Poetry in Motion

[Cyberion]

I admired Yellow-blood sight
after raids of condesation
sculpting the beautiest
dark black rose
in the rotten path
of howling pain
leading the show
for another
death parade

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

the lucky ones - charles bukowski

stuck in the rain on the freeway, 6:15 p.m.,
these are the lucky ones, these are the
dutifully employed, most with their radios on as loud
as possible as they try not to think or remember.

this is our new civilization: as men
once lived in trees and caves now they live
in their automobiles and on freeways as

the local news is heard again and again while
we shift from first gear to second and back to first.

there's a poor fellow stalled in the fast lane ahead, hood
up, he's standing against the freeway fence
a newspaper over his head in the rain.

the other cars force their way around his car, pull out into
the next lane in front of cars determined to shut them off.

in the lane to my right a driver is being followed by a
police car with blinking red and blue lights - he surely
can't be speeding as

suddenly the rain comes down in a giant wash and all the
cars stop and

even with the windows up I can smell somebody's clutch
burning.

I just hope it's not mine as

the wall of water diminishes and we go back into first
gear; we are all still
a long way from home as I memorize
the silhouette of the car in front of me and the shape of the

driver's head or
what
I can see of it above the headrest while
his bumper sticker asks me
HAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR KID TODAY?

suddenly I have an urge to scream
as another wall of water comes down and the
man on the radio announces that there will be a 70 percent
chance of showers tomorrow night

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

here I am

drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
poesy
an old man
maddened for the flesh of young girls in this
dwindling twilight
liver gone
kidneys going
pancrea pooped
top-floor blood pressure

while all the fear of the wasted years
laughs between my toes
no woman will live with me
no Florence Nightingale to watch the
Johnny Carson show with

if I have a stroke I will lay here for six
days, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh
from my elbows, wrists, head

the radio playing classical music ...

I promised myself never to write old man poems
but this one's funny, you see, excusable, be-
cause I've long gone past using myself and there's
still more left
here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from
the typer
pour another glass and
insert
make love to the fresh new whiteness

maybe get lucky
again

first for
me

later
for you.

[Hyllien]

The Prophet
(Khalil Gibran)

(leaving)
A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that gave it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.
And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun.


Love

When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him.
...*...
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
...*...
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in
your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.


Children

They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thougts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.


Giving

You give but little when you give of your possessions.
It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.
...*...
See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.
For in truth it is life that gives unto life - while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.

[Hyllien]

I can write
(Pablo Neruda)

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.


Po mundohesha ta perktheja sot kete, qe ata qe nuk dine anglisht te kishin nje faer ideje. Kur me thote nje X. :D qe eshte e perkthyer me pare (lexoni perkthimin mjeshteror te Diabolis), e kisha lene ketu perkthimin:

Sonte mund te shkruaj...

Sonte mund te shkruaj vargjet me te trishta.

Te shkruaj: ‘Nata eshte e yjezuar,
yjet jane blu dhe dridhen ne largesi.’

Era e nates vertitet ne qiell dhe kendon.

Sonte mund te shkruaj vargjet me te trishta.
E desha dhe, me deshi edhe ajo nganjehere.

Ne nete si kjo e shtrengoja ne kraharor
Duke e puthur pareshtur nen qiellin e pafund.

Me deshi dhe, e desha edhe une nganjehere
Si mund te mos ia doja syte e medhenj, te qete.

Sonte mund te shkruaj vargjet me te trishta.
Mendoj qe s’eshte me prane, ndjej qe e kam humbur.

Degjoj naten e pamase, edhe me e pamase pa te
dhe vargu bie ne shpirt si vesa mbi bar.

Ç’rendesi ka se dashuria ime nuk mundi ta ruaje.
Nata eshte e yjezuar dhe ajo nuk me eshte prane

Kaq, e gjitha. Ne largesi dikush kendon. Ne largesi.
Shpirt eshte i pakenaqur me humbjen e saj.

Shikimi im kerkon ta gjeje, si te doje ta sjelle me prane
Zemra ate kerkon, dhe ajo nuk eshte me mua.

E njejta nate qe zbardh te njejtat peme
Ne, te dikurshmit, nuk jemi me te njejte.

Nuk e dua me, e sigurte, por sa shume e desha.
Zeri im kerkon te gjeje eren per te prekur degjimin e saj.

E nje tjetri. E nje tjetri do jete. Si dikur e puthjeve te mia.
Zeri i saj, trupi i saj bardhe-kristal. Syte e paskaj*.

Nuk e dua me, vertete, por jo, mbase e dua.
Sa pak zgjat dashuria, sa shume harresa.

Sepse ne te tilla nete, e mbajta ne kraharor
Shpirti eshte i pakenaqur me humbjen e saj.

Por, keto jane dhimbjet e fundit qe ajo me ben te vuaj,
dhe keto, vargjet e fundit qe per te shkruaj.

(*Kete fjalen nuk mund ta lija pa ndryshuar pasi lexova perkthimin e Diabolis.)

(Origjinali)

[Hyllien]

Where does this tenderness come from?
(Marina Tsvetaeva)

Where does this tenderness come from?
These are not the – first curls I
have stroked slowly – and lips I
have known are – darker than yours

as stars rise often and go out again
(where does this tenderness come from?)
so many eyes have risen and died out
in front of these eyes of mine.

and yet no such song have
I heard in the darkness of night before,
(where does this tenderness come from?):
here, on the ribs of the singer.

Where does this tenderness come from?
And what shall I do with it, young
sly singer, just passing by?
Your lashes are – longer than anyone's.

Translation from Russian © Elaine Feinstein

Kete e lexova per here te pare...its time has't come yet...po e postoj ketu te mos e harroj.

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

You are tired
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me then
And we'll leave it far and far away-
(Only you and I understand!)


You have played
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break and-
Just tired.
So am I.


But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart-
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows
And if you like
The perfect places of Sleep.


Ah come with me!
I'll blow you that wonderful bubble the moon
That floats forever and a day;
I'll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream
Until I find the Only Flower
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

ps. nga gjithcka qe kam lexuar prej tij, kjo eshte me e preferuara. I'm possessed with it.

[IsiNYC]

A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;
Ever unreeling them--ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--seeking the spheres, to
connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form'd--till the ductile anchor
hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.

[BRADYKININ]

Words of Wisdom.....Tao book (quoted in "A Million Little Pieces."

What is more important, fame or integrity?
What is more valuable, money or happiness?
What is more dangerous, success or failure?

***************************************
If you look to others for fulfillment, you will never be fulfilled.
If your happiness depends on money, you will never be happy.
Be content with what you have and take joy in the way things are.
When you realize you have all you need, the World belongs to you.

**************************************
If you understand that all things change constantly,
there is nothing you will hold on to.
All things change...

**************************************
A second is no more than a second,
A minute no more than a minute,
A day no more than a day.
They pass.
All things and all time will pass.
Don't force or fear,
Don't control or lose control.
Don't fight and don't stop fighting.
Embrace and endure.
If you embrace, you will endure.

[Cupke_pe_Korce]

La Figlia che Piange T.S Eliot


O quam te memorem virgo…


STAND on the highest pavement of the stair—
Lean on a garden urn—
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair—
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise—
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

So I would have had him leave,
So I would have had her stand and grieve,
So he would have left
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft,
Some way we both should understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.

She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together!
I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.