O poezie pe zi

Nu stiu daca subiectul asta se incadreaza mai bine aici sau la sectiunea de Poezie, rog moderatorul sa decida.
Ideea e sa existe (cel putin) un post pe zi cu o poezie (nu creatie proprie), care ne place si pe care vrem sa o impartasim cu altii.

Pentru inceput am ales o poezie de Alastair Reid.

Curiosity

may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.
Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
do not endear cats to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.
Face it. Curiosity
will not cause us to die--
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.
Only the curious have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.
Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,
are changeable, marry too many wives,
desert their children, chill all dinner tables
with tales of their nine lives.
Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.

se ia o zi ploioasa (de preferinta) in care simti ca totul stagneaza si tu esti mai apatic ca oricand si se recita ca o mantra poezia lui pessoa. poate vindeca raceli reale sau imaginare (cum ar fi lipsa inspiratiei sau lenea). pentru manifestari neprevazute, va adresati direct autorului

i have a bad cold,
and everyone knows how bad colds
throw the whole universe out of kilter.
they turn us against life
and make us sneeze even metaphysically.
i’ve wasted the whole day blowing my nose.
my head hurts all over.
a sorry state for a minor poet!
today i’m truly a minor poet.
what i used to be was a wish: it snapped.
i won’t get well unless i lie down in bed.
i’ve never been well except when lying down in the universe.
excusez du peu… what a terrible physical cold!
i need truth and some aspirin.

Nu stiu daca e chiar poezie, fac parte dintr-un ciclu In spirit de haiku a lui nichita stanescu, dar mi-au placut foarte mult :

1. Daca timpul ar avea frunze
ce toamna!

2. Fulgii de zapada ce lumina inghetata
si revederea iernii ce frig al cuvintelor...

ooo...nichita... mereu atat de delicios


iar azi putin gellu naum :X


Un loc acolo

E necesar să ţinem seama de tot ce am rostit numai în treacăt în lunga noastră viaţă În plus va trebui să ne gândim la tot ce am uitat restituind astfel strălucitoarea tăcere care se cuvine

şi fiecare dintre noi lovindu-se de duritatea propriului său ochi se va trezi atunci la vârsta unei poetice dimensiuni indiferente care se anulează de la sine şi ne părăseşte încetul cu încetul pe măsura unei adânci uitări

şi nimeni n-o să mai apară nici chiar aceea care ne visa în graţia înverşunată a iubirii

(altminteri veghea ei ne ocroteşte pe drumul fără încetare care ne străbate)

şi doar un loc acolo ne va aştepta venirea dezamăgitoare

tu chiar nu stii despre tine nimic?
bineînteles ca stii sa dozezi nebunia si în primul rînd ca o ai!
dar tu nu te-ai vazut niciodata cum zîmbesti uneori,
cum te sprijini de tocul usii cînd îmi întîmpini privirea,
cum îti arcuiesti trupul cînd te traversez cu mîna ...
despre nebunia inteligenta si foarte fina era vorba,
despre poezia subversiva care iti respira prin glezne,
despre tine cu totul...
tu nu stii,
tu n-ai cum sa stii .........
pentru ca tu nu esti îndragostit de tine asa cum
sunt eu...


by Ioana Baetica

Pentru azi aleg una din acele poezii ale lui Alexandru Macedonski care-ti raman in minte ori prin complexitatea lor, ori prin simplitate . Aceasta e una care se si potriveste cu starea mea actuala.


Rondelul orasului mic

Orasul mic te fura-ncet
Cu ale lui tacute strade,

Cu oameni prosti, dar cumsecade,
Ce nici nu stiu ca sunt poet.
Cu centrul intim si cochet,
Si fara case cu arcade;
Orasul mic te fura-ncet
Cu ale lui tacute strade.
Prin umbra parcului discret,
Nu se strecoara mascarade
Si nu s-aud in el tirade
Despre-al politicii secret. —
Orasul mic te fura-ncet.

Hai sa bag si eu o poezie aici. Luati un clasic: Rudyard Kipling - tipul cu Cartile Junglei.

Mandalay

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat — jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
Bloomin' idol made o'mud —
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd —
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo!"
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

But that's all shove be'ind me — long ago an' fur away,
An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."
No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay . . .

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an' grubby 'and —
Law! wot do they understand?
I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be —
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!


-----------------
Daca vi se pare cunoscuta si aproape ca o puteti canta, sa stiti ca altcineva a facut deja asta, desi cu versuri putin diferite:


Frank Sinatra - On the way to Mandalay

Ray Bradbury recomanda scriitorilor aspiranti sa citeasca in fiecare seara:
- o povestire / nuvela
- un eseu (din orice domeniu)
- o poezie

Momentan citesc un volum de poezii de Lewis Carroll, o carte de critica literara de David Lodge, si tocmai am terminat o colectie de povestiri de insusi Bradbury.

Am adaugat la lista si:
- cateva pagini / un capitol dintr-o carte de istorie.