T.S. Elliot

[POthuajPOet]

(...perseri mbi mjeshterise e "Copy&Paste"...)

Morning at the Window

They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates.
The brown waves of fog toss up to me
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street,
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts
An aimless smile that hovers in the air
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.

[POthuajPOet]

(me falni, doja te thoja: "...mbi mjeshterine...")


Rhapsody on a Windy Night

Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Disolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street lamp sputtered,
The street lamp muttered,
The street lamp said,
"Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things;
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished
As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along
the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.

The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and old Cologne,
She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain.
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets
And female smells in shuttered rooms
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars."

The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair,
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

[Leila]

Forgive my dreamy elaborations si kofini pas te vjelit, kam fjetur diten e jam zgjuar naten from being in bed rest for so long (rrikam une ne shtrat 2 jave?) Te kisha shkruajtur nje replike por edhe ajo iku me Gushtin qe s'ka ardhur akoma, duke fikur e duke hapur kompjuterin. Thashe ta le repliken fare, and so I did per disa dite. But I made a deal with myself (and obviously lied), that if I wrote me pika the main ideas qe me erdhen ne koke atehere, it would be nothing more than like outlining my first reply. And boy, am I ashamed that I have written more than you when it should be the other way around! Por lere kete post te sherbeje si opinion mbi temen me shume se sa nje replike ndaj teje, one that you clearly don't need.

1 - Anne Sexton nuk eshte me pak neurotike se sa Vivien (she killed herself!), por thashe Anne se ate e njoh me mire se sa njoh Vivien (Vivien as Eliot, burri i saj, s'e njihte kur u martuan). Have you ever read something and thought, "Why, by Jove, that's me!" That's the case with Vivien's poem. It's as much Anne's as Vivien's, because I (the reader) know Anne and he (the writer) knows Vivien... eventually (only to leave her). What good is a poem ONLY for Vivien? It means nothing to the readers.

Kam turp te marr pjese te kjo tema any further. I've said too much already and it was nothing new :)

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

Well, une thashe Vivien pasi Eliot nuk e njihte Anne Sexton, apo jo? Por edhe ne e kish njohur, une s'e dija. Per me teper, Eliot e vuajti lidhjen e tij me Vivien si asgje tjeter.
Tani, a eshte poema vetem per Vivien? Kam frike se pergjigjen e pyetjes e di vetem Eliot. :) Pastaj, c'rendesi ka? Ashtu sikurse the edhe ti, eshte lexuesi ai qe ose identifikohet me nje shkrim, ose mundohet ta analizoje ate nga rrethanet ne te cilat eshte shkruar. Mos ndoshta fakti qe Poe e shkroi "Annabel Lee" per gruan e vet i ndalon fatkeqet e tjeret te besojne se ata paskan ndjere njesoj si ai vete? Sigurisht qe jo. E pra, une si person mendoj se Eliot ka pasur parasysh Vivian, por kjo s'do te thote qe e verteta keshtu eshte. Nese do te kisha qene neurotike, ndoshta do kisha thene dicka te ndryshme...as simple as that. Do I make myself clear? :)

Tani, dicka per Pothuajse-ne:

Nese Eliot do te ishte duke perjetuar nje cast histerie, s'besoj se intelekti i tij do te kish thene:

I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be
stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might
be collected, and I concentrated my attention with
careful subtlety to this end.

Tani, imagjino nje femer duke qeshur aq fort sa gjoksi i saj fillon te shkundet, dhe pastaj imagjino nje mashkull duke pare kete gje: atij do ti duket sikur po bie termet (lol) Ketu bie dakort me Leilen kur tha qe femrat jane te fuqishme, prandaj dhe thashe qe ai i ka ca si frike. That's all.

[POthuajPOet]

Nuk besoj se ja vlen te besh replika me ata/o qe nuk denjojne te flasin shqip. Gjithsesi, nuk mund te rrime te pershkruajme cdo ide shoqeruese qe na vjen duke lexuar... Mendoj se s'ka rendesi se cila eshte gruaja
(ndoshta duhet pare viti i poezise)... Ajo qe dime per te eshte "amfiteatri i dhembeve te saj" dhe tundja gjoksit... me keto te dhena mund te jete kushdo.

Akoma dyshime se e kujt eshte histeria??? Lexoni
dicka (qe do t'ju pelqeje juve te apasionuarve pas
anglishtes) nga nje fjalor ne internet - ne fakt duhet
ta kisha postuar qe me perpara:

hys·ter·i·a
n.
1-Behavior exhibiting excessive or uncontrollable
emotion, such as fear or panic.
2-A mental disorder characterized by emotional
excitability and sometimes by amnesia or a physical
deficit, such as paralysis, or a sensory deficit, without an organic cause.

E qarte se histeriku eshte Eliot-i... apo akoma jo?!

[POthuajPOet]

(... I LOVE COPY&PASTE...)


Preludes

I

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.

II

The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

III

You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.

IV

His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

Nuk besoj se ja vlen te besh replika me ata/o qe nuk denjojne te flasin shqip. Gjithsesi, nuk mund te rrime te pershkruajme cdo ide shoqeruese qe na vjen duke lexuar... Mendoj se s'ka rendesi se cila eshte gruaja
(ndoshta duhet pare viti i poezise)... Ajo qe dime per te eshte "amfiteatri i dhembeve te saj" dhe tundja gjoksit... me keto te dhena mund te jete kushdo.

Akoma dyshime se e kujt eshte histeria??? Lexoni
dicka (qe do t'ju pelqeje juve te apasionuarve pas
anglishtes) nga nje fjalor ne internet - ne fakt duhet
ta kisha postuar qe me perpara:

hys·ter·i·a
n.
1-Behavior exhibiting excessive or uncontrollable
emotion, such as fear or panic.
2-A mental disorder characterized by emotional
excitability and sometimes by amnesia or a physical
deficit, such as paralysis, or a sensory deficit, without an organic cause.

E qarte se histeriku eshte Eliot-i... apo akoma jo?!

jo, ende jo.

Etymology: New Latin, from English hysteric, adjective, from Latin hystericus, from Greek hysterikos, from hystera womb; from the Greek notion that hysteria was peculiar to women and caused by disturbances of the uterus

1 : a psychoneurosis marked by emotional excitability and disturbances of the psychic, sensory, vasomotor, and visceral functions

2 : behavior exhibiting overwhelming or unmanageable fear OR emotional excess

:)

[whisper]

Poema "Histeria" eshte shkruar nga Eliot ne tetor te vitit 1915. Ne ate periudhe kohore akoma mbizoteronte shpjegimi tradicional i histerise , koncepti grek, si koncept dhe si diagnoze, pra si dicka qe prekte vec krijesat femerore( sic shpjegon me lart Cupka)
Teoria e Froidit mbi histerine jo si dicka vetem femerore (sic e argumenton nga fjalori Pothuajse) u pranua zyrtarisht dhe u perdor si term ne konceptin modern vetem pas vitit 1925.

Ne baze te kesaj diference datash dhe vitesh i bie qe "histeriku" te mos kete qene nje mashkull e aq me pak Eliot. Me kete nuk dua te marr persiper qe Eliot nuk mund te mos kete pasur kriza histerie ne kohen kur e shkruajti poemen, por edhe nese vertete kishte ai nuk e dinte qe ajo mund te quhej histeri, keshtu qe nuk kishte se si ta perdorte ai kete term per nje mashkull, term qe sic thashe u pranua si unisex rreth 10 vjet me vone.


ps. debati mbyllet ketu (lol)

[POthuajPOet]

Debati vazhdon... me duket absurde qe
histeria "ti perkase" gruas vetem per faktin se
eshte grua dhe se qesh (dhe i tundet gjoksi)!!!
Whisper, po i konsideroj te sakta te dhenat e tua...
megjithate, shkrimet kryesore per histerine nga
Freud dhe Breuer jane bere qysh para 1900... dhe
Eliot ishte poet, nuk kishte pse te priste derisa
te pranohej zyrtarisht koncepti modern i histerise...
Nese dikush po kalon nje cast te veshtire, nje krize, apo
nje histeri ne kete poeme - sigurisht eshte Eliot...
dhe kete ai e quan (ose guxon ta quaje) "Hysteria".

(Me duket pa kuptim te thuash se simptomat jane te tijat,
nderkohe qe i ngjesh diagnozen dikujt tjeter!... vetem nqs
titulli i poemes eshte kushtezuar nga nje mekanizem psikologjik
mbrojtes i Eliot!!!)

[whisper]

megjithate, shkrimet kryesore per histerine nga
Freud dhe Breuer jane bere qysh para 1900... dhe
Eliot ishte poet, nuk kishte pse te priste derisa
te pranohej zyrtarisht koncepti modern i histerise...

Eshte e vertete kjo qe shkruan ti ketu sigurisht, por mos harro se cfare shoqerie dhe morali i perket problemi qe pershkruajme....Sigurisht edhe Eliot ishte ne dijeni te studimeve mbi hipnozen dhe hysterine te kryera nga Breuer dhe me pas nga Freud qe perpara 1900, por mos harro: jemi akoma ne periudhen viktoriane ne Angli dhe ne puritanizmin amerikan...Elioti i ri nuk mund te rrezikonte karrieren e tij te ardheshme te perdorte nje term (hysteria) te cilin vete Freud vetem e kishte peshperitur dhe akoma nuk ia kishte perplasur botes ne fytyre...

Sidoqofte me pelqeu i tere debati i kesaj teme dhe e lexova me kenaqesi...:)