A Married Coquette

Sit still, I say, and dispense with heroics!
I hurt your wrists? Well, you have hurt me.
It is time you found out that all men are not stoics,
Nor toys to be used as your mood may be.
I will not let go of your hands, nor leave you
Until I have spoken. No man, you say,
Dared ever so treat you before? I believe you,
For you have dealt only with boys till to-day.

You women lay stress on your fine perception,
Your intuitions are prated about;
You claim an occult sort of conception
Of matters which men must reason out.
So then, of course, when you asked me kindly
‘To call again soon,’ you read my heart.
I cannot believe you were acting blindly;
You saw my passion for you from the start.

You are one of those women who charm without trying;
The clay you are made of is magnet ore,
And I am the steel; yet, there’s no denying
You led me to loving you more and more.
You are fanning a flame that may burn too brightly,
Oft easily kindled, but hard to put out;
I am not a man to be played with lightly,
To come at a gesture and go at a pout.

A brute you call me, a creature inhuman;
You say I insult you, and bid me go.
And you? Oh, you are a saintly woman,
With thoughts as pure as the drifted snow.
Pah! you are but one of a thousand beauties
Who think they are living exemplary lives.
They break no commandments, and do all their duties
As Christian women and spotless wives.

But with drooping of lids, and lifting of faces,
And baring of shoulders, and well-timed sighs,
And the devil knows what other subtle graces,
You are mental wantons, who sin with the eyes.
You lure love to wake, yet bid it keep under,
You tempt us to fall, but bid reason control;
And then you are full of an outraged wonder
When we get to wanting you, body and soul.

Why, look at yourself! You were no stranger
To the fact that my heart was already on fire.
When you asked me to call you knew my danger,
Yet here you are, dressed in the gown I admire;
For half of the evil on earth is invented
By vain, pretty women with nothing to do
But to keep themselves manicured, powdered and scented,
And seek for sensations amusing and new.

But when I play at love at a lady’s commanding,
I always am certain to win one game;
So there-there-there! I will leave my branding
On the lips that are free now to cry ‘Shame, shame!’
You hate me? Quite likely! It does not surprise me.
Brute force? I confess it; but still you were kissed;
And one thing is certain-you cannot despise me
For having been played with, controlled, and dismissed.

And the next time you see that a man is attracted
By the beauty and graces that are not for him,
Don’t lead him on to be half distracted;
Keep out of deep waters although you can swim.
For when he is caught in the whirlpool of passion,
Where many bold swimmers are seen to drown,
A man will reach out and, in desperate fashion,
Will drag whoever is nearest him down.

Though the strings of his heart may be wrenched and riven
By a maiden coquette who has led him along,
She can be pardoned, excused and forgiven,
For innocence blindfolded walks into wrong.
But she who has willingly taken the fetter
That Cupid forges at Hymen’s command-
Well, she is the woman who ought to know better;
She needs no mercy at any man’s hand.

In the game of hearts, though a woman be winner,
The odds are ever against her, you know;
The world is ready to call her a sinner,
And man is ready to make her so.
Shame is likely, and sorrow is certain,
And the man has the best of it, end as it may.
So now, my lady, we’ll drop the curtain,
And put out the lights. We are through with our play.

Zovem se crveno

Čujem vas da pitate: Šta znači biti neka boja?

Boja je dodir oka, muzika za gluhe, riječ u tami.

Budući da desetinama hiljada godina prisluškujem govor duša, koji se kao huka vjetra prenosi iz knjige u knjigu, iz mjesta u mjesto, reći ću da moj dodir liči na dodir anđela.

Jedan dio mene se ovdje obraća vašim očima; on je moja ozbiljna strana. Jedan dio mene leti zrakom nošen vašim pogledima. To je moja vesela strana.

Kako sam tek sretna što sam crvena! Gorim; snažna sam; znam da me primjećuju; i da mi se ne možete suprostaviti.

Ne tajim. Za mene se prefinjenost postiže samo odlučnošću i voljom, a nipošto slabošću i nemoći.

Ističem se. Ne bojim se drugih boja, sjena, gužve ili pak samoće. I kako je divno kada površinu koja me iščekuje ispunim svojom pobjedničkom vatrom!

Gdje se ja širim, tu svjetlucaju oči, bujaju strasti, podižu se obrve, srce se uznemiri. Pogledajte me: kako je samo lijepo živjeti!

Promatrajte me: kako je lijepo moći vidjeti. Pojavljujem se na svakom mjestu. Život počinje sa mnom, meni se sve vraća, vjerujte mi.

Orhan Pamuk- My Name is Red

“I hear the question upon your lips: What is it to be a colour?

Colour is the touch of the eye, music to the deaf, a word out of the darkness. Because I’ve listened to souls whispering – like the susurrus of the wind – from book to book and object to object for tens or thousands of years, allow me to say that my touch resembles the touch of angels. Part of me, the serious half, calls out to your vision while the mirthful half sours through the air with your glances.

I’m so fortunate to be red! I’m fiery. I’m strong. I know men take notice of me and that I cannot be resisted.

I do not conceal myself: For me, delicacy manifests itself neither in weakness nor in subtlety, but through determination and will. So, I draw attention to myself. I’m not afraid of other colours, shadows, crowds or even of loneliness. How wonderful it is to cover a surface that awaits me with my own victorious being! Wherever I’m spread, I see eyes shine, passions increase, eyebrows rise and heartbeats quicken. Behold how wonderful it is to live! Behold how wonderful to see. I am everywhere. Life begins with and returns to me. Have faith in what I tell you.”

Ljubavna sabotaza

Vrhunac surovosti, snijeg.

Snijeg, koji je, koliko god da je bio ruzan i siv kao Grad ventilatora, ipak bio snijeg.

Snijeg, u kojem su moja nepismena napipavanja ugledala sliku ljubavi par excellence, sto zasigurno nije bilo bez razloga.

Snijeg, koji u svom nevinom blazenstvu, nikako nije mogao ostati neduzan.

Snijeg, u kojem sam mogla procitati pitanja od kojih mi je prvo bilo jako vruce, a zatim jako hladno.

Snijeg, prljav i tvrd, koji sam na kraju i jela, u nadi da cu mozda pronaci neki odgovor- uzalud.

Snijeg, razlomljena voda, ledeni pijesak, so- ali ne ovozemaljska, vec sa nebesa, neslana so, s ukusom kremena, s teksturom ribanog dragulja, s mirisom studeni, pigment bjeline, jedina boja koja pada sa oblaka.

Snijeg koji amortizuje sve- zvukove, padove, vrijeme- samo kako bi bolje istakao one vjecne I nepromjenjive stvari, kao sto su krv, svjetlost, iluzije.

Snijeg, prvi papir istorije, po kojem su bili ispisani toliki tragovi koraka, toliko nemilosrdnih potjera, snijeg koji je, dakle, predstavljao prvi oblik knjizevnosti, jednu ogromnu knjigu ispisanu po zemljinoj povrsini, gdje je bilo rijeci samo o tragovima koje slijede lovci, o tragovima neprijatelja, svojevrsna geografska epopeja koja je i najmanjem znaku pridavala vrijednost zagonetke- da li je ovo stopalo pripadalo bratu ili ubici brata?

Od te kilometarske i nedovrsene knjige, koja bi se mogla nazvati Najprostranija knjiga na svijetu, nije nam preostao ni najmanji fragment- nasuprot Aleksandrijskoj biblioteci, svi spisi su se istopili. Ipak, mora da nam je ostala neka daleka reminiscencija, koja ponovo izroni sa svakim novim snijegom, neka vrsta straha pred praznom stranicom, koji izaziva uzasnu zelju da se stupi na jos neistrazeno tle, i koji budi onaj instinkt  citaca tragova, svaki put kada se naidje na tudji trag.

U stvari, snijeg je taj koji je izmislio misteriju. Samim tim, snijeg je izmislio i poeziju, uru, znak pitanja- i tu veliku igru traganja, ljubav.

Snijeg, lazni samrtni pokrov, veliki prazni ideogram, u kojem sam odgonetala beskraj osjecanja koje sam zeljela da poklonim svojoj voljenoj.

Mene nije zanimalo da saznam da li je moja nedokuciva zelja bila cista ili necista.

Znala sam samo da je snijeg Elenu cinio samo jos vise neodoljivom, misteriju samo jos uzbudljivijom, a uputstvo kojeg sam se pridrzavala samo jos nepodnosljivijim. 

Nikada se za proljecem nije toliko zudilo.

Eleven Minutes

I’ve met a man and fallen in love with him. I allowed myself to fall in love for one simple reason: I’m not expecting anything to come of it. I know that, in three months’ time, I’ll be far away and he’ll be just a memory, but I couldn’t stand living without love any longer; I had reached my limit…
Generally speaking, these meetings occur when we reach a limit, when we need to die and be reborn emotionally. These meeting are waiting for us, but more often than not, we avoid them happening. If we are desperate, though, if we have nothing to lose, or if we are full of enthusiasm for life, then the unknown reveals itself, and our universe changes directions.

Pushkin- Under the Blue Skies

Under the blue skies of her native land
She languished and began to fade…
Until surely there flew without a sound
Above me, her young shade;

But there stretches between us an uncrossable line.
In vain my feelings I tried to awaken.
The lips that brought the news were made of stone,
And I listened like a stone, unshaken.

So this is she for whom my soul once burned
In the tense and heavy fire,
Obsessed, exhausted, driven out of my mind
By tenderness and desire!

Where are the torments? Where is love? Alas!
For the unreturning days’
Sweet memory, and for the poor credulous
Shade, I find no lament, no tears.

William Butler Yeats- Ephemera

‘Your eyes that once were never weary of mine
Are bowed in sotrow under pendulous lids,
Because our love is waning.’
And then She:
‘Although our love is waning, let us stand
By the lone border of the lake once more,
Together in that hour of gentleness
When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.
How far away the stars seem, and how far
Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!’
Pensive they paced along the faded leaves,
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:
‘Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.’
The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves
Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once
A rabbit old and lame limped down the path;
Autumn was over him:  and now they stood
On the lone border of the lake once more:
Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves
Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes,
In bosom and hair.
‘Ah, do not mourn,’ he said,
‘That we are tired, for other loves await us;
Hate on and love through unrepining hours.
Before us lies eternity; our souls
Are love, and a continual farewell.’

Coco Chanel

It’s probably not just by chance that I’m alone.  It would be very hard for a man to live with me, unless he’s terribly strong.  And if he’s stronger than I, I’m the one who can’t live with him… I’m neither smart nor stupid, but I don’t think I’m a run-of-the-mill person.  I’ve been in business without being a businesswoman, I’ve loved without being a woman made only for love.  The two men I’ve loved, I think, will remember me, on earth or in heaven, because men always remember a woman who caused them concern and uneasiness. I’ve done my best, in regard to people and to life, without precepts, but with a taste for justice.

Eckhart Tolle- Nova Zemlja

Otkrivanje unutrasnjeg prostora

Po staroj Sufi prici, u jednoj zemlji na Bliskom istoku zivio je jedan kralj, koji je uvijek bio razapet izmedju osjecanja srece i ocajanja. I najmanja stvar bi ga uznemirila ili izazvala snaznu reakciju i njegova bi se sreca brzo pretvorila u razocarenje i ocaj. Doslo je vrijeme kada se kralj umorio i od sebe i od zivota, kada je poceo da trazi izlaz iz te situacije. Naredio je da mu se dovede mudrac iz njegovog kraljevstva, koji je bio poznat kao prosvijetljen covjek. Kada je mudrac dosao, kralj mu rece: ”Zelim da budem poput tebe. Da li mozes da mi das nesto sto ce mi donijeti ravnotezu, smirenost i mudrost? Platicu koliko kazes.”

Mudrac mu odgovori: ”Mozda cu i moci da vam pomognem, ali cijena je tolika da ni cijelo vase kraljevstvo nece biti dovoljno. Stoga neka to bude poklon za vas ako cete ga prihvatiti.” Kralj je pristao i mudrac je otisao.

Vratio se nekoliko nedelja kasnije i poklonio kralju ukrasenu kutiju od zada. Kralj ju je otvorio i u njoj pronasao jednostavni zlatni prsten. Nesto je bilo urezano na njemu. Natpis je glasio: I ovo ce proci. ”Sta znaci ovo?”, upitao je kralj. Mudrac je odgovorio: ”Nosite uvijek ovaj prsten. Sto god da se desi, prije nego sto to nazovete dobrim ili losim, dodirnite prsten i procitajte to sto je urezano. Tako cete uvijek osjecati mir.” 

Bukowski

Something For The Touts, The Nuns, The Grocery Clerks, And You . . .

We have everything and we have nothing and some men do it in churches and some men do it by tearing butterflies in half and some men do it in Palm Springs laying it into butterblondes with Cadillac souls Cadillacs and butterflies nothing and everything, the face melting down to the last puff in a cellar in Corpus Christi. There’s something for the touts, the nuns, the grocery clerks and you . . . something at 8 a.m., something in the library something in the river, everything and nothing. In the slaughterhouse it comes running along the ceiling on a hook, and you swing it – one two three and then you’ve got it, $200 worth of dead meat, its bones against your bones something and nothing. It’s always early enough to die and it’s always too late, and the drill of blood in the basin white it tells you nothing at all and the gravediggers playing poker over 5 a.m. Coffee, waiting for the grass to dismiss the frost . . . they tell you nothing at all.
We have everything and we have nothing – days with glass edges and the impossible stink of river moss – worse than shit; checkerboard days of moves and countermoves, fagged interest, with as much sense in defeat as in victory; slow days like mules humping it slagged and sullen and sun-glazed up a road where a madman sits waiting among bluejays and wrens netted in and sucked a flakey grey. Good days too of wine and shouting, fights in alleys, fat legs of women striving around your bowels buried in moans, the signs in bullrings like diamonds hollering Mother Capri, violets coming out of the ground telling you to forget the dead armies and the loves that robbed you. Days when children say funny and brilliant things like savages trying to send you a message through their bodies while their bodies are still alive enough to transmit and feel and run up and down without locks and paychecks and ideals and possessions and beetle-like opinions. Days when you can cry all day long in a green room with the door locked, days when you can laugh at the breadman because his legs are too long, days of looking at hedges . . .
and nothing, and nothing, the days of the bosses, yellow men with bad breath and big feet, men who look like frogs, hyenas, men who walk as if melody had never been invented, men who think it is intelligent to hire and fire and profit, men with expensive wives they possess like 60 acres of ground to be drilled or shown-off or to be walled away from the incompetent, men who’d kill you because they’re crazy and justify it because it’s the law, men who stand in front of windows 30 feet wide and see nothing, men with luxury yachts who can sail around the world and yet never get out of their vest pockets, men like snails, men like eels, men like slugs, and not as good . . . and nothing, getting your last paycheck at a harbor, at a factory, at a hospital, at an aircraft plant, at a penny arcade, at a barbershop, at a job you didn’t want anyway. Income tax, sickness, servility, broken arms, broken heads — all the stuffing come out like an old pillow.
We have everything and we have nothing. Some do it well enough for a while and then give way. Fame gets them or disgust or age or lack of proper diet or ink across the eyes or children in college or new cars or broken backs while skiing in Switzerland or new politics or new wives or just natural change and decay – the man you knew yesterday hooking for ten rounds or drinking for three days and three nights by the Sawtooth mountains now just something under a sheet or a cross or a stone or under an easy delusion, or packing a bible or a golf bag or a briefcase: how they go, how they go! – all the ones you thought would never go.
Days like this. like your day today. Maybe the rain on the window trying to get through to you. What do you see today? What is it? Where are you? The best days are sometimes the first, sometimes the middle and even sometimes the last. The vacant lots are not bad, churches in Europe on postcards are not bad. People in wax museums frozen into their best sterility are not bad, horrible but not bad. The cannon, think of the cannon, and toast for breakfast the coffee hot enough you know your tongue is still there, three geraniums outside a window, trying to be red and trying to be pink and trying to be geraniums, no wonder sometimes the women cry, no wonder the mules don’t want to go up the hill. Are you in a hotel room in Detroit looking for a cigarette? One more good day. A little bit of it. And as the nurses come out of the building after their shift, having had enough, eight nurses with different names and different places to go – walking across the lawn, some of them want cocoa and a paper, some of them want a hot bath, some of them want a man, some of them are hardly thinking at all. Enough and not enough. Arcs and pilgrims, oranges gutters, ferns, antibodies, boxes of tissue paper.
In the most decent sometimes sun there is the softsmoke feeling from urns and the canned sound of old battleplanes and if you go inside and run your finger along the window ledge you’ll find dirt, maybe even earth. And if you look out the window there will be the day, and as you get older you’ll keep looking

keep looking

sucking your tongue

in a little ah ah  

no no  

maybe
some do it naturally

some obscenely

everywhere.