Проза, поезија – извадоци

The Highwayman
BY ALFRED NOYES
PART ONE

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

. . .

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

 

Ѕвона – Матеја Матевски

Некаде ѕвони. Некаде далеку ѕвони.
звуците се бранови на ветрот
низ тревите подгонети.

Некаде ѕвони. Продолжително и нежно.

Глуво е сè. Сал ритамот
плиска по брегот на железото.

Некаде ѕвони. Шибни ме високо и бездно

Бегајте низ кафезот звучен
глуво и безнадежно.

Некаде ѕвони. Малечок ѕвонам и врискам.

Сè е затворено. Опчинет
за звуците сум виснал.

Некаде ѕвони. Удри ме. Колку сум храбар а питом.

Време, удри и ти по споменот
грубо и незаситно.

Некаде ѕвони. Премногу дамна и сега.

Сè боли, небо. По тревата
на звуците познати легни ме.

 

"It’s dark because you are trying too hard.
Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly.
Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply.
Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.

So throw away your baggage and go forward.
There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet,
trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair.
That’s why you must walk so lightly.
Lightly my darling,
on tiptoes and no luggage,
not even a sponge bag,
completely unencumbered.”

— Aldous Huxley

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-Dylan Thomas.

 

Леле... Ме потсети на почетокот на врската со мм и неговите романтични изливи

 

Ѕвона

Некаде ѕвони. Некаде далеку ѕвони.
Звуците се бранови на ветрот
низ тревите подгонети.
Некаде ѕвони. Продолжително остро и нежно.
Глуво е сѐ. Сал ритамот
плиска по брегот на железото.

Некаде ѕвони. Шибни ме високо и бездно.
Бегајте низ кавезот звучен
глуво и безнадежно.

Некаде ѕвони. Малечок ѕвонам и врискам.
Сѐ е затворено. Опчинет
за звуците сум виснал.

Некаде ѕвони. Удри ме. Колку сум храбар а питом.
Време, удри и ти по споменот
грубо и незаситно.

Некаде ѕвони. Премногу дамна и сега.
Сѐ боли, небо. По тревата
на звуците познати легни ме.

Матеја Матевски

 

Tulips
BY Sylvia Plath

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage——
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free——
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

 

Тешко мене

Мене да ме нема, тебе што те немам,
тешко тебе, тешко мене:
веќе ми се расипа лицето од плачење,
земјата не може солзите да ми ги собере.
Сега само ноќта ми е доделена,
да бидам светулка што не гледа
дека светлината ѝ служи за гледање,
да знаат сите што знам и што не знам,
да не можам да скријам ништо од никого
и сите да се плашат од мојата вистина.
Тешко кого вистината го лаже,
тешко кому срамот му откажува,
тешко и на тој што нема како
да си ја намали својата тежина.
Сега и сонцето не ми влегува в соба,
оти знае дека и ти не си во собата.
Тешко на куќата што не се одѕива,
тешко и онему што не знае за тешкото,
тешко мене, тешко тебе:
младоста да си ја изминеш,
а староста никаде да не си ја сретнеш.
Веќе сè ми е поместено, преместено,
(ти ме чекаш, а јас никого не чекам)
сè што носам, ќе ме износи,
но тешко тој што има многу тешко
и тешко тој што нема,
тешко кому слободата му ги остава
само нејзините пранги и окови,
тешко мене дури ти ми тежиш,
тешко кога и убавото е страшно.
Што не можам на јаве, можам во сонот
и за мојата тежина и за твојата,
но тешко и онему што има многу за можење.
Пламенот не е само она што се гледа,
па тешко онему што го толкува однатре:
не го запознал горењето, туку тој што гори
и изгорел, се изгорел или слеп се вратил.
Тешко кому жалта му е обврска,
тешко кому не му тежи тешкото,
тешко тебе, тешко мене.

-Петре М. Андреевски

 

Херман Хесе: "Сонот е скапоцен дар од природата, пријател и скривалиште, волшебник и тивок утешител. Во душата ми е жал за секој човек кој ги познава страдањата на долгите бессони ноќи, за секој кој научил да се задоволи со получасовно трескавично дремење. Меѓутоа, не би можел да сакам човек за кого би знаел дека во својот живот немал ниту една бессона ноќ.
Тој би морал да има детска, чиста и невина душа."

Извадок од книгата Уметноста на слободното време

 

From 'God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater' by Kurt Vonnegut

 

Томас Ман: „Самотијата создава оригиналност, храбра и неверојатна убавина, поезија.
Но, самотијата истовремено ја создава перверзијата, го поттикнуваа непропорционалното, апсурдното и забранетото.“

 

Спаси ме, Боже, од болните луѓе
што се накажани та се криви
нивната злоба умерено суди ја
самите од неа одвај се живи...

Дај, Господе, што помалку очите да им ги бодам,
штом тие лево ќе фатат, јас десно да одам.

Блаже Коневски - Молитва

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Илјада и седимстотин шесдесет и второ лето
в Охрида од Цариграда дошел салаор.
Еј! Дошел салаор.

Се претставил пред Арсенја, наша Патрика честнаго
и му рек'л слово горко, слово жалостно.
Еј! Слово жалостно.

Царска волја е да тргнеш, денеска за Цариграда
на тебе од врли Грци, голем поплак е.
Еј! Голем поплак е.

Собрал патрик свое стадо, в црква свјати Климентова
благослов им дал последен, р'це заплетил.
Еј! Р'це заплетил.

Д'лго време липал старец, в молчење в'сенародно
и по бела брада ронел с'лзи горешти.
Еј! С'лзи горешти.

Слушајте ме мили чеда, јас ќе идам в Цариграда
на мене од врли Грци голем поплак е.
Еј! Голем поплак е.

Грцкиј патрик ќе ни строши, славна Охридска Столица
и мене до смрт ќе држи в заточение
Еј! В заточение.

Ќе прати владици Грци, лицем светци срцем в'лци
ќе ве дават, ќе ве стрижат, ќе м'лзат до крв.
Еј! Ќе молзат до крв.

Меѓу народа ќе сејат, несогласје и раздори,
да се мразат син со татка и со брата брат.
Еј! И со брата брат.

И ќе викнете до Бога, и крило не ќе најдете,
смирени ќе наведете глави доземи.
Еј! Глави до земи.

Ќе ми бидете сираци, така било написано.
Елате ми да ве гушна за последен п'т.
Еј! За последен пат.

Ч'рна т'га поразила, старо, младо, м'жи, жени,
Вси со р'це заплетени с'лзи проливат.
Еј! Солзи поливат.

Тој ги гушка, тие т`жни, му целуват десна р'ка и од р'ка
как' од извор с'лзи се лејат.
Еј! Солзи се лејат.

Вјахнал Патрик брза коња, и неволно уп'тил се.
Тога грмкиј плач народен небо процепил.
Еј! Небо процепил.

Умилил се чесниј Патрик, свалил шапка навезана,
погледал на сино небо, љуто прок'лнал.
Еј! Љуто проколнал:

„Ох! послушај, милиј Боже! Хаир никога да немат
Стамче беј и Бујар Лигдо, Пејко Челеби!
Еј! Пејко Челеби.

Милостивиј Бог послушал, патричка горешча клетва,
слава нихна, семе нихно погубил со шум.
Еј! Погубил со шум.

И сега во куќи нихни, ткае пајак пајачина
и на пусти стрехи нихни хукат хутове.
Еј! Хукат хутове.

Глигор Прличев