Mizantrop

Vrati mi moje legije.


20.02.2017.

Vraćanja


Nisu brinula naša krepka pleća o nedaćama pred nama,

Naše je bilo da idemo kroz širine u liniji

Strogo određenoj zavišću.            Klitemnestro, sestro.

Nije bilo grada koji se oprijeti mogao

Našoj pohlepi.

Nije bilo luke u koju nismo uplovili s vjetrom pod pazuhom.

Klitemnestro, sestro.

Takvo je naše prokletstvo.

Otvoreno zemljano od zemlje zemaljsko bogatstvo.

Usud pronađen, podarena snaga.

Odlasci, stalni odlasci.

Ne plači zato za nama

Ni u podne ni pred sumrak.

Tvoje

Svo je

Kraljevstvo

Klitemnestro, sestro. Nas više ne čekaj.

Neke ćeš druge na pragovima dočekati

Okorjele ljude

Prazna pogleda. 


16.02.2017.

Fragment za melankolika sina melankolika



Pod nogama kralja Kroisusa padali su zlatni novci

I ubirala ih je

Iz rojalnog blata

Masa sušičavih polumrtvih mrtvih određujući

Tako

Mjere za more i mjere za

Odnose među usnama.

 

Onda

Došao je glasnik iz Efesa, smijući se na sav glas.

Dijelio je ljude u stranke i davao im u ruke hladne metale.

 

            Sada ljubi bližnjeg svoga.

 

Sada je čas, pogodan

For the taking of the tea, da

Sada je taj trenutak kada u dvorištu pod granama nara

Ja ležim okrenut leđima zemlji

I na usnama mi visi duša

Kao pljuvačka.

 

                One two three four five six seven

                All good children go to heaven

 

Šta ono Pavao reče za sina čovjeka i za grijehe?

Da, uistinu, kako pogodan čas, sada je čas

Za odvezati sve brige oko vrata

Za Saturnalije. Ali samo, ja te molim,

Pod maskom mi ne gledaj u zube,

Boli me vlastita suvišnost,

I previše se smijem.

 

Zasigurno...

Ali ja više ne znam šta reći.

Dani se motaju oko kutova i skutova

Naših skupih (na tržnici robova prodali su opet jednog

Židova) došlo je vrijeme, i Jupiter je pao,

I kako samo da smirim ovaj nemir?


16.02.2017.

Uzori u pisanju i omiljeni književnici, 3



CANTO LXXXI (libretto), Ezra Pound



Yet
Ere the season died a-cold
Borne upon a zephyr’s shoulder
I rose through the aureate sky
                               Lawes and Jenkyns guard thy rest
                               Dolmetsch ever be thy guest,
Has he tempered the viol’s wood
To enforce   both the grave   and the acute? 
Has he curved us the bowl of the lute?
                               Lawes and Jenkyns guard thy rest
                               Dolmetsch ever be thy guest
Hast ’ou fashioned so airy a mood
       To draw up leaf from the root?
Hast ’ou found   a cloud   so light
        As seemed neither mist nor shade?
            
                                Then resolve me, tell me aright
                                 If Waller sang or Dowland played
            
                   Your eyen two wol sleye me sodenly
                    I may the beauté of hem nat susteyne
 
And for 180 years almost nothing. 
 
Ed ascoltando al leggier mormorio
        there came new subtlety of eyes into my tent,
whether of the spirit or hypostasis,
            but what the blindfold hides
or at carneval
                                  nor any pair showed anger
            Saw but the eyes and stance between the eyes,
colour, diastasis,
      careless or unaware it had not the
   whole tent’s room
nor was place for the full EidwV
interpass, penetrate
      casting but shade beyond the other lights
              sky’s clear
              night’s sea
              green of the mountain pool
              shone from the unmasked eyes in half-mask’s space. 
What thou lovest well remains, 
                                                  the rest is dross
What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage
Whose world, or mine or theirs
                                            or is it of none? 
First came the seen, then thus the palpable
        Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,
What thou lovest well is thy true heritage
What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee
 
The ant’s a centaur in his dragon world.
Pull down thy vanity, it is not man
Made courage, or made order, or made grace,
         Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down.
Learn of the green world what can be thy place
In scaled invention or true artistry,
Pull down thy vanity,
                                        Paquin pull down!
The green casque has outdone your elegance.
 
“Master thyself, then others shall thee beare”
       Pull down thy vanity
Thou art a beaten dog beneath the hail,
A swollen magpie in a fitful sun,
Half black half white
Nor knowst’ou wing from tail
Pull down thy vanity
                        How mean thy hates
Fostered in falsity,
                        Pull down thy vanity,
Rathe to destroy, niggard in charity,
Pull down thy vanity,
                       I say pull down. 
 
But to have done instead of not doing
                     this is not vanity
To have, with decency, knocked
That a Blunt should open
               To have gathered from the air a live tradition
or from a fine old eye the unconquered flame
This is not vanity. 
         Here error is all in the not done,
all in the diffidence that faltered  .  .  .


 

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