Проза, поезија – извадоци

ТРЕНУТКА ЈА СЕ СЕЋАМ
Тренутка ја се сећам сјајна,
Кад преда мном се ти појави
Као привиђење, као тајна,
И као лепоте удах прави.
Кад туга све ми скрха наде,
А кињиле ме стрепње таште,
Твој нежни глас ми певати стаде
И лик твој сневах на дну маште.
Но, доба мину. Вихор нежни
Распршио ми и сне и јаву.
И предадох твој глас нежни
И лик небески забораву.
Полако су се вукли дани
У забити, у заточењу,
Без заноса, без суза раних,
Без надахнућа, налик мрењу.
Али стиже души буђење.
И опет ми се ти појави
Као ненадано привиђење
И као лепоте удах прави.
Куцати стаде срце вруће,
Нов живот у њему маха узе.
И опет пламти надахнуће,
И љубав сја, и теку сузе.
Александар Пушкин

 

„Сега дури сфаќам дека и среќата и несреќата ги разбираме откако ќе нема со кого да ги делиме. Ги разбираме, зашто дури тогаш се потсилува нашата болка и несоница. И нашата раздразливост: да немаш обѕири кон другите. Сè да се преврти во завист и омраза. И кон познати и кон непознати. Небаре сè што еднаш било твое, некој насилно да ти го зел од раце...“.
(„Тунел“, 2003 г.)

 

Животот е комедија за оние кои размислуваат,
а трагедија за оние кои чувствуваат.
Horace Walpole

 

GAVRAN
(Edgar Allan Poe)

Ponoći sam jedne tužne proučavo slab i snužden
Neobične drevne knjige, što prastari nauk skriše -
Gotovo sam u san pao, kad je netko zakucao,
Pred sobna mi vrata stao, kucajući tiho, tiše-
"Posjetilac", ja promrmljah, “što u sobu ući ište,
Samo to i ništa više.”

Ah, da, još se sjećam jasno, u prosincu bješe kasno;
Svaki ugarak, što gasne, sablasti po podu riše.
Žudim vruće za svanućem - uzalud iz knjiga vučem
Spas od boli što me muče - jer me od Nje rastaviše
Anđeli, što divnu djevu zvat Lenorom nastaviše -
Tu imena nema više.

Od svilenog tužnog šuma iz zastora od baršuna
Nepoznati, fantastični užasi me ispuniše;
Da utišam srce svoje, ja ponavljam mirno stojeć:
"Posjetilac neki to je, što u sobu ući ište -
Posjetilac kasni koji možda traži zaklonište -
Eto to je, ništa više."

Kad smjelosti malo stekoh, ne oklijevah nego rekoh:
"Gospodine ili gospo, oprostite, evo stižem!
Zapravo sam malo drijemo, kucali ste tako nijemo.
Tako blago, pritajeno, i od mojih misli tiše;
Gotovo vas nisam čuo." - i vrata se otvoriše –
Mrak preda mnom, ništa više.

Pogledom kroz lamu bludim; stojim, plašim se i čudim;
Ah, ne može smrtnik sniti snove što se meni sniše!
Al nevina bje tišina; znaka nije dala tmina,
S mojih usta riječ jedina pade poput kapi kiše,
"Lenora", prošaptah tiho, jeka mi je vrati tiše,
Samo to, i ništa više.

U svoju se sobu vratih, dok u meni duša plamti;
Nešto jači nego prije udarci se ponoviše.
"Zacijelo", ja rekoh, "to je na prozoru sobe moje;
Da pogledam časkom što je, kakve se tu tajne skriše.
Mirno, srce. Da vidimo kakve se tu tajne skriše –
Valjda vjetar, ništa više."

Prozorsku otvorih kuku, kad uz lepet i uz buku
Dostojanstven ude Gavran, što iz drevnih dana stiže,
Ni da pozdrav glavom mahne, ni trenutak on da stane,
Poput lorda ili dame kroz moju se sobu diže
I na kip Palade sleti, što se iznad vrata diže.
Sleti, sjede, ništa više.

Kad ugledah pticu crnu, u smijeh tuga se obrmu,
Zbog ozbiljnog dostojanstva kojim strogi lik joj diše.
"Nek si ošišana ptica", rekoh, "nisi kukavica,
O, Gavrane, mrka lica, što sa Noćnog žala stiže,
Kako zovu te na žalu hadske noći, otkud stiže?"
Reče Gavran "Nikad više."

Začudih se tome mnogo, što crn stvor je zborit mog'o,
Premda malobrojne riječi malo što mi objasniše.
Al priznati mora svako, ne događa da se lako
Da živ čovjek gleda tako pticu što se nad njim njiše,
Na skulpturi iznad vrata, zvijer il pticu što se njiše,
S tim imenom "Nikad više."

Gavran sam na bisti sjedi; tek te riječi probesjedi,
Baš kao da cijelu dušu te mu riječi izraziše:
Više niti riječ da rekne - više ni da perom trepne –
Dok moj šapat jedva jekne: "Svi me druzi ostaviše,
Pa će zorom i on, ko što nade već me ostaviše."
Tad će ptica: "Nikad više."

Muk se razbi, ja, zatečen - na odgovor spremno rečen
"Nema sumnje", rekoh, "to je sve mu znanje, ništa više,
Riječ od tužna gazde čuta, koga Nevolja je kruta
Stalno pratila duž puta, pa mu sve se pjesme sliše,
Tužaljke se puste nade u jednu tegobu sliše,
U "Nikada- nikad više."

Ali mi i opet Gavran tužne usne u smijeh nabra;
Dogurah pred kip i pticu moj naslonjač prekrit plišem;
Te u meki baršun padoh, povezivat mašte stadoh,
Na razmatranje se dadoh - kakvu mi sudbinu piše
Grobna, kobna drevna ptica - kakvu mi sudbinu piše
Kada grakće: "Nikad više."

Sjedah, tražeć smiso toga, al ne rekoh niti sloga
Ptici, čije žarke oči srž mi srca opržiše
Predan toj i drugoj mašti, pustih glavu mirno pasti
U taj baršun ljubičasti, kojim svjetlo sjene riše.
Sjest u baršun ljubičasti, kojim svjetlo sjene riše,
Ona neće nikad više.

Tad ko da se uzduh zgusnu, čudni miris me zapljusnu
Začuh lagan hod serafa, koji kadionik njiše.
"Bijedo", kliknuh, "Bogu slava! Anđelima te spasava,
Šalje travu zaborava, uspomene da ti zbriše!"
Pij, o pij taj blag nepenthe, nek Lenori spomen zbriše!"
Reče Gavran: "Nikad više."

"Proroče, kog rodi porok - vrag il ptica, ipak prorok! -
Napasnik da l' posla tebe, il oluje izbaciše
Sama al nezastrašena usred kraja urečena,
U dom opsjednut od sjena, reci, mogu l' da me liše
Melemi iz Gileada, mogu l' jada da me liše? "
Reče Gavran: "Nikad više."

*Proroče, kog rodi porok - vrag il ptica, ipak prorok.' -
Neba ti, i Boga, po kom obojici grud nam diše,
Smiri dušu rastuženu, reci da l' ću u Edenu
Grlit ženu posvećenu, Lerora je okrstiše,
Djevu divnu, jedinstvenu, koju anđeli mi skriše."
Reče Gavran: "Nikad više.;

"Rastanak je to što kažeš", kriknuh, "ptico ili vraže!
U oluju bježi, na žal hadske noći otkud stiže!
Niti pera ne ispusti ko trag laži, što izusti!
U samoći mene pusti! - nek ti trag se s biste zbriše!
Nosi lik svoj s mojih vrata, vadi kljun, što srce siše!"
Reče Gavran: "Nikad više."

I taj Gavran postojano, još je tamo, još je tamo,
Na Paladi blijedoj sjedi, što se iznad vrata diže;
Oko mu je slika živa oka zloduha, što sniva,
Svjetlo, koje ga obliva, sjenu mu na podu riše;
Moja duša iz te sjene, koja se na podu riše,
Ustat neće - nikad više!

 

"That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong." — F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

To breathe the name
Of your...
In your hour of need
And taste the blame,
If the flavor should remind you of greed
Of implication, insinuation and you will
Till you cannot lie still
In all this turmoil
Before red cave and foil
Come closing in for a kill
Come feed the rain
'Cause I'm thirsty for your love,
Dancing underneath the skies of lust
Yeah feed the rain
'Cause without your love
My life ain't nothing but this...
It's all a game
Avoiding failure
When true colors will bleed
All in the name of misbehavior
And the things we don't need
I lost for after no disaster can touch,
Touch us anymore
And more than ever
I hope to never fall,
Where enough is not the same it was before
Come feed the rain
'Cause I'm thirsty for your love,
Dancing underneath…

 

ПОВТОРНО ДА ДИШЕ

И она е исплашена брат. Ја повредиле некои изроди, и се и е измешано во срцето. Сака да ти верува, да ти се фрли околу врат и да те направи своја оаза. Сака да се стутка покрај тебе и онака да се напика во тебе целата. Да ти се предаде. Бара знак од тебе брат. Бара знак дека не си како другите. Дека нема да и станеш само уште една лузна. Дека нема да и загорчиш. И она сака да сака. И да биде сакана. Да ти припаѓа... Да и припаѓаш. Да дише сака бе брат. Да дише повторно сака.


Драган Таневски

 

„Умилкување“ - Петре М. Андреевски

Ќе ги отпретам сите горештини од твојата глава,
ко суво дрво на сува рида реките ќе ги заковам.
Ќе те претплатам на вечна љубов и вечни времиња
ќе те љубам и губам и во пости и пред гости
само да ме сакаш.

Ќе ги поткупам сите човечки сетила и патила.
Сите светлосни преѓи пресијазол ќе ги врзам,
сите денови и ноќи на својот почеток ќе ги вратам,
ќе ти дадам се што е солено и молено
само да ме сакаш.

Ќе спијам во движење, сенката своја ќе ја прескокам
ќе ги затнам сите извори, се што гори ќе отворам.
Ќе направам да не се знае кај е лево и десно,
ќе ти наберам ѕвезди, ќе ти влепам шлаканица
само да ме сакаш.

Ќе ги шпионирам сите крадци на твоите часови.
Ќе ги исфрлам од употреба страните на светот
и светот, по црна ноќ, одмижанка ќе го истрчам
и ќе те фалам и кудам под сите небеса
само да ме сакаш.

Кај ќе стасам ќе разделам топло од студено,
на шеќерот ќе му забранам да се споредува со тебе,
не ќе оставам растојание што ќе биде меѓу нас,
со ова што го велам и слепо и глуво ќе исцелам
само да ме сакаш.

 

Мојата душа
"Како кошула ја исправ душата во леген.
Ја триев, ја виткав, ја цедев…
Црната вода им ја фрлив на мршојадците,
нека се напијат горчина,
нека сркаат гревови,
стари одрекувања,
неискажани мисли,
неисполнети ветувања…

Ене ја душата,
ја оставив да се исуши на ветрот.
Страв ми е.
Се плашам да ја вратам во телово,
така бела,
проѕирно невина,
исчистена…
Оти ѓаволот настрвено
ги чека таквите души,
да ги распара со својата
лигава муцка.

Ја оставам душата
да се лула на ветрот.
Вие оправдано
наречете ме
бездушник."

знае некој од кој е?

 

Budim se sretna

U one sate, tihe i snene
koji ostaju samo za nas
uvijek si blizu,
uvijek uz mene,
sigurnost moja, utjeha i spas.

U one sate kad vrijeme stane,
kad se shutnjom kazuje sve,
ti si moj zalog za sretne dane,
moj put u srecu i mirne sne.

Budim se sretna svakoga jutra,
isti ce dani doci i sutra,
u tebi imam sve, sve shto mi treba
vode i sunca, zemlje i neba.

Budim se sretna zbog nashih sati
ti cesh mi uvijek najvishe dati
u tebi imam sve, sve shto mi treba
vode i sunca, zemlje i neba.

Margit Antauer

 

I will write you
a message in the stars,
urging you to study the twilight sky
and find your way
back to me.
— Noor Shirazie


Excuse me for being so intellectual. I know you would prefer something nice and feminine and affectionate.
— Zelda Fitzgerald, Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald


If there's empty spaces in your heart,
They'll make you think it's wrong,
Like having empty spaces,
Means you never can be strong,
But I've learned that all these spaces,
Means there's room enough to grow,
And the people that once filled them,
Were always meant to be let go,
And all these empty spaces,
Create a strange sort of pull,
That attract so many people,
You wouldn't meet if they were full,
So if you're made of empty spaces,
Don't ever think it's wrong,
Because maybe they're just empty,
Until the right person comes along.
— Ernest Hemingway


If we were all given by magic the power to read each other’s thoughts, I suppose the first effect would be almost all friendships would be dissolved; the second effect, however, might be excellent, for a world without any friends would be felt to be intolerable, and we should learn to like each other without needing a veil of illusion to conceal from ourselves that we did not think each other absolutely perfect.
— Bertrand Russell, The Conquest of Happiness

 

Една од моите најомилени:

he is dangerous
not because his teeth are made of daggers
and his eyes are made of sniper scopes
and his bones are made of rifle barrels.

he is dangerous
not because his steps leave land mines in the earth
and his voice fractures like bursting grenades
and his tongue dances with cyanide foam

no, he is dangerous
because he shines like a galaxy lost in space
and he burns like a thousand dying stars
and he reels you in as effortless as gravity

no, he is dangerous
because you will walk into the black at his heart
with gratitude singing soft on your lips
and hands clasped close in holy prayer

— he is dangerous because you love him

 

Кучињата ги сакаат своите пријатели
и ги напаѓаат непријателите...
сосема спротивно на луѓето кои не се способни
за чиста љубов и кои секогаш мешаат љубов со омраза...
Фројд

 

Целта на поезијата не е да маѓепса со вчудовидувачка мисла, туку да направи еден момент од постоење незаборавен и вреден за неподнослива носталгија.

„Бесмртност" од Милан Кундера

 

When Love Arrives by Sarah Kay and Phil Kay

Спојлер: Видео

I knew exactly what love looked like – in seventh grade

Even though I hadn’t met love yet, if love had wandered into my homeroom, I would’ve recognized him at first glance. Love wore a hemp necklace.
I would’ve recognized her at first glance, love wore a tight french braid.
Love played acoustic guitar and knew all my favorite Beatles songs.
Love wasn’t afraid to ride the bus with me.
And I knew, I just must be searching the wrong classrooms, just must be checking the wrong hallways, she was there, I was sure of it.
If only I could find him.

But when love finally showed up, she had a bow cut.
He wore the same clothes every day for a week.
Love hated the bus.
Love didn’t know anything about The Beatles.
Instead, every time I try to kiss love, our teeth got in the way.
Love became the reason I lied to my parents. I’m going to- Ben’s house.
Love had terrible rhythm on the dance floor, but made sure we never missed a slow song.
Love waited by the phone because she knew if her father picked up it would be: “Hello? Hello? I guess they hung up.”

And love grew, stretched like a trampoline.
Love changed. Love disappeared,
Slowly, like baby teeth, losing parts of me I thought I needed.
Love vanished like an amateur magician, and everyone could see the trapdoor but me.
Like a flat tire, there were other places I planned on going, but my plans didn’t matter.
Love stayed away for years, and when love finally reappeared, I barely recognized him.
Love smelt different now, had darker eyes, a broader back, love came with freckles I didn’t recognize.
New birthmarks, a softer voice.
Now there were new sleeping patterns, new favorite books.
Love had songs that reminded him of someone else, songs love didn’t like to listen to. So did I.

But we found a park bench that fit us perfectly
We found jokes that make us laugh.
And now, love makes me fresh homemade chocolate chip cookies.
But love will probably finish most of them for a midnight snack.
Love looks great in lingerie but still likes to wear her retainer.
Love is a terrible driver, but a great navigator.
Love knows where she’s going, it just might take her two hours longer than she planned.
Love is messier now, not as simple.
Love uses the words “boobs” in front of my parents.
Love chews too loud.
Love leaves the cap off the toothpaste.
Love uses smiley faces in her text messages.
And turns out, love shits!

But love also cries.
And love will tell you you are beautiful and mean it, over and over again. “You are beautiful.”
When you first wake up, “you are beautiful.”
When you’ve just been crying, “you are beautiful.”
When you don’t want to hear it, “you are beautiful.”
When you don’t believe it, “you are beautiful.”
When nobody else will tell you, “you are beautiful.”
Love still thinks you are beautiful.
But love is not perfect and will sometimes forget, when you need to hear it most, you are beautiful, do not forget this.

Love is not who you were expecting, love is not who you can predict.
Maybe love is in New York City, already asleep;
You are in California, Australia, wide awake.
Maybe love is always in the wrong time zone.
Maybe love is not ready for you.
Maybe you are not ready for love.
Maybe love just isn’t the marrying type.
Maybe the next time you see love is twenty years after the divorce, love is older now, but just as beautiful as you remembered.
Maybe love is only there for a month.
Maybe love is there for every firework, every birthday party, every hospital visit.
Maybe love stays- maybe love can’t.
Maybe love shouldn’t.

Love arrives exactly when love is supposed to,
And love leaves exactly when love must.
When love arrives, say, “Welcome. Make yourself comfortable.”
If love leaves, ask her to leave the door open behind her.
Turn off the music, listen to the quiet, whisper,
“Thank you for stopping by.”

 

Sloboda nije božje sjeme pa da ti ga neko da
sloboda nije zahvalnica pročitana abecednim redom
sloboda nije krilatica reklamnog panoa
konstruktivna kritika postojećeg stanja

sloboda je žena
uzmi je

sloboda nije podmetanje ideološki zakržljale forme
sloboda nije pometanje ideološki bilo kakve norme
sloboda nije jednostavan domaći zadatak
ona je svijest o skladu nesklada nesavršenih ljudi

sloboda te čeka
uzmi je

datumi
sjećanja
kontrola lupa vratima
regularna predstava
ko ne pamti iznova proživljava

sloboda nije mizantropski odbačeno kukavičje jaje
sloboda nije uzajamno milovanje idiotskih glava
sloboda nije referada staničnih šetača
ona je svijest o skladu nesklada nesavršenih ljudi

sloboda je žena
uzmi je

- Branimir Stulic

 

Не знам веќе колку пати ја имам прочитано "Две Љубови", не можев да најдам превод ни на македонски ни на србски ни хрватски, малку е тешка за разбирање дури и за тие што знаат англиски бидејќи е напишана во 19 век, од неа потекнува легендарното "the love that dare not speak its name".

I dreamed I stood upon a little hill,
And at my feet there lay a ground, that seemed
Like a waste garden, flowering at its will
With buds and blossoms. There were pools that dreamed
Black and unruffled; there were white lilies
A few, and crocuses, and violets
Purple or pale, snake-like fritillaries
Scarce seen for the rank grass, and through green nets
Blue eyes of shy peryenche winked in the sun.
And there were curious flowers, before unknown,
Flowers that were stained with moonlight, or with shades
Of Nature's wilful moods; and here a one
That had drunk in the transitory tone
Of one brief moment in a sunset; blades
Of grass that in an hundred springs had been
Slowly but exquisitely nurtured by the stars,
And watered with the scented dew long cupped
In lilies, that for rays of sun had seen
Only God's glory, for never a sunrise mars
The luminous air of Heaven. Beyond, abrupt,
A grey stone wall, o'ergrown with velvet moss
Uprose; and gazing I stood long, all mazed
To see a place so strange, so sweet, so fair.
And as I stood and marvelled, lo! across
The garden came a youth; one hand he raised
To shield him from the sun, his wind-tossed hair
Was twined with flowers, and in his hand he bore
A purple bunch of bursting grapes, his eyes
Were clear as crystal, naked all was he,
White as the snow on pathless mountains frore,
Red were his lips as red wine-spilith that dyes
A marble floor, his brow chalcedony.
And he came near me, with his lips uncurled
And kind, and caught my hand and kissed my mouth,
And gave me grapes to eat, and said, 'Sweet friend,
Come I will show thee shadows of the world
And images of life. See from the South
Comes the pale pageant that hath never an end.'
And lo! within the garden of my dream
I saw two walking on a shining plain
Of golden light. The one did joyous seem
And fair and blooming, and a sweet refrain
Came from his lips; he sang of pretty maids
And joyous love of comely girl and boy,
His eyes were bright, and 'mid the dancing blades
Of golden grass his feet did trip for joy;
And in his hand he held an ivory lute
With strings of gold that were as maidens' hair,
And sang with voice as tuneful as a flute,
And round his neck three chains of roses were.
But he that was his comrade walked aside;
He was full sad and sweet, and his large eyes
Were strange with wondrous brightness, staring wide
With gazing; and he sighed with many sighs
That moved me, and his cheeks were wan and white
Like pallid lilies, and his lips were red
Like poppies, and his hands he clenched tight,
And yet again unclenched, and his head
Was wreathed with moon-flowers pale as lips of death.
A purple robe he wore, o'erwrought in gold
With the device of a great snake, whose breath
Was fiery flame: which when I did behold
I fell a-weeping, and I cried, 'Sweet youth,
Tell me why, sad and sighing, thou dost rove
These pleasant realms? I pray thee speak me sooth
What is thy name?' He said, 'My name is Love.'
Then straight the first did turn himself to me
And cried, 'He lieth, for his name is Shame,
But I am Love, and I was wont to be
Alone in this fair garden, till he came
Unasked by night; I am true Love, I fill
The hearts of boy and girl with mutual flame.'
Then sighing, said the other, 'Have thy will,
I am the Love that dare not speak its name.'