William Shakespeare, All the World's a Stage

Целиот свет е театар

Целиот свет е театар,
а сите мажи и жени само глумци:
секој си има свој настап и свој замин,
и секој во векот свој многу улоги игра,
седумте промени му се седум чинови. Првин ко бебе,
плаче и се лигави во доилкините скути;
потоа ко кенкаво учениче со чанта
и светнато утринско лице ползи ко полжав
за на училиште, невесел мошне; па ко љубовник,
баботи ко фурна и жаљовна песна
за веѓите на саканата пее; па ко војник,
со простачка пис-уста и брада ко на пантер,
брз да навреди, наглит, за кавга спремен,
се топори за меурче слава
пред самоти устина на топот; па ко судија,
мевот подуен од мрсни пилци,
со строг поглед, прописно средена брада,
полн поуки за моралот и излижани фрази
својата улога ја игра; шестата промена го прави
прав арлекин, паљачо во папучи,
со очила на носот и ќеса кај колкот,
калиотите добро сочувани - вилает
преширок за сувите нозе – а силниот машки тенор
станат повторно детски пискав, му трепери
и му шишти; најсетне завршниот чин
пред да се спушти завесата на чуднава, бурна повест,
второто детинство, исконскиот заборав,
во кој е без заби, без виделце, без вкус, без ништо.

превод - Драги Михајловски

САКАТЕ ЛИ ВОДА?

Надоаѓаат води возбудливи
води чувствителни и саможиви.
Не мораме да бидеме риби
за да ги сфатиме оние кои немаат мера
ни намера потеклото да си го проверат.
Етногенезата на океаните.
На дождовите.

Ќе ја цицаме бебешки, на искап
природата, леунка на неопределено време
секнатите извори ќе потонат нагло
и во потсвеста ќе ни бликнат отнати
надојдени, кивни:
веќе не само води на претек
туку предзнаци.

Ако решат еден ден да нè изневерат
да нè прелијат со високи вокали
блудно да се одлијат во туѓи планети
безнадежно, речиси залудно ќе биде
да се спречуваат во намерата:

водата не знае за доста!

Катица Ќулавкова

OUR CONDENSED SUN by Marko Pogacar

OUR CONDENSED SUN

How to climb the olive tree with those little claws,
stay a black lizard and survive the sun’s collapse?
every olive is an extinguished star,
and little claws are all we have.

and that’s the secret of gravity, the disappearance of light that swings
condensed in our metal bodies.
our claws are our vanity, the father shakes them off
the laced balcony curtain in one move.

the world is the giant pedicurist Milena, she eradicates them with a safe hand,
she sings o sole mio, our claws are an over-ripe, naked beauty
love is our debt to the dead.

TVOJE ZGUSNUTO SUNCE

Kako se malim kandžama popeti gore u maslinu,
ostati crna gušterica i preživjeti propast sunca?
svaka je maslina ugasla zvijezda,
a male kandže su sve što imamo.

i to je tajna gravitacije, nestanak svjetlosti koja se njiše
zgusnuta u našim metalnim tijelima.
naše su kandže naša taština, otac ih jednim potezom strese
s čipkaste balkonske zavjese.

svijet je ogromna pedikerka Milena, ona ih sigurnom rukom tamani,
ona pjeva o sole mio, naše kandže su prezrela, gola ljepota
ljubav je naš dug prema mrtvima.

Marko Pogacar

Jim Morrison – Poems from “Wilderness”

James Joyce’s list of Irish heroes in ULYSSES...

James Joyce’s list of Irish heroes in ULYSSES...

He wore a long unsleeved garment of recently flayed oxhide reaching to the knees in a loose kilt and this was bound about his middle by a girdle of plaited straw and rushes. Beneath this he wore trews of deerskin, roughly stitched with gut. His nether extremities were encased in high Balbriggan buskins dyed in lichen purple, the feet being shod with brogues of salted cowhide laced with the windpipe of the same beast.

From his girdle hung a row of seastones which dangled at every movement of his portentous frame and on these were graven with rude yet striking art the tribal images of many Irish heroes and heroines of antiquity, Cuchulin, Conn of hundred battles, Niall of nine hostages, Brian of Kincora, the Ardri Malachi, Art MacMurragh, Shane O’Neill, Father John Murphy, Owen Roe, Patrick Sarsfield, Red Hugh O’Donnell, Red Jim MacDermott, Soggarth Eoghan O’Growney, Michael Dwyer, Francy Higgins, Henry Joy M’Cracken, Goliath, Horace Wheatley, Thomas Conneff, Peg Woffington, the Village Blacksmith, Captain Moonlight, Captain Boycott, Dante Alighieri, Christopher Columbus, S. Fursa, S. Brendan, Marshal Mac-Mahon, Charlemagne, Theobald Wolfe Tone, the Mother of the Maccabees, the Last of the Mohicans, the Rose of Castille, the Man for Galway, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The Man in the Gap, The Woman Who Didn’t, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte, John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus, sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo, Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of Lammermoor, Peter the Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W. Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, the Bold Soldier Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, Ludwig Beethoven, the Colleen Bawn, Waddler Healy, Angus the Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney Parade, Ben Howth, Valentine Greatrakes, Adam and Eve, Arthur Wellesley, Boss Croker, Herodotus, Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady Godiva, The Lily of Killarney, Balor of the Evil Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro Volta, Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O’Sullivan Beare.

A couched spear of acuminated granite rested by him while at his feet reposed a savage animal of the canine tribe whose stertorous gasps announced that he was sunk in uneasy slumber, a supposition confirmed by hoarse growls and spasmodic movements which his master repressed from time to time by tranquillising blows of a mighty cudgel rudely fashioned out of paleolithic stone.

Man Carrying Thing, Wallace Stevens

The poem must resist the intelligence
Almost successfully. Illustration:

A brune figure in winter evening resists
Identity. The thing he carries resists

The most necessitous sense. Accept them, then,
As secondary (parts not quite perceived

Of the obvious whole, uncertain particles
Of the certain solid, the primary free from doubt,

Things floating like the first hundred flakes of snow
Out of a storm we must endure all night,

Out of a storm of secondary things),
A horror of thoughts that suddenly are real.

We must endure our thoughts all night, until
The bright obvious stands motionless in cold.

by Wallace Stevens

- од ПРОЛОГОТ на Дон Кихот

„Многупати го земав перото и многупати го фрлав, зашто не знаев што треба да кажам. И ете еден ден, додека седев загрижен пред лист хартија со перото на уво, се потпрев на лакотот врз масата, со раката на образот и мислев што да пишувам, во собата влезе неочекувано еден мој разумен и духовит пријател, па кога ме виде така потонат во мисли, ме праша за причината на мојата загриженост.“

— Sandra Cisneros

"What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are — underneath the year that makes you eleven.

Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is."

— Sandra Cisneros

#100tpc #poetry ping @100TPC

#100tpc #poetry ping @100TPC

~

We seek to Heal not Kill
We embrace Justice & spurn Injustice

Our weapons are Words not Guns
We bleed Ink not Blood

We seek Peace not Wars

We seek to Change not Force
We seek to Find not Lost
We are inspired by Love not Lust
We seek to Bless not Curse

We detonate Peace not Bombs
We speak for All not Some

We are?
Poets not gods!

We are?
100 Thousand Poets for Change!

Giving Freedom to all those Bound in Chains!
Nigeria!!!
We Coming!


!thanks for this poem Ken Bena
.
.