Svetski dan poezije

Danas je svetski dan poezije (ne znam zašto, ali jeste). Ne bilo vam zapovedjeno metite neku pesmu koju volite.

When Odysseus finally does get home
he is understandably upset about the suitors,
who have been mooching off his wife for twenty years,
drinking his wine, eating his mutton, etc.

In a similar situation today he would seek legal counsel.
But those were different times. With the help
of his son Telemachus he slaughters roughly
one hundred and ten suitors
and quite a number of young ladies,
although in view of their behavior
I use the term loosely. Rivers of blood
course across the palace floor.

I too have come home in a bad mood.
Yesterday, for instance, after the department meeting,
when I ended up losing my choice parking spot
behind the library to the new provost.

I slammed the door. I threw down my book bag
in this particular way I have perfected over the years
that lets my wife understand
the contempt I have for my enemies,
which is prodigious. And then with great skill
she built a gin and tonic
that would have pleased the very gods,
and with epic patience she listened
as I told her of my wrath, and of what I intended to do
to so-and-so, and also to what's-his-name.

And then there was another gin and tonic
and presently my wrath abated and was forgotten,
and peace came to reign once more
in the great halls and courtyards of my house.

Balada o tricama i kučinama

Znam po mleku muvu dobro,
Znam čoveka prema nošnji,
Znam spram ružnog vreme vedro,
Znam jabuku prema krošnji,
Znam rod drveta po smoli,
Znam, sve se na isto svede,
Znam ko rinta, ko hlad voli,
Znam sve, samo ne znam sebe.
Znam za grudnjak po koliru,
Znam monaha kukuljicu,
Znam po slugi gazde meru,
Znam po velu redovnicu,
Znam satrovce čim reč spletu,
Znam zdere što razum gube,
Znam sva vina po buretu,
Znam sve, samo ne znam sebe.
Znam i konja i znam mulu,
Znam im tovar, znam im muku,
Znam Bjeatrisu, Izabelu,
Znam kockari gde car vuku,
Znam šta ima u snovima,
Znam jeres što Česi slede,
Znam koliku moć Rim ima,
Znam sve, samo ne znam sebe.
Kneže, znam sve kad se zbere,
Znam rumene, jedre, blede,
Znam smrt koja sve proždere,
Znam sve, samo ne znam sebe.

Fransoa Vijon

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

(To JS/07 M 378
This Marble Monument
Is Erected by the State)

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn’t a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace:  when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

It does not matter what is said and done 
The eyes have it. 
The mind's legislative faculty 
Is unconcerned with appearances and words 
Nothing is over and done with. 
Nothing 
Not even your malice 
Especially your malice. 
So do not apologize to me. 


I have walked stooped beneath your heart, 
The cold-blooded crown 
That holds the glinting jewel 
Of contradiction in your eyes. 


I think that I shall gouge them 
From your skull 
And crush them in my fist 


- Give you a dog to see with 
Give you eyes that pant and salivate, 
Eyes that creep on all fours - 
Eyes that cringe at the sound of my voice, 
Lie to me then. 
Tell me life is good to you 
- When all your memories are distilled 
Into the transformed image, the Idea. 
Of a mechanical hand reaching 
To dig out your eyes. 
Lie to me then. 
Lie to me then, Dog-eyes. 
Lie to me then.

bela maca wrote:I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

Kao da si za mene birala.

evo ja cu kratko. dijalekticki fragment

Četri glavne strane sveta
Tri su
Jug i sever

vincente huidobro, altazar

ne znam, ja sam danas uzo sabranog sajdela i samo to sam cito. cito sam i neku prozu al to je drugo. mozda nije veliki pesnik al jedini savremenik na ovim jezicima koje ja razumem koji hvata musko osecanje u 21. veku. i dobar je za nas kojima je ispod kulturnog nivoa da citamo uelbeka.

My last summer on earth
I spent admiring Milan,
But they were having a heat wave.
The Japanese were everywhere.
They eat lice.
They order risotto milanese.
They eat everything.
My cell phone has changed my life.
I never talk to anyone.

I spent the summer in Bologna.
Bologna is my town.
Bologna is so brown.
I ate shavings
Of tuna roe on buttered toast
Despite the heat,
Brown waxy slices of fishy salt
As strong as ammonia, Bologna.
Bologna, it takes a prince to eat bottarga.

Italy, your women are Italian!
Your motorcycles are women.
Milan, your men are high-heeled women.
Bologna, your brown arcades
Are waterfalls of shade.
Fascist Italy was ice cream in boots.
Its crema straddled the world.
It licked south in the heat.
It licked its boot.

Fascisti! They take American Express!
Comunisti! You forgot to sign!
I have my table at Rodrigo in Bologna.
I always eat at Bice in Milan.
It is sweet to eat at Bibe, outside Florence,
To walk there from Bellosguardo through the fields.
Montale's little Bibe poem is printed on the menu.
I write my own.
Islam is coming.

sjećaš li se kad smo istovarivali vreće iz kamiona trebalo ih je
gurnuti tako da ti padnu na rame i onda bi posrnuo ali morao si
uhvatiti ravnotežu i onako pognut odnijeti ih na palete poslagane
duboko u skladištu drugom se rukom valjalo podbočiti tako je

lakše nakon nekoliko puta tijelo bi počelo samo od sebe
poskakivati kao da hodaš po oprugama ili zračnom jastuku potom
bi prenapregnuta kičma ruke i noge nekako čudnovato otečeni
počeli podizati torzo negdje naviše to je njihov jezik i ni tada

ga nisi mogao naučiti te noći nisi mogao zaspati soba je upijala
ono što je bježalo iz tvog premorenog trupla i izjutra se nisi
ničega sjećao a što je valjalo upamtiti zar to nije tek prazan
hod navike koju ti tijelo ne treba otkrivati kao što ti ne govori

gdje je istinsko ležište vjerovanja i zašto se anđele doživljava
poput zvuka ili boja kao neko tjelesno posvećenje ne bi li se
moglo podnijeti još jedno naučeno ponavljanje i podnijeti gubitak
onoga što si bio spreman primiti kao željeno svoje drugo tijelo

Miloš Đurđević

Može biti bez naslova


Došlo je do toga da sjedim pod drvetom,
na obali rijeke,
u sunčano jutro.
Taj je događaj beznačajan
i neće ući u povijest.
Nisu to bitke i paktovi,
čiji se motivi istražuju,
niti dostojna pamćenja ubojstva tirana.

Pa ipak sjedim kraj rijeke, to je činjenica.
I kad već tu jesam,
morala sam odnekud doći,
a prije toga
na mnogim se još mjestima nalaziti,
sasvim onako kao osvajači zemalja
prije nego što su stupili na palubu.

Bujnu prošlost ima čak i neuhvatljiv tren
svoj petak ispred subote
svoj ispred lipnja svibanj.
Ima svoje jednako stvarne obzore
kao u dogledu zapovjednika.

Ovo drvo to je odavno zakorijenjena topola.
Rijeka je Raba što ne teče od danas.
Staza nije od prekjučer
ugažena kroz grmlje.
Vjetar, da bi rastjerao oblake,
morao ih je prije tu dognati.

I premda se tu uokolo ništa veliko ne događa,
svijet nije time siromašniji pojedinostima,
lošije utemeljen, slabije određen
nego kada su ga osvajale seobe naroda.
Ne prati samo tajne urote tišina.

Ne prati samo krunidbe povorka uzroka.
Znadu biti okrugle ne samo obljetnice ustanaka,
nego i usputni kamičci na obali.

Zamršen je i gust vez okolnosti.
Bod mrava u travi.
Trava ušivena u zemlju.
Uzorak valovlja kojim se provlači prut.

Tako se dogodilo da jesam i gledam.
Nada mnom bijel leptir trepti u zraku
krilcima koja samo njemu pripadaju
i prelijeće mi preko ruku sjenka,
ne druga, ne čija god, nego njegova vlastita.

Takav prizor uvijek čini da me napušta sigurnost
kako je ono što je važno
važnije od nevažnoga.


Vislava Šimborska

"Nirvana"

not much chance,
completely cut loose from
purpose,
he was a young man
riding a bus
through North Carolina
on the way to somewhere
and it began to snow
and the bus stopped
at a little cafe
in the hills
and the passengers
entered.
he sat at the counter
with the others,
he ordered and the
food arrived.
the meal was
particularly
good
and the
coffee.
the waitress was
unlike the women
he had
known.
she was unaffected,
there was a natural
humor which came
from her.
the fry cook said
crazy things.
the dishwasher.
in back,
laughed, a good
clean
pleasant
laugh.
the young man watched
the snow through the
windows.
he wanted to stay
in that cafe
forever.
the curious feeling
swam through him
that everything
was
beautiful
there,
that it would always
stay beautiful
there.
then the bus driver
told the passengers
that it was time
to board.
the young man
thought, I'll just sit
here, I'll just stay
here.
but then
he rose and followed
the others into the
bus.
he found his seat
and looked at the cafe
through the bus
window.
then the bus moved
off, down a curve,
downward, out of
the hills.
the young man
looked straight
foreward.
he heard the other
passengers
speaking
of other things,
or they were
reading
or
attempting to
sleep.
they had not
noticed
the
magic.
the young man
put his head to
one side,
closed his
eyes,
pretended to
sleep.
there was nothing
else to do-
just to listen to the
sound of the
engine,
the sound of the
tires
in the
snow.



- Charles Bukowski

Fleas
Adam
Had 'em


Narodna umotvorina ostrvskih pegavih incestaša.

evo jedne pozitivne jer napolju pada kisa i ima mnogo terorista

Bipolar November

I get a phone call from my dog who died,
But I don’t really.
I don’t hear anything.
Dear Jimmy, it is hard.
Dear dog, you were just a dog.
I am returning your call.

I have nothing to say.
I have nothing to add.
I have nothing to add to that.
I am saying hello to no.
How do you do, no!
I am returning your call.

I rode a bubble to the surface just now.
I unthawed and unthawed.
I said yes. Yes, yes,
How do you do?
I called to say hello
But am happy.

Today it is spring in November.
The weather opens the windows.
The windows look pretty dirty.
I go to my computer to see.
The six-day forecast calls
For happy haze for six days.

The trees look like they’re budding.
They can’t be in late November.
It is mucilaginous springtime.
It is all beginning all over.
The warplanes levitate
To take another crack at Iraq.

Hey, Mr. Big Shot!
I bet you went to Harvard.
Leaves are still on the trees.
The trees are wearing fine shoes.
Everything is handmade.
Everything believes.

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;

And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,

Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;

And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.

Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;

And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.

Na sličnu temu.

All the hills and vales along
Earth is bursting into song,
And the singers are the chaps
Who are going to die perhaps.
O sing, marching men,
Till the valleys ring again.
Give your gladness to earth’s keeping,
So be glad, when you are sleeping.

Cast away regret and rue,
Think what you are marching to.
Little live, great pass.
Jesus Christ and Barabbas
Were found the same day.
This died, that went his way.
So sing with joyful breath,
For why, you are going to death.
Teeming earth will surely store
All the gladness that you pour.

Earth that never doubts nor fears,
Earth that knows of death, not tears,
Earth that bore with joyful ease
Hemlock for Socrates,
Earth that blossomed and was glad
‘Neath the cross that Christ had,
Shall rejoice and blossom too
When the bullet reaches you.
Wherefore, men marching
On the road to death, sing!
Pour your gladness on earth’s head,
So be merry, so be dead.

From the hills and valleys earth
Shouts back the sound of mirth,
Tramp of feet and lilt of song
Ringing all the road along.
All the music of their going,
Ringing swinging glad song-throwing,
Earth will echo still, when foot
Lies numb and voice mute.
On, marching men, on
To the gates of death with song.
Sow your gladness for earth’s reaping,
So you may be glad, though sleeping.
Strew your gladness on earth’s bed,
So be merry, so be dead.

Belch, jel si gledala ovaj film? Upravo ide na Pink Movies.

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Regeneration_(1997_film)

draga katalin je danas bila u bg 

a i moj komsija vlada kopicl 

Evo jedna za Fićfiiriča.

BABA CMIZDRI POD GALGAMA

A koga vraga cmizdriš,
zamusana mužača,
kaj su ti sinu dali tatski ogerlič?

Na galge dojde samo fini fičfirič,
naj sliniti, smardljiva bedača.

Još su ga mogli nabiti na ketača,
z goročim kleštram popokati mu nokte.
Od sega tega občuval je dragi nam Bog te
i rešil te za navek tega čarvendača!

Od lucke je volje volja božja jača,
od Boga pak je jači, bomeš, gospon Komeš.
Dobiš po gubcu, baba, če ne čkomeš.

Ni fajde nam od plača. V birtije pijača,
karmine tvojem sinu napijaju pajdaši!
Dojdi z nama, mama!
Kesno je popoldan iti k maši!

Odakle je ovo?

Da.