Riciklim i poezive te "harruara"

[Leila]

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


Copez nga T. S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

Eliot, mire, mire. :) Dale te kujtohem edhe une:

From "Leaves of Grass" - Walt Whitman

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, and the stars.

[Leila]

:)

The Great Selkie o' Suleskerry

Version 1

I heard a mother lull her bairn,
and aye she rocked, and aye she sang.
She took so hard upon the verse
that the heart within her body rang.

"O, cradle row, and cradle go,
and aye sleep well, my bairn within;
I ken not who thy father is,
nor yet the land that he dwells in."

And up then spake a grey selchie
as aye he woke her from her sleep,
"I'll tell where thy bairn's father is:
he's sittin' close by thy bed feet.

"I am a man upon the land;
I am a selchie on the sea,
and when I'm far frae ev'ry strand,
my dwelling is in Sule Skerry.

"And foster well my wee young son,
aye for a twal'month and a day,
and when that twal'month's fairly done,
I'll come and pay the nourice fee."

And when that weary twal'month gaed,
he's come tae pay the nourice fee;
he had ae coffer fu' o' gowd,
and anither fu' o'the white money.

"Upon the skerry is thy son;
upon the skerry lieth he.
Sin thou would see thine ain young son,
now is the time tae speak wi' he."

"But how shall I my young son know
when thou ha' ta'en him far frae me?"
"The one who wears the chain o' gowd,
`mang a' the selchies shall be he.

"And thou will get a hunter good,
and a richt fine hunter I'm sure he'll be;
and the first ae shot that e'er he shoots
will kill baith my young son and me."

Version 2

In Norway land there lived a maid,
'Hush bee loo lillie' this maid began;
'I know not where my baby's father is,
Whether by land or sea he does travel in.'

It happened on a certain day
When this fair lady fell fast asleep,
That in cam' a good greay selchie
And set him down at her bed feet,

Sayin' 'Awak, awak, my pretty maid,
For oh, how sound as thou dost sleep!
An' I'll tell thee where thy baby's father is-
He's sittin' close at thy bed feet!'

'I pray, come tell to me thy name,
Oh, tell me where does thy dwelling be?'
'My name it is good Hein Mailer
An' I earn my livin' oot o' the sea.

I am a man upo' the land,
I am a selchie in the sea,
And when I'm far frae every strand
My dwellin' is in Sule Skerrie.'

'Alas, alas, this woeful fate!-
This weary fate that's been laid for me,
That a man should come from the Wast o' Hoy
To the Norway lands to have a bairn wi' me!'

'My dear, I'll wed thee with a ring,
With a ring, my dear, I'll wed with thee.'
'Thoo may go wed thee weddens wi' whom thoo wilt,
For I'm sure thoo'll never wed none wi' me!'

'Thoo wilt nurse my little wee son
For seven long years upo' thy knee,
An' at the end o' seven long years
I'll come back and pay the norish fee.'

Now he had ta'en a purse of guld
And he has put it upon her knee,
Saying 'Gi'e to me my little young son,
And take thee up thy nourrice fee.'

She says 'My dear, I'll wed thee wi' a ring,
Wi' a ring, my dear, I'll wed wi' thee!'
Thoo may go wed these [thee's] weddens wi' whom thoo wilt,
For I'm sure thoo'll never wed none wi' me!

But I'll put a gold chain around his neck
An' a gey good gold chain it'll be,
That if ever he comes to the Norway lands
Thoo may have a gey good guess on he,

An' thoo will get a gunner good,
An' a gey good gunner it will be,
An' he'll gae oot on a May mornin'
An' shoot the son an' the grey selchie.'

Oh, she has got a gunner good,
An' a gey good gunner it was he,
An' he went out on a May mornin'
An' he shot the son and the grey selchie.

(When the gunner returned from his expedition he showed the Norway woman the gold chain he had found round the neck of a young seal, and a final verse expresses her grief):

Alas, alas this woeful fate
This weary fate that's been laid for me.'
And once or twice she sobbed and sighed,
An' her tender heart did brak' in three.

Behet fjale per nje legjende nga orkney islands te nje krijese gjysem burre & gjysem foke, i cili bie ne dashuri me nje grua dhe ajo lind nje djale me te. Kur djali rritet, vendos te shkoje me te jatin ne det (krijesa behet foke kur eshte ne det dhe njeri kur eshte ne toke). Perfundon me burrin e dyte te gruas ne fjale, burri i ligjshem, qe gjate gjahut vret djalin e gruas se vet dhe babane e djalit, bashke. Kur ajo e merr vesh kete, zemra i thyhet ne tresh, sic thote legjenda. It was first written down in 1938 by Dr. Otto Andersson.


The Forsaken Merman
Matthew Arnold

Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below!
Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away!
This way, this way!

Call her once before you go -
Call once yet!
In a voice that she will know:
`Margaret! Margaret!'
Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear;
Children's voices, wild with pain -
Surely she will come again!
Call her once and come away;
This way, this way!
`Mother dear, we cannot stay!
The wild white horses foam and fret.'
Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down;
Call no more!
One last look at the white-walled town,
And the little grey church on the windy shore;
Then come down!
She will not come though you call all day;
Come away, come away!

Children dear, was it yesterday
We heard the sweet bells over the bay?
In the caverns where we lay,
Through the surf and through the swell,
The far-off sound of a silver bell?
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,
Where the salt weed sways in the stream,
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world for ever and aye?
When did music come this way?
Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday
(Call yet once) that she went away?
Once she sate with you and me,
On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the youngest sate on her knee.
She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,
When down swung the sound of a far-off bell.
She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea;
She said: `I must go, for my kinsfolk pray
In the little grey church on the shore today.
'Twill be Easter-time in the world -ah me!
And I lose my poor soul, Merman! here with thee.'
I said: `Go up, dear heart, through the waves;
Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves!'
She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.
Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone?
`The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan;
Long prayers,' I said, `in the world they say;
Come,' I said; and we rose through the surf in the bay.
We went up the beach, by the sandy down
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town;
Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still,
To the little grey church on the windy hill.
From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.
We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,
And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.
She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear:
`Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here!
Dear heart,' I said, `we are long alone;
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.'
But, ah, she gave me never a look,
For her eyes we sealed to the holy book!
Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.
Come away, children, call no more!
Come away, come down, call no more!

Down, down, down!
Down to the depths of the sea!
She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
Singing most joyfully.
Hark, what she sings: `O joy, O joy,
For the humming street, and the child with its toy!
For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well;
For the wheel where I spun,
And the blessed light of the sun!'
And so she sings her fill,
Singing most joyfully,
Till the shuttle drops from her hand,
And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the sand,
And over the sand at the sea;
And her eyes are set in a stare;
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye,
And a heart sorrow-laden,
A long, long sigh;
For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,
And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away children;
Come children, come down!
The hoarse wind blows coldly;
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl,
Singing: `Here came a mortal,
But faithless was she!
And alone dwell for ever
The kings of the sea.'

But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow,
When clear fall the moonlight,
When spring-tides are low;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starred with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanched sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie,
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white sleeping town;
At the church on the hillside -
And then come back down.
Singing: `There dwells a loved one,
But cruel is she!
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea.'

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

Nje "e paharruar" tani; meqe vjeshta po troket ne dere. Do desha ta perkthej ndonje dite kur te jem me nge, se me ka ngelur ne mendje qyshkur e kam lexuar per here te pare "I saw autumn in a misty morn/ stand shadowless like silence, listening/ to silence, for no lonely bird would sing" I hope you like it too :)

Thomas Hood (1798–1845)

Autumn

I SAW old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;— 5
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the south, 10
Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds?—Away, away,
On panting wings through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey 15
Undazzled at noonday,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest 20
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs
To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime,—
The many, many leaves all twinkling?—Three
On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime 25
Trembling,—and one upon the old oak-tree!
Where is the Dryad's immortality?—
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly's green eternity. 30

The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard,
The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain,
And honey bees have stored
The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have wing'd across the main; 35
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.
Alone, alone,
Upon a mossy stone, 40
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone
With the last leaves for a love-rosary,
Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drownèd past
In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away, 45
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded
Under the languid downfall of her hair:
She wears a coronal of flowers faded 50
Upon her forehead, and a face of care;—
There is enough of wither'd everywhere
To make her bower,—and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom 55
Is Beauty's,—she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,—
Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl; 60
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

[POthuajPOet]

Nje "e paharruar" tani; meqe vjeshta po troket ne dere. Do desha ta perkthej ndonje dite kur te jem me nge, se me ka ngelur ne mendje qyshkur e kam lexuar per here te pare "I saw autumn in a misty morn/ stand shadowless like silence, listening/ to silence, for no lonely bird would sing" I hope you like it too :)

Thomas Hood (1798–1845)

(në nxitim e sipër... për të të nxitur!)


E pashë të moçmen vjeshtë mëngjesit të mjegullt
Tek rrinte hijepak' si heshtja, duke dëgjuar
Heshtjen, se asnjë zog vetmitar s'do kish kënduar
Prej pyjesh t'harruar në veshin e saj të çrregullt;
...........................................

[Leila]

Sa kohe u be pa lexuar poezira. Une jam akoma duke bluar Margareten. E rilexoj dhe e them ne Shqip ne koken time. "But, ah, she gave me never a look,/For her eyes were sealed to the holy book!" (versioni im -- "Por, ah, ajo kurre s'me hodhi nje shikim,/Syte e saj zhbironin biblen me ngulmim!")

Come, dear children, come away down.
Call no more.
One last look at the white-wall'd town,
And the little grey church on the windy shore.
Then come down.
She will not come though you call all day.
Come away, come away.

Ejani, femije te dashur, ejani perposh.
Mjaft therritet neper det.
Nje shikim te fundit qytetit mur-bardhosh,
E kishes gri te vogel mbi bregdetin ere-mprehte.
E me pas ejani perposh.
Ajo s'do vije dhe pse gjithe diten therrisni,
Eja zbrisni, eja zbrisni.

* * *

anyone lived in a pretty how town...
by E. E. Cummings

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone’s any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

[Astrit Cani]

Leila meqe e dashke poezine, qe disa perkthime nga une, per ma teper e per ma te mira (ato te Paul Celan-it t'i rekomandoj) shikjo te blloku im www.matrapapupa.blogspot.com.
Perqafime



Anne Sexton


Nga kopshti



Eja, i dashuri im,

zambakët t' i çmojmë.

Sa besëpakë ne qenkemi!
E sa flitkemi vallë!

Liroje gojën plot fjalë

dhe eja me mue me kundrue

Zambakët e hapët në këtë 'farë fushe,

tuj u rritë si karavela,

që kadalë sajdisin petalet

pa infermiere as sahatë.

Le ta çmojmë këtë panoramë :

Një shtëpi ku retë e bardha

Dekorojnë hollet e përbaltuna.

Oh, hidhi mënjanë fjalët e mira

Dhe fjalët e këqija po ashtu. Pështyji

Fjalët si gurë!

Emë ngat! Emë ngat!

Eja pemët e mia të ambla t' i hash.




Sylvia Plath


Rivalja



Po të qeshte hana, do të të ngjasonte.

Lë të njejtën mbresë

Të diçkaje të bukur por që asgjëson.

Jeni tok plangprishës të mëdhënj.

Goja e saj n' formë O-je i ofshan botës përmbi;

Ytja s' ka shprehi, dhe çdo gja ngurtëson.



Seç më del një mauzole; ja ku je,

Tue trokitë gishtat mbi tryezën e mermertë, cigaret lyp,

Shpërfillës si një grue, po jo dhe aq nervoz,

E vdes nga dëshira me sha sa të nxe goja.



Edhe hana, të nënshtruemit e vet i korit,

Por gjatë ditës asht qesharake.

Pakënaqësitë e tua, kah ana tjetër,

Mbërrijnë me postë rregullisht si nga dashnia,

Të bardha dhe kot, ekspansive si gazi lotsjellës.



Asnjë ditë s' i pështon lajmeve nga ti.

Që ndoshta bredh në Afrikë, por tuj mendue për mue rri.





Wynstan H. Auden



Funeral Blues (Baladë varrosje)



Ndalini të gjithë sahatet, prejeni telefonin,

Rrejeni qenin me një koc të langshëm,

Heshtini pianot dhe me një daulle të paqtë

Nxirrni qivurin, vajtueset të aviten sakaq.



Le të vërtiten aeroplanët gumëzhitës në hava

Tue zhgarravitë në qiell mesazhin Ai Ka Vdekë,

Lidhni fjongo pëllumbave qafëbardhë,

Polici i tarfikut dorashka të zeza le të veshë.



E kisha Veri, Jug, Lindje e Perendim,

Javë pune e të Dielë pushim,

Mbasdreke, Mesnatë, bisedë, kangë;

Kujtojsha se dashnia s' vdes: Sa i marrë.



Yjet janë të padëshiruem tashti: lerini të gjitha jashtë;

ambalazhojeni hanen dhe çmontojeni diellin;

Derdheni oqeanin dhe zhguleni pyllin;

Se asgja teshma s' vlen ma për asgja.