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- Pridružio: 07 Avg 2008
- Poruke: 2528
- Gde živiš: VII kat
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Napisano: 25 Nov 2010 17:50
Among the Gods
Within the grated dungeon of the eye
The old gods, shaggy with gray lichen, sit
Like fragment of the antique masonry
Of heaven, a patient thunder in their stare.
Huge blocks of language, all my quarried love,
They justify, and not in random poems,
But shapes of things interior to Time,
Hewn out of chaos when the Pure was plain.
Sister, my bride, who were both cloud and bird
When Zeus came down in a shower of sexual gold,
Listen! we make a world! I hear the sound
Of matter pouring through eternal forms.
The Approach to Thebes
In the zero of the night, in the lipping hour,
Skin-time, knocking-time, when the heart is pearled
And the moon squanders its uranian gold,
She taunted me, who was all music's tongue,
Philosophy's and wilderness's breed,
Of shifting shape, half jungle-cat, half-dancer,
Night's woman-petaled, lion-scented rose,
To whom I gave, out of a hero's need,
The dolor of my thrust, my riddling answer,
Whose force no lesser mortal knows. Dangerous?
Yes, as nervous oracles foretold
Who could not guess the secret taste of her:
Impossible wine! I came into the world
To fill a fate; am punished by my youth
No more. What if dog-faced logic howls
Was it art or magic multiplied my joy?
Nature has reasons beyond true or false.
We played like metaphysic animals
Whose freedom made our knowledge bold
Before the tragic curtain of the day:
I can bear the dishonor now of growing old.
Blinded and old, exiled, diseased, and scorned—
The verdict's bitten on the brazen gates,
For the gods grant each of us his lot, his term.
Hail to the King of Thebes!—my self, ordained
To satisfy the impulse of the worm,
Bemummied in those famous incestuous sheets,
The bloodiest flags of nations of the curse,
To be hung from the balcony outside the room
Where I encounter my most flagrant source.
Children, grandchildren, my long posterity,
To whom I bequeath the spiders of my dust,
Believe me, whatever sordid tales you hear,
Told by physicians or mendacious scribes,
Of beardless folly, consanguineous lust,
Fomenting pestilence, rebellion, war,
I come prepared, unwanting what I see,
But tied to life. On the royal road to Thebes
I had my luck, I met a lovely monster,
And the story's this: I made the monster me.
Three Small Parables for My Poet Friends
I
Certain saurian species, notably the skink, are capable of shedding their tails in
self-defense when threatened. The detached appendage diverts attention to
itself by taking on a life of its own and thrashing furiously about. As soon as the
stalking wildcat pounces on the wriggler, snatching it up from the sand to bite
and maul it, the free lizard scampers off. A new tail begins to grow in place of
the one that has been sacrificed.
II
The larva of the tortoise beetle has the neat habit of collecting its droppings
and exfoliated skin into a little packet that it carries over its back when it is out
in the open. If it were not for this fecal shield, it would lie naked before its enemies.
III
Among the Bedouins, the beggar poets of the desert are held in contempt
because of their greed, their thievery and venality. Everyone in the scattered
encampments knows that poems of praise can be bought, even by the worst of
scoundrels, for food or money. Furthermore, these wandering minstrels are
notorious for stealing the ideas, lines, and even whole songs of others. Often the
recitation is interrupted by the shouts of the squatters around the campfire:
"Thou liest. Thou stolest it from So-and-so!" When the poet tries to defend
himself, calling for witnesses to vouch for his probity or, in extremity, appealing
to Allah, his hearers hoot him down, crying, "Kassad, kaddab! A poet is a liar."
Da li neko možda ima nekog prevedenog Stenlija? 
Dopuna: 25 Jun 2011 21:40
I Dreamed That I was Old
I dreamed that I was old: in stale declension
Fallen from my prime, when company
Was mine, cat-nimbleness, and green invention,
Before time took my leafy hours away.
My wisdom, ripe with body's ruin, found
Itself tart recompense for what was lost
In false exchange: since wisdom in the ground
Has no apocalypse or pentecost.
I wept for my youth, sweet passionate young thought,
And cozy women dead that by my side
Once lay: I wept with bitter longing, not
Remembering how in my youth I cried.
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