то ревностью томим;
    Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно,
    Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим.


    А.С. Пушкин
    Poruku je izmenio Bazarov, 08.12.2008 u 23:14
    "All I got is a red guitar, three chords, and the truth."

  2. #32

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    I Am Vertical

    But I would rather be horizontal.
    I am not a tree with my root in the soil
    Sucking up minerals and motherly love
    So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
    Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
    Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
    Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
    Compared with me, a tree is immortal
    And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
    And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

    Tonight, in the infinitesimallight of the stars,
    The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
    I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
    Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
    I must most perfectly resemble them--
    Thoughts gone dim.
    It is more natural to me, lying down.
    Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
    And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
    Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

    Silvia Plat
    Vrag odneo šnalu...

  3. #33

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    Pour toi mon amour

    Je suis all au march aux oiseaux
    Et j'ai achet des oiseaux
    Pour toi
    Mon amour

    Je suis all au march aux fleurs
    Et j'ai achet des fleurs
    Pour toi
    Mon amour

    Je suis all au march la ferraille
    Et j'ai achet des chanes
    De lourdes chanes
    Pour toi
    Mon amour

    Et puis je suis all au march aux esclaves
    Et je t'ai cherche
    Mais je ne t'ai pas trouve
    Mon amour.

    Jacques Prevert


  4. #34

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    Поет зима - аукает,
    Мохнатый лес баюкает
    Стозвоном сосняка.
    Кругом с тоской глубокою
    Плывут в страну далекую
    Седые облака.

    А по двору метелица
    Ковром шелковым стелется,
    Но больно холодна.
    Воробышки игривые,
    Как детки сиротливые,
    Прижались у окна.

    Озябли пташки малые,
    Голодные, усталые,
    И жмутся поплотней.
    А вьюга с ревом бешеным
    Стучит по ставням свешенным
    И злится все сильней.

    И дремлют пташки нежные
    Под эти вихри снежные
    У мерзлого окна.
    И снится им прекрасная,
    В улыбках солнца ясная
    Красавица весна.

    Život nije, i nikada nije bio, pobeda sa 2:0 kod kuce protiv lidera lige, posle rucka u restoranu brze hrane.

  5. #35

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima


    By a route obscure and lonely,
    Haunted by ill angels only,
    Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
    On a black throne reigns upright,
    I have reached these lands but newly
    From an ultimate dim Thule-
    From a wild clime that lieth, sublime,
    Out of SPACE- out of TIME.

    Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
    And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
    With forms that no man can discover
    For the tears that drip all over;
    Mountains toppling evermore
    Into seas without a shore;
    Seas that restlessly aspire,
    Surging, unto skies of fire;
    Lakes that endlessly outspread
    Their lone waters- lone and dead,-
    Their still waters- still and chilly
    With the snows of the lolling lily.

    By the lakes that thus outspread
    Their lone waters, lone and dead,-
    Their sad waters, sad and chilly
    With the snows of the lolling lily,-
    By the mountains- near the river
    Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,-
    By the grey woods,- by the swamp
    Where the toad and the newt encamp-
    By the dismal tarns and pools
    Where dwell the Ghouls,-
    By each spot the most unholy-
    In each nook most melancholy-
    There the traveller meets aghast
    Sheeted Memories of the Past-
    Shrouded forms that start and sigh
    As they pass the wanderer by-
    White-robed forms of friends long given,
    In agony, to the Earth- and Heaven.

    For the heart whose woes are legion
    'Tis a peaceful, soothing region-
    For the spirit that walks in shadow
    'Tis- oh, 'tis an Eldorado!
    But the traveller, travelling through it,
    May not- dare not openly view it!
    Never its mysteries are exposed
    To the weak human eye unclosed;
    So wills its King, who hath forbid
    The uplifting of the fringed lid;
    And thus the sad Soul that here passes
    Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

    By a route obscure and lonely,
    Haunted by ill angels only,
    Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
    On a black throne reigns upright,
    I have wandered home but newly
    From this ultimate dim Thule.

    Edgar Allan Poe
    Боље је наставити да пијеш, него престати кад не треба.

  6. #36

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    The Lady of Shalott

    On either side the river lie
    Long fields of barley and of rye,
    That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
    And through the field the road run by
    To many-tower'd Camelot;
    And up and down the people go,
    Gazing where the lilies blow
    Round an island there below,
    The island of Shalott.

    Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
    Little breezes dusk and shiver
    Through the wave that runs for ever
    By the island in the river
    Flowing down to Camelot.
    Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
    Overlook a space of flowers,
    And the silent isle imbowers
    The Lady of Shalott.

    By the margin, willow veil'd,
    Slide the heavy barges trail'd
    By slow horses; and unhail'd
    The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
    Skimming down to Camelot:
    But who hath seen her wave her hand?
    Or at the casement seen her stand?
    Or is she known in all the land,
    The Lady of Shalott?

    Only reapers, reaping early,
    In among the bearded barley
    Hear a song that echoes cheerly
    From the river winding clearly;
    Down to tower'd Camelot;
    And by the moon the reaper weary,
    Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
    Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
    The Lady of Shalott."

    There she weaves by night and day
    A magic web with colours gay.
    She has heard a whisper say,
    A curse is on her if she stay
    To look down to Camelot.
    She knows not what the curse may be,
    And so she weaveth steadily,
    And little other care hath she,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    And moving through a mirror clear
    That hangs before her all the year,
    Shadows of the world appear.
    There she sees the highway near
    Winding down to Camelot;
    There the river eddy whirls,
    And there the surly village churls,
    And the red cloaks of market girls
    Pass onward from Shalott.

    Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
    An abbot on an ambling pad,
    Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
    Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
    Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
    And sometimes through the mirror blue
    The knights come riding two and two.
    She hath no loyal Knight and true,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    But in her web she still delights
    To weave the mirror's magic sights,
    For often through the silent nights
    A funeral, with plumes and lights
    And music, went to Camelot;
    Or when the Moon was overhead,
    Came two young lovers lately wed.
    "I am half sick of shadows," said
    The Lady of Shalott.

    A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
    He rode between the barley sheaves,
    The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
    And flamed upon the brazen greaves
    Of bold Sir Lancelot.
    A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
    To a lady in his shield,
    That sparkled on the yellow field,
    Beside remote Shalott.

    The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
    Like to some branch of stars we see
    Hung in the golden Galaxy.
    The bridle bells rang merrily
    As he rode down to Camelot:
    And from his blazon'd baldric slung
    A mighty silver bugle hung,
    And as he rode his armor rung
    Beside remote Shalott.

    All in the blue unclouded weather
    Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
    The helmet and the helmet-feather
    Burn'd like one burning flame together,
    As he rode down to Camelot.
    As often thro' the purple night,
    Below the starry clusters bright,
    Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
    Moves over still Shalott.

    His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
    On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
    From underneath his helmet flow'd
    His coal-black curls as on he rode,
    As he rode down to Camelot.
    From the bank and from the river
    He flashed into the crystal mirror,
    "Tirra lirra," by the river
    Sang Sir Lancelot.

    She left the web, she left the loom,
    She made three paces through the room,
    She saw the water-lily bloom,
    She saw the helmet and the plume,
    She look'd down to Camelot.
    Out flew the web and floated wide;
    The mirror crack'd from side to side;
    "The curse is come upon me," cried
    The Lady of Shalott.

    In the stormy east-wind straining,
    The pale yellow woods were waning,
    The broad stream in his banks complaining.
    Heavily the low sky raining
    Over tower'd Camelot;
    Down she came and found a boat
    Beneath a willow left afloat,
    And around about the prow she wrote
    The Lady of Shalott.

    And down the river's dim expanse
    Like some bold seer in a trance,
    Seeing all his own mischance --
    With a glassy countenance
    Did she look to Camelot.
    And at the closing of the day
    She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
    The broad stream bore her far away,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    Lying, robed in snowy white
    That loosely flew to left and right --
    The leaves upon her falling light --
    Thro' the noises of the night,
    She floated down to Camelot:
    And as the boat-head wound along
    The willowy hills and fields among,
    They heard her singing her last song,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
    Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
    Till her blood was frozen slowly,
    And her eyes were darkened wholly,
    Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
    For ere she reach'd upon the tide
    The first house by the water-side,
    Singing in her song she died,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    Under tower and balcony,
    By garden-wall and gallery,
    A gleaming shape she floated by,
    Dead-pale between the houses high,
    Silent into Camelot.
    Out upon the wharfs they came,
    Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
    And around the prow they read her name,
    The Lady of Shalott.

    Who is this? And what is here?
    And in the lighted palace near
    Died the sound of royal cheer;
    And they crossed themselves for fear,
    All the Knights at Camelot;
    But Lancelot mused a little space
    He said, "She has a lovely face;
    God in his mercy lend her grace,
    The Lady of Shalott."

    Lord Alfred Tennyson
    Gaa wiin daa-aangoshkigaazo ahaw enaabiyaan gaa-inaabid

  7. #37

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    The crystal ship

    Before you slip into unconsciousness
    I'd like to have another kiss
    Another flashing chance at bliss
    Another kiss, another kiss

    The days are bright and filled with pain
    Enclose me in your gentle rain
    The time you ran was too insane
    We'll meet again, we'll meet again

    Oh tell me where your freedom lies
    The streets are fields that never die
    Deliver me from reasons why
    You'd rather cry, I'd rather fly

    The crystal ship is being filled
    A thousand girls, a thousand thrills
    A million ways to spend your time
    When we get back, I'll drop a line

    Jim Morrison
    Gaa wiin daa-aangoshkigaazo ahaw enaabiyaan gaa-inaabid

  8. #38
    The Tyger

    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
    In the forests of the night
    What immortal hand or eye
    Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

    In what distant deeps or skies
    Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
    On what wings dare he aspire?
    What the hand dare seize the fire?

    And What shoulder, and what art,
    Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
    And when thy heart began to beat,
    What dread hand? and what dread feet?

    What the hammer? what the chain?
    In what furnace was thy brain?
    What the anvil? what dread grasp
    Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

    When the stars threw down their spears,
    And watered heaven with their tears,
    Did he smile his work to see?
    Did he who made the lamb make thee?

    Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
    In the forests of the night,
    What immortal hand or eye
    Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

    I tigrov par, naravno:

    The Lamb

    Little Lamb, who made thee?
    Dost thou know who made thee?
    Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
    By the stream and o'er the mead;
    Gave thee clothing of delight,
    Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
    Gave thee such a tender voice,
    Making all the vales rejoice?
    Little Lamb, who made thee?
    Dost thou know who made thee?

    Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,
    Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.
    He is called by thy name,
    For He calls Himself a Lamb.
    He is meek, and He is mild;
    He became a little child.
    I a child, and thou a lamb,
    We are called by His name.
    Little Lamb, God bless thee!
    Little Lamb, God bless thee!

    William Blake
    Poruku je izmenio Cecara, 26.07.2010 u 16:02
    Isn't it funny how day by day, nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different?
    C. S. Lewis

  9. #39

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima


    By Anya Marie McDonald

    Looking out at the road as I travel
    down this lonely highway.

    I hear the sounds of my eighteen
    wheels as they roll this rig to wards
    the horizon.

    My mind Thinks about the loves
    in my life and how they have come
    and gone.

    About the broken promises to them
    and to myself and the hurt I caused.

    Still I keep searching for that special
    someone who will not mind the long
    waits for my return.

    As I go from city to city, state to state
    delivering my cargo of goods.

    I still seek a love that will love me even
    more when they see me again.

    I know this life I have chosen and love
    is not an easy one, nor is it the glamorous
    life I had dreamed of when I was a little girl.

    But, it is the life I now live and each day
    is like a new birth to me.

    Filled with adventure and mystery, that I
    could not experience working any other job.

    And, I know that when I do find her that
    special woman who will understand.

    She will know why I must head the call of
    the road.

    I will be in heaven and my life will be complete.

    Copyright (c)2005 Anya Marie McDonald
    За землю родную не на жизнь а на смерть
    Воевал с врагами Володимир князь
    Многая лета
    Многая лета
    Многая лета
    Русской земле

  10. #40

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    The Letters

    You never liked to get
    The letters that I sent.
    But now you've got the gist
    Of what my letters meant.
    You're reading them again,
    The ones you didn't burn.
    You press them to your lips,
    My pages of concern.
    I said there'd been a flood.
    I said there's nothing left.
    I hoped that you would come.
    I gave you my address.
    Your story was so long,
    The plot was so intense,
    It took you years to cross
    The lines of self-defense.
    The wounded forms appear:
    The loss, the full extent;
    And simple kindness here,
    The solitude of strength.
    You walk into my room.
    You stand there at my desk,
    Begin your letter to
    The one who's coming next.

    Leonard Cohen

  11. #41

    02 Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima


    I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
    It is what you fear.
    I do not fear it: I have been there.

    Is it the sea you hear in me,
    Its dissatisfactions?
    Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?

    Love is a shadow.
    How you lie and cry after it
    Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

    All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
    Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
    Echoing, echoing.

    Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
    This is rain now, this big hush.
    And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.

    I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
    Scorched to the root
    My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.

    Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
    A wind of such violence
    Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

    The moon, also, she is merciless: she would drag me
    Cruelly, being barren.
    Her radience scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

    I let her go. I let her go
    Dimished and flat, as after radical surgery.
    How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

    I am inhabited by a cry.
    Nightly it flaps out
    Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

    I am terrified by this dark thing
    That sleeps in me;
    All day I feel its soft, feathery turning,
    its malignity.

    Clouds pass and disperse.
    Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
    Is it for such I agitate my heart?

    I am incapable of more knowledge.
    What is this, this face
    So murderous in its strangle of branches?-

    Its snaky acids kiss.
    Its petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
    That kill, that kill, that kill.

    Sylvia Plath
    Gaa wiin daa-aangoshkigaazo ahaw enaabiyaan gaa-inaabid

  12. #42

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    Eternal Three

    There are two men in the world, who
    Are crossing my path I see,
    And one is the man I love,
    The other's in love with me.

    And one exists in the nightly dreams
    Of my somber soul evermore,
    The other stands at the door of my heart
    But I will not open the door.

    And one once gave me a vernal breath
    Of happiness squandered-alack!
    The other gave me his whole, long life
    And never got an hour back.

    And one lives hot in the song of my blood
    Where love is pure, unbound-
    The other is one with the humdrum day
    Where all our dreams are drowned.

    Between these two every woman stands,
    In love, beloved, and white-
    And once every hundered years it happens
    That both in one unite.

    Tove Ditlevsen

  13. #43

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    Ah,signor,son rea di morte
    E la morte io sol vi chiedo;
    Il mio fallo tardi vedo;
    Con quel ferro un sen ferite
    Che non merita pieta.


  14. #44

    02 Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    Sonnet 18

    Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
    Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
    Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
    And summer's lease hath all too short a date;
    Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
    And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
    And every fair from fair sometime declines,
    By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
    But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
    Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
    Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
    When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
    So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

    William Shakespeare
    Gaa wiin daa-aangoshkigaazo ahaw enaabiyaan gaa-inaabid

  15. #45

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    Annabel Lee

    It was many and many a year ago,
    In a kingdom by the sea,
    That a maiden there lived whom you may know
    By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
    And this maiden she lived with no other thought
    Than to love and be loved by me.

    I was a child and she was a child,
    In this kingdom by the sea;
    But we loved with a love that was more than love-
    I and my Annabel Lee;
    With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
    Coveted her and me.

    And this was the reason that, long ago,
    In this kingdom by the sea,
    A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
    My beautiful Annabel Lee;
    So that her highborn kinsman came
    And bore her away from me,
    To shut her up in a sepulchre
    In this kingdom by the sea.

    The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
    Went envying her and me-
    Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
    In this kingdom by the sea)
    That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
    Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

    But our love it was stronger by far than the love
    Of those who were older than we-
    Of many far wiser than we-
    And neither the angels in heaven above,
    Nor the demons down under the sea,
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

    For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
    Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
    In the sepulchre there by the sea,
    In her tomb by the sounding sea.

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

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