Monthly Archives: Ožujak 2016

Quia Multum Amavi


Dear Heart I think the young impassioned priest
When first he takes from out the hidden shrine
His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,
And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine,

Feels not such awful wonder as I felt
When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee,
And all night long before thy feet I knelt
Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.

Ah! had’st thou liked me less and loved me more,
Through all those summer days of joy and rain,
I had not now been sorrow’s heritor,
Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.

Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced seneschal
Tread on my heels with all his retinue,
I am most glad I loved thee—think of all
The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!


Oscar Wilde

Flower of Love


Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault
was, had I not been made of common clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed
yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had
struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled
with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the
kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on
that verdant and enamelled mead.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw
the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,
as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned
me, who am crownless now and without name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling
on the threshold of the House of Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the
oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the
lyre’s strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out
the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,
clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms
brush the burnished bosom of the dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would
have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion,
known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as
we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by
the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered
petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you – ah!
what else had I a boy to do, –
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the
silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and
when once the storm of youth is past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death
the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure,
for the blindworm battens on the root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree
of Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you?
God’s own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an
argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my
poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better
than the poet’s crown of bays.


Oscar Wilde


Proza neuroza

Prostor između nas ima nešto radoznalosti
nedorečenost visi kao slepi miševi
i čeka pogodan mrak
i kroz sve pulsira metronom
Jedan takt tebi pa jedan meni
i mi lažemo
A bilo je jasno na početku
da nemamo šta da izgubimo
i zbog čega bi lagali
U tom duhu
podmećemo iskrenosti koje nisu važne
i pažljivo krijemo decu kad istrče da se igraju
Previše liče na nas ali bi lako mogla biti i tuđa
Odazivaju se poslušno na različita imena

Ne bojimo se jedno drugog
i opreznost je tu iz navike
Ona je kao staro poznanstvo
Takvi smi i mi
i ličimo na pogrešnim mestima
Nećemo ostaviti tragove krvi
i sve reči među nama
bi mogle biti i negde drugo

Prostor između nas nema budućnosti
koja dovlači nameštaj i ljude da ga popune
Ona sve brzo pretrpa
tvojim stvarima mojim stvarima
detaljima i velikim planovima
i okači svoje…

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self-congratulatory nonsense as the
famous gather to applaud their seeming
wonder where
the real ones are
giant cave
hides them
the deathly talentless
bow to
the fools are
wonder where
the real ones are
if there are
real ones.
self-congratulatory nonsense
has lasted
with some exceptions
this ‘ br’is so dreary
is so absolutely pitiless
churns the gut to
shackles hope
makes little things
pulling up a shade
putting on your shoes
walking out on the street
more difficult
the famous gather to
applaud their
the fools are
you sick


Henry Charles Bukowski

Ljubavna se barka o stijenu razbila


Već prođe jedan. I sigurno si legla.

Ko srebrna oka Mliječni put noć studi.

Ne žuri mi se. I munja-telegram

nema zbog čega da plaši te i budi.

Kao što kažu, incident je riješen.

Ljubavna barka o stvarnost se zdrobi.

Mi smo prečistili. I što da se driješe

uzajamne boli, uvrede i kobi.

Pogledaj samo kakav je mir nad svijetom.

Noć zvjezdanim sjajem nebesa skroz osu.

U taj čas odustaješ da protumačiš sve to

istoriji, vijekovima i kosmosu.


Vladimir Majakovski

consummation of grief


I even hear the mountains
the way they laugh
up and down their blue sides
and down in the water
the fish cry
and the water
is their tears.
I listen to the water
on nights I drink away
and the sadness becomes so great
I hear it in my clock
it becomes knobs upon my dresser
it becomes paper on the floor
it becomes a shoehorn
a laundry ticket
it becomes
cigarette smoke
climbing a chapel of dark vines. . .
it matters little
very little love is not so bad
or very little life
what counts
is waiting on walls
I was born for this
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.


Henry Charles Bukowski