Najljepše pjesme na stranim jezicima

[Soul sister]

Zzzzmrt u Africi

Muhe znaju napamet
Celanovu fugu smrti i
Svaki je dan zuje po
Zemljama Trećeg svijeta:
Wwwwwir schaufelnnnn einnn Grab innnn der
Lüftenn
Da liegt mannnn nnnicht ennnng.
Jučer sam jednu od njih, zalutalu u moju sobu,
Ubila Modrom rijekom
Maka Dizdara

Asja Bakić

[ženica]

Djubre obicno

Nisi mi bio u planu
nisi mi bio na dlanu
al ipak noci te
u moj si usao zivot
u sitne se sate
krupne greske naprave

Od toga dana ja ne pijem vise
jer kada pijem sve si mi blize
sve si mi blize,,,,

Sta li sam na tebi to videla
jedno djubre obicno
sve do zvezda dizala
pa sada zmurim sa drugima ja
jer ne mogu da verujem
vise svojim ocima

Nisi mi bio zanimljivl
ep, hladan i nedodirljiv
al ipak noci teu moj si usao zivot
u sitne se sate
krupne greske naprave

Sta li sam na tebi to videla
jedno djubre obicno
sve do zvezda dizala
pa sada zmurim sa drugima ja
jer ne mogu da verujem
vise svojim ocima

Marina Tucaković

[sendleri]

Song of Myself

1

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

Walt Whitman
(1819-1892)

PJESMA O MENI

1. strofa

Ja svetkujem samoga sebe i pjevam samoga sebe,
a što ja sebi dopuštam, morate i vi sebi dopustiti,
jer svaki atom koji pripada meni, pripada također i tebi.

Ja plandujem i pozivam svoju dušu u goste.
Ja ležim i lagodno traćim vrijeme promatrajući vlat ljetne trave.

Moj jezik, svaki atom moje krvi, stvoren je od ovoga tla, ovoga zraka,
rođen sam ovdje od roditelja rođenih ovdje od roditelja isto tako,
a i njihovi roditelji isto tako;
ja sada, u mladosti od trideset i sedam godina, u potpunome zdravlju počinjem u nadi,
da neću prestati do smrti.

Vjeroispovjesti i škole još neodlučne povuku se učas,
ocijenjene na svoju pravu cijenu, al se nikada ne zaboravljaju.
Primam u goste i dobro i zlo; ja dopuštam da govori uz ma kakvu pogibelj
priroda bez smetnje s izvornom, iskonskom energijom.

preveo Tin Ujević

52.

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Walt Whitman
(1819-1892)

52. strofa

Pjegavi soko prelijeće i optužuje me, žali se na moje ćaskanje i oklijevanje.
Ni ja nisam ni najmanje pitom, također sam i neprevodiv,
ja dižem svoju barbarsku viku nad krovovima svijeta.

Posljednji sijevak dana zadržava se zbog mene,
on slaže moj otisak s drugima sasvim vjerno na zasjenjenu pustoš,
on me dovabljuje u paru i u mrak.

Ja se rastajem kao zrak, ja stresam svoje bijele pramove na odbjeglo sunce,
ja izlivam svoje meso u vrtlozima i gomilam ga u trakaste zupce.

Zavještam sebe smeću da bih porastao iz trave koju ljubim,
ako me opet trebate, pogledajte pod potplate svojih čizama.

Jedva ćeš znati što jesam ili što mislim,
ali ipak ću ti doći u sto dobrih časa
i bistriti i jačati tvoju krv.

Ako me i ne razumiješ u prvi mah, ipak se ohrabri,
ako me ne nađeš na jednome mjestu, na drugome potraži,
ja sam negdje stao i čekam tebe.

preveo Tin Ujević

[sendleri]

I Hear It Was Charged Against Me

I hear it was charged against me that I sought to destroy institutions,
But really I am neither for nor against institutions,
(What indeed have I in common with them?
Or what with the destruction of them?)

Only I will establish in the Mannahatta
and in every city of these states inland and seaboard,
And in fields and woods, and above every keel little or large that dents the water,
Without edifices or rules or trustees or any argument,
The institution of the dear love of comrades.

Walt Whitman
(1819-1892)

OPTUŽUJU ME ČUJEM

Optužuju me čujem, da tražim uništenje ustanova,
Ali ja zapravo nisam niti za, niti protiv ustanova
(Zaista, što ja imam zajedničko s njima?
i što bih imao da se oni unište?)
Samo, osnovat ću u Mannahatti i u svakom gradu
ovih Država,
duboko u kopnu i na obali morskoj,
Na poljima i u šumama, iznad svake kobilice broda
malog ili velikog, što morima plovi,
Bez uredskih zgrada, bez pravila, bez odbornika
i bez ikakvih obrazloženja
Ustanovu drage ljubavi prijatelja.

preveo Ivan Slamnig


A CLEAR MIDNIGHT

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson
done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the
themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

JASNA PONOĆ

Ovo je tvoj sat, o dušo, tvoj slobodni let u stanje bez
riječi,
daleko od knjiga, daleko od umjetnosti, pošto je dan
ugašen, rad završen. Te se ti potpuno uzdižeš,
šutljiva, zadubljena, misleći o predmetima koje najviše voliš:
a to su: noć, spavanje, smrt i zvijezde.

preveo Tin Ujević



TO A CERTAIN CIVILIAN.


DID you ask dulcet rhymes from me?
Did you seek the civilian's peaceful and languishing
rhymes?
Did you find what I sang erewhile so hard to follow?
Why I was not singing erewhile for you to follow, to
understand—nor am I now;

(I have been born of the same as the war was born,
The drum-corps' rattle is ever to me sweet music, I love
well the martial dirge,
With slow wail, and convulsive throb, leading the officer's funeral )

What to such as you anyhow such a poet as I? therefore
leave my works,
And go lull yourself with what you can understand, and
with piano-tunes,
For I lull nobody, and you will never understand me.

Walt Whitman
(1819-1892)


ZAR SI OD MENE TRAŽILA SLATKE STIHOVE

Zar si od mene tražila slatke stihove?
Zar ti se čini da je ovo, što do sada pjevah,
toliko teško slijediti i teško razumjeti?
Zato što ni dosad nisam pjevao
da me ti slijediš i razumiješ-neću ni sada;

Što su, uostalom, takvima kao ti, pjesnici k'o ja?
-ostavi zato moja djela,
I uljujkuj se onim što možeš razumjeti;
Jer ja nikog ne uljujkujem-
i ti me nikada nećeš razumjeti.

preveo Antun Šoljan



http://www.deviantpics.com/images/20...lt-whitman.jpg

[rudonja]

a smile to remember

we had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, "be happy Henry!"
and she was right: it's better to be happy if you
can
but my father continued to beat her and me several times a week
while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.

my mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: "Henry, smile!
why don't you ever smile?"

and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw

one day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled

[ever dreamer]

Eduard Asadov

Я могу тебя очень ждать

Я могу тебя очень ждать,
Долго-долго и верно-верно,
И ночами могу не спать
Год, и два, и всю жизнь, наверно!

Пусть листочки календаря
Облетят, как листва у сада,
Только знать бы, что все не зря,
Что тебе это вправду надо!

Я могу за тобой идти
По чащобам и перелазам,
По пескам, без дорог почти,
По горам, по любому пути,
Где и черт не бывал ни разу!

Все пройду, никого не коря,
Одолею любые тревоги,
Только знать бы, что все не зря,
Что потом не предашь в дороге.

Я могу для тебя отдать
Все, что есть у меня и будет.
Я могу за тебя принять
Горечь злейших на свете судеб.

Буду счастьем считать, даря
Целый мир тебе ежечасно.
Только знать бы, что все не зря,
Что люблю тебя не напрасно!

[bhavatarini]

~ Arthur O'Shaughnessy, Fallen Flowers

One of the workers of the world
Living toiled and toiling died;
But others worked and the world went on,
And was not changed when he was gone,
A strong arm stricken, a wide sail furled;
And only a few men sighed.

One of the heroes of the world
Fought to conquer, then fought to fail,
And fell down slain in his blood-stained mail,
And over his form they stept;
His cause was lost and his banner furled;
And only a woman wept.

One of the singers among mankind
Sang healing songs from an o'erwrought heart
But ere men listened the grass and wind
Were wasting the rest unsung like a wave;
And now of his fame that will ne'er depart
He has never heard in his grave.

One of the women who only love
Loved and grieved and faded away:
Ah me! are these gone to the God above,
What more of each can I say?
They are human flowers that flower and fall,
This is the song and the end of them all.

[bhavatarini]

~ Friedrich Rückert, Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen

Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen,
Mit der ich sonst viele Zeit verdorben;
Sie hat so lange nichts von mir vernommen,
Sie mag wohl glauben, ich sei gestorben!

Es ist mir auch gar nichts daran gelegen,
Ob sie mich für gestorben hält.
Ich kann auch gar nichts sagen dagegen,
Denn wirklich bin ich gestorben der Welt.

Ich bin gestorben dem Weltgetümmel
Und ruh' in einem stillen Gebiet!
Ich leb' allein in meinem Himmel,
In meinem Lieben, in meinem Lied!

[plavAnica]

Charles Baudelaire - Le Crépuscule du soir (un poème en prose)

Le jour tombe. Un grand apaisement se fait dans les pauvres esprits fatigués du labeur de la journée; et leurs pensées prennent maintenant les couleurs tendres et indécises du crépuscule.
Cependant du haut de la montagne arrive à mon balcon, à travers les nues transparentes du soir, un grand hurlement, composé d'une foule de cris discordants, que l'espace transforme en une lugubre harmonie, comme celle de la marée qui monte ou d'une tempête qui s'éveille.
Quels sont les infortunés que le soir ne calme pas, et qui prennent, comme les hiboux, la venue de la nuit pour un signal de sabbat? Cette sinistre ululation nous arrive du noir hospice perché sur la montagne; et, le soir, en fumant et en contemplant le repos de l'immense vallée, hérissée de maisons dont chaque fenêtre dit: "C'est ici la paix maintenant; c'est ici la joie de la famille!" je puis, quand le vent souffle de là-haut, bercer ma pensée étonnée à cette imitation des harmonies de l'enfer.
Le crépuscule excite les fous. - Je me souviens que j'ai eu deux amis que le crépuscule rendait tout malades. L'un méconnaissait alors tous les rapports d'amitié et de politesse, et maltraitait, comme un sauvage, le premier venu. Je l'ai vu jeter à la tête d'un maître d'hôtel un excellent poulet, dans lequel il croyait voir je ne sais quel insultant hiéroglyphe. Le soir, précurseur des voluptés profondes, lui gâtait les choses les plus succulentes.
L'autre, un ambitieux blessé, devenait, à mesure que le jour baissait, plus aigre, plus sombre, plus taquin. Indulgent et sociable encore pendant la journée, il était impitoyable le soir; et ce n'était pas seulement sur autrui, mais aussi sur lui-même, que s'exerçait rageusement sa manie crépusculeuse.
Le premier est mort fou, incapable de reconnaître sa femme et son enfant; le second porte en lui l'inquiétude d'un malaise perpétuel, et fût-il gratifié de tous les honneurs que peuvent conférer les républiques et les princes, je crois que le crépuscule allumerait encore en lui la brûlante envie de distinctions imaginaires. La nuit, qui mettait ses ténèbres dans leur esprit, fait la lumière dans le mien; et, bien qu'il ne soit pas rare de voir la même cause engendrer deux effets contraires, j'en suis toujours comme intrigué et alarmé.
O nuit! ô rafraîchissantes ténèbres! vous êtes pour moi le signal d'une fête intérieure, vous êtes la délivrance d'une angoisse! Dans la solitude des plaines, dans les labyrinthes pierreux d'une capitale, scintillement des étoiles, explosion des lanternes, vous êtes le feu d'artifice de la déesse Liberté!
Crépuscule, comme vous êtes doux et tendre! Les lueurs roses qui traînent encore à l'horizon comme l'agonie du jour sous l'oppression victorieuse de sa nuit, les feux des candélabres qui font des taches d'un rouge opaque sur les dernières gloires du couchant, les lourdes draperies qu'une main invisible attire des profondeurs de l'Orient, imitent tous les sentiments compliqués qui luttent dans le coeur de l'homme aux heures solennelles de la vie.
On dirait encore une de ces robes étranges de danseuses, où une gaze transparente et sombre laisse entrevoir les splendeurs amorties d'une jupe éclatante, comme sous le noir présent transperce le délicieux passé; et les étoiles vacillantes d'or et d'argent, dont elle est semée, représentent ces feux de la fantaisie qui ne s'allument bien que sous le deuil profond de la Nuit.

[inabetterworld]

Mexican is Not a Noun

to forty-six UC Santa Cruz students and
seven faculty arrested in Watsonville for
showing solidarity with two thousand
striking cannery workers who were mostly
Mexican women, October 27, 1985


“Mexican”
is not
a noun
or an
adjective

“Mexican”
is a life
long
low-paying
job

a check
mark on
a welfare
police
form

more than
a word
a nail in
the soul
but

it hurts
it points
it dreams
it offends
it cries

it moves
it strikes
it burns
just like
a verb

francisco x. alcaron

[plavAnica]

inabetterworld, jako dirljiva pjesmica

[inabetterworld]

plavanica bas mi je drago da ti se svida

[bhavatarini]

~ Александр Пушкин, Ангел

В дверях эдема ангел нежный
Главой поникшею сиял,
А демон мрачный и мятежный
Над адской бездною летал.

Дух отрицанья, дух сомненья
На духа чистого взирал
И жар невольный умиленья
Впервые смутно познавал.

«Прости, — он рек, — тебя я видел,
И ты недаром мне сиял:
Не всё я в небе ненавидел,
Не всё я в мире презирал».

[bhavatarini]

~ Rainer Maria Rilke, Ich bin auf der Welt zu allein und doch nicht allein genug

Ich bin auf der Welt zu allein und doch nicht allein genug,
um jede Stunde zu weihn.
Ich bin auf der Welt zu gering und doch nicht klein genug,
um vor dir zu sein wie ein Ding,
dunkel und klug.
Ich will meinen Willen und will meinen Willen begleiten
die Wege zur Tat;
und will in stillen, irgendwie zögernden Zeiten,
wenn etwas naht,
unter den Wissenden sein
oder allein.
Ich will dich immer spiegeln in ganzer Gestalt,
und will niemals blind sein oder zu alt,
um dein schweres schwankendes Bild zu halten.
Ich will mich entfalten.
Nirgends will ich gebogen bleiben,
denn dort bin ich gelogen, wo ich gebogen bin.
Und ich will meinen Sinn
wahr vor dir. Ich will mich beschreiben,
wie ein Bild das ich sah
lange und nah,
wie ein Wort, das ich begriff,
wie meinen täglichen Krug,
wie meiner Mutter Gesicht,
wie ein Schiff,
das mich trug
durch den tödlichsten Sturm.

[inabetterworld]

La possibilité d’une île Michel Houellebecq.

Ma vie, ma vie, ma très ancienne
Mon premier voeu mal refermé
Mon premier amour infirmé,
Il a fallu que tu reviennes.

Il a fallu que je connaisse
Ce que la vie a de meilleur,
Quand deux corps jouent de leur bonheur
Et sans fin s’unissent et renaissent

Entrée en dépendance entière,
Je sais le tremblement de l’être
L’hésitation à disparaìtre,
Le soleil que frappe en lisière

Et l’amour où tout est facile,
Où tout est donné dans l’instant;
Il existe au milieu du temps
La possibilité d’une île.




My life, my life, my very old one
My first badly healed desire,
My first crippled love,
You had to return.

It was necessary to know
What is best in our lives,
When two bodies play at happiness,
Unite, reborn without end.

Entered into complete dependency,
I know the trembling of being,
The hesitation to disappear,
Sunlight upon the forest’s edge

And love, where all is easy,
Where all is given in the instant;
There exists in the midst of time
The possibility of an island.

[dostojevska]

WISŁAWA SZYMBORSKA-WŁODEK: PRILOG STATISTICI

Od sto ljudi

koji znaju sve bolje
- pedeset dvoje;

nesigurnih u svaki korak
- gotovo svi ostali;

spremnih da pomognu,
ukoliko to dugo ne potraje
- čak četrdeset devetoro;

uvek dobrih,
jer ne mogu drugačije
- četvoro, a možda i petoro;

sklonih da se bez zavisti dive
- osamnaestoro;

dovedenih u zabludu
mladošću koja prolazi
- plus minus šezdesetoro,

sa kojima nema šale
- četrdeset i četvoro,

onih koji žive u neprestanom strahu
od nekog ili nečeg
- sedamdeset sedmoro;

sposobnih za sreću
- najviše dvadeset i nekoliko;

pojedinačno bezopasnih,
koji divljaju u gomili
- sigurno više od polovine;

okrutnih
kad ih primoravaju okolnosti
- bolje je ne znati
čak ni približno;

mudrih nakon štete
- neznatno više
nego mudrih pre štete;

onih što od života ne uzimaju ništa osim stvari
- tridesetoro,
iako bih volela da grešim;

pogrbljenih, obolelih
i bez baterijice u pomrčini
- osamdeset troje,
pre ili kasnije;

pravednih
- prilično, to jest celih trideset petoro,

ako je ta crta povezana
s naporom razumevanja
- troje,

dostojnih saučešća
- devedeset devetoro;

smrtnika
- sto posto.
Brojka, koja se, kao ni dosad, nija menjala.

[plavAnica]

Liturgie vom Hauch (parodija od ein Gleiches - Goethe)

Einst kam ein altes Weib einher
Die hatte kein Brot zum Essen mehr
Das Brot, das fraß das Militär
Da fiel sie in die Goss', die war kalte
Da hatte sie keinen Hunger mehr.

Darauf schwiegen die Vöglein im Walde
über allen Wipfeln ist Ruh
In allen Gipfeln spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch.

Da kam einmal ein Totenarzt einher
Der sagte: Die Alte besteht auf ihrem Schein
Da grub man die hungrige Alte ein
So sagte das alte Weib nichts mehr
Nur der Arzt lachte noch über die Alte.

Auch die Vöglein schwiegen im Walde
über allen Wipfeln ist Ruh
In allen Gipfeln spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch.

Da kam einmal ein einziger Mann einher
Der hatte für die Ordnung keinen Sinn
Der fand in der Sache einen Haken drin
Der war eine Art Freund für die Alte
Der sagte, ein Mensch müsse essen können, bitte sehr

Darauf schwiegen die Vöglein im Walde
über allen Wipfeln ist Ruh
In allen Gipfeln spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch.

Da kam mit einemmal ein Kommissar einher
Der hatte einen Gummiknüpel dabei
Und zerklopfte dem Mann seinen Hinterkopf zu Brei
Und da sagte auch dieser Mann nichts mehr
Doch der Kommissar sagte, daß es schallte:

Und jetzt schweigen die Vöglein im Walde
über allen Wipfeln ist Ruh
In allen Gipfeln spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch.

Da kamen einmal drei bärtige Männer einher
Die sagten, das sei nicht eines einzigen Mannes Sache allein.
Und sie sagten es so lang, bis es knallte
Aber dann krochen Maden durch ihr Fleisch in ihr Bein
Da sagten die bärtigen Männer nichts mehr.

Darauf schwiegen die Vöglein im Walde
über allen Wipfeln ist Ruh
In allen Gipfeln spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch.

Da kamen mit einemmal viele Männer einher
Die wollten einmal reden mit dem Militär
Doch das Militär redete mit dem Maschinengewehr
Und da sagten alle die Männer nichts mehr.
Doch sie hatten auf der Stirn noch eine Falte.

Darauf schwiegen die Vöglein im Walde
über allen Wipfeln ist Ruh
In allen Gipfeln spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch.

Da kam einmal ein großer roter Bär einher
Der wußte nichts von den Bräuchen hier,
das brauchte er nicht als Bär.
Doch er war nicht von gestern und ging nicht
auf jeden Teer
Und der fraß die Vöglein im Walde.


Da schwiegen die Vöglein nicht mehr
über allen Wipfeln ist Unruh
In allen Gipfeln spürest du
Jetzt einen Hauch.

Bertolt Brecht 1927

[dostojevska]

"My sight, which was my power, now blurs
Two invisible diamond spears;
My hearing subsides, full of ancient thunder
And the breathing of the house of my father.
The knots of tough muscles slacken
Like grey oxen, lax in the ploughed field;
The wings behind my shoulders yield
No light when evening darkens.

I am a candle. I burned at the feast.
Gather my wax when morning arrives
So that this page will prompt you
How to be proud, and how to weep,
How to give away the last third
Of happiness, and to die with ease—
And beneath a temporary roof
To burn posthumously, like a word.”

—A poem by Russian poet Arseny Tarkovsky recited in Nostalghia (1983) directed by Andrei Tarkovsky.

[dostojevska]

I owe so much
to those I don’t love.
The relief as I agree
that someone else needs them more.
The happiness that I’m not
the wolf to their sheep.
The peace I feel with them,
the freedom –
love can neither give
nor take that.
I don’t wait for them,
as in window-to-door-and-back.
Almost as patient
as a sundial,
I understand
what love can’t,
and forgive
as love never would.
From a rendezvous to a letter
is just a few days or weeks,
not an eternity.
Trips with them always go smoothly,
concerts are heard,
cathedrals visited,
scenery is seen.
And when seven hills and rivers
come between us,
the hills and rivers
can be found on any map.
They deserve the credit
if I live in three dimensions,
in nonlyrical and nonrhetorical space
with a genuine, shifting horizon.
They themselves don’t realize
how much they hold in their empty hands.
“I don’t owe them a thing,”
would be love’s answer
to this open question.
Thank-You Note

Wisława Szymborska

[iowa]

dali ste ikad nasli /poslusali izvedbu neke pjesme koja vam se svidjela
tipa ovo?
mislima na yubitu


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MalR-e4IgAs