Poezija na stranim jezicima - Strana 7
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  1. #91

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    When We Two Parted

    When we two parted
    In silence and tears,
    Half broken-hearted
    To sever for years,
    Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
    Colder thy kiss;
    Truly that hour foretold
    Sorrow to this.

    The dew of the morning
    Sunk chill on my brow—
    It felt like the warning
    Of what I feel now.
    Thy vows are all broken,
    And light is thy fame:
    I hear thy name spoken,
    And share in its shame.

    They name thee before me,
    A knell to mine ear;
    A shudder comes o’er me—
    Why wert thou so dear?
    They know not I knew thee,
    Who knew thee too well:
    Long, long shall I rue thee,
    Too deeply to tell.

    In secret we met—
    In silence I grieve,
    That thy heart could forget,
    Thy spirit deceive.
    If I should meet thee
    After long years,
    How should I greet thee?
    With silence and tears.

    George Gordon Byron
    one of my favourite poems...

    Isn't it funny how day by day, nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different?
    C. S. Lewis

  2. #92

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
    out again
    I write from the bed
    as I did last
    will see the doctor,
    "yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
    aches and my back
    "are you drinking?" he will ask.
    "are you getting your
    exercise, your
    I think that I am just ill
    with life, the same stale yet
    even at the track
    I watch the horses run by
    and it seems
    I leave early after buying tickets on the
    remaining races.
    "taking off?" asks the motel
    "yes, it's boring,"
    I tell him.
    "If you think it's boring
    out there," he tells me, "you oughta be
    back here."
    so here I am
    propped up against my pillows
    just an old guy
    just an old writer
    with a yellow
    something is
    walking across the
    oh, it's just
    my cat

    Charles Bukowski, Are You Drinking?
    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

  3. #93

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    On Time

    Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
    Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
    Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets' pace;
    And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
    Which is no more than what is false and vain,
    And merely mortal dross;
    So little is our loss,
    So little is thy gain.
    For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
    And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd,
    Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
    With an individual kiss;
    And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
    When every thing that is sincerely good
    And perfectly divine,
    With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
    About the supreme Throne
    Of Him, t'whose happy-making sight alone,
    When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb,
    Then all this earthly grossness quit,
    Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit,
    Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.

    John Milton
    Gaa wiin daa-aangoshkigaazo ahaw enaabiyaan gaa-inaabid

  4. #94

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    The story of man
    Makes me sick
    Inside, outside,
    I don't know why
    Something so conditional
    And all talk
    Should hurt me so.

    I am hurt
    I am scared
    I want to live
    I want to die
    I don't know
    Where to turn
    In the Void
    And when
    To cut

    For no Church told me
    No Guru holds me
    No advice
    Just stone
    Of New York
    And on the cafeteria
    We hear
    The saxophone
    O dead Ruby
    Died of Shot
    In Thirty Two,
    Sounding like old times
    And de bombed
    Empty decapitated
    Murder by the clock.

    And I see Shadows
    Dancing into Doom
    In love, holding
    TIght the lovely asses
    Of the little girls
    In love with sex
    Showing themselves
    In white undergarments
    At elevated windows
    Hoping for the Worst.

    I can't take it
    If I can't hold
    My little behind
    To me in my room

    Then it's goodbye
    For me
    Girls aren't as good
    As they look
    And Samadhi
    Is better
    Than you think
    When it starts in
    Hitting your head
    In with Buzz
    Of glittergold
    Heaven's Angels


    We've been waiting for you
    Since Morning, Jack
    Why were you so long
    Dallying in the sooty room?
    This transcendental Brilliance
    Is the better part
    (of Nothingness
    I sing)


    Jack Kerouac, Bowery Blues
    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. #95

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    Lord Tennyson

    It little profits that an idle king,
    By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
    Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
    Unequal laws unto a savage race,
    That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
    I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
    life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed
    Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
    that loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
    Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
    Vexed the dim sea. I am become a name;
    For always roaming with a hungry heart
    Much have I seen and known---cities of men
    And manners, climates, councils, governments,
    Myself not least, but honored of them all---
    And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
    Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
    I am part of all that I have met;
    Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
    Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades
    Forever and forever when I move.
    How dull it is to pause, to make an end.
    To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!

    As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
    Were all too little, and of one to me
    Little remains; but every hour is saved
    From that eternal silence, something more,
    A bringer of new things; and vile it were
    For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
    And this gray spirit yearning in desire
    To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
    Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.


    There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
    There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
    Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me---
    That ever with a frolic welcome took
    The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
    Free hearts, free foreheads---you and I are old;
    Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
    Death closes all; but something ere the end,
    Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
    Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
    The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
    The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
    Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
    'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

    Push off, and sitting well in order smite
    the sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
    To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
    Of all the western stars, until I die.
    It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
    It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles,
    And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
    Though much is taken, much abides; and though
    We are not now that strength which in old days
    Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are---
    One equal temper of heroic hearts,
    Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
    To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
    Tiger Facts:
    1. Tigrovi su macke koje obozavaju kupanje.
    2. Tigrove pruge su jedinstvene kao otisci prstiju.

  6. #96

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    Ive Got everything I need

    Not even Shangrila is more beautiful
    Than being in Winehouse Street.

    So why should I keep hiding all my desires?
    With this jug of wine and this beautiful place, Ive got everything I need.

    I belong here in His house and in the fields of my native land
    Where I get pleasure from looking at lovely faces and enchanting eyes.

    Are you listening? Is there no one else this mad?
    My words, though they may sound sweet, are really useless and vain.

    Be respectful when you talk of the Masters abode,
    For not even a Brahmin or a dervish knows of these things.

    O Beloved, there is no room left in my heart
    For anything but You!

    Please show pity on poor Hafiz. He is wounded and in pain.
    Even if he seems happy today, he is waiting for sunlight, and all it ever
    Seems to do is rain.

    Hafiz, Drunk on the Wine of the Beloved

  7. #97

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    Love's secret

    Never seek to tell thy love,
    Love that never told can be;
    For the gentle wind doth move
    Silently, invisibly.

    I told my love, I told my love,
    I told her all my heart,
    Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.
    Ah! she did depart!

    Soon after she was gone from me,
    A traveller came by,
    Silently, invisibly:
    He took her with a sigh.

    William Blake
    Isn't it funny how day by day, nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different?
    C. S. Lewis

  8. #98

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima


    Ты жива еще, моя старушка?
    Жив и я. Привет тебе, привет!
    Пусть струится над твоей избушкой
    Тот вечерний несказанный свет.

    Пишут мне, что ты, тая тревогу,
    Загрустила шибко обо мне,
    Что ты часто xодишь на дорогу
    В старомодном ветxом шушуне.

    И тебе в вечернем синем мраке
    Часто видится одно и то ж:
    Будто кто-то мне в кабацкой драке
    Саданул под сердце финский нож.

    Ничего, родная! Успокойся.
    Это только тягостная бредь.
    Не такой уж горький я пропойца,
    Чтоб, тебя не видя, умереть.

    я по-прежнему такой же нежный
    И мечтаю только лишь о том,
    Чтоб скорее от тоски мятежной
    Воротиться в низенький наш дом.

    я вернусь, когда раскинет ветви
    По-весеннему наш белый сад.
    Только ты меня уж на рассвете
    Не буди, как восемь лет назад.

    Не буди того, что отмечалось,
    Не волнуй того, что не сбылось,-
    Слишком раннюю утрату и усталость
    Испытать мне в жизни привелось.

    И молиться не учи меня. Не надо!
    К старому возврата больше нет.
    Ты одна мне помощь и отрада,
    Ты одна мне несказанный свет.

    Так забудь же про свою тревогу,
    Не грусти так шибко обо мне.
    Не xоди так часто на дорогу
    В старомодном ветxом шушуне.

    Сергей Есенин

    (Uz svo postovanje srpskog jezika, Jesenjina mogu da citam samo u originalu)
    Budi pametan i pravi se lud

  9. #99

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    Kocho Racin -

    Ta ne znaesh li?

    Denot li dojde toj da se meri -
    merka mu nema, a v gradite dlabi
    bez da se zapre, bez dno da najde
    ne taga a kletva, i v ochi matni
    i ne sakajc'i sama da se diga

    Kantarot nosi lisjeto zlatno
    a v gradi luto dalgite besnat
    na zholtata maka - na zholtiot tutun
    na zholtata pot na racete ni!

    Aco Shopov


    Tri dena na race te nosevme zbrana,
    so taga i bolka na pogledot srcen,
    i sekoja kapka na tvojata rana
    ko krvava zar ni kapese v srce.

    Drugarite bea i morni i gladni
    so zgoreni grla i svieni pleki
    so tap bol se vpija vo ocite ladni
    i zalea oti ne ke plamnat veke.

    No jas znaev oti pak ke vivnat v zaroj
    i borcite pod niv ke cvetat i rasnat,
    v studenite utra ke great ko sonce
    i nikoga nema da stijnat i zgasnat.

    Poslednata vecer v planinskoto selo,
    kaj borcite bea so dripava drea,
    so plikovi zeski na stapal teski,
    i smrsteni cela - zgaseni, mrazni
    ko nivnite puski ukoceni, prazni,
    i necujno, gluvo, ko zdusena reja
    se tocese sepot od uvo do uvo:
    "Utre, druze, v zori, strasen boj ne ceka,
    a nie sme malku, - sal nekolku dusi..."

    I koga ko igla ti probode usi -
    Ti rastrese snaga i razmolska taga,
    so lunjeni oci siroki i volni
    gi rasece v nokta zdivenite molnji!

    Ko togaj, ko togaj, o drugarko, pomnis -
    v smrznatata vecer na proletta rana,
    kaj nasata mladost i prvata radost
    ja kosese luto k*rsumnata slana,
    a ti celo zbrcka, ko tigrica ripna
    i letna vo nokta krvava i crna, -
    so svoite oci sto rigaa plamen
    gi rastopi caskum celicnite zrna...

    I posle! I posle - v poslednata vecer...
    Jas nejkam da mislam sto potamu stana,
    prostalniot sepot ti zamrzna v usni,
    ti gorea oci pod vegite gusti!
    So nivniot plamen i so kletva sveta,
    na zaseda trgnav sred mojata ceta.

    A utrinta koga zriv cela ni sprasi
    ti ne bese veke v redovite nasi,
    no skipea borci so odmazda zolcna,
    i vidov! O vidov - koga bojot pocna
    razvihrea site so tvojata sila -
    ko eleni brzi i lesni ko ptica.

    A tvoite oci se iskrea gnevno
    vo nivnite potni, raspaleni lica...

    Tri dena na race te nosevme zbrana,
    so taga i bolka vo pogledot srcen,
    i sekoja kapka od tvojata rana
    ko krvava zar ni kapese v srce.
    Poruku je izmenio Bombica, 24.04.2009 u 15:39 Razlog: edit

  10. #100

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    Ernste Stunde - Rainer Maria Rilke

    Wer jetzt weint irgendwo in der Welt,
    ohne Grund weint in der Welt,
    weint ber mich.
    Wer jetzt lacht irgendwo in der Nacht,
    ohne Grund lacht in der Nacht,
    lacht mich aus.
    Wer jetzt geht irgendwo in der Welt,
    ohne Grund geht in der Welt,
    geht zu mir.
    Wer jetzt stirbt irgendwo in der Welt,
    ohne Grund stirbt in der Welt:
    sieht mich an.

  11. #101

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    Aprons of Silence

    Many things I might have said today.
    And I kept my mouth shut.
    So many times I was asked
    To come and say the same things
    Everybody was saying, no end
    To the yes-yes, yes-yes,
    me-too, me-too.

    The aprons of silence covered me.
    A wire and hatch held my tongue.
    I spit nails into an abyss and listened.
    I shut off the gable of Jones, Johnson, Smith,
    All whose names take pages in the city directory.

    I fixed up a padded cell and lugged it around.
    I locked myself in and nobody knew it.
    Only the keeper and the kept in the hoosegow
    Knew it--on the streets, in the post office,
    On the cars, into the railroad station
    Where the caller was calling, "All a-board,
    All a-board for . . . Blaa-blaa . . . Blaa-blaa,
    Blaa-blaa . . . and all points northwest . . .all a-board."
    Here I took along my own hoosegow
    And did business with my own thoughts.
    Do you see? It must be the aprons of silence.

    Carl Sandburg

  12. #102

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII


    I dont love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
    or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
    I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
    secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

    I love you as the plant that doesnt bloom but carries
    the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
    and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
    from the earth lives dimly in my body.

    I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
    I love you directly without problems or pride:
    I love you like this because I dont know any other way to love,
    except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
    so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
    so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

    one of my faves

  13. #103

    13 Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    This one is entering her teens,
    Ripe for sentimental scenes,
    Has picked a gangling unripe male,
    Sees herself in bridal veil,
    Presses lips and tosses head,
    Declares she's not too young to wed,
    Informs you pertly you forget
    Romeo and Juliet.
    Do not argue, do not shout;
    Remind her how that one turned out.

    Ogden Nash, The Romantic Age
    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

  14. #104

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    Cows In Art Class

    Good weather
    is like
    good women-
    it doesn't always happen
    and when it does
    it doesn't
    always last.
    man is
    more stable:
    if he's bad
    there's more chance
    he'll stay that way,
    or if he's good
    he might hang
    but a woman
    is changed
    the moon
    the absence or
    presence of sun
    or good times.
    a woman must be nursed
    into subsistence
    by love
    where a man can become
    by being hated.

    I am drinking tonight in Spangler's Bar
    and I remember the cows
    I once painted in Art class
    and they looked good
    they looked better than anything
    in here. I am drinking in Spangler's Bar
    wondering which to love and which
    to hate, but the rules are gone:
    I love and hate only
    they stand outside me
    like an orange dropped from the table
    and rolling away; it's what I've got to

    Kill myself or
    love myself?
    which is the treason?
    where's the information
    coming from?

    Books...like broken glass:
    I wouldn't wipe my ass with 'em
    yet, it's getting
    darker, see?

    (we drink here and speak to
    each other and
    seem knowing.)

    Buy the cow with the biggest
    buy the cow with the biggest

    Present arms.

    The bartender slides me a beer
    it runs down the bar
    like an Olympic sprinter
    and the pair of pliers that is my hand
    stops it, lifts it,
    golden piss of dull temptation,
    I drink and
    stand there
    the weather bad for cows
    but my brush is ready
    to stroke up
    the green grass straw eye
    sadness takes me all over
    and I drink the beer straight down
    order a shot
    to give me the guts and the love to

    Charles Bukowski

  15. #105

    Odgovor: Poezija na stranim jezicima

    The Walrus And The Carpenter - Lewis Carroll

    The sun was shining on the sea,
    Shining with all his might:
    He did his very best to make
    The billows smooth and bright-
    And this was odd, because it was
    The middle of the night.

    The moon was shining sulkily,
    Because she thought the sun
    Had got no business to be there
    After the day was done-
    "It's very rude of him," she said,
    "To come and spoil the fun!"

    The sea was wet as wet could be,
    The sands were dry as dry.
    You could not see a cloud, because
    No cloud was in the sky:
    No birds were flying overhead-
    There were no birds to fly

    The Walrus and the Carpenter
    Were walking close at hand;
    They wept like anything to see
    Such quantities of sand:
    "If this were only cleared away,"
    They said, "It would be grand!"

    "If seven maids with seven mops
    Swept for half a year,
    Do you suppose," the walrus said,
    "That they could get it clear?"
    "I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
    And shed a bitter tear.

    "O, Oysters, come and walk with us!"
    The Walrus did beseech.
    "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
    Along the briny beach:
    We cannot do with more than four,
    To give a hand to each."

    The eldest Oyster looked at him,
    But never a word he said:
    The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
    And shook his heavy head-
    Meaning to say he did not choose
    To leave the oyster-bed.

    But four young Oysters hurried up,
    All eager for the treat:
    Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
    Their shoes were clean and neat-
    And this was odd, because, you know,
    They hadn't any feet.

    Four other Oysters followed them,
    And yet another four;
    And thick and fast they came at last,
    And more, and more, and more-
    All hopping through the frothy waves,
    And scrambling to the shore.

    The Walrus and the Carpenter
    Walked on a mile or so,
    And then they rested on a rock
    Conveniently low:
    And all the little Oysters stood
    And waited in a row.

    "The time has come," the Walrus said,
    "To talk of many things:
    Of shoes-and ships-and sealing wax-
    Of cabbages-and kings-
    And why the sea is boiling hot-
    And whether pigs have wings."

    "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
    "Before we have our chat;
    For some of us are out of breath,
    And all of us are fat!"
    "No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
    They thanked him much for that.

    "A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
    "Is what we chiefly need:
    Pepper and vinegar besides
    Are very good indeed-
    Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
    We can begin to feed."

    "But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
    Turning a little blue,
    "After such kindness, that would be
    A dismal thing to do!"
    "The night is fine," the Walrus said.
    "Do you admire the view?"

    "It was so kind of you to come!
    And you are very nice!"
    The Carpenter said nothing but
    "Cut us another slice:
    I wish you were not quite so deaf-
    I've had to ask you twice!"

    "It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
    "To play them such a trick,
    After we've brought them out so far,
    And made them trot so quick!"
    The Carpenter said nothing but
    "The butter's spread too thick!"

    "I weep for you," the Walrus said:
    "I deeply sympathize."
    With sobs and tears he sorted out
    Those of the largest size,
    Holding his pocket-handkerchief
    Before his streaming eyes.

    "O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
    "You had a pleasant run!
    Shall we be trotting home again?"
    But answer came there none-
    And this was scarcely odd, because
    They'd eaten every one.

    U potrazi za sobom, pronasao sam nesto mnogo lepse ...

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