Za Doxi

[paradox]

...no pol pa sploh upam, da se kaksno njegovo 'prlimas'

...hvala, in enako tebi

[paradox]

...dandanes je kar nekaj moske populacije (vsaj na nasem kontinentu) 'zmedene' glede na to kako 'biti' moski...morda tudi kaksen med bralci tele teme ...well, ta poem je kot nalasc za njih...

Male Rage Poem

Feminism, baby, feminism.
This is the anti-feminist poem.
It will get called the anti-
feminist poem. Like it or not.
Dedicated to all my friends who
can't get it up in the night,
accused of having male rage during the
day. This is for the poor buggers.
This is for me and the incredible boredom
of arguing about feminism, the right
arguments, the wrong arguments, the
circular argument, the arguments that stem
from one bad affair, from one
bad job, no job -- whatever; fill in the
blanks _____ _____, fill in the ways
in which you have been hurt. Then I'll
fill in the blanks, and we'll send rosters
of hurt to each other, mail them, stock
them for the record to say: Giorgio Di Cicco
has been hurt this way x many times.
We will stock closets of Sarah's hurt,
Barbara's hurt, my hurt, Bobby's hurt.
This is where the poem peters out ... oops! -- that's
penis mentality, that's patriarchal bull****,
exist diction and These line lengths are
male oriented.

Where did he get so much male rage?
From standing out like a man for a bunch of
years, and being called the dirty word.
"When you are 21 you will become a Man."
Christ! Doomed to enslave women ipso
facto, without even the right training.
Shouldn't have wasted ten years playing
baseball; should have practised
whipping, should have practised tying up the
girl next door, giving her cigarette burns ...
oops! Male rage again! MALE RAGE -- the words ring out --
worse than RING AROUND THE COLLAR, worse than KISSED
THE GIRLS AND MADE THEM CRY, jeezus, male rage
in kindergarten. MALE RAGE. You've got
male rage; I look inside myself and scrounge
for all this male rage. Must be there
somewhere. Must be repressing it. I write poems
faster and faster, therapeutically, to make sure
get all the rage out. But someone's
always there to say, Male Rage -- more Male Rage.
don't leave the house, workin' on my male rage.

Things may lighten up. My friends may meet
fine women at a party someday and know
what to say to them, like "I'm not a Man and
you're not a Woman, but let's have dinner
anyway, let's f*** with our eyes closed and
swap roles for an hour."

I'm tired of being a man.
Of having better opportunities,
better job offers,
too much money.
I'm tired of going to the YMCA and
talking jock in the locker room.
I'm tired of all those poems where
I inadvertently used the word "whore."
I'm tired of having little blonde secretaries type out
all my poems for me.
I'm tired of being a man.
I'm tired of being a sexist.
I'm afraid of male rage.
I'm afraid of my male rage,
this growing thing, this buddy, this
shadow, this new self, this stranger.
It's there. It's there! How could it have
happened? I ate the right things, said
yes to my mother, thought the good
thoughts.

Doc -- give it to me straight.
How long before this male rage
takes over completely?
The rest of your life.
Take it like a man.

Pier Giorgio Di Cicco (1949-)
-----------------------------------------
Notes :

RING AROUND THE COLLAR: umazanija okrog ovratnika srajce… supposedly a sign of male personal neglect.

"Georgy Porgy puddin' pie / Kissed the girls and made them cry" remains a popular nursery rhyme.

YMCA: Young Men's Christian Association.
jock: sports.

[paradox]

...se ena od istega pesnika...

I Want You to See

I want you to see the hole in my shirt where your
heart went through like a Colt 45, and opened
a dream at the back of the neck.
Here, let me unbutton it for you.

Notice the ribs, those sweet things you loved, notice the insides,
the parchment lampshades, the books, the furniture. Notice yourself
sitting, holding my hand on a winter night, notice the look in
my eyes, now close it all up and walk away.

Stumble, pretend you're dead. Just for me, pretend you can be
hurt by something so simple as a failed emotion. Pretend you have seen
loss.
For god's sake what was I holding when you said good morning.

Notes
Colt 45: a World War I pistol.

[paradox]

...mimogrede - pesem ni o hrani...

Feast

I drank at every vine.
The last was like the first.
I came upon no wine
So wonderful as thirst.

I gnawed at every root.
I ate of every plant.
I came upon no fruit
So wonderful as want.

Feed the grape and bean
To the vintner and monger;
I will lie down lean
With my thirst and my hunger.

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

Vintner= vinski trgovec, krcmar
Monger=branjevec, trgovec


-----------------------------
se en poznan od Edne…


My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends --
It gives a lovely light!

[paradox]

LOST MIRAGE

Night is here
Near bright as day
Through sheltering sky
Ancient light cascades
Sand and wind whisper
Etching their say
Dunes roll on
Like endless waves

Where is the caravan
Wherein I am one
I seek an oasis
Where one bathes in love
If I drown out here
It's by my own cause
Facedown in the desert
In some lost mirage

Deep fever dream
I am nothing but dust
Floating above her
Longing to touch
She sighs in her sleep
The air starts to swirl
Riding a moonbeam
I tumble and twirl

Caught in her breath's
Unintended kiss
A luminous mote
Falls towards her lips


Eugene King

[paradox]

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Langston Hughes

[paradox]

A Dream Within a Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow:
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand--
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep--while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allen Poe

Sreča

Po črnem asfaltu šibak je korak,
v mraku odmeva... bedak je bedak.

Pod zvezdami noč v hlad me zavija,
cesta je suha in smrad me odbija.
Iz odtočnih kanalov se dviga koprena,
bolečina me nosi in nima imena...

Po črnem asfaltu šibak je korak,
v mraku odmeva... bedak je bedak.

Korak za korakom cesta se vije,
v prsih srce nemirno mi bije.
Le tebe si sreča neskončno želim,
kje naj te najdem, kje te dobim?

Po črnem asfaltu šibak je korak,
v mraku odmeva... bedak je bedak.

Dolga noč mi spomine prebuja,
v mislih le ti, postajaš mi tuja.
Pogled po mrtvih hišah mi tava,
v kateri si ti, katera je prava?

Po črnem asfaltu šibak je korak,
v mraku odmeva... bedak je bedak.

Tavam in hodim, vsak up je zaman,
tavam in hodim, iskat grem drugam.
Tavam in hodim, se jutro prebuja,
nov dan mi nove upe ponuja.

[paradox]

Give Me A World of Art

Two bad plaids, side by side.
Functional gestures.
Gray cinder block.
No sound.
No singing.
No metaphors.
No rhymes.
No stories.
No once upon a times.
No forever afters.

No, give me something with snap,
something to wake me up,
something to make me take notice.
Plaids side by side?
No. Give me a look at the deeper you,
put it together shade by shade.
Cinder block?
Never! I want graceful spaces where my wings can unfold,
where I can fly.
Functional gesture?
No.
Show me the language of fingers and shoulders,
make this place sacred with swirling bodies.
No sound?
No singing?
Stop it!!
Give me tones drunk with flavor,
rhythms rooted to the seasons,
songs saturated and stinging with meaning.
No metaphors, no rhymes,
No stories, no once upon a time,
No forever afters?
No. I would die.
Teach me from the torch-lit stories,
so that I can see into me,
and into you,
and into the future.
Teach me with the wine of poetry,
how time is swept away and love remains.
Give me a world of style,
of substance,
of sensuous spirit.
Give me a world of art.

--David Gonzales

[paradox]

Oblici u nebnoj peni

tri noći moji dlanovi gore.
osmesima mi daješ pouke
talasima odnosiš daleko -
do ostrva sedme svesti.

ušnom školjkom prilepljen
o dno dana brojim sazvežđa
viđena u dubokoj vatri -
daleko od svog zenita
stopala zakopanih u pesak.

grudno korito u podivljalom moru
gubi dragocene tovare iskustva.
da li sam našao svoje tri tačke?
ovo je pravi pravac do sreće?

ljudi su tihi. možda pripremaju
nove i poslednje ratove. koga
da pitam - koji put vodi do tebe?
oslanjam se o prvobitnu stvar:
nadam se. ne usuđujem se na
prekoračenje. učiteljeva grobna
vrata pritiska početni kamen.

zakoračio bih u život drugi. ali
sam bez znanja. ne razaznajem
oblike u nebnoj peni. pod mladim
bademom zuje pčele. vetar vrti
mrtve putokaze - razotkrivam ...

--aslan mahmuti: mirne stvari