Trla baba lan
Dura lex, sed Durex
ponedjeljak, prosinac 31, 2007
Htjela sam na Staru Godinu iskopati za staru jednu pjesmu od Edgara Allana Poea, zove se "The Mother": njega sam u osnovnoj školi čitala iz maminog Penguin izdanja dok mi još engleski nije bio najbliskiji, pa sam tek nedavno skužila da je pjesma ustvari o majci njegove Lenore. Zato ću zalijepiti a) "Alone", prva pjesma s kojom sam se u bunilu puberteta identificirala i b) Cummingsa kojeg mi je stara uvalila dok sam se bunila kako ne volim poeziju općenito jer da je glupa i patetična (uvalila mi je i jednog Čeha objavljenog u staroj antologiji svjetske ljubavne poezije, jer je bio nekonvencionalan, pjesma se u prijevodu zove "A koliko si ih imala?"; svidjeli su mi se i Čeh čije sam ime zaboravila i Cummings, ali tko bi to priznao mami sa šesnaest godina).

Alone, Edgar Allan Poe

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were---I have not seen
As others saw---I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I lov'd, I loved alone.
Then---in my childhood---in the dawn
Of a most stormy life---was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold---
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by---
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

Somewhere I have never travelled, e.e. Cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

callirhoe @ 18:58 |Komentiraj | Komentari: 7 | Prikaži komentare
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