Činilo se da je to život kakav smo hteli.

Divlje jagode sa šlagom ujutro.

Sunčev sjaj u svakoj sobi.

Nas dvoje šetamo pored mora goli.

Nekih večeri, ipak, zaticali smo se

Nesigurni u to što sledi.

Kao tragični glumci zapaljenog teatra,

S pticama što kruže oko naše glave,

Tamni borovi čudesno mirni,

Svaki kamen na koji smo stali krvario je sutonom.

Ponovo smo na svojoj terasi pijuckali vino.

Zašto uvek taj nagoveštaj nesrećnog kraja?

Oblaci sa skoro ljudskim obličjem

Kupe se na horizontu, ali ostalo divno

S vazduhom tako blagim i neuzburkanim morem.

Noć iznenada nad nama, noć bezzvezdana.

Ti pališ sveću, nosiš je gola

U našu sobu i gasiš brzo.

Tamni borovi i trave čudesno mirni.

— Charles Simić

Nešto mi ne ide zadivljenost njenom poezijom...ne pomera me.

Samo mi se u dušu urezala predstava "Deca radosti".

ovaj me prati 😂

ili ja njega, ne znam, al stalno se srećemo :)

https://www.rts.rs/lat/radio/radio-beograd-3/5937700/stihovi-gorana-babica.html

sjajno

---

Ognjenka Lakićević

Tomaž Šalamun: Imendan

imam konja. konj ima četiri noge.

imam gramofon. na gramofonu spavam.

imam brata. moj brat je vajar.

imam kaput. kaput imam da mi nije hladno.

imam biljku. biljku imam zato da je u sobi zelenilo.

imam marušku. marušku imam jer je volim.

imam šibice. šibicama pripaljujem cigarete.

imam telo. telom radim najlepše stvari što ih činim.

imam destrukciju. destrukcija mi pričinjava gomilu teškoća.

imam noć. noć mi dolazi kroz prozor u sobu.

imam naklonost prema automobilskim trkama. iz naklonosti prema automobilskim trkama trkam se automobilima.

imam novac. novcem kupujem hleb.

imam šest zaista dobrih pesama. nadam se da ću ih napisati još više.

imam dvadeset i sedam godina. sve ove godine su prošle kao munja.

imam relativno dosta hrabrosti. tom hrabrošću se borim protiv ljudske gluposti.

imam imendan sedmog marta. biću radostan ako sedmog marta bude lep dan.

imam malu prijateljicu bredicu. uveče kad je stave u krevet kaže šalamun i zaspi.

Poetry London

THE DISCOVERY OF NEPTUNE BY JOHN COUCH ADAMS, 1845 (3rd p...

Imagine it thus:

a ballroom full of ash and one speck moves.

It is not clearly to be seen, yet it whispers still.

I dreamed it, Your Majesty – that is how I knew.

I am heavy with the roundness of its birth. It kicks me.

Forgive me, for I babble.

II

I was born in Saltash, Your Majesty, a place you have not visited.

… from a tin-mining family, and I

from furlongs underground have won you a new planet,

orbed and imperial.

They would have been proud.

III

Prizeman, Sizar, Wrangler.

… Pronounced ‘Cooch’ Your Majesty.

… It is what Cambridge calls mathematicians

to keep dogs and commoners hence.

Saltash is but a village where the air

withers and turns grey.

IV

I once fell asleep, Your Majesty,

and my bookcase fell on me yet I slept on.

They say my head is uncommonly flat

and that I taste numbers.

V

Saltash. It is near Plymouth,

also, I understand, ungraced by your presence.

I heard it, I assure you.

It presses through the unseen.

… through precession, my sovereign. I beg you

do not ask me to explain.

Since you enquire – if Your Majesty

were to reign another hundred years

and take a carriage without pause each day of your reign

at the fastest speed eight horses could draw

you would not reach it, Your Majesty,

Besides, it is somewhat cold.

VI

Imagine it thus:

A core of diamonds

shining upon shining, an empire of chandeliers.

Crown it, crown it, for the day grows long

and your Neptune rides through the tin mines my sovereign

and glows with a faint orange-yellow light

on my father, his dead father,

and loves me.

Bolds su moji, pokidao je sve ali neki delovi su da istovremeno zaplaćeš, nasmeješ se i sanjaš. Ozbiljan igrač.

О проклета да си улицо риге од фере
и проклет да је час љубави нагле
после ког те милицајци као звере
угинуло
односе из градског блата
кроз ужасне
светске магле

Милицајци умној патњи нестасали
све брђани кршни орни да претуку
нас који смо низ улице попадали
и све који
сустанули
ко пса
срце своје вуку

Па ме баце у подруме као врећу репе хмеља
шкљоцне брава као иза џепароша лудог брата
па у души зледуха се јавне жеља
никад да се не отворе
тешка
врата

Глава пуна димничара поленовог праха славе
на песницу увежбану паде клону
са усана по бетону попадаше љубичице плаве
сви трепети
у том трену
утихнуше
све
потону

Пред судију изводе те дан кад сване
пред судију избријаног ухрањеног окупаног друга
буди човек на свлачи се на показуј ране
у том недостојном часу
буди башта у мостару
буди
светлост
југа

Буди вишња кад процвета буди шума после кише
и пужеви рогове кад пусте нежне
буди крчаг врућег млека па да дечја замирише
соба
буди птица што долеће
из далеkе земље
снежне
све буди пре
гроба

Не љути се на судију и пресуду смешну
ти си ватра на пољани коју деца ложе
па забога љубио си једну лепу жену неутешну
и сад
можеш
ако треба
и без своје
коже

Не љути се на судију и пресуду смешну
имао си лаких крила пуне штале
па забога љубио си једну стварно лепу жену грешну
и сад мораш
низ потоке
низ орлове
низ
кристале.

Brana Petrović

ZAMOKUHLE MADINANA

Three Poems

coffee lover

envelop me in the heavy aroma of the ethiopian beans

soak my ears in a smooth cup of jazz music

before i trail in delight around the beam of light

decorating your thick lips

sip all my demons before my hungry hands collect fires of lust from the tip of your nipples

can you dust off all the chambers of pleasure

can you read the complex language of our bodies

can you control the wild flames that leap in every direction

coffee lover

please invite me to the gold mines of your body

before your coffee gets cold

to clutch & drill down your treasured cliffs

lead me to the wet highways of your flesh

roast me until i hum endless songs of freedom

roast me until i find home in your bosom

roast me until i spill gallons of happiness

& clean the mess with your flaming tongue

can you dance to the soft beat of my lungs

can you teach me the sacred secrets of romance

can you resurrect my performance

before we pour another cup of coffee

for those who cannot stop singing

they eat wild spinach

with chopsticks

& dance to a song

of no freedom

they toil deep down in the mines

only to be immersed in blood

at a koppie of massacre

who remembers the voice

of their vote

when hunger strangles their children

emjondolo

who remembers an anthem of their sacrifice

when university terrains

are covered in tear gas

& rubber bullets

who remembers the untamed echoes

of their resistance

when their dreams are stolen

tortured & slain

when their ears continue to lick

a plate of empty promises

from their leaders

whose backpack of tricks

is like the ocean sands

johannesburg

lead me not into the gates of deception

bath me in sweet waters of happiness

not in madness of your night life

where my peers burn

& perish of strange diseases

unmute the voices of my dreams

so that i can be a giant light

and feed the youth that is glued

in the dark street corners

of our townships

who have invited themselves

to the arms of drug injection

& found home

under the city bridges

whose life is covered in emotional blisters

johannesburg city, you have robbed so many

of their youth

who have found last hope

for surviving between their thighs

unwrote all the pages of morality

from the book of life

so many, have withered

in your chaotic lights

at night

so many have drowned

in the rivers of byblon

in your bars and taverns

tried erasing their burdens

by overdosing ubumnandi

Ako se i tekstovi nekih pesama mogu smatrati poezijom...

Letters I never sent

There’s a shoebox underneath my bed

Full of pages nobody’s read

Coffee stains and crossed-out names

Versions of me trying to explain

One to my father at fourteen

One to the girl I used to be

One to you from late November

When silence felt easier than honesty

I keep writing words I’ll never say aloud

Like somehow paper hurts less now

Everybody says closure comes with time

But mine arrives at 2AM in badly written lines

Letters I never sent

Still living in my apartment

Folded into corners of nights

I barely survived

Every “I miss you”

Every “you hurt me”

Every goodbye that never left my hands

Just stayed inside me instead

Letters I never sent

There’s one addressed to Los Angeles

As if cities can apologize

One to the friend who disappeared slowly

Without ever saying why

And one to you I almost mailed

After too much wine last spring

Three whole pages of brutal honesty

Followed by “hope you’re doing well” at the end

Funny how I can write the truth perfectly

Right until somebody might actually read it

Maybe growing up is learning

Some feelings don’t need witnesses to be real

Letters I never sent

Still scattered through my bedroom

Tiny paper ghosts

Documenting every wound

Every unfinished conversation

Every version of forgiveness

Every moment I mistook pain

For something permanent

Tonight the windows shake with summer rain

Streetlights flicker softly through the blinds

And for the first time in a long time

I don’t need replies

Maybe these pages were never about you

Maybe they were just proof

That I survived becoming who I am

(...)

💌