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  #151  
Staro 12.03.2005, 06:48
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"I am not yours"

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

-- Teasdale, Sarah
  #152  
Staro 14.03.2005, 06:26
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On Living
......
I

Living is no laughing matter:
you must live with great seriousness
like a squirrel, for example-
I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,
I mean living must be your whole occupation.

Living is no laughing matter:
you must take it seriously,
so much so and to such a degree
that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,
your back to the wall,
or else in a laboratory
in your white coat and safety glasses,
you can die for people-
even for people whose faces you've never seen,
even though you know living
is the most real, the most beautiful thing.

I mean, you must take living so seriously
that even at seventy, for example, you'll plant olive trees-
and not for your children, either,
but because although you fear death you don't believe it,
because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

II

Let's say you're seriously ill, need surgery -
which is to say we might not get
from the white table.
Even though it's impossible not to feel sad
about going a little too soon,
we'll still laugh at the jokes being told,
we'll look out the window to see it's raining,
or still wait anxiously
for the latest newscast ...
Let's say we're at the front-
for something worth fighting for, say.
There, in the first offensive, on that very day,
we might fall on our face, dead.
We'll know this with a curious anger,
but we'll still worry ourselves to death
about the outcome of the war, which could last years.
Let's say we're in prison
and close to fifty,
and we have eighteen more years, say,
before the iron doors will open.
We'll still live with the outside,
with its people and animals, struggle and wind-
I mean with the outside beyond the walls.
I mean, however and wherever we are,
we must live as if we will never die.

III

This earth will grow cold,
a star among stars
and one of the smallest,
a gilded mote on blue velvet-
I mean this, our great earth.
This earth will grow cold one day,
not like a block of ice
or a dead cloud even
but like an empty walnut it will roll along
in pitch-black space ...
You must grieve for this right now
-you have to feel this sorrow now-
for the world must be loved this much
if you're going to say “I lived'' ...

---Hikmet, Nazim (turkish poet)
  #153  
Staro 19.03.2005, 05:35
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...:D...


Life is Fine

I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn't,
So I jumped in and sank.
I came up once and hollered!
I came up twice and cried!
If that water hadn't a-been so cold
I might've sunk and died.
But it was Cold in that water! It was cold!
I took the elevator
Sixteen floors above the ground.
I thought about my baby
And thought I would jump down.
I stood there and I hollered!
I stood there and I cried!
If it hadn't a-been so high
I might've jumped and died.
But it was High up there! It was high!
So since I'm still here livin',
I guess I will live on.
I could've died for love--
But for livin' I was born
Though you may hear me holler,
And you may see me cry--
I'll be dogged, sweet baby,
If you gonna see me die.
Life is fine! Fine as wine! Life is fine!


---Hughes, Langston


  #154  
Staro 19.03.2005, 05:58
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when serpents bargain


when serpents bargain for the right to squirm
and the sun strikes to gain a living wage -
when thorns regard their roses with alarm
and rainbows are insured against old age

when every thrush may sing no new moon in
if all screech-owls have not okayed his voice
- and any wave signs on the dotted line
or else an ocean is compelled to close

when the oak begs permission of the birch
to make an acorn - valleys accuse their
mountains of having altitude - and march
denounces april as a saboteur

then we'll believe in that incredible
unanimal mankind (and not until)

---Cummings, Edward Estlin


-----------------------------------------------------------------
  #155  
Staro 20.03.2005, 04:32
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Ode

We are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams.
World-losers and world-forsakers,
Upon whom the pale moon gleams;
Yet we are the movers and shakers,
Of the world forever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.

---Arthur O'Shaughnessy

  #156  
Staro 21.03.2005, 02:13
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Forugh Farrokhzad...iranska pesnica...her work had a tremendous impact on Iranians and non-Iranians alike...


It is Only the Voice that Remains

Why should I stop?
the road passes through the capillary veins of life
The fertile quality of atmosphere
in the womb of the moon
will kill the corrupt cells,
and in the chemical expanse after sunrise
there is only the voice
the voice that will be
absorbed in the atoms of time
why should I stop?

The trees are my ancestors
Breathing stale air depresses me
A bird already dead counseled me to remember flight


To join the glowing essence of the sun,
such union is the ultimate in power,
pouring down the light of understanding
Windmills
naturally fall apart
Why should I stop?
Under my breast
I press a sheaf of unripe wheat
nursing it
The voice, the voice , the voice , only the voice
the voice of the tall yearning of plants to grow
the voice of the transparent wish of water to flow
the voice of starlight pouring
on the surface of the pistil of the earth
the voice of conception of the seed of meaning
and expansion of love's common mind
The voice , the voice, the voice
it is only the voice that remains.



...pa se eden


Rebirth

Life is perhaps
a long street through which a woman holding a basket passes every day.

Life is perhaps
a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch.

Life is perhaps a child returning home from school.

Life is perhaps
lighting up a cigarette in the narcotic repose between two love

or the absent gaze of a passerby
who takes off his hat to another passerby
with a meaningless smile and a good morning.

I will plant my hands in the garden
I will grow,
I know, I know, I know,
and swallows will lay eggs
in the hollow of my inkstained hands.

I shall wear twin cherries as earrings
and I shall put dahlia petals on my fingernails.

The journey of a form along the line of time
and inseminating the line of time with the form,
a form conscious of an image
returning from a feast in the mirror.

And it is in this way
that someone dies
and someone lives on.

  #157  
Staro 21.03.2005, 20:25
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paradox, neverjetno dobro delo opravljaš, hvala ti
  #158  
Staro 23.03.2005, 02:36
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Timal, me res veseli, da tako pridno beres mojo izbiro lirike v tej
'sobci' in seveda se bolj, da ti je vsec
...upam, da se tudi v bodoce ujameva med tukaj in tam v povedanem
  #159  
Staro 23.03.2005, 02:48
paradox Uporabnik paradox ni prijavljen
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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 you wish to close me, I and
my life will be shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing of which we have to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour 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.

---Edward Estlin Cummings

  #160  
Staro 23.03.2005, 22:14
timal Uporabnik timal ni prijavljen
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med tukaj in tam je mavrica, res pa je, da je tvoj izbor za moj okus fenomenalen.
Tale zgornja pa sploh......
 

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