Poetry Lover's Corner

Литературни критики и възхвали. Всичко, което винаги сте искали да знаете за Даниел Стийл и Нора Робъртс, а ви е било срам да попитате :р

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moonlight
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Location: Sofia

Post by moonlight » Tue Jun 26, 2012 3:51 pm

По повод поезията: честичко наминавам към сайта на Буквите, и досега съм открила някои доста идейни неща. :)

Последно ето това закачливо стихотворенийцеме грабна и ми усмихна работния ден:
Да ми се чуди и мае човек,
как в този ясен компютърен век
цялата си логика загубих
и в компютър далечен се влюбих.

Бях си RAM-че учтиво и внимателно.
След употреба се изтривах старателно.
По команди чужди и плачех, и пеех.
На мига решавах. За мига живеех.

Но докосна ме импулс сърдечен
и си пожелах да бъде вечен.
Във паметта си умело го скрих,
и "Достъп невъзможен" обявих.

Допуснах грешки, породих съмнения
и започнаха програмни брожения.
Измислях нелогични обяснения,
витаех в нереални измерения.

За компютъра любим бленувах
и за думи ласкави жадувах.
Той едничка моя мисъл беше
и неудържимо ме влечеше.

Не издържах. По магистралите минах.
През сателити устремено преминах.
Демодулатора далечен достигнах,
на любимия дръзко и нежно намигнах.

Трепет. Очакване. Изненада.
"Стоп! Внимание! Вирус напада!"
И закономерно педантично
изтриване последва логично.

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JaimeLannister
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Location: Лясковец - София

Post by JaimeLannister » Wed Jul 04, 2012 1:27 pm

Следите на Апостола - Дамян Дамянов

Две следи във снега. Две човешки следи.
Все към Къкрина. Право нататък.
И над тях - две лукави и жълти звезди -
позлатени очи на предател.
Две следи във снега. В най-дълбокия сняг,
пет столетия трупал в душите,
скрил до покрив къщя и сърца, той все пак
не успял да затрупа следите.
Две следи. Там снегът и до днеска кърви -
ах, навярно човекът е куцал.
Знаел той - имал сума ти път да върви -
от въжето до моите внуци.
От султанския съд чак до мойта душа.
Път мъчителен, славен и трескав.
Как би минал човекът по него пеша,
пък дори да се казва и Левски!
Как би минал по него с раздадена кръв,
с дух раздаден и сетне възкръснал,
пък дори не човек да се казва, а лъв,
не Апостол, а Бог да е кръстен!
Две следи във снега. Във най-чистия сняг.
От въжето до всички години.
Научи ме, пресвети Апостоле, как
по следите ти пресни да мина!
За да стигна до твоя върховен живот
и да върна дълга ти грамаден:
десет гроша взел в заем от своя народ,
ти и тях си записал в тефтера жесток -
„С тях си купих маслинки. Бях гладен.“
"Основната и крайна цел на живота е смъртта и той винаги я постига." Зигмунд Фройд

"PRESENT IS THE TIME INCLUDING ALL TIMES
EACH SECOND IS ETERNITY AS ETERNITY IS NOW
AND NOW IS FOREVER..."

Курвите идват и си отиват, Star craft остава!

Image

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Claymore
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Post by Claymore » Tue Oct 09, 2012 5:02 pm

Byron - Darkness
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire--but hour by hour
They fell and faded--and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought--and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails--men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress--he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects--saw, and shriek'd, and died--
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless--
A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge--
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe.

Колата на живота - А. С. Пушкин
Макар и често с тежко бреме,
колата леко си лети.
Коларят лих, старикът време,
камшика майсторски върти.

При изгрев сме безумно смели.
Готови да строшим глави,
ленивия уют презрели,
крещим и псуваме: "Върви!"

На обед смелостта ни чезне.
Боим се от безумен бяг.
Пред възвишения и бездни
крещим: "По-леко бе, глупак!"

По залез свикваме с колата,
която бърза в своя път.
Вървим сънливо към кревата,
а пък конете си летят.
Mouthpiece drawn, got a verbal armory
Stack bodies, not figurines
Move beneath the surface, submarine
I'm half machine, obscene with a light sword
Look inside the brain, it's a riot in the psych ward
What you standing on the side for?
Roar like a lioness, punch like a cyborg

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Vigil
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Post by Vigil » Tue Oct 15, 2013 11:30 am

В чия гора навлязох аз не знам
Господарят спи във своя замък сам
Не ще ме види как съм спрял сега
И в неговия лес се взирам през снега

И моят сив жребец би се почудил
Защо съм спрял сред нищото изгубен
Край леденото езеро и черната гора
Как мирна е, подканяща нощта…

Нетърпеливо той главата си потръсна
И звън оттеква в тази вечер късна
Единствения звук сред тишината бяла
Сред немите снежинки на камбанка заблестяла

Гората ми нашепва
Но аз не ще навляза
Не мога нито за минута да се спра
Защото имам обещания да спазя
И дълъг път да извървя преди да спя
И дълъг път да извървя преди да спя…

Превод на Робърт Фрост, "Спрях сред гората в зимната вечер"

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Claymore
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Post by Claymore » Sun Dec 15, 2013 10:41 pm

Тези двете ги четохме по литература и страшно ми харесаха. И двете са на Силвия Плат.

Soliloquy Of The Solipsist
I?
I walk alone;
The midnight street
Spins itself from under my feet;
When my eyes shut
These dreaming houses all snuff out;
Through a whim of mine
Over gables the moon's celestial onion
Hangs high.

I
Make houses shrink
And trees diminish
By going far; my look's leash
Dangles the puppet-people
Who, unaware how they dwindle,
Laugh, kiss, get drunk,
Nor guess that if I choose to blink
They die.

I
When in good humor,
Give grass its green
Blazon sky blue, and endow the sun
With gold;
Yet, in my wintriest moods, I hold
Absolute power
To boycott any color and forbid any flower
To be.

I
Know you appear
Vivid at my side,
Denying you sprang out of my head,
Claiming you feel
Love fiery enough to prove flesh real,
Though it's quite clear
All you beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear,
From me.


Mad Girl's Love Song
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"
Mouthpiece drawn, got a verbal armory
Stack bodies, not figurines
Move beneath the surface, submarine
I'm half machine, obscene with a light sword
Look inside the brain, it's a riot in the psych ward
What you standing on the side for?
Roar like a lioness, punch like a cyborg

Jester
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Post by Jester » Mon Dec 16, 2013 1:21 am

Wow, narcissistic Plath reduces other people to her imagination. It's all in her head... She has the power

Can't stand that bitch
You've got seven kinds of cock breath.

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Claymore
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Post by Claymore » Mon Dec 16, 2013 1:33 am

Aaaand... completely missing the point of "soliloquy" and "solipsist"?
И дори да не беше това, "нарцисизма" й е целта на confessional поезията като цяло.
Mouthpiece drawn, got a verbal armory
Stack bodies, not figurines
Move beneath the surface, submarine
I'm half machine, obscene with a light sword
Look inside the brain, it's a riot in the psych ward
What you standing on the side for?
Roar like a lioness, punch like a cyborg

Jester
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Posts: 43
Joined: Wed Jun 05, 2013 1:33 am

Post by Jester » Mon Dec 16, 2013 1:34 am

Може. И все пак ме дразни :)
You've got seven kinds of cock breath.

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Claymore
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Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2009 9:55 pm

Post by Claymore » Mon Dec 16, 2013 1:35 am

Ъмм... окей...
Mouthpiece drawn, got a verbal armory
Stack bodies, not figurines
Move beneath the surface, submarine
I'm half machine, obscene with a light sword
Look inside the brain, it's a riot in the psych ward
What you standing on the side for?
Roar like a lioness, punch like a cyborg

Jester
Commoner
Posts: 43
Joined: Wed Jun 05, 2013 1:33 am

Post by Jester » Mon Dec 16, 2013 2:14 am

Дразни ме светогледа й. Себична, студена, грозна, отмъстителна, вампирозна - това са ми асоциациите с нея. И дали правя грубата грешка да смесвам автобиография с творбата - в този случай не мисля.
Dangles the puppet-people
Who, unaware how they dwindle,
Laugh, kiss, get drunk,
Nor guess that if I choose to blink
They die.
Много проницателно.
Yet, in my wintriest moods, I hold
Absolute power
To boycott any color and forbid any flower
To be.
Айде да качим мегаломанията на n-та степен.

И докато нямам някаква компетентност да оценя стилистичните й качества, се задоволявам да я мразя за това, че се изповядва толкова нахално. Наистина не мога да я трая
You've got seven kinds of cock breath.

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Lyanna Stark
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Post by Lyanna Stark » Mon Dec 16, 2013 2:13 pm

Клеймор, виждам, че и ти имаш English Through Literature с Мария Димитрова. :D Любимият ми предмет евър. Всъщност там се научих как се анализира литературно произведение. Следващият семестър (летния на трети курс) пак ще го имаме, този път като задължителен.

Поемите на Силвия Плат ми бяха любимите от целия курс, след това си купих сборник с почти всичките. Но ще трябва да потърся и The Bell Jar, защото Mad Girl's Love Song изглежда не се публикува никъде другаде. Честно казано, Mad Girl's Love Song ми хареса повече от Soliloquy of the Solipsist, може би защото формата на виланела ми допада. След това прекарах известно време в издирване на още виланели. Предполагам, че в семинара сте споменали Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night на Дилън Томас?

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

За финал ще добавя и един известен сонет на Плат, който научих наизуст от препрочитане (и от който разбрах как се произнася "catacombs"):

Doom of Exiles
Sylvia Plath

Now we, returning from the vaulted domes
Of our colossal sleep, come home to find
A tall metropolis of catacombs
Erected down the gangways of our mind.

Green alleys where we reveled have become
The infernal haunt of demon dangers;
Both seraph song and violins are dumb;
Each clock tick consecrates the death of strangers.

Backward we traveled to reclaim the day
Before we fell, like Icarus, undone;
All we find are altars in decay
And profane words scrawled black across the sun.

Still, stubbornly we try to crack the nut
In which the riddle of our race is shut.

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moonlight
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Location: Sofia

Post by moonlight » Mon Dec 16, 2013 2:51 pm

Безглаголно стихотворение
Радой Ралин

Градина. Пролетни цветя.
Скамейка. Шепот сладък.
И сред цветята - Той и Тя.
Любов... и тъй нататък.

Поле. Природа. Красота.
Река. Гора оттатък.
Пробуда. Сбъднати мечти.
Възторг...и тъй нататък.

Годеж. Венчило. Поп и брак.
Момент безумно кратък.
А после - скука. Мрак.
Деца... и тъй нататък.

Курорт. Море. Приятен смях.
Простор. Вълни оттатък.
Възбуда. Трепет. Сладост. Грях.
Рога... и тъй нататък.

Полуда. Нежност. Сълзи. Праг.
Плесник и писък кратък.
Багаж. Дете. Билет. Носач.
Развод... и тъй нататък.

Началник. Шеф. Кола. Пари.
И нощи без остатък.
Кафе. Квартира. Ключ. Жени.
Легло... и тъй нататък.

Камбани и купчина пръст.
И плочата оттатък.
Лопата. Кирка. Поп и кръст.
Ковчег... и няма вече тъй нататък.

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Claymore
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Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2009 9:55 pm

Post by Claymore » Mon Dec 16, 2013 4:40 pm

@Lyanna, ами тя ни обясни за виланелата и полустиховете, но не мисля че спомена Дилън Томас. Иначе ще си потърся стихосбирки на Плат със сигурност. Обаче от книгите за втория семестър не съм чел още нищо... :mrgreen: Мисля първо да изиграя Spec Ops:The Line и да изгледам Apocalypse Now и след това чак да прочета Heart of Darkness.
Иначе като ритъм и форма Mad Girl's Love Song е по - хубава, но идеята на SotS по ми харесва. :)
Jester wrote:...
Струва ми се странно това отношение, освен ако не можеш честно да ми кажеш че никога не си си представял как имаш абсолютна власт и сила над живота и света на другите. И пак, тия цитати особено се вписват в цялата идея за солипсизма, както е представена в творбата. Относно отмъстителността и прочие, това не го виждам тук или в другите стихотворения които съм й чел. Аз викам да спрем тук, щото разликата очевидно е субективна, на мен ми харесват "мрачни, вампириозни, отмъстителни и депресивни" творби, стиховорения или други, а на други хора не им харесват. End of story. :)

И едно друго любимо:
Ulysses
От Алфред, Лорд Тенисън

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Mouthpiece drawn, got a verbal armory
Stack bodies, not figurines
Move beneath the surface, submarine
I'm half machine, obscene with a light sword
Look inside the brain, it's a riot in the psych ward
What you standing on the side for?
Roar like a lioness, punch like a cyborg

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Lyanna Stark
Adept
Posts: 201
Joined: Tue Jul 10, 2007 10:27 pm
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Post by Lyanna Stark » Mon Dec 16, 2013 5:35 pm

Да четеш книгите за втория семестър? Каква забавна шега :lol:

Всъщност не помня дали споменахме Дилън Томас в семинара, или просто аз си го намерих, докато търсех информация за Mad Girl's Love Song. Освен това мисля, че сме го споменавали по модернизъм във втори курс.

Впрочем, сигурно още не сте стигнали до Уилбър и МакНийс? Мисля, че те бяха някъде след Плат. По Snow на МакНийс имах голям спор с преподавателката и колегите на тема отворен ли е прозорецът и какво точно се случва с розите.

Snow
Louis MacNeice

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands -
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.


Ще добавя и една поема, за която ще говорите по модернизъм догодина. От цялата лекция за символизма и декадентството запомних само нея. Не знам дали ми хареса толкова заради обективните си качества или просто защото обичам Уайлд.

The Harlot’s House
Oscar Wilde

We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot's house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The 'Treues Liebes Herz' of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille,

Then took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said,
'The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.'

But she--she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.

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Claymore
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Posts: 4538
Joined: Sat Sep 12, 2009 9:55 pm

Post by Claymore » Mon Dec 16, 2013 5:45 pm

Още не сме, предния път беше разказ на Вонегът и много ме е яд, защото трябваше да правя с друга група тест по фонетика, че във вторник не бях. А този петък ще е Селинджър.
Mouthpiece drawn, got a verbal armory
Stack bodies, not figurines
Move beneath the surface, submarine
I'm half machine, obscene with a light sword
Look inside the brain, it's a riot in the psych ward
What you standing on the side for?
Roar like a lioness, punch like a cyborg

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