«Poti sa scrii despre orice din lume, cu doua conditii: daca esti hotarat sa o faci si daca ai suficienta imaginatie pentru a improviza. Cel mai mare dusman al creativitatii este lipsa de incredere in fortele proprii.» ~ Sylvia Plath
Nu exista poezie buna si poezie proasta; doar ca unele versuri rezoneaza in mai multe minti/suflete, altele in mai putine. Ca de obicei, m-as bucura sa ma contraziceti, sa ma completati ori, pur si simplu, sa propuneti Versurile de joi pentru saptamana viitoare.
Ca de obicei, propun cate un subiect si va invit sa adaugati alegerii mele si alte versuri, pe aceeasi “lungime de unda”. POEZIA AMERICANA MODERNA este generoasa tema a zilei.
Pentru astazi am ales un poem al Sylviei Plath (1932 – 1963), poeta americana careia i-a fost publicat primul poem la varsta de 8 ani! Nu promit solemn, doar imi propun, ca pana joia viitoare sa incerc o traducere in limba romana a incitantelor versuri de mai jos:
Ariel
Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.
God’s lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees!–The furrow
Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,
Nigger-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks—-
Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else
Hauls me through air—-
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.
White
Godiva, I unpeel—-
Dead hands, dead stringencies.
And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child’s cry
Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,
The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red
Eye, the cauldron of morning.
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
by E. E. Cummings
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
Multumesc!
Imi place mult cum scrie E. E. Cummings, mai ales ca toata viata a fost un neobosit globe-trotter. Imi plac poeziile, am citit doua dintre piesele sale de teatru (excelente, le recomand cu caldura!) si imi plac nespus de mult… picturile si desenele sale. Apropo, nu stiu vreun alt poet sau scriitor care sa fi fost un creator la fel de talentat atat in scris cat si in arta plastica. Iata un tablou excelent, care pe mine ma emotioneaza: hotel interior: paris
(Clic pe foto pentru a intra in Galeria de Arta E.E. Cummings)
Andrei Codrescu:
odată
din nou tinerele minţi
iau drumul aspru
al conştiinţei de sine
pavat cu mastodonţi
gânduri greoaie
poticnind către casă
în trupuri mai subţiri
din nou fug umbrele
de la naşterea electricităţii
numai tu poţi să decizi
să deplângi
ce trăia dincolo de
haloul lumânărilor
sau să admiţi ceea ce vezi
acel lucru stângaci
oh iubire oh drum tovarăş
din nou o să ne punem pe navigat
în direcţia stângăciilor
de unde începusem –
până se inventează
ultravioletele de fiecare zi
multe lucruri
care nu se află aici
stau îndulcite doar de dorinţă
oh fantomă
un sultan te-a croit pentru
sex.
(Traducerea de Carmen Firan)
Andrei Codrescu: (născut Andrei Perlmutter în 1946, Sibiu, România) este un eseist, poet şi prozator evreu american originar din România.
(Wikipedia)
BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!
by: Walt Whitman
BEAT! beat! drums! — blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows — through doors — burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet — no happiness must he have now with his bride,
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain,
So fierce you whirr and pound you drums — so shrill you bugles blow.
Beat! beat! drums! — blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities — over the rumble of wheels in the streets;
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds,
No bargainers’ bargains by day — no brokers or speculators — would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums — you bugles wilder blow.
Beat! beat! drums! — blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley — stop for no expostulation,
Mind not the timid — mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties,
Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump O terrible drums — so loud you bugles blow.
Va multumesc pentru Codrescu si Whitman.
Am fost fascinat intotdeauna de vastitatea Culturii americane, mai ales in contextul unei Istorii relativ scurte.