უამრავი თემაა, ამას კი ვერსად წავაწყდი. ნუ თუ არავის გიყვართ, ნუ გიყვართ, მე დავდებ ხოლმე. ერთი თხოვნა მექნება, დადეთ ლექსები ორიგინალში და სასურველია გესმოდეთ რა წერია ამ ორიგინალში, და კიდევ ქართული თანამედროვე პოეზიის მარგალიტებს ნუ დადებთ ძალიან გთხოვთ, ანუ საერთოდ ნუ დადებთ.

მოდერებს - თემა არ დახუროთ, ამაზე უაზრო თემებია ვედრო მანეთად.


ამით დავიწყებ


The Raven
Edgar Allen Poe


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak
and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a
tapping,
As of someone gently tapping, tapping at my chamber
door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber
door;
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon
the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost
Lenore,.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name
Lenore,
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt
before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood
repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber
door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.
This is it, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came
tapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my cham-
ber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened
wide the door;---
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to
dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no
token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
"Lenore?",
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
"Lenore!"
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me
burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than
before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window
lattice.
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.
'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of
yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or
stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber
door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it
wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art
sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the
nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so
plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did
outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he
fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered,"Other friends have
flown before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown
before."
Then the bird said,"Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and
store,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful
disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one
burden bore,---
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never---nevermore."

But the raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and
bust and door;,
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of
yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous
bird of yore
Meant in croaking, "Nevermore."

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my
bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated
o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating
o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an
unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted
floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these
angels he hath sent thee
Respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of
Lenore!
Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost
Lenore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or
devil!
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee
here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or
devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we
both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant
Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name
Lenore---
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name
Lenore?
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or friend!' I shrieked,
upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath
spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above
my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form
from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is
dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws the shadow
on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on
the floor
Shall be lifted---nevermore!

მშვენიერია : )

აჰა რახან პოთი დავიწყეთ , ასევე გავაგრძელოთ

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 Allan Poe

Love's Secret

Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind doth move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.
Ah! she did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me,
A traveller came by,
Silently, invisibly:
He took her with a sigh.

William Blake

Ночь, улица, фонарь, аптека…


Ночь, улица, фонарь, аптека,
Бессмысленный и тусклый свет.
Живи еще хоть четверть века –
Все будет так. Исхода нет.

Умрешь – начнешь опять сначала
И повторится все, как встарь:
Ночь, ледяная рябь канала,
Аптека, улица, фонарь.

10 октября 1912

Александр Блок

ძალიან მაგონებს აი ამას -

გაზაფხული საღამოა მშვიდი, ხიდან ხეზე გადაფრინდა ჩიტი.

სული საზღვარ გადაცდება ფრენით, ახლაც მახსოვს მისამართი შენი.

ცამდე წვდება ღამეების სიგრძე, რაღაც უცხო სიხარული ვიგრძენ.

წინ მეშლება სხვა ოცნების არე, მიწის ცქერით დაიღალა მთვარე.

გაზაფხული საღამოა მშვიდი, ხიდან ხეზე გადაფრინდა ჩიტი.

აქ მგონი რაღაც შემეშალა, ან 2-3-ს თანმიმდევრობა ან სიტყვა "უცხო"-ს მაგივრად დიდი უნდა ეწეროს, არ მახსოვს ზუსტად.

ტაო

ძალიან მაგარია

აი ეგ მიყვარდა ძალიან

I heard an Angel singing
When the day was springing:
“Mercy, Pity, and Peace,
Are the world's release.”

So he sang all day
Over the new-mown hay,
Till the sun went down
And haycocks looked brown.

I heard a devil curse
Over the heath and the furze:
“Mercy could be no more
If there were nobody poor,—
And Pity no more could be
If all were happy as ye,—
And mutual fear brings Peace.
Misery's increase
Are Mercy, Pity, Peace.”

At his curse the sun went down,
And the heavens gave a frown.

scarramush
მეც ძალიან მიყვარს

The Garden of Love
------------------
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And "Thou shalt not" writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore;

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briers my joys and desires.

William Blake

ეს მიყვარს ძალიან, თუმცა გრძელია და ჩაჯდომა უნდა
The "Mary Gloster"


I've paid for your sickest fancies; I've humoured your crackedest whim -
Dick, it's your daddy, dying; you've got to listen to him!
Good for a fortnight, am I? The doctor told you? He lied.
I shall go under by morning, and - Put that nurse outside.
'Never seen death yet, Dickie? Well, now is your time to learn,
And you'll wish you held my record before it comes to your turn.
Not counting the Line and the Foundry, the yards and the village, too,
I've made myself and a million; but I'm damned if I made you.
Master at two-and-twenty, and married at twenty-three -
Ten thousand men on the pay-roll, and forty freighters at sea !
Fifty years between' em, and every year of it fight,
And now I'm Sir Anthony Gloster, dying, a baronite:
For I lunched with his Royal 'Ighness - what was it the papers had ?
"Not the least of our merchant-princes." Dickie, that's me, your dad!
I didn't begin with askings. I took my job and I stuck;
I took the chances they wouldn't, an' now they're calling it luck.
Lord, what boats I've handled - rotten and leaky and old -
Ran 'em, or - opened the bilge-cock, precisely as I was told.
Grub that 'ud bind you crazy, and crews that 'ud turn you grey,
And a big fat lump of insurance to cover the risk on the way.
The others they dursn't do it; they said they valued their life
(They've served me since as skippers). I went, and I took my wife.
Over the world I drove 'em, married at twenty-three,
And your mother saving the money and making a man of me.
I was content to be master, but she said there was better behind;
She took the chances I wouldn't, and I followed your mother blind.
She egged me to borrow the money, an' she helped me to clear the loan,
When we bougnt half-shares in a cheap 'un and hoisted a flag of our own.
Patching and coaling on credit, and living the Lord knew how,
We started the Red Ox freighters - we've eight-and-thirty now.
And those were the days of clippers, and the freights were clipper-freights,
And we knew we were making our fortune, but she died in Macassar Straits -
By the Little Patemosters, as you come to the Union Bank -
And we dropped her in fourteen fathom: I pricked it off where she sank.
Owners we were, full owners, and the boat was christened for her,
And she died in the Mary Gloster. My heart; how young we were!
So I went on a spree round Java and well-nigh ran her ashore,
But your mother came and warned me and I would't liquor no more:
Strict I stuck to my business, afraid to stop or I'd think,
Saving the money (she warned me), and letting the other men drink.
And I met M'Cullough in London (I'd saved five 'undred then),
And 'tween us we started the Foundry - three forges and twenty men.
Cheap repairs for the cheap 'uns. It paid, and the business grew;
For I bought me a steam-lathe patent, and that was a gold mine too.
"Cheaper to build 'em than buy 'em;" I said, but M'Cullough he shied,
And we wasted a year in talking before we moved to the Clyde.
And the Lines were all beginning, and we all of us started fair,
Building our engines like houses and staying the boilers square.
But M'Cullough 'e wanted cabins with marble and maple and all,
And Brussels an' Utrecht velvet, and baths and a Social Hall,
And pipes for closets all over, and cutting the frames too light,
But M'Cullough he died in the Sixties, and - Well, I'm dying to-night...
I knew - I knew what was coming, when we bid on the Byfleet's keel -
They piddled and piffled with iron, I'd given my orders for steel!
Steel and the first expansions. It paid, I tell you, it paid,
When we came with our nine-knot freighters and collared the long-run trade!
And they asked me how I did it; and I gave 'em the Scripture text,
"You keep your light so shining a little in front o' the next!"
They copied all they could follow, but they couldn't copy my mind,
And I left 'em sweating and stealing a year and a half behind.
Then came the armour-contracts, but that was M'Cullough's side;
He was always best in the Foundry, but better, perhaps, he died.
I went through his private papers; the notes was plainer than print;
And I'm no fool to finish if a man'll give me a hint.
(I remember his widow was angry.) So I saw what his drawings meant;
And I started the six-inch rollers, and it paid me sixty per cent.
Sixty per cent with failures, and more than twice we could do,
And a quarter-million to credit, and I saved it all for you!
I thought - it doesn't matter - you seemed to favour your ma,
But you're nearer forty than thirty, and I know the kind you are.
Harrer an' Trinity College! I ought to ha' sent you to sea -
But I stood you an education, an' what have you done for me?
The things I knew was proper you wouldn't thank me to give,
And the things I knew was rotten you said was the way to live.
For you muddled with books and pictures, an' china an' etchin's an' fans.
And your rooms at college was beastly - more like a whore's than a man's;
Till you married that thin-flanked woman, as white and as stale as a bone,
An' she gave you your social nonsense; but where's that kid o' your own?
I've seen your carriages blocking the half o' the Cromwell Road,
But never the doctor's brougham to help the missus unload.
(So there isn't even a grandchild, an' the Gloster family's done.)
Not like your mother, she isn't. She carried her freight each run.
But they died, the pore little beggars! At sea she had 'em - they died.
Only you, an' you stood it. You haven't stood much beside.
Weak, a liar, and idle, and mean as a collier's whelp
Nosing for scraps in the galley. No help - my son was no help!
So he gets three 'undred thousand, in trust and the interest paid.
I wouldn't give it you, Dickie - you see, I made it in trade.
You're saved from soiling your fingers, and if you have no child,
It all comes back to the business. 'Gad, won't your wife be wild!
'Calls and calls in her carriage, her 'andkerchief up to 'er eye:
"Daddy! dear daddy's dyin'!" and doing her best to cry.
Grateful? Oh, yes, I'm grateful, but keep her away from here.
Your mother 'ud never ha' stood 'er, and, anyhow, women are queer.
There's women will say I've married a second time. Not quite!
But give pore Aggie a hundred, and tell her your lawyers'll fight.
She was the best o' the boiling - you'll meet her before it ends.
I'm in for a row with the mother - I'll leave you settle my friends.
For a man he must go with a woman, which women don't understand -
Or the sort that say they can see it they aren't the marrying brand.
But I wanted to speak o' your mother that's Lady Gloster still;
I'm going to up and see her, without its hurting the will.
Here! Take your hand off the bell-pull. Five thousand's waiting for you,
If you'll only listen a minute, and do as I bid you do.
They'll try to prove me crazy, and, if you bungle, they can;
And I've only you to trust to! (O God, why ain't it a man?)
There's some waste money on marbles, the same as M'Cullough tried -
Marbles and mausoleums - but I call that sinful pride.
There's some ship bodies for burial - we've carried 'em, soldered and packed,
Down in their wills they wrote it, and nobody called them cracked.
But me - I've too much money, and people might . . . All my fault:
It come o' hoping for grandsons and buying that Wokin' vault...
I'm sick o' the 'ole dam' business. I'm going back where I came.
Dick, you're the son o' my body, and you'll take charge o' the same!
I want to lie by your mother, ten thousand mile away,
And they'll want to send me to Woking; and that's where you'll earn your pay.
I've thought it out on the quiet, the same as it ought to be done -
Quiet, and decent, and proper - an' here's your orders, my son.
You know the Line? You don't, though. You write to the Board, and tell
Your father's death has upset you an' you're going to cruise for a spell,
An' you'd like the Mary Gloster - I've held her ready for this -
They'll put her in working order and you'll take her out as she is.
Yes, it was money idle when I patched her and laid her aside
(Thank God, I can pay for my fancies!) - the boat where your mother died,
By the Little Paternosters, as you come to the Union Bank,
We dropped her - I think I told you - and I pricked it off where she sank.
['Tiny she looked on the grating - that oily, treacly sea -]
'Hundred and Eighteen East, remember, and South just Three.
Easy bearings to carry - Three South-Three to the dot;
But I gave McAndrew a copy in case of dying - or not.
And so you'll write to McAndrew, he's Chief of the Maori Line
They'Il give him leave, if you ask 'em and say it's business o' mine.
I built three boats for the Maoris, an' very well pleased they were,
An I've known Mac since the Fifties, and Mac knew me - and her.
After the first stroke warned me I sent him the money to keep
Against the time you'd claim it, committin' your dad to the deep;
For you are the son o' my body, and Mac was my oldest friend,
I've never asked 'im to dinner, but he'll see it out to the end.
Stiff-necked Glasgow beggar! I've heard he's prayed for my soul,
But he couldn't lie if you paid him, and he'd starve before he stole.
He'll take the Mary in ballast - you'll find her a lively ship;
And you'll take Sir Anthony Gloster, that goes on 'is wedding-trip,
Lashed in our old deck-cabin with all three port-holes wide,
The kick o' the screw beneath him and the round blue seas outside!
Sir Anthony Gloster's carriage - our 'ouse-flag flyin' free -
Ten thousand men on the pay-roll and forty freighters at sea!
He made himself and a million, but this world is a fleetin' show,
And he'll go to the wife of 'is bosom the same as he ought to go -
By the heel of the Paternosters - there isn't a chance to mistake -
And Mac'll pay you the money as soon as the bubbles break!
Five thousand for six weeks' cruising, the staunchest freighter afloat,
And Mac he'll give you your bonus the minute I'm out o' the boat!
He'll take you round to Macassar, and you'll come back alone;
He knows what I want o' the Mary . . . . I'll do what I please with my own.
Your mother 'ud call it wasteful, but I've seven-and-thirty more;
I'll come in my private carriage and bid it wait at the door...
For my son 'e was never a credit: 'e muddled with books and art,
And e' lived on Sir Anthony's money and 'e broke Sir Anthony's heart.
There isn't even a grandchild, and the Gloster family's done -
The only one you left me - O mother, the only one!
Harrer and Trinity College - me slavin' early an' late -
An' he thinks I'm dying crazy, and you're in Macassar Strait!
Flesh o' my flesh, my dearie, for ever an' ever amen,
That first stroke come for a warning. I ought to ha' gone to you then.
But - cheap repairs for a cheap 'un - the doctor said I'd do.
Mary, why didn't you warn me? I've allus heeded to you,
Excep' - I know - about women; but you are a spirit now;
An', wife, they was only women, and I was a man. That's how.
An' a man 'e must go with a woman, as you could not understand;
But I never talked 'em secrets. I paid 'em out o' hand.
Thank Gawd, I can pay for my fancies! Now what's five thousand to me,
For a berth off the Paternosters in the haven where I would be?
I believe in the Resurrection, if I read my Bible plain,
But I wouldn't trust 'em at Wokin'; we're safer at sea again.
For the heart it shall go with the treasure - go down to the sea in ships.
I'm sick of the hired women. I'll kiss my girl on her lips!
I'll be content with my fountain. I'll drink from my own well,
And the wife of my youth shall charm me - an' the rest can go to Hell!
(Dickie, he will, that's certain.) I'll lie in our standin'-bed,
An' Mac'll take her in ballast - an' she trims best by the head...
Down by the head an' sinkin', her fires are drawn and cold,
And the water's splashin' hollow on the skin of the empty hold -
Churning an' choking and chuckling, quiet and scummy and dark -
Full to her lower hatches and risin' steady. Hark!
That was the after-bulkhead. . . . She's flooded from stem to stern...
'Never seen death yet, Dickie? . . . Well, now is your time to learn!

და ეს:
The Palace




WHEN I was a King and a Mason - a Master proven and skilled
I cleared me ground for a Palace such as a King should build.
I decreed and dug down to my levels. Presently under the silt
I came on the wreck of a Palace such as a King had built.

There was no worth in the fashion - there was no wit in the plan -
Hither and thither, aimless, the ruined footings ran -
Masonry, brute, mishandled, but carven on every stone:
"After me cometh a Builder. Tell him I too have known.

Swift to my use in the trenches, where my well-planned ground-works grew,
I tumbled his quoins and his ashlars, and cut and reset them anew.
Lime I milled of his marbles; burned it slacked it, and spread;
Taking and living at pleasure the gifts of the humble dead.

Yet I despised not nor gloried; yet, as we wrenched them apart,
I read in the razed foundations the heart of that builder’s heart.
As he had written and pleaded, so did I understand
The form of the dream he had followed in the face of the thing he had planned.
. . . . . . . . . .

When I was a King and a Mason, in the open noon of my pride,
They sent me a Word from the Darkness. They whispered and called me aside.
They said - "The end is forbidden." They said - "Thy use is fulfilled.
"Thy Palace shall stand as that other’s - the spoil of a King who shall build."

I called my men from my trenches, my quarries my wharves and my sheers.
All I had wrought I abandoned to the faith of the faithless years.
Only I cut on the timber - only I carved on the stone:
"After me cometh a Builder. Tell him, I too have known."

ეს კიდე დაწერა, ერთადერთი შვილი ომში რო დაეღუპა:

"HAVE you news of my boy Jack? "
Not this tide.
"When d'you think that he'll come back?"
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

"Has any one else had word of him?"
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

"Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?"
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind---
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide.

ხო, ეს ყველაფერი კიპლინგი იყო.

ეხლა გამახსენდა , ამასწინათ ჯინჯერმა დადო ფეისბუქზე ემილის ბიოგრაფია , და მისი ლექსებიც ძალიან მიყვარს

My Life Closed Twice Before it Closed
---------------------------
My life closed twice before its close;
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me,
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell


The Mystery of Pain
----------------------
Pain has an element of blank;
It cannot recollect
When it began, or if there were
A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself,
Its infinite realms contain
Its past, enlightened to perceive
New periods of pain.

ჰაინრიხ ჰაინე - ლორელაი

Ich weiß nicht, was soll es bedeuten,
Daß ich so traurig bin,
Ein Märchen aus uralten Zeiten,
Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.
Die Luft ist kühl und es dunkelt,
Und ruhig fließt der Rhein;
Der Gipfel des Berges funkelt,
Im Abendsonnenschein.

Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet
Dort oben wunderbar,
Ihr gold'nes Geschmeide blitzet,
Sie kämmt ihr goldenes Haar,
Sie kämmt es mit goldenem Kamme,
Und singt ein Lied dabei;
Das hat eine wundersame,
Gewalt'ge Melodei.

Den Schiffer im kleinen Schiffe,
Ergreift es mit wildem Weh;
Er schaut nicht die Felsenriffe,
Er schaut nur hinauf in die Höh'.
Ich glaube, die Wellen verschlingen
Am Ende Schiffer und Kahn,
Und das hat mit ihrem Singen,
Die Loreley getan.

She Walks in Beauty
––––––––––––––––
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Lord Byron

ტაო
რესპექტ! დიკინსონი უმაგრესია, ყველაზე მაგარი პოეტი ქალია, მე თუ მკითხავ!

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

და ბაირონი ეგ მიყვარს კიდე:

Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star !

Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,

That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel,

How like art thou to joy remember'd well !

So gleams the past, the light of other days,

Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays;

A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold,

Distinct, but distant ---- clear ---- but, oh how cold !

ჩათვალეთ რომ გიომ დადო, მეც ეს წამია წავიკითხე.

ვ. მაიაკოვსკი -

ФЛЕЙТА-ПОЗВОНОЧНИК

поэма

За всех вас,
которые нравились или нравятся,
хранимых иконами у души в пещере,
как чашу вина в застольной здравице,
подъемлю стихами наполненный череп.

Все чаще думаю -
не поставить ли лучше
точку пули в своем конце.
Сегодня я
на всякий случай
даю прощальный концерт.

Память!
Собери у мозга в зале
любимых неисчерпаемые очереди.
Смех из глаз в глаза лей.
Былыми свадьбами ночь ряди.
Из тела в тело веселье лейте.
Пусть не забудется ночь никем.
Я сегодня буду играть на флейте.
На собственном позвоночнике.

1

Версты улиц взмахами шагов мну.
Куда уйду я, этот ад тая!
Какому небесному Гофману
выдумалась ты, проклятая?!

Буре веселья улицы узки.
Праздник нарядных черпал и черпал.
Думаю.
Мысли, крови сгустки,
больные и запекшиеся, лезут из черепа.

Мне,
чудотворцу всего, что празднично,
самому на праздник выйти не с кем.
Возьму сейчас и грохнусь навзничь
и голову вымозжу каменным Невским!
Вот я богохулил.
Орал, что бога нет,
а бог такую из пекловых глубин,
что перед ней гора заволнуется и дрогнет,
вывел и велел:
люби!

Бог доволен.
Под небом в круче
измученный человек одичал и вымер.
Бог потирает ладони ручек.
Думает бог:
погоди, Владимир!
Это ему, ему же,
чтоб не догадался, кто ты,
выдумалось дать тебе настоящего мужа
и на рояль положить человечьи ноты.
Если вдруг подкрасться к двери спаленной,
перекрестить над вами стёганье одеялово,
знаю -
запахнет шерстью паленной,
и серой издымится мясо дьявола.
А я вместо этого до утра раннего
в ужасе, что тебя любить увели,
метался
и крики в строчки выгранивал,
уже наполовину сумасшедший ювелир.
В карты бы играть!
В вино
выполоскать горло сердцу изоханному.

Не надо тебя!
Не хочу!
Все равно
я знаю,
я скоро сдохну.

Если правда, что есть ты,
боже,
боже мой,
если звезд ковер тобою выткан,
если этой боли,
ежедневно множимой,
тобой ниспослана, господи, пытка,
судейскую цепь надень.
Жди моего визита.
Я аккуратный,
не замедлю ни на день.
Слушай,
всевышний инквизитор!

Рот зажму.
Крик ни один им
не выпущу из искусанных губ я.
Привяжи меня к кометам, как к хвостам
лошадиным,
и вымчи,
рвя о звездные зубья.
Или вот что:
когда душа моя выселится,
выйдет на суд твой,
выхмурясь тупенько,
ты,
Млечный Путь перекинув виселицей,
возьми и вздерни меня, преступника.
Делай что хочешь.
Хочешь, четвертуй.
Я сам тебе, праведный, руки вымою.
Только -
слышишь! -
убери проклятую ту,
которую сделал моей любимою!

WDC


კი ძალიან მიყვარს

scarramush
ეს კაცი კიდე უნდა დაიდოს:

Я знаю силу слов, я знаю слов набат.
Они не те, которым рукоплещут ложи.
От слов таких срываются гроба
шагать четверкою своих дубовых ножек.
Бывает, выбросят, не напечатав, не издав,
но слово мчится, подтянув подпруги,
звенит века, и подползают поезда
лизать поэзии мозолистые руки.
Я знаю силу слов. Глядится пустяком,
опавшим лепестком под каблуками танца,
но человек душой губами костяком
. . . . . . .

Heart, we will forget him!
-----------------------

Heart, we will forget him!
You an I, tonight!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.

When you have done, pray tell me
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! lest while you're lagging.
I may remember him!

Emily Dickinson

და ეგეც - მისი მთელი ტრაგედია ერთ ლექსში:

СЕБЕ, ЛЮБИМОМУ,
ПОСВЯЩАЕТ ЭТИ СТРОКИ АВТОР

Четыре.
Тяжелые, как удар.
"Кесарево кесарю - богу богово".
А такому,
как я,
ткнуться куда?
Где мне уготовано логово?

Если бы я был
маленький,
как океан,-
на цыпочки волн встал,
приливом ласкался к луне бы.
Где любимую найти мне,
Такую, как и я?
Такая не уместилась бы в крохотное небо!

О, если б я нищ был!
Как миллиардер!
Что деньги душе?
Ненасытный вор в ней.
Моих желаний разнузданной орде
не хватит золота всех Калифорний.

Если б быть мне косноязычным,
как Дант
или Петрарка!
Душу к одной зажечь!
Стихами велеть истлеть ей!
И слова
и любовь моя -
триумфальная арка:
пышно,
бесследно пройдут сквозь нее
любовницы всех столетий.

О, если б был я
тихий,
как гром,-
ныл бы,
дрожью объял бы земли одряхлевший скит.
Я если всей его мощью
выреву голос огромный,-
кометы заломят горящие руки,
бросаясь вниз с тоски.

Я бы глаз лучами грыз ночи -
о, если б был я
тусклый, как солце!
Очень мне надо
сияньем моим поить
земли отощавшее лонце!

Пройду,
любовищу мою волоча.
В какой ночи
бредовой,
недужной
какими Голиафами я зачат -
такой большой
и такой ненужный?

აი კიდე მაგარი პოეტი - იეიტსი:

He wishes for the cloths of heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

ეს ჩემი საყვარელი ბიტნიკი, ფილიპ ლამანტია:


STILL POEM 9

There is this distance between me and what I see
everywhere immanence of the presence of God
no more ekstasis
a cool head
watch watch watch
I’m here
He’s over there…It’s an Ocean…
sometimes I can’t think of it, I fail, fall
There IS this look of love
there IS the tower of David
there IS the throne of Wisdom
there IS the silent look of love
Constant flight in air of the Holy Ghost
I long for the luminous darkness of God
I long for the superessential light of this darkness
another darkness I long for the end of longing
I long for the
It is Nameless what I long for
a spoken word caught in its own meat saying nothing
This nothing ravishes beyond ravishing
There is this look of love Throne Silent look of love





1959

ესეც უკვდავი ჯეკ კერუაკი:

Bowery Blues



The story of man
Makes me sick
Inside, outside,
I don't know why
Something so conditional
And all talk
Should hurt me so.

I am hurt
I am scared
I want to live
I want to die
I don't know
Where to turn
In the Void
And when
To cut
Out

For no Church told me
No Guru holds me
No advice
Just stone
Of New York
And on the cafeteria
We hear
The saxophone
O dead Ruby
Died of Shot
In Thirty Two,
Sounding like old times
And de bombed
Empty decapitated
Murder by the clock.

And I see Shadows
Dancing into Doom
In love, holding
TIght the lovely asses
Of the little girls
In love with sex
Showing themselves
In white undergarments
At elevated windows
Hoping for the Worst.

I can't take it
Anymore
If I can't hold
My little behind
To me in my room

Then it's goodbye
Sangsara
For me
Besides
Girls aren't as good
As they look
And Samadhi
Is better
Than you think
When it starts in
Hitting your head
In with Buzz
Of glittergold
Heaven's Angels
Wailing

Saying

We've been waiting for you
Since Morning, Jack
Why were you so long
Dallying in the sooty room?
This transcendental Brilliance
Is the better part
(of Nothingness
I sing)

Okay.
Quit.
Mad.
Stop.

ლოურენს ფერლინგეტი:


A Vast Confusion


Long long I lay in the sands
Sounds of trains in the surf
in subways of the sea
And an even greater undersound
of a vast confusion in the universe
a rumbling and a roaring
as of some enormous creature turning
under sea and earth
a billion sotto voices murmuring
a vast muttering
a swelling stuttering
in ocean's speakers
world's voice-box heard with ear to sand
a shocked echoing
a shocking shouting
of all life's voices lost in night
And the tape of it
someow running backwards now
through the Moog Synthesizer of time
Chaos unscrambled
back to the first
harmonies
And the first light

Denise Duhamel

The Woman With Two Vaginas

The woman with two vaginas tried her best
to hide them from her husband. It was difficult
because her vaginas werent in the usual place

but in the palms of her hands. To distract her husband,
she tickled his penis with her nipple,
or she took him into her backside.

She had traveled far, from a place she preferred
not to talk about, and her husband assumed
she learned her sexual practices there. He was happy

until he discovered his wife
pissing through her fingers, as though she were trying
to cup running water. He wished

that he didnt know what he then knew --
that his sexy young wife was also a ghost.
This was no time for sentimental lust --

a ghost can only bring loneliness to a snow hut.
So he strapped his wife into his kayak
and deposited her on an ice-floe far from home.

He told her to go back to the Land of the Dead,
but she was trapped like a moving shadow
that was neither here nor there. Some say

they still hear her sobbing: "My husband
will not have me! My husband will not have me!"
But she has no way of knowing how he misses her

twin vaginas, how he tries his best to
hide it from his new wife -- yet the village is small,
the gossip as fast as wind during a storm.

Its said he makes his new wife slap his face,
to feel the warm tingle of her fingers,
that he then cries out into her barren palms.

Denise Duhamel

Single Mother

She found his dead wives buried in the back. So this was the man
who destroyed everything he loved. He was her second husband,
her first so jealous that he locked her in the igloo, with a circle of sticks
around her so she couldn't move. She wasn't sure what to do --
her son was constantly crying for food. She was a long way from home.
At night she watched her second husband shave wood with his flint
Until now she was able to avoid his touch, so as not to end up like
his former wives. His penis-blade glistened as her second husband came
near her, his eyes swollen with tears. She smiled and coaxed him to their
cot, then using all her strength shoved him high into the air.
The flint point of his penis stuck into the very same wooden bed frame
it had made. The woman, both lucky and not, strapped her baby onto her
back and ran towards home, through days of darkness. Magic women
blew their breath into the baby's mouth so she didn't have to
carry him anymore -- fast and strong, he could run by her side.

http://gametv.ge/forum/index.php?showtopic=75

კელა
დიიიიდი მადლობა მაგრამ მე მინდოდა მხოლოდ ლექსებზე თემა და არა სრულიად ლიტერატურაზე

მელოდე
მირზა გელოვანი

მე დაბრუნებით ტკივილებს წავშლი,
ოღონდ მოსვლამდის, ოღონდ ბოლომდის,
როგორც გაზაფხულს ელიან მთაში, -
შენი ლამაზი გული მელოდეს.
შევყრი მეგობრებს, მაღალ მაყრიონს,
ორღობეებში გასროლას დოღის,
ზეცის ჩამოხსნას, მთების შერყევას
ჯილდოდ მოვუტან ბრწყინვალე ლოდინს.
და შენს ეზოში დაუკრავს ზურნა,
დაბალი ხმებით დუდუნი დოლის,
აგიცხადდება სიზმარი შორი,
გაგახსენდება დობილთა ზრუნვა.
გეტყვიან... ოი, ჰკარგავ ბავშვობას,
ოი, დობილებს გვტოვებ ბავშვებად,
მშვიდობა ყრმობას და თამაშობას,
მშვიდობის შუქი ნურც მოგეშვება.
... და ქორწილს ზეცის სუფრაზე გავშლი,
ოღონდ მოსვლამდის, ოღონდ ბოლომდის,
როგორც გაზაფხულს ელიან მთაში,-
შენი ლამაზი თრთოლვა მელოდეს.

1942

Emily Dickinson

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!
They'd advertise — you know!

How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell one's name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

Emily Dickinson

We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies.

The heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the cubits warp
For fear to be king.

თოვლი
გალაკტიონ ტაბიძე

მე ძლიერ მიყვარს იისფერ თოვლის

ქალწულებივით ხიდიდან ფენა:

მწუხარე გრძნობა ცივი სისოვლის

და სიყვარულის ასე მოთმენა.

ძვირფასო! სული მევსება თოვლით:

დღეები რბიან და მე ვბერდები!

ჩემს სამშობლოში მე მოვვლე მხოლოდ

უდაბნო ლურჯად ნახავერდები.

ოჰ! ასეთია ჩემი ცხოვრება:

იანვარს მოძმედ არ ვეძნელები,

მაგრამ მე მუდამ მემახსოვრება

შენი თოვლივით მკრთალი ხელები.

ძვირფასო! ვხედავ... ვხედავ შენს ხელებს,

უღონოდ დახრილს თოვლთა დაფნაში.

იელვებს, ქრება და კვლავ იელვებს

შენი მანდილი ამ უდაბნოში...

ამიტომ მიყვარს იისფერ თოვლის

ჩვენი მდინარის ხიდიდან ფენა,

მწუხარე გრძნობა ქროლვის, მიმოვლის

და ზამბახების წყებად დაწვენა.

თოვს! ასეთი დღის ხარებამ ლურჯი

და დაღალული სიზმრით დამთოვა.

როგორმე ზამთარს თუ გადავურჩი,

როგორმე ქარმა თუ მიმატოვა!

არის გზა, არის ნელი თამაში...

და შენ მიდიხარ მარტო, სულ მარტო!

მე თოვლი მიყვარს, როგორც შენს ხმაში

ერთ დროს ფარული დარდი მიყვარდა!

მიყვარდა მაშინ, მათრობდა მაშინ

მშვიდი დღეების თეთრი ბროლება,

მინდვრის ფოთლები შენს დაშლილ თმაში

და თმების ქარით გამოქროლება.

მომწყურდი ახლა, ისე მომწყურდი,

ვით უბინაოს - ყოფნა ბინაში...

თეთრი ტყეების მიმყვება გუნდი

და კვლავ მარტო ვარ მე ჩემს წინაშე.

თოვს! ამნაირ დღის ხარებამ ლურჯი

და დაღალული ფიფქით დამთოვა.

როგორმე ზამთარს თუ გადავურჩი!

როგორმე ქარმა თუ მიმატოვა!

Emily Dickinson

How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,
And doesn't care about careers,
And exigencies never fears;
Whose coat of elemental brown
A passing universe put on;
And independent as the sun,
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute decree
In casual simplicity.

გვანცაააა სად ხარ?

ისადა აქ ქართულენოვანი ლექსებიც უნდა დავდოთ?

ჩემი ემილი

Because I could not stop for Death (712)
by Emily Dickinson


Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –

იმედია ეს ჯერ არ დადებულა

ესეც ქართული თარგმანი

რადგან მე სიკვდილს ვერ დავუცდიდი -
თვითონ მელოდა აუჩქარებლად.
ჩემთან შეჩერდა - ეტლში ჩავსხედით
მხოლოდ ჩვენ ორნი და უკვდავება.

ნელა წავედით - ის არ ჩქარობდა
და მექცეოდა ისე თავაზით
რომ ყველა საქმე და უსაქმობა
მისი გულისთვის განზე გადავდე -

ჩვენ გავცდით სკოლას, ბავშვებს, ზარის ხმას -
სკოლის ჟრიამულს გვერდს ჩავუარეთ -
ჩვენ გავცდით მინდვრებს და პურის ყანებს -
და ჩამავალ მზეს გავცდით მდუმარედ -

თუმც უფრო სწორად - მზე თვითონ გაგვცდა -
და გრილი ნამით კიდეც ავჟრჟოლდი -
რადგან მეხურა ფარფატა ფატა -
და სიფრიფინა მეცვა სამოსი -

შევჩერდით სახლთან. წამოიბურცა
ჩვენ წინ მიწიდან თითქოს იმწამსვე -
სახლს სახურავი ძლივს მოუჩანდა
და დანარჩენი იყო მიწაში -

მას შემდეგ თითქოს დღეც არ გასულა -
თუმც უკვე გაქრნენ საუკუნენი -
რაც გულმა მიგრძნო - რომ ის ცხენები
მარადისობის კარს უყურებდნენ

მანანა კობაიძე

The Rainy Day

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

The Bells
by Edgar Allan Poe



I.
Hear the sledges with the bells--
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III.
Hear the loud alarum bells--
Brazen bells!
What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now--now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows ;
Yet, the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells--
Of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!

IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells--
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy meaning of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people--ah, the people--
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone--
They are neither man nor woman--
They are neither brute nor human--
They are Ghouls:--
And their king it is who tolls ;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pæan of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells ;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pæan of the bells--
Of the bells :
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the sobbing of the bells ;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells--
Bells, bells, bells--
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

ComediAn

ნუ დადებთ "ვულგარულ" ლექსებს და სხვა მარაზმს პლზ, მეტი არაფერი. და კიდევ ლექსები ა ლა თანამედროვე ქართველი პოეტები ჩემი ტკივილია

და კიდევ, ლექსს მთლიანად რატომ უკეთებ ციტირებას? უაზროდ წელავს გვერდს.

scarramush

ღმერთმანი კარგი.. არავითარი თანამედროვე პოეზია მე კი მომწონს ზოგი რეავიცი

The Road Not Taken


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,


And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference

Robert Frost

The Lake Isle of Innisfree
by W. B. Yeats



I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

What birds plunge through is not the intimate space

What birds plunge through is not the intimate space
in which you see all forms intensified.
(Out in the Open, you would be denied
your self, would disappear into that vastness.)

Space reaches from us and construes the world:
to know a tree, in its true element,
throw inner space around it, from that pure
abundance in you. Surround it with restraint.
It has no limits. Not till it is held
in your renouncing is it truly there.


Rainer Maria Rilke

October Day

Oh Lord, it’s time, it’s time. It was a great summer.
Lay your shadow now on the sundials,
and on the open fields let the winds go!

Give the tardy fruits the hint to fill;
give them two more Mediterranean days,
Drive them on into their greatness, and press
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house by now will not build.
Whoever is alone now will remain alone,
will wait up, read, write long letters,
and walk along sidewalks under large trees,
not going home, as the leaves fall and blow away.

Rainer Maria Rilke

I love the dark hours of my being

I love the dark hours of my being
in which my senses drop into the deep.
I have found in them, as in old letters,
my private life, that is already lived through,
and become wide and powerful now, like legends.
Then I know that there is room in me
for a second huge and timeless life.

But sometimes I am like the tree that stands
over a grave, a leafy tree, fully grown,
who has lived out that particular dream, that the dead boy
(around whom its warm roots are pressing)
lost through his sad moods and his poems.

Rainer Maria Rilke

ყველა ეს ლექსი (გაუდეამუსის ჩათვლით) ზეპირად ვიცი

Gaudeamus igitur

Gaudeamus igitur
Juvenes dum sumus.
Gaudeamus igitur
Juvenes dum sumus.
Post jucundam juventutem
Post molestam senectutem
Nos habebit humus.
Nos habebit humus.

Vita nostra brevis est
Brevi finietur.
Vita nostra brevis est
Brevi finietur.
Venit mors velociter
Rapit nos atrociter
Nemini parcetur.
Nemini parcetur.

Vivant omnes virgines
Faciles, formosae.
Vivant omnes virgines
Faciles, formosae.
Vivant et mulieres
Tenerae amabiles
Bonae laboriosae.
Bonae laboriosae.

Vivat academia!
Vivant professores!
Vivat academia!
Vivant professores!
Vivat membrum quodlibet
Vivant membra quaelibet
Semper sint in flore.
Semper sint in flore.



რუსულად ^^

Итак, будем веселиться
пока мы молоды!
После приятной юности,
после тягостной старости
нас возьмет земля.

Где те, которые раньше нас
жили в мире?
Подите на небо,
перейдите в ад,
где они уже были.

Жизнь наша коротка,
скоро она кончится.
Смерть приходит быстро,
уносит нас безжалостно,
никому пощады не будет.

Да здравствует университет,
да здравствуют профессора!
Да здравствует каждый член его,
да здравствуют все члены,
да вечно они процветают!

Да здравствуют все девушки,
ласковые, красивые!
Да здравствуют и женщины,
нежные, достойные любви,
добрые, трудолюбивые!

Да здравствует и государство,
и тот, кто им правит!
Да здравствует наш город,
милость меценатов,
которая нам здесь покровительствует!

Да исчезнет печаль,
да погибнут ненавистники наши,
да погибнет дьявол,
все враги студентов
и смеющиеся над ними!

ComediAn

ეგ ორიგინალშია? რაღაც არ მახსოვს მაგას ინგლისურად რამე დაეწეროს, ფრანგულად კიდე ჰო

An den Engel

Starker, stiller, an den Rand gestellter
Leuchter: oben wird die Nacht genau.
Wir ver-geben uns in unerhellter
Zögerung an deinem Unterbau.

Unser ist: den Ausgang nicht zu wissen
aus dem drinnen irrlichen Bezirk,
du erscheinst auf unsern Hindernissen
und beglühst sie wie ein Hochgebirg.

Deine Lust ist über unserm Reiche,
und wir fassen kaum den Niederschlag;
wie die reine Nacht der Frühlingsgleiche
stehst du teilend zwischen Tag und Tag.

Wer vermöchte je dir einzuflößen
von der Mischung, die uns heimlich trübt?
Du hast Herrlichkeit von allen Größen,
und wir sind am Kleinlichsten geübt.

Wenn wir weinen, sind wir nichts als rührend,
wo wir anschaun sind wir höchstens wach;
unser Lächeln ist nicht weit verführend,
und verführt es selbst, wer geht ihm nach?

Irgendeiner. Engel, klag ich, klag ich?
Doch wie wäre denn die Klage mein?
Ach, ich schreie, mit zwei Hölzern schlag ich
und ich meine nicht, gehört zu sein.

Daß ich lärme, wird an dir nicht lauter,
wenn du mich nicht fühltest, weil ich bin.
Leuchte, leuchte! Mach mich angeschauter
bei den Sternen. Denn ich schwinde hin.

ComediAn

აჩო და სეროჟა

scarramush

გერმანულად ვერ ვიპოვე რატომღაც, თან ინგლისური უფრო ვიცი

[Moderator]

ტაკს. ეს თემა არაა პოლემიკისთვის განკუთვნილი, მხოლოდ ლექსების დადებისთვის. პოლემიკა თუ გინდათ, ცალკე თემა გახსენით.

[/Moderator]

WDC

რა შუაშია პოლემიკა, ვერ გავიგე თემის ფორმატი და დავსვი კიტხვა, ხომ უნდა ვიცოდე როგორი ლექსი დავდო და როგორი არ?