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Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)

Kuchketina

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Ovu temu posvecujem njoj :) Ostala je neprevazidjena..

Childless Woman

The womb
Rattles its pod, the moon
Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.

My landscape is a hand with no lines,
The roads bunched to a knot,
The knot myself,

Myself the rose you acheive---
This body,
This ivory

Ungodly as a child's shriek.
Spiderlike, I spin mirrors,
Loyal to my image,

Uttering nothing but blood---
Taste it, dark red!
And my forest

My funeral,
And this hill and this
Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.
 

quentin

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Daddy


You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
 

Цлио

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Svojevremeno izvukla temu o Marini Cvetajevoj koju je neko postavio i niko nije replicirao :(
.
Cudno, s obzirom da "Mali virtuelni klub pesnika i pisaca" ima 3600 postova, valjda su prvo citali poeziju, pa tek onda poceli da je pisu :confused:. Tako da su me prijatno iznenadilo to sto uopste ima odgovora na temu.
Kjnigu Silvije Plat sam imala nekad davno, ne znam sta da napisem, ako ovod bude podsticaj da odem u biblioteku i uzmem njenu knjigu postavljac teme je ispunio misiju :wink:.
Nazalost, to meni i postavljacu teme o Cvetajevoj nije uspelo, ostaje samo da se cudim :shock: i zalim :-( .
 

ILO

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Za sve one koji bi možda želeli da nešto više saznaju o Silviji Plat, preporučujem njen roman 'Stakleno zvono' u kojoj Silvija opisuje svoju mladost i početke melanholije koja ju je i odvela u smrt. Jako emotivna knjiga, koja možda donekle i daje odgovore na pitanje zbog čega je mnogo godina kasnije izvršila samoubistvo.
 

Цлио

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Za sve one koji bi možda želeli da nešto više saznaju o Silviji Plat, preporučujem njen roman 'Stakleno zvono' u kojoj Silvija opisuje svoju mladost i početke melanholije koja ju je i odvela u smrt. Jako emotivna knjiga, koja možda donekle i daje odgovore na pitanje zbog čega je mnogo godina kasnije izvršila samoubistvo.
Pokusala sam da nadjem izdavaca, izgleda da je knjiga objavljana samo jednom, tako da sam je nasla kao antikvarno izdanje za fantasticnih 40 evra. Nadam se da imaju u biblioteci.
Hvala ILO, zapamticu naslov :rolleyes:
 

ILO

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Ja sam knjigu uzela u Španskom kulturnom centru (Servantesu). Učlanjenje je tada bilo 5evra, ne znam koliko je sada. Tada nisu imali neki izbor knjiga, ali bilo je dobrih stvari. Mogli su da se uzimaju i filmovi, od kojih su neki bili odlični, a nikada nisu dospeli na naše tržište samo zbog toga što nisu bili na engleskom.
Izvinjavam se zbog off-topica :)
 

gost 52128

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Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
0 my enemy.
Do I terrify?----

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart----
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash ---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
 

Цлио

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Ja sam knjigu uzela u Španskom kulturnom centru (Servantesu). Učlanjenje je tada bilo 5evra, ne znam koliko je sada. Tada nisu imali neki izbor knjiga, ali bilo je dobrih stvari. Mogli su da se uzimaju i filmovi, od kojih su neki bili odlični, a nikada nisu dospeli na naše tržište samo zbog toga što nisu bili na engleskom.
Izvinjavam se zbog off-topica :)
E sad je na mene red da oftopikujem. Nije mi jasno, da li u Spanskom kulturnom centu, imaju knjige na srpskom.:dontunderstand: ?
Ili si ti zavrsila spanski :) ?
I ja se izvinjavam, ali mislim da je korisno znati gde moze da se nabavi knjiga, zato nisam pisala PP :whistling:
 

ILO

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Imali su knjige na španskom, engleskom i srpskom, ali bilo je jako malo knjiga. Plus je bilo besplatno korišćenje interneta, mogli su da se uzimaju filmovi, CD muzike, udžbenici i kasete za učenje španskog a i čitaonica je bila mirna. Međutim, to je bilo pre 2 godine. Ne znam kako je sada.
 

gost 52128

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Zenski Lazar

Opet sam to izvela.
Jednom u svakih deset leta
To mi uspeva -

Neka vrsta pokretnog cuda, moja put
Sjajna ko nacisticki abazur,
Moje desno stopalo

Pritiskac za hartiju,
Moje lice bezlicno, fino
Jevrejsko rublje.

Salvet u kut,
O, moj neprijatelju.
Jesam li uzasna?

Nos, ocne duplje, svi zubi
Neprijatni zadah
Nestace za dan.

Ubrzo, ubrzo ce meso
sto grobna ga raka pojede
Kod kuce na meni da bude

A ja nasmejana zena.
Meni je tek trideseta.
I ko macka mogu devet puta da mrem.

Ovo je Treci Put.
Koliko djubreta
Za unistenje svake decenije.

Koliki milion niti.
Gomila sto krcka kikiriki
Gura se da vidi

Kako mi odvijaju ruku, nogu -
Veliko svlacenje.
Gospodo, dame,

Ovo su moje ruke,
moja kolena.
Moguce da sam kost i koza,

Pa ipak, ista sam, identicna zena.
Prvi put se desilo kad mi je bilo deset godina.
Nesrecan slucaj.

Drugi put sam mislila
Da istrajem i da se vise ne vracam tu.
Njihala sam se sklopljena

Ko morska skoljka.
Morali su da me zovu i zovu
I crve s mene da skidaju ko biserje lepljivo.

Umiranje je
Vestina, ko i sve ostalo,
Ja to izvodim maestralno.

Izvodim tako da izgleda pakleno.
Izvodim tako da izgleda stvarno.
Moglo bi se reci rodjena sam za to.

Lako je to izvesti u grobnici.
Lako je to izvesti i ostati gde si.
Ovo je teatralni

Povratak usred bela dana
Istom mestu, istom liku, istom zverskom
Poviku iznenadjenja:

"Cudo!"
Koji me obara.
Placa se

Razgledanje mojih oziljaka, placa se
Slusanje mog srca -
Stvarno kuca.

I placa se, mnogo se placa,
Za rec il dodir
Il kaplju krvi

Pramen mje kose il mog odela.
Zato, zato Herr Doktor
Zato Herr Neprijatelj -

Ja sam vase delo,
Ja sam vase blago,
Cedo od suva zlata

Sto se u vrisak istapa.
Vrtim se i gorim.
Ne mislite da vasu veliku brigu sporim.

Pepeo, pepeo -
Dzarate i mesate.
Meso, kost, niceg tu nema -

Parce sapuna,
Burma sa vencanja,
Plomba zlatna.

Herr Bog, Herr Lucifer,
Oprez
Oprez.

Iz pepela
Ustajem s kosama crvenim
I muskarce ko zrak tamanim.

(prevela Ljiljana Djurdjic)
 

Kuchketina

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Za sve one koji bi možda želeli da nešto više saznaju o Silviji Plat, preporučujem njen roman 'Stakleno zvono' u kojoj Silvija opisuje svoju mladost i početke melanholije koja ju je i odvela u smrt. Jako emotivna knjiga, koja možda donekle i daje odgovore na pitanje zbog čega je mnogo godina kasnije izvršila samoubistvo.
hvala na preporuci :)
dijagnostikovana joj je manichna depresija..
 

ILO

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hvala na preporuci :)
dijagnostikovana joj je manichna depresija..
Da, depresija, ali mislila sam na to, da se u 'Staklenom zvonu' polako kreće od te melanholije i svega onog što je dovelo do njenog prvog pokušaja samoubistva, privremenog izlečenja i kasnije svega ostalog. Ona često u pesmama piše o tome, kao što se može videti i u pesmi 'Daddy' na početku teme (otac joj je umro kada je imala deset godina):
''I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.''

Što se mene lično tiče, i žao mi je što to moram da priznam (mada mislim da ima puno ljudi kao što sam ja, opet kažem na žalost) uvek me je više fascinirala njena smrt i život, nego same pesme. Kada čitam njene pesme, uvek u njima tražim nju, i mislim da mi je zbog toga teško da ih doživim lično. Ne znam kako je kod ostalih.
 

Kuchketina

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Man in Black

Where the three magenta
Breakwaters take the shove
And suck of the grey sea

To the left, and the wave
Unfists against the dun
Barb-wired headland of

The Deer Island prison
With its trim piggeries,
Hen huts and cattle green

To the right, and March ice
Glazes the rock pools yet,
Snuff-colored sand cliffs rise

Over a great stone spit
Bared by each falling tide,
And you, across those white

Stones, strode out in you dead
Black coat, black shoes, and your
Black hair till there you stood,

Fixed vortex on the far
Tip, riveting stones, air,
All of it, together.
 

Kuchketina

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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.)
 

quentin

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Prije tri dana bilo je tačno pedeset godina od samoubistva Silvije Plat.

Naravno, nismo se toga sjetili, ali možda i bolje da se danas to pomene. Čisto da pokvarimo Dan zaljubljenih onima kojima nešto znači.

Usput, da li je neko pročitao njen jedini roman The Bell Jar (Stakleno zvono)? Meni godinama stoji na polici, nekako izmiče stalno. Poezija je uglavnom sumorna i sa puno gnjeva, ali odlična.
 

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