Stihovi koje volim


Pune mi cipele peska,
tebi talasi kvase stopala.
Dok kriješ se iza svog smeška,
pitam se kakva te je ludost spopala.

Dok nam se senke stapaju u jednu,
lagano, padamo s mrakom.
I umire svaka laž ovog sveta,
sa zadnjim sunčevim zrakom.

Ratko Petrović

Pesme, pesme, zašto naričete?
Zar vam se može još nešto dati?
Plavog spokoja niti vite
U kose ću vam uplitati.

Hoću da budem tih i strog,
Ćutanju se učim od zvezda.
Lepo je, ko iva kraj puta tog,
Čuvati usnule Rusije gnezda.

Lepo je s jeseni kad luna sja
Slušati trava žalbu-molbu,
I skupljati pregršti klasja
U olinjalu dušu-torbu.

Al ne leče ravnice plavetne.
Pesme, zar se i vi razboleste?
Večer poput zlatne metle
Čisti sneg sa ravne ceste.

I tako se, zamiruć u vetru,
Krik moj radosno k nebu penje:
"Budi hladan dok živiš na svetu,
Kao zlato lipa jesenjih"


*Sergej Jesenjin - Celokupna dela, Lirika (1917 - 1923)
** Rad - Beograd, 1977.
*** prevod - Danilo Kiš
O kako dugo

Odavno nisam strigo-seko
kose i nokte, bradu strugo.
O, kako dugo, kako dugo,
ni sa kim nisam ni reč reko.

Ogrnut, sav u starom ruvu,
obrastao u dlaku golu:
Mrmljao sam samo svome stolu
i šaptao samo svome uvu.

I tek ponekad, u čas tmine,
kad i poslednji korak mine-
kreto sam ka svom trgu-getu:

I vrteo se svu noć dugu
kao robijaš po svom krugu
ili kuglica u ruletu.

Stevan Raičković

New York City Hard Time Blues

NYC Blues
Big time time hard on on me blues
New York City hard sunday morning blues
Junkie waking up
bones ache trying to shake
New York City sunday morning blues
the sun was vomiting itself up over
the carbon monoxide detroit perfume
strolling down the black asphalt dance floor
where all the disco sweat drenched Mr. Mario's
summer suit still mambo-tango hustled
to the tunes of fiberglass songs
New York City sunday morning means
liquor store closed
bars don't open 'til noon
and my connection wasn't upping
a 25 cent balloon
yeah reality wasn't giving me no play
telling me it was going to be sunday
24 hours the whole day
it was like the reincarnation of the night
before when my ashtray became
the cemetery of all my lost memories
when a stumble bum blues band
kept me up all night playing me cheap
F. M.
of hard time
sad time
bad time
hell we all know times are
all over
well I thought of the pope
welfare hopes
then I thought of the pope again
whose sexual collar musta been tighter
than a pimp's hat band
that brought a warm beer smile to this
wasteland the mirror called my face
ya see
I left my faith in a mausoleum
when my inspiration ran off with
a trumpet player
who wore double knit suits and stacy adam shoes
this girl left me so broke
my horoscope said
my sign was a dead dog in the middle
of the road
the morning will be giving up to the noon
and soon I'll hear winos and junkyard dogs
howling at the moon
made the shadows
at jake's juke saloon
as a battalion of violet virgins
sang tunes
of deflowered songs
men poured their
fantasies of lust into young boy's
car stolen
whizzed by
crying hard luck tears in beers
the love conflict of air conditioned
dim lit motel rooms
rumpled sheets with blood stains
my yesterday night of mind
the winter fell as hard
as the smell of a brick shithouse
in the hot south
Om . . .
but the hawk seeped into my home
chillin' my bones
Om . . .
it didn't hear my incantation
there has to be an explanation
wasn't it true
when you
Om . . .
you are one
Om . . .
make me warm
Om . . .
is part of god
Om . . .
make the cold wind stop
Om . . .
perhaps if I
Om . . .
Om . . .
Om . . .
it don't work
Om . . .
I feel like a jerk
I'll try once more just to make sure
maybe if I pleaded on my knees
to J. C.
he'd take heed of my needs
and melt the icicles
from the tears in my eyes
but it was still cold
I'm told if you sing
"I'm gonna lay down my sword and shield
down by the river side . . . down by the river side"
I get no signal
maybe if I do it bilingual
"en la cruz, en la cruz yo primero vi la luz"
oh come on chuito
have a heart
take apart the winter winds from me
please . . . J. C. . .
OM . . .
en la cruz
down by the river side
10 hail marys I offer
and 5 our fathers
but the cold was no further
than before
I should know its very rare when
a prayer
gets the boiler fixed
New York City december sunday morning
was whippin' my ass in a cold blooded fashion
treatin' me like a stepchild
putting a serious hurting on me
watching me bleed
thru my sleeves
as I tried to get high
shooting up caffeine without saccarine
that some beat artist sold me down
on eldredge st.
but that's the ghetto creed
that the strong must feed
everything was happening faster than the
speed of sound
my whole seemed like it was going down
I wonder who ever wrote that tune
about being back on top in june
nigger forgot about september and december
now that's a month to remember
when each cold day becomes like a brick wall
and you're the bouncing ball
yeah I kept seeing my fate being sealed
by the silk smooth hands of the eternal bill
who keeps rattling my door knob
pressing my avon ding dong bell . . .
my pockets were crying the blues
telling me that I ain't fed them a dollar in years
and was it clear that they couldn't hold
anymore unpaid debts . . . traffic tickets . . . or promissory notes
and hey that was when I wished I was back in
L. A.
laid back
L. A.
kick back
L. A.
smog town
hollywood . . . driving down to malibu
hollywood U. S. A . . ..hey hey USA hollywood
seedy looking film producers smile at you
over a burrito with taco bell breath
explain the plots to fellini movies
they aint ever seen
hollywood . . . down to malibu
at two a. m. if you get tired
of cal worthington shit-eating grin
you walk out on him hit santa monica blvd
and watch the manicured thumbs caress the
homosexual airs of rolled up jeans and silver buckles
as westwood camaro rides very slow very low
down western ave
where neon lights scream
the latest kick in adult entertainment
enters your thoughts
when pornographic stars with colgate smiles
snides of flicking your bic
or I'm nancy fly with me national
well I'm going nowhere got nowhere to go
going nowhere fast
got me a couple of dollars a few dimes
and plenty of time
go into some bar on alvarado
and temple listen to some mariachi music
or stroll into some dive joint off sunset
sit in some naugahyde booth
with some dishwater blond
with sagging breasts
wearing a see thru blouse
and listen to all her 1930 starlet dreams
as she smokes all my cigarettes
sure what have I got back at that
refugee from a leprosy colony hotel
but a one station a. m. radio
feeding my neurological cells
with those south street philadelphia blues
she wants to cruise thru griffin park
no thank you
I'd rather listen to linda ronstadt instead
and the bartender tell dirty jokes
and his customers recite 12% alcoholic aluminum
recycled viet nam horror stories
reading the signs of our times
the obituary of a dying society
the folktales of yesteryear's gonorrhea
hollywood going down to malibu
malibu . . . pretty people and fonzi T shirts
flex their muscles spreading spiritual bad breath
and joe namath perfume
but i'm in new york city
crying the junkie blues
welfare afro hairdos sprout out
of frye boots
yeah punk rockers hitting on you
for subway fare three times
soon the mohair slick lines
at penn station are getting impatient
wanna get home
to alone
make the scene with a magazine
or with a plastic doll
'cause the missus got another headache
gaze at the farrah foster poster
that adorns his horny teenage son's walls
yeah these days always
have a way of showing up
like rubber checks
I wish I could cop a bottle of muscatel
stroll thru the bowery with a pocket
full of wino dreams
but sunday morning in New York City
for the junkie there ain't no pity
we just walk the streets with loaded dice
and hear people say there goes miky
miky piñero
they call him the junkie christ . . .

Miguel Piñero

* preuzeto sa: allpoetry
** nemam prevod, izvinite

Poslednja izmena:


Lepo sam ti govorio: batali Filološki, idemo na Aljasku.
Čuvaćemo u brvnari dvanaest pasa i uprezaćemo ih u sanke.
Čekaćemo ledene zore jedući konzerve iz Kanade,
Ušuškani u ovčije kožuhe proučavaćemo tragove vučjih šapa.

Kakva teorija, proza, šta je s tobom? Tamo su okean i planine.
Tamo se vetar izmešao s maštom i vodom,
I velika medvedica lovi masne, zvezdaste ribe.
Tamo put iz „negde“ vodi u „nigde“, odmah iza one vukojebine.

Lepo ti kažem: batali. Zar ne vidiš? Već je leto!
A ti se spremaš nešto da pišeš, učiš mesto da kupuješ karte,
Svoje vreme traćiš na ogledala, kafu i krznenu loptu od mačke.
Samo jedna karta treba da se ode.

Tamo će poput vodopada od cveća da ožive i Ahmatova i Blok u rumena jutra.
Vikendima tamo šeta Bog. Volećemo se, do nekog sutra.
Tamo sve, o čemu ti ne možeš ni da pročitaš, rukama može da se pipne.
Ali ne, ti navijaš alarm u šest i pravdaš se – imam ispit, bitno je.

A ja ti ponovo kažem: hajde sa mnom da tražimo Mesec boje kao zreli ringlovi.
Previše je pljuvačke potrebno da se progutaju sve te tuđe reči i tuđi smislovi.
Hajdemo. Tamo uz tihu lupnjavu rade sekire, zveckaju u potocima zlatne čestice.
Tamo dabrovi valjaju debla niz reku i grade sebi kućice.

Toneš u san. Tvoje knjige sa besprekorno čistih polica hrču epilog i prolog.
Toneš u san. Na zidu visi Isus. I on je raspet jer je bio filolog.

Izađem na ulicu iz tvog stana, a ruska zastava skrije u sebi zvezdu.
Samo čekaj – upregnuću one pse i vatru ću da ti donesem.

Da imam čime da spalim sve tvoje police i knjige i sveske.
Medvedicu ću da dovedem; gle.
Ako ti se ne svidi, sakriću je u rukav.
Ostaviću brvnaru sa hrastovim stolom Egziperiju-pilotu.

Ali ne; ti ćeš ipak da diplomiraš, a onda da zarađuješ platu.
Što li sam ti uopšte govorio, šaputao, grmeo, borio se s dušom, polumrtav?
I zvocao, zvocao, zvocao i molio te: slušaj me, slušaj!
A možda nam ne trebaju brvnare, ni psi, ni prizor maka u zoru i ptičji kvintet...

Reci mi, šta vam tamo uopšte rade?
Hoću i ja na taj tvoj fakultet.

Andrej Gogoljev

* preuzeto sa: klubputnika

Kad rastasmo se tada

Kad rastasmo se tada
uz muk i suza breme,
a bol nam srca savlada,
na vrlo dugo vreme,
bled, hladan, obraz ti posta,
ko led sam celov tvoj;
a meni tek tuga osta
kroz ceo život moj.

Tog jutra rosu ledenu
sred svog osetih čela
ko hladnu strepnju jednu
što obuze me cela.
Ti skrši zavete svoje;
sad mnogom pripadaš, znam;
kad ime spomenu tvoje
i mene samog je sram.

O tebi priča svud bruji,
za me posmrtno zvono;
kroz srce jeza mi struji:
što te ljubljaše oni?
Ti nikome od tih ljudi
ne beše tako znana;
bol osta sred mojih grudi
i večno živa rana.

Mi sastasmo se tajno;
sad tajno pamtim, smerno,
što srce ti nehajno
već presta biti verno.
A sretnem li te kada
kroz mnoga leta duga,
moj pozdrav biće tada
sav pusta, nema, tuga.

Džordž Gordon Bajron
Poslednja izmena:

Narodni vez

Krv mi veze vez po duši,
strašću me životinja guši,
i tka mi u život tlo:
zavičaj moj, ravnicu što zre
gde pijan raspasan seljak mre,
u krvi što je svo dobro, ne zlo.

Zato mi nebo svo
mirno u osmehu izumre.
Tih mi je plač a grohotan smeh,
kad se u zoru probudim prvi
ništa mi nije zabran, ni greh.
Ceo je svet za mene vez
pun šara moje krvi.

Šara bez smisla, broja i reda,
tankih ko izoran crv.
Beskrajan kao nebo nadamnom
ne marim šta će sa mnom,
pun smeha, smrti, stoke i greha,
na meni sudbinom tamnom
vez veze moja krv.

Miloš Crnjanski

*Miloš Crnjanski, Izabrana dela - Pesme
Nolit, Beograd, 1983


Čuj, plače Mesec mlad i žut.
Slušaj me, draga, poslednji put.

Umreću, pa kad se zaželiš mene,
ne viči ime moje u smiraj dana.
Slušaj vetar sa lišća svelog žutog.

Pevaće ti; da sam ja ljubio jesen,
a ne tvoje strasti, ni članke tvoje gole,
no stisak granja rumenog uvenutog.

A kad te za mnom srce zaboli,
zagrli i ljubi granu što vene.
Ah, niko nema časti i strasti,
ni plamena dosta da voli mene;

No samo jablanovi viti,
i borovi pusti ponositi.

No samo jablanovi viti...
I borovi pusti ponositi...

Miloš Crnjanski

Ohola greška

Bila jednom jedna greška
Tako smešna tako mala
Da je niko ne bi ni primetio

Sama sebe nije htela
Ni da gleda ni da čuje

Šta sve nije izmislila
Ne bi li dokazala
Da u stvari ne postoji

Izmislila je prostor
Dokaze svoje u njega da smesti
I vreme da joj dokaze čuva
I svet da joj dokaze vidi

Sve što je izmislila
Nije bilo ni tako smešno
Ni tako malo
Ali je naravno bilo pogrešno

Je li moglo biti drugačije

Vasko Popa

Plava grobnica

Stojte, galije carske! Sputajte krme moćne!
Gazite tihim hodom!
Opelo gordo držim u doba jeze noćne
nad ovom svetom vodom.

Tu na dnu, gde školjke san umoran hvata
i na mrtve alge tresetnica pada,
leži groblje hrabrih, leži brat do brata,
prometeji nade, apostoli jada.

Zar ne osećate kako more mili,
da ne ruži večni pokoj palih četa?
Iz dubokog jaza mirni dremež čili,
a umornim letom zrak meseca šeta.

To je hram tajanstva i grobnica tužna
za ogromnog mrca, k'o naš um beskrajna.
Tiha kao ponoć vrh ostrvlja južna,
Mračna kao savest, hladna i očajna.

Zar ne osećate iz modrih dubina
da pobožnost raste vrh voda prosuta
i vazduhom igra čudna pitomina?
To velika duša pokojnika luta.

Stojte, galije carske! Na grobu braće moje
zavite crnim trube.
Stražari u svečanom opelo nek otpoje
tu, gde se vali ljube!

Jer proći će mnoga stoleća, k'o pena
što prolazi morem i umre bez znaka,
i doći ce nova i velika smena,
da dom sjaja stvara na gomili raka.

Ali ovo groblje, gde je pogrebena
ogromna i strašna tajna epopeje,
kolevka će biti bajke za vremena,
gde će duh da traži svoje korifeje.

Sahranjeni tu su nekadašnji venci
i prolazna radost celog jednog roda,
zato grob taj leži u talasa senci
izmeđ' nedra zemlje i nebesnog svoda.

Stojte, galije carske! Buktinje nek utrnu,
veslanje umre hujno.
A kad opelo svršim, klizite u noć crnu
pobožno i nečujno.

Jer hoću da vlada beskrajna tišina
i da mrtvi čuju huk borbene lave,
kako vrućim ključem krv penuša njina
u deci što klikću pod okriljem slave.

Jer, tamo daleko, poprište se žari
ovom istom krvlju što ovde počiva:
Ovde iznad oca pokoj gospodari,
tamo iznad sina povesnica biva.

Zato hoću mira, da opelo služim
bez reči, bez suza i uzdaha mekih,
da miris tamjana i dah praha združim
uz tutnjavu muklu doboša dalekih.

Stojte, galije carske! U ime svesne pošte
klizite tihim hodom.
Opelo držim, kakvo ne vide nebo jošte
nad ovom svetom vodom!

Milutin Bojić