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And if I pray, the only prayer That moves my lips for me Is —"Leave the heart that now I bear, And give me liberty."

Emily Bronte (1818-1848)

U mračnim ulicamanema ko da čuje trk kroz pubertetnežnu lomljavu bora oko usanasvaki osmeh traje 12 danasvako malo suncenestaje u kutiji za šećerožiljci su polja ružana sanjivoj koži maturske večeripa ipakjug je još uvek divaljpod anestezijom krivicepapirno nebo industrijskog gradagori nezaboravnom vatrommitske slikebesmislene klanice snovaliče na krvavu džigericu u prašinimoja nova igračka zove se TVdok grlim prošloststereo je svedoki ne pričaj mio čežnji za medicinskim sestramai njihovim dugim plavim kosamai priznajda li se nekad osećaš kao Isusov sinkoji traži izgubljeni luksuzuz tvistmrtvi mogu plesati nebeski valcerrežim i suzavaczeleno na crvenomjednom sam pitao:a gde spava doručak?jednom sam vodio ljubav sa sumo lepoticomjednom sam našao utehu na velikom talasu konfetajednom sam sporo, sporo kao moronotpakivao Marlboro, pripaljivaoi duvao dim u prolećni danZvonko Karanovic

1772Ne daj da žeđam dok Vino na usni nosim,Ni da s Kraljevstvom u svome džepu - prosimEmily Dickinson

540Krenuh protiv svijeta kad samMoć u Rukama osjetila -Ne tako jaka - kao David -Ali sam dvaput smjelija bila -I bacila sam svoj Oblutak -Ali jedino - ja sam pala -Je li Golijat - prevelik bio -Ili ja sama - bjeh premala?

PRAHEvo praha koji se seća da je nekada bio ružau kosi neke žene.Evo praha koji se seća da je nekada bio ženasa ružom u kosi.O vi što ste nekada bili prah, o čemu sada sanjatei čega se još sećate iz onih davnih dana?Sandberg

IKONAVidim li koju ženutebi da liči:u mantilu pepeljastom i sivom šeširudešava se na ulici da zastanem.I mada znamodavno već da trunešpomislim: možda si ti.Inače, ti znašu Boga nismo verovalini ja ni ti.I zaista nema to sa njim vezešto želimpred slikom tvojom kandilo da palim.Risto Ratkovic (1903 - 1954)

Čudo jedno kol’ko smo potrebni jedni drugima.Recimo, Bobi, moj najmlađi sin, što stalno pravigužvu.Svira ti taj u gitaru, i peva, i sve tako.Voli da uzme tanjir i da večera samna tremu ispred kuće. „Roberte Frenkline, zarbaš nikadne možeš da večeraš sa svojom porodicom?“„Zaboga, mama,pa znaš da se udvaram zalasku sunca.“Udvara se zalasku sunca! Ma, jesi l’ ikad čuo takvuglupost?Činilo nam se zato – neće od njega biti niko iništa.K’o što bi rek’o stari: „Bogme, taj nije na mene ina moje!“A onda je jedne večeri sneg poč’o tako gadno da vejeda smo svi bili na tri ćoška, sve smo se neštokoškali oko sitnica,kad nas Bobi pozva u dnevnu sobu. I poče ti tajmomak da peva i da svira,Bogovski! Da peva o zalasku sunca, i oČiči Baksuzu što ima da se pakuje i da se tornja izkuće.Ni pet ni šest! I da znaš, niko od nasnikada neće zaboraviti kako nas je taj momakpozv’oda svi dođemo u dnevnu sobu, te večerikada je bilo tako hladno da nas je i sam vetarnazivao crnjama.Čudo jedno kol’ko smo potrebni jedni drugima.

Craig Mott, za Lengstona Hjuza

Koračam bosa tvojim tragomPriljubljujem usne uz tvoju praznu čašuU tvom odelu tražim odlutalu toplotuPogledom dotičem sve što si ti gledaoIspisujem ti ime izgovaram ga tihoBlagosiljam dane kad čuvaš svoje zdravljePonavljam sve mazne reči koje smo ikad rekliSećam se zaveta tvojih očijuTvoj se poslednji dodir još ne odvaja od meneSa svakim danom se suočavam umorna srca tromih noguTo što smo razdvojeni pola mi odnosi snageA ostatak mi treba da bih te sačekala.

Sara Kerolin Ris

PROSTORupa u oblacima. Plavalinija planina.Tamnožuta polja.Crna reka. Šta ja radim tu,usamljen i ispunjen kajanjem?Nastavljam uzgred jedući iz zdeles maslinama. Da sam mrtav,podsećam sebe, ne bih ihjeo. Nije to tako prosto.A tako je prosto.

Rejmond Karver

Живи песакДемони и дивоте,ветрови и осеке.Далеко већ се повукло море.А ти,као алга благо милована ветром,у живом песку постеље не мирујеш сањајућидемоне и дивоте,ветрове и осеке.Да, далеко се повукло море,док су у твојим полуотвореним очимазаостала два мала таласа,демони и дивоте,ветрови и осеке,два таласа мала да ме потопе.

Edited April 20, 201015 yr by Eladan

robert...

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By the fireI.How well I know what I mean to doWhen the long dark autumn-evenings come:And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue?With the music of all thy voices, dumbIn life's November too!II.I shall be found by the fire, suppose,O'er a great wise book as beseemeth age,While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blowsAnd I turn the page, and I turn the page,Not verse now, only prose!III.Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip,``There he is at it, deep in Greek:``Now then, or never, out we slip``To cut from the hazels by the creek``A mainmast for our ship!''IV.I shall be at it indeed, my friends:Greek puts already on either sideSuch a branch-work forth as soon extendsTo a vista opening far and wide,And I pass out where it ends.V.The outside-frame, like your hazel-trees:But the inside-archway widens fast,And a rarer sort succeeds to these,And we slope to Italy at lastAnd youth, by green degrees.VI.I follow wherever I am led,Knowing so well the leader's hand:Oh woman-country, wooed not wed,Loved all the more by earth's male-lands,Laid to their hearts instead!VII.Look at the ruined chapel againHalf-way up in the Alpine gorge!Is that a tower, I point you plain,Or is it a mill, or an iron-forgeBreaks solitude in vain?VIII.A turn, and we stand in the heart of things:The woods are round us, heaped and dim;From slab to slab how it slips and springs,The thread of water single and slim,Through the ravage some torrent brings!IX.Does it feed the little lake below?That speck of white just on its margeIs Pella; see, in the evening-glow,How sharp the silver spear-heads chargeWhen Alp meets heaven in snow!X.On our other side is the straight-up rock;And a path is kept 'twixt the gorge and itBy boulder-stones where lichens mockThe marks on a moth, and small ferns fitTheir teeth to the polished block.XI.Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers,And thorny balls, each three in one,The chestnuts throw on our path in showers!For the drop of the woodland fruit's begun,These early November hours,XII.That crimson the creeper's leaf acrossLike a splash of blood, intense, abrupt,O'er a shield else gold from rim to boss,And lay it for show on the fairy-cuppedElf-needled mat of moss,XIII.By the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulgedLast evening---nay, in to-day's first dewYon sudden coral nipple bulged,Where a freaked fawn-coloured flaky crewOf toadstools peep indulged.XIV.And yonder, at foot of the fronting ridgeThat takes the turn to a range beyond,Is the chapel reached by the one-arched bridgeWhere the water is stopped in a stagnant pondDanced over by the midge.XV.The chapel and bridge are of stone alike,Blackish-grey and mostly wet;Cut hemp-stalks steep in the narrow dyke.See here again, how the lichens fretAnd the roots of the ivy strike!XVI.Poor little place, where its one priest comesOn a festa-day, if he comes at all,To the dozen folk from their scattered homes,Gathered within that precinct smallBy the dozen ways one roams---XVII.To drop from the charcoal-burners' huts,Or climb from the hemp-dressers' low shed,Leave the grange where the woodman stores his nuts,Or the wattled cote where the fowlers spreadTheir gear on the rock's bare juts.XVIII.It has some pretension too, this front,With its bit of fresco half-moon-wiseSet over the porch, Art's early wont:'Tis John in the Desert, I surmise,But has borne the weather's brunt---XIX.Not from the fault of the builder, though,For a pent-house properly projectsWhere three carved beams make a certain show,Dating---good thought of our architect's---'Five, six, nine, he lets you know.XX.And all day long a bird sings there,And a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times;The place is silent and aware;It has had its scenes, its joys and crimes,But that is its own affair.XXI.My perfect wife, my Leonor,Oh heart, my own, oh eyes, mine too,Whom else could I dare look backward for,With whom beside should I dare pursueThe path grey heads abhor?XXII.For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them;Youth, flowery all the way, there stops---Not they; age threatens and they contemn,Till they reach the gulf wherein youth drops,One inch from life's safe hem!XXIII.With me, youth led... I will speak now,No longer watch you as you sitReading by fire-light, that great browAnd the spirit-small hand propping it,Mutely, my heart knows how---XXIV.When, if I think but deep enough,You are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme;And you, too, find without rebuffResponse your soul seeks many a timePiercing its fine flesh-stuff.XXV.My own, confirm me! If I treadThis path back, is it not in prideTo think how little I dreamed it ledTo an age so blest that, by its side,Youth seems the waste instead?XXVI.My own, see where the years conduct!At first, 'twas something our two soulsShould mix as mists do; each is suckedIn each now: on, the new stream rolls,Whatever rocks obstruct.XXVII.Think, when our one soul understandsThe great Word which makes all things new,When earth breaks up and heaven expands,How will the change strike me and youln the house not made with hands?XXVIII.Oh I must feel your brain prompt mine,Your heart anticipate my heart,You must be just before, in fine,See and make me see, for your part,New depths of the divine!XXIX.But who could have expected thisWhen we two drew together firstJust for the obvious human bliss,To satisfy life's daily thirstWith a thing men seldom miss?XXX.Come back with me to the first of all,Let us lean and love it over again,Let us now forget and now recall,Break the rosary in a pearly rain,And gather what we let fall!XXXI.What did I say?---that a small bird singsAll day long, save when a brown pairOf hawks from the wood float with wide wingsStrained to a bell: 'gainst noon-day glareYou count the streaks and rings.XXXII.But at afternoon or almost eve'Tis better; then the silence growsTo that degree, you half believeIt must get rid of what it knows,Its bosom does so heave.XXXIII.Hither we walked then, side by side,Arm in arm and cheek to cheek,And still I questioned or replied,While my heart, convulsed to really speak,Lay choking in its pride.XXXIV.Silent the crumbling bridge we cross,And pity and praise the chapel sweet,And care about the fresco's loss,And wish for our souls a like retreat,And wonder at the moss.XXXV.Stoop and kneel on the settle under,Look through the window's grated square:Nothing to see! For fear of plunder,The cross is down and the altar bare,As if thieves don't fear thunder.XXXVI.We stoop and look in through the grate,See the little porch and rustic door,Read duly the dead builder's date;Then cross the bridge that we crossed before,Take the path again---but wait!XXXVII.Oh moment, one and infinite!The water slips o'er stock and stone;The West is tender, hardly bright:How grey at once is the evening grown---One star, its chrysolite!XXXVIII.We two stood there with never a third,But each by each, as each knew well:The sights we saw and the sounds we heard,The lights and the shades made up a spellTill the trouble grew and stirred.XXXIX.Oh, the little more, and how much it is!And the little less, and what worlds away!How a sound shall quicken content to bliss,Or a breath suspend the blood's best play,And life be a proof of this!XL.Had she willed it, still had stood the screenSo slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her:I could fix her face with a guard between,And find her soul as when friends confer,Friends---lovers that might have been.XLI.For my heart had a touch of the woodland-time,Wanting to sleep now over its best.Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime,But bring to the Iast leaf no such test!``Hold the last fast!'' runs the rhyme.XLII.For a chance to make your little much,To gain a lover and lose a friend,Venture the tree and a myriad such,When nothing you mar but the year can mend:But a last leaf---fear to touch!XLIII.Yet should it unfasten itself and fallEddying down till it find your faceAt some slight wind---best chance of all!Be your heart henceforth its dwelling-placeYou trembled to forestall!XLIV.Worth how well, those dark grey eyes,That hair so dark and dear, how worthThat a man should strive and agonize,And taste a veriest hell on earthFor the hope of such a prize!XIIV.You might have turned and tried a man,Set him a space to weary and wear,And prove which suited more your plan,His best of hope or his worst despair,Yet end as he began.XLVI.But you spared me this, like the heart you are,And filled my empty heart at a word.If two lives join, there is oft a scar,They are one and one, with a shadowy third;One near one is too far.XLVII.A moment after, and hands unseenWere hanging the night around us fastBut we knew that a bar was broken betweenLife and life: we were mixed at lastIn spite of the mortal screen.XLVIII.The forests had done it; there they stood;We caught for a moment the powers at play:They had mingled us so, for once and good,Their work was done---we might go or stay,They relapsed to their ancient mood.XLIX.How the world is made for each of us!How all we perceive and know in itTends to some moment's product thus,When a soul declares itself---to wit,By its fruit, the thing it doesL.Be hate that fruit or love that fruit,It forwards the general deed of man,And each of the Many helps to recruitThe life of the race by a general plan;Each living his own, to boot.LI.I am named and known by that moment's feat;There took my station and degree;So grew my own small life complete,As nature obtained her best of me---One born to love you, sweet!LII.And to watch you sink by the fire-side nowBack again, as you mutely sitMusing by fire-light, that great browAnd the spirit-small hand propping it,Yonder, my heart knows how!LIII.So, earth has gained by one man the more,And the gain of earth must be heaven's gain too;And the whole is well worth thinking o'erWhen autumn comes: which I mean to doOne day, as I said before.

i elizabeth.

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A Woman's ShortcomingsShe has laughed as softly as if she sighed,She has counted six, and over,Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried -Oh, each a worthy lover!They "give her time"; for her soul must slipWhere the world has set the grooving;She will lie to none with her fair red lip:But love seeks truer loving.She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb,As her thoughts were beyond recalling;With a glance for one, and a glance for some,From her eyelids rising and falling;Speaks common words with a blushful air,Hears bold words, unreproving;But her silence says - what she never will swear -And love seeks better loving.Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar,And drop a smile to the bringer;Then smile as sweetly, when he is far,At the voice of an in-door singer.Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes;Glance lightly, on their removing;And join new vows to old perjuries -But dare not call it loving!Unless you can think, when the song is done,No other is soft in the rhythm;Unless you can feel, when left by One,That all men else go with him;Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath,That your beauty itself wants proving;Unless you can swear "For life, for death!" -Oh, fear to call it loving!Unless you can muse in a crowd all dayOn the absent face that fixed you;Unless you can love, as the angels may,With the breadth of heaven betwixt you;Unless you can dream that his faith is fast,Through behoving and unbehoving;Unless you can die when the dream is past -Oh, never call it loving!

poz

Mačak i pticaCelo selo sa bolom slušacijuk ranjene ptice.Beše to jedina ptica u selui jedini mačak u selukoji je eto, na pola smaza.Ptica prestade da peva,mačak prestade da predei da oblizuje brkove.Selo učini pticivelelepan pogreb.Mačak koji je takodje pozvan,gazi iza majušnog slamanog kovčegau kome počiva telo mrtve ptice.Devojčica nosi kovčegridajući neutešno."Da sam znao da će te to toliko rastužiti",kaže joj mačak,"Smazao bih je celu...I onda bih ti ispričaoda sam je video kako je odletela,odletela na kraj sveta daleko,daleeeko, tako daleko,da više ne može ni da se vrati.Ti ne bi osetila toliki bolveć samo tugu i žaljenje."Vidiš stvari nikada ne treba uraditi napola.Žak prever

Воштане фигурице у низу

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Из збирке :"Куда ћеш" Раденка Настића

U MEĐUVREMENUNa svu sreću, ja ti ne mogu pomoćiI umoran sam od traženja rešenja,Koje je uvek na dohvatu naših kratkih ruku.I prolazi vreme, ruke nam jačaju,Ali ne rastu.A da zakoračiš?Ne, ne smeš prva,A ja ne mogu biti ispred tebe.Da krenemo skupa?Ko bi se toga setio?Ne kradi mi međuvreme,Ako vec ne osećaš svoje.Postaću hladan i promeniću se,Ali kad-tad ću eksplodirati.Ko će da skuplja parčiće? Ti?Pa ti ne možeš da me skupiš ni sastavljenog.Ne kradi mi međuvreme.Ono nije naše.Ono je moje.I nije izmedju nas.Ono je izmedju mene i mene.Ne kradi mi međuvreme,Bojim se - upašćeš u njega.Ne kradi mi sebe od mene,Budalo glupa.Postaćeš međuvremeI ostaćeš zauvek, sa mnom bez mene.Mika Antić

Kakva pizdarija!!Plač Matere ČovekoveDanas je nesrećan dan sinuo,i prvi mu je pogled pao na bedu:najbližu njemu, u tihom predgrađu,jedna je Majka rasplela kosu sedu,jer joj je sin preminuo.Danas je umro jedan Čovek,i Majka mu je vriskala:Oh, kada Čovek nije Čovek,već rob Nekog, koga nema,od koga sam do juče milost iskala;oh, kada je čovek gori nego crv, ─neka se raspe po zemlji anathema,i neka se prolije sva crvena krv! . . .Oh, Sine, moj dobri Sine!Otac ti nije Sveti Duh,ni Drvodelja sa livanskih puta.Sine, ti si plod dve neme žudnjei jednog besvesnog minuta.Nisam te rodila u jaslama,već u krvavoj postelji,između četiri vlažna duvarajednog šarenog, zamrzlog januara.Sine, tebi su i meni reklida smo robovi,i naša su srca bez milosti sekli,i našu su snagu bez milosti razvlačili.I sve su nam uvek tumačilida se setimoda to bog tako želi!Rođeni, mrtvi Sine, bog je laž,i naši su ga dušmani izumeli.Ustani, Sine, da se svetimo,da krvlju vekovnih namesnika bogaposvetimo forume Rima,i da kopljem ponovo probodemo rebroUčitelju iz Jerusalima.Da iskopamo Judino srebro,i da na tome svetom mestupodignemo Čoveku hram,i da dovedemo u hram našu Novu Vestukoja će sebe iskreno dati.Ustani, Sine, da grozne lažikoje se rađaju u ime Oca i Sina,sahrane Sin i Mati . . .Danas je umro jedan čovek,i zalud je Majka sede kose čupalai u grudi se lupala, ─nije se probudio.Onda ga je sama okupalai obukla ga u crno.I u dnu svoga vrta, o ponoći,sama ga je sahranila.I tužna se majka Čovekovatu, pored groba, nastanila . . .

Edited May 25, 201015 yr by Mp40