Poezija stranih autora...
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  1. #1
    Bloody Baroness nije na forumu
    She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies...
    Zainteresovan član Bloody Baroness (avatar)
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    Podrazumevano Poezija stranih autora...

    Pesme stranih autora koje vam se svidjaju.... Mogu i u originalu i prevod na srpski...



  2. #2
    Bloody Baroness nije na forumu
    She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies...
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    Annabel Lee


    It was many and many a year ago,
    In a kingdom by the sea,
    That a maiden there lived whom you may know
    By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
    And this maiden she lived with no other thought
    Than to love and be loved by me.

    I was a child and she was a child,
    In this kingdom by the sea;
    But we loved with a love that was more than love-
    I and my Annabel Lee;
    With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
    Coveted her and me.

    And this was the reason that, long ago,
    In this kingdom by the sea,
    A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
    My beautiful Annabel Lee;
    So that her highborn kinsman came
    And bore her away from me,
    To shut her up in a sepulchre
    In this kingdom by the sea.

    The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
    Went envying her and me-
    Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
    In this kingdom by the sea)
    That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
    Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

    But our love it was stronger by far than the love
    Of those who were older than we-
    Of many far wiser than we-
    And neither the angels in heaven above,
    Nor the demons down under the sea,
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

    For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
    Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
    In the sepulchre there by the sea,
    In her tomb by the sounding sea.

    Edgar Allan Poe



  3. #3
    Bloody Baroness nije na forumu
    She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies...
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    Annabel Lee




    U carstvu na žalu sinjega mora -
    pre mnogo leta to bi -
    življaše jednom devojka lepa
    po imenu Anabel Li;
    i samo jedno joj beše na umu
    da se volimo mi.

    U carstvu na žalu sinjega mora
    deca smo bili mi,
    al volesmo se više no iko
    ja i Anabel Li,
    ljubavlju s koje su patili žudno
    nebeski andjeli svi.

    I zato, u carstvu na morskome žalu,
    pradavno ovo se zbi
    poduhnu vetar nocu sa neba,
    sledi mi Anabel Li
    i dodjoše od mene da je odnesu
    njezini rodjaci svi,
    u grob na morskome je spustiše žalu
    da vecni sanak sni.

    Andjele zavist je morila što su
    tek upola srecni ko mi
    da! zato samo ( kao što znaju
    u carstvu onome svi)
    poduhnu vetar sa neba i sledi
    i ubi mi Anabel Li.

    Al mi nadjacasmo ljubavlju one
    što stariji behu no mi -
    što mudriji behu no mi -
    i slabi su andjeli sve vasione
    i slabi su podvodni duhovi zli
    da ikad mi razdvoje dušu od duše
    prelepe Anabel Li

    Jer vecite snove, dok Mesec sjaj toci,
    snivam o Anabel Li
    kad zvezde zaplove, svud vidjam ja oci
    prelepe Anabel Li
    po svu noc ja tako uz dragu pocivam,
    uz nevestu svoju, uz život svoj snivam,
    u grobu na žalu, tu ležimo mi,
    a more buci i vri.

  4. #4
    Bloody Baroness nije na forumu
    She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies...
    Zainteresovan član Bloody Baroness (avatar)
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    Podrazumevano Re: Poezija stranih autora...

    Neverna žena




    I povedoh nju do reke,
    devojkom je smatrajuci,
    no, udata ona beše.
    Zbilo se na Svetog Jaga,
    u podesno nocno vreme,
    kad pogase fenjeri se
    i zrikavci kad zasvetle.
    Na izmaku krajnjih kuca
    dodirnuh joj grudi snene,
    što se odmah rascvetaše
    ko zumbula kite jedre.
    I šumeli nabori su
    uštirkane suknje njene
    kao komad svile što,
    od oštrica deset secen.
    S krunama bez srebra sjajnog
    naraslo je sve drvece,
    dok lajaše vidik pasa
    u daljini, preko reke.
    Kad predosmo glog i trske
    i kupina oštre vreže,
    od njezine punde osta
    na tlu blatnom udubljenje.
    I ja na to mašnu skidoh,
    ona haljinu sa sebe,
    ja - opasac s revolverom,
    ona - prslnik sav izvezen.
    Ni smilje ni školjke morske
    nisu takve puti nežne,
    ni kristali na mesecu
    takvim sjajem ne trepere.
    Bedra njena bežahu mi
    kao ribe uplašene,
    do pola hladnoce pune
    a od pola osvetljene.
    I po putu najboljemu
    jezdio sam noci cele,
    bez stremena i bez uzde,
    vrh omice te sedefne.
    Ne želim, jer covek jesam,
    da pomenem šta mi rece,
    pamet zadrava nalaže mi
    da se time ne razmecem.
    Prljavu od poljubaca
    i peska, nju ponesoh s reke;
    do se s vetrom macevahu
    ljiljanove sablje bele.
    Pokazah se kao pravi
    Ciganin što zna ko jeste.
    Ja poklonih kotaricu
    Njoj od trske ispletene,
    Al u nju se ne zaljubih,
    jer udata mada beše,
    kaza mi da devojka je
    kad povedoh nju do reke.




    F.G.Lorka

  5. #5
    Iskusan quentin (avatar)
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    Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
    by Wallace Stevens


    Among twenty snowy mountains,
    The only moving thing
    Was the eye of the blackbird.

    II

    I was of three minds,
    Like a tree
    In which there are three blackbirds.

    III

    The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
    It was a small part of the pantomime.

    IV

    A man and a woman
    Are one.
    A man and a woman and a blackbird
    Are one.

    V

    I do not know which to prefer,
    The beauty of inflections
    Or the beauty of innuendoes,
    The blackbird whistling
    Or just after.

    VI

    Icicles filled the long window
    With barbaric glass.
    The shadow of the blackbird
    Crossed it, to and fro.
    The mood
    Traced in the shadow
    An indecipherable cause.

    VII

    O thin men of Haddam,
    Why do you imagine golden birds?
    Do you not see how the blackbird
    Walks around the feet
    Of the women about you?

    VIII

    I know noble accents
    And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
    But I know, too,
    That the blackbird is involved
    In what I know.

    IX

    When the blackbird flew out of sight,
    It marked the edge
    Of one of many circles.

    X

    At the sight of blackbirds
    Flying in a green light,
    Even the bawds of euphony
    Would cry out sharply.

    XI

    He rode over Connecticut
    In a glass coach.
    Once, a fear pierced him,
    In that he mistook
    The shadow of his equipage
    For blackbirds.

    XII

    The river is moving.
    The blackbird must be flying.

    XIII

    It was evening all afternoon.
    It was snowing
    And it was going to snow.
    The blackbird sat
    In the cedar-limbs.

  6. #6
    Iskusan quentin (avatar)
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    Sunday Morning
    Wallace Stevens
    I
    Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
    Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
    And the green freedom of a cockatoo
    Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
    The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
    She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
    Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
    As a calm darkness among water-lights.
    The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
    Seem things in some procession of the dead,
    Winding across wide water, without sound.
    The day is like wide water, without sound,
    Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
    Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
    Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.
    II
    Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
    What is divinity if it can come
    Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
    Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
    In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
    In any balm or beauty of the earth,
    Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
    Divinity must live within herself:
    Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
    Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
    Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
    Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
    All pleasures and all pains, remembering
    The bough of summer and the winter branch.
    These are the measures destined for her soul.
    III
    Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
    No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
    Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
    He moved among us, as a muttering king,
    Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
    Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
    With heaven, brought such requital to desire
    The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
    Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
    The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
    Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
    The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
    A part of labor and a part of pain,
    And next in glory to enduring love,
    Not this dividing and indifferent blue.
    IV
    She says, ``I am content when wakened birds,
    Before they fly, test the reality
    Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
    But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
    Return no more, where, then, is paradise?''
    There is not any haunt of prophecy,
    Nor any old chimera of the grave,
    Neither the golden underground, nor isle
    Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
    Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
    Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
    As April's green endures; or will endure
    Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
    Or her desire for June and evenings, tipped
    By the consummation of the swallow's wings.
    V
    She says, ``But in contentment I still feel
    The need of some imperishable bliss.''
    Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
    Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
    And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
    Of sure obliteration on our paths,
    The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
    Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
    Whispered a little out of tenderness,
    She makes the willow shiver in the sun
    For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
    Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
    She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
    On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
    And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.
    VI
    Is there no change of death in paradise?
    Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
    Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
    Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
    With rivers like our own that seek for seas
    They never find, the same receding shores
    That never touch with inarticulate pang?
    Why set the pear upon those river-banks
    Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
    Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
    The silken weavings of our afternoons,
    And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
    Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
    Within whose burning bosom we devise
    Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
    VII
    Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
    Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
    Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
    Not as a god, but as a god might be,
    Naked among them, like a savage source.
    Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
    Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
    And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
    The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
    The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
    That choir among themselves long afterward.
    They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
    Of men that perish and of summer morn.
    And whence they came and whither they shall go
    The dew upon their feet shall manifest.
    VIII
    She hears, upon that water without sound,
    A voice that cries, ``The tomb in Palestine
    Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
    It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.''
    We live in an old chaos of the sun,
    Or an old dependency of day and night,
    Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
    Of that wide water, inescapable.
    Deer walk upon our mountains, and quail
    Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
    Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
    And, in the isolation of the sky,
    At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
    Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
    Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

  7. #7
    Bloody Baroness nije na forumu
    She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies...
    Zainteresovan član Bloody Baroness (avatar)
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    Podrazumevano Re: Poezija stranih autora...

    O KAPETANE! MOJ KAPETANE!

    O kapetane! Moj kapetane! Strašna je plovidba svršila!
    Pobijedismo! Najgora oluja nije nam broda skršila,
    Luka je blizu, zvona cujem, klicanje ljudi i trk,
    Dok oci prate cvrsti naš brod, što pristaje smion i mrk!
    Ali o srce! srce! Srce!
    Na palubi je moj kapetan,
    U svojoj rujnoj krvi leži,
    Mrtav i ledan.

    O kapetane! Moj kapetane! Ustaj! Cuj: zvona biju!
    Ustaj! Za tebe trube jece i zastave se viju,
    Za tebe vijenci, cvijece, i ljudi što se sticu
    Na molo hrpimice. Slušaj! To tebi željno klicu.
    O kapetane! Oce!
    Ko u snu nekom gledam
    U narucju mi ovdje ležiš
    Mrtav i ledan.

    Usne su mu blijede, mirne, kapetan samo šuti,
    Bezvoljno bilo mu stoji, ruke mi ne cuti.
    Usidrio se brod naš, dovršen naš je put,
    S plovidbe strašne vratismo se, cilj je postignut.
    Kliknite obale! Zvonite zvona!
    A ja- sjetan i bijedan
    Palubom šetam, gdje leži kapetan,
    Mrtav i ledan.



    Volt Vitmen

  8. #8
    Iskusan
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    Do not go gentle into that good night

    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.

    Dylan Thomas

  9. #9
    Obećava mica-maca (avatar)
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    Podrazumevano Re: Poezija stranih autora...

    Splin

    Ličim na kralja zemlje gde kiša stalno pada,
    Bogata a nemoćna, već prestara a mlada,
    Što, prezirući naklon vaspitača mu smernih,
    Čami kraj svojih pasa kao kraj drugih zveri.
    Ništa da ga razgali, ni divljač, ni sokoli,
    Ni umirući narod što pod balkonom moli.
    Dragog lakrdijaša ni balada ni slika
    Ne vedri više čelo tog teškog bolesnika;
    Postelja mu krinom kićena grobnicom bude,
    A gospe od ukrasa, što svakog kneza žude,
    Ne znaju kako da se bestidnije obuku,
    Da tom kosturu mladom bar osmeh još izvuku.
    Ni prvi alhemičar ne uspe da izluči
    Iz njegova bića tu boljku koja ga muči,
    Ni kupanjem u krvi, što su Rimljani znali
    I silnici kada ih staračka nemoć svali,
    Ne zagreja tu lešinu otupelu od sete,
    Čijim žilama struji zelena voda Lete.

    Šarl Bodler

  10. #10
    Fuu-chan nije na forumu
    Trenutna aktivnost? Pa, pokušavam da se oslobodim viška glodara! :D
    Zainteresovan član Fuu-chan (avatar)
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    Podrazumevano Re: Poezija stranih autora...

    I saw a chapel all of gold
    That none did dare to enter in,
    And many weeping stood without,
    Weeping, mourning, worshipping.

    I saw a serpent rise between
    The white pillars of the door,
    And he forc'd and forc'd and forc'd,
    Down the golden hinges tore.

    And along the pavement sweet,
    Set with pearls and rubies bright,
    All his slimy length he drew
    Till upon the altar white

    Vomiting his poison out
    On the bread and on the wine.
    So I turn'd into a sty
    And laid me down among the swine.

    by William Blake

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