Monthly Archives: Veljača 2014

A Leaf

Standardno

Somebody said, in the crowd, last eve,
That you were married, or soon to be.
I have not thought of you, I believe,
Since last we parted. Let me see:
Five long Summers have passed since then –
Each has been pleasant in its own way –
And you are but one of a dozen men
Who have played the suitor a Summer day.

But, nevertheless, when I heard your name,
Coupled with some one’s, not my own,
There burned in my bosom a sudden flame,
That carried me back to the day that is flown.
I was sitting again by the laughing brook,
With you at my feet, and the sky above,
And my heart was fluttering under your look –
The unmistakable look of Love.

Again your breath, like a South wind, fanned
My cheek, where the blushes came and went;
And the tender clasp of your strong, warm hand
Sudden thrills through my pulses sent.
Again you were mine by Love’s decree:
So for a moment it seemed last night,
When somebody mentioned your name to me.

Just for the moment I thought you mine –
Loving me, wooing me, as of old.
The tale remembered seemed half divine –
Though I held it lightly enough when told.
The past seemed fairer than when it was near,
As ‘blessings brighten when taking flight, ’
And just for the moment I held you near –
When somebody mentioned your name last night.

Tumacenje pada

Standardno

Svako je od nas rođenjem donio izvjesnu količinu čistote, kojoj je bilo suđeno da se izopači u dodiru s ljudima, kroz ogrješenje o samoću. Jer svako od nas čini sve što može samo da ne bi ostao prepušten samome sebi. Bližnji nije neizbježnost, već zamka pada. Nesposobni da sačuvamo čiste ruke i neiskvarena srca, mi sebe skrnavimo tuđim iznojavanjima, valjamo se po blatu, željni gadosti i lakomi za kugom, jednoglasno rokćući u brlogu. I kad počnemo da sanjarimo o morima pretvorenim u svetu vodicu, već je odveć kasno da zaplivamo, – prevelika iskvarenost sprječava nas da u njih zaronimo: isuviše je svijet opustošio našu samoću; tuđi tragovi na nama postali su neizbrisivi.
Od svakolikih živih stvorenja jedino čovjek budi postojanu odvratnost. Zazor što ga izaziva životinja prolazan je; on ne dozrijeva u mišljenju, dok bližnji opsijedaju naša razmišljanja, prodiru u mehanizam naše ravnodušnosti prema svijetu da bi nas učvrstili u odbijanju i nepristajanju. Poslije svakog razgovora, u kome istančanost odaje stupanj jedne civilizacije, kako da ne zavapimo za Saharom, kako ne zavidjeti biljkama ili beskrajnim monolozima životinjskog carstva?
Ako je tačno da svakom riječju pobjeđujemo ništavilo, mi time, takođe, sve dublje potpadamo pod njegovu vlast. Umiremo srazmjerno broju riječi koje razbacujemo svuda oko sebe… Oni koji govore nemaju tajni. A svi govorimo. Izdajemo se, krčmimo dušu; svako se, kao dželat neizrecivog, upinje da uništi sve tajne, počev od sopstvenih. Nađemo li se s ljudima, tada se zajednički unišavamo jurišajući prema praznini, bilo time što razmjenjujemo ideje, bilo što se ispovijedamo ili spletkarimo. Radoznalost je izazvala ne samo prvi pad, već i bezbrojna svakodnevna posrtanja. Život i jeste ta nestrpljiva težnja ka padu, ka obeščašćenju djevičanskih samoća duše putem dijaloga, iskonska i svakidašnja negacija Raja. Čovjek bi trebalo da osluškuje jedino sebe u beskrajnoj ekstazi nesaopštive Riječi, te da iskiva riječi za svoje čutnje i stvara zvučne akorde onako kao mu se kad prohtije. Ali, on je vaseljenski brbljivac; on govori u ime drugih; njegovo ja voli prvo lice množine. A onaj ko govori u ime drugih vazda je prevarant. Političari, reformatori i svi oni koji su našli kakav opšti izgovor – varalice su. Jedino laž umjetnika nije potpuna, jer on izmišlja samo sebe. Izuzmu li se tonjenja u nesaopštivo, i govorni zastoji koji dolaze iz nijemih, neutješnih uzbuđenja, život je tek pusta dreka u prostoru bez koordinata, a vaseljena – geometrija pogođena epilepsijom.

 

Kratak pregled raspadanja- Cioran

Mizera

Standardno

Kao oko mrtvaca jednog
sjaje oko našeg vrta bednog,
fenjeri.
Da l noć na tebe svile prospe?
Jesi li se digla među gospe?
Gde si sad Ti?

Voliš li još noću ulice,
kad bludnice i fenjeri stoje
pokisli?
A rage mokre parove vuku,
u kolima, ko u mrtvačkom sanduku,
što škripi.

Da nisi sad negde nasmejana,
bogata i rasejana,
gde smeh vri?
O, nemoj da si topla, cvetna,
O, ne budi, ne budi sretna,
bar ti mi, ti.

O, ne voli, ne voli ništa,
ni knjige, ni pozorišta,
ko učeni.
Kažeš li nekad, iznenada,
u dobrom društvu, još i sada,
na čijoj strani si?

O, da l se sećaš kako smo išli,
sve ulice noću obišli
po kiši?

Sećaš li se, noćne su nam tice
i lopovi, i bludnice,
bili nevini.

Stid nas beše domova cvetnih,
zarekli smo se ostat nesretni,
bar ja i Ti.
U srcu čujem grižu miša,
a pada hladna, sitna kiša.
Gde si sad Ti?

 

Milos Crnjanski

Tulips

Standardno

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 anaesthetist 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 colour,
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 hve 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.

 

Sylvia Plath